forehead with his right hand.
Philip was still backed up against the wall with his pickaxe in hand, stunned and unable to move.
‘Pure folly, el sidi. They would have gutted you like a goat and your father would never have forgiven me,’ said the man, baring his face. ‘Luckily I thought of following you on these night-time jaunts of yours, when peril is at its height.’
Philip looked at the square jaw, the straight nose, the big, black, shining eyes. ‘El Kassem! Oh, my God, I can’t believe it’s you!’
‘It’s best we leave,’ said the Arab warrior. ‘This city is more dangerous than the medina in Tangiers.’
‘Did you say “your father”? Is it true, then, that he’s still alive?’
‘If Allah has kept him from harm, yes, he is.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Philip as they walked off in great haste. He couldn’t help but glance around for more attackers.
‘This I do not know. He has surely walked a long path since I left him and we will have to find him again. Come now, follow me. You can no longer stay in your serai. Your things have already been moved to a safe house.’
T HE SKY WAS beginning to pale to the east when they reached an old house with chipped walls. They went in and found themselves in a large courtyard crossed by long lines of fluttering laundry.
‘This way,’ said El Kassem, slipping around the obstacles with familiar ease. They reached a staircase and started up.
‘Strange folk, these Naples . . .’ observed El Kassem, the steep rise of the stairs not taking away his breath in the least.
‘Neapolitans,’ corrected Philip, gasping.
‘Yes. How can they think to win a fight with such short jatagans ? At our oasis, only the children play with those.’
‘We’re not in the desert here, El Kassem. I can’t understand how you’ve managed to get around dressed like you are in a place like this, where everyone sticks his nose into everyone else’s business.’
‘Oh, it is not difficult,’ said El Kassem. ‘If you remove the rope from your keffiyeh, wrap it around your shoulders and walk with your head down, you look like one of their widows.’
They stopped at a landing on the third floor and Philip leaned against the wall to catch his breath.
‘If we are to find your father you must strengthen your muscles and your limbs,’ said El Kassem. ‘If three flights of stairs take such a toll . . .’
Philip knew it was no use answering. He had known El Kassem since, as a boy, he had accompanied his father as far as Oran, before one of Desmond’s many departures into the desert. El Kassem was his father’s guide and bodyguard, bound to him by the loyalty that only the men of the desert are capable of. Stalwart and untiring, he could ride for days without a sign of weariness, catching a bit of sleep now and then without leaving his horse’s saddle. He was extraordinarily skilful in the use of any weapon and could bear up under any hardship, heat or cold, hunger or thirst.
El Kassem knocked at the door and the shuffle of slippers could be heard on the other side. An old man’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s us,’ answered El Kassem in passable French.
The door opened and an old man greeted them. He was wrapped in a creased dressing gown, but his hair was neatly combed.
Philip recognized him and opened his arms. ‘Lino!’
The old man looked puzzled for a moment, then said, ‘Is that you, master Philip? Oh, Holy Virgin, it is you! Come in, come in. But look at you! Look at what a state you’re in!’
‘My dear old friend,’ said Philip, embracing him.
The old man dried his eyes with his sleeve and had them sit down so he could make them coffee. El Kassem sat on a carpet with his legs crossed, while Philip settled in an old armchair with worn upholstery. Everything in the little apartment seemed frayed and shabby, and Philip couldn’t help but think of how things had changed for the old man. When he’d met Lino, Philip was an adolescent,
Philip was still backed up against the wall with his pickaxe in hand, stunned and unable to move.
‘Pure folly, el sidi. They would have gutted you like a goat and your father would never have forgiven me,’ said the man, baring his face. ‘Luckily I thought of following you on these night-time jaunts of yours, when peril is at its height.’
Philip looked at the square jaw, the straight nose, the big, black, shining eyes. ‘El Kassem! Oh, my God, I can’t believe it’s you!’
‘It’s best we leave,’ said the Arab warrior. ‘This city is more dangerous than the medina in Tangiers.’
‘Did you say “your father”? Is it true, then, that he’s still alive?’
‘If Allah has kept him from harm, yes, he is.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Philip as they walked off in great haste. He couldn’t help but glance around for more attackers.
‘This I do not know. He has surely walked a long path since I left him and we will have to find him again. Come now, follow me. You can no longer stay in your serai. Your things have already been moved to a safe house.’
T HE SKY WAS beginning to pale to the east when they reached an old house with chipped walls. They went in and found themselves in a large courtyard crossed by long lines of fluttering laundry.
‘This way,’ said El Kassem, slipping around the obstacles with familiar ease. They reached a staircase and started up.
‘Strange folk, these Naples . . .’ observed El Kassem, the steep rise of the stairs not taking away his breath in the least.
‘Neapolitans,’ corrected Philip, gasping.
‘Yes. How can they think to win a fight with such short jatagans ? At our oasis, only the children play with those.’
‘We’re not in the desert here, El Kassem. I can’t understand how you’ve managed to get around dressed like you are in a place like this, where everyone sticks his nose into everyone else’s business.’
‘Oh, it is not difficult,’ said El Kassem. ‘If you remove the rope from your keffiyeh, wrap it around your shoulders and walk with your head down, you look like one of their widows.’
They stopped at a landing on the third floor and Philip leaned against the wall to catch his breath.
‘If we are to find your father you must strengthen your muscles and your limbs,’ said El Kassem. ‘If three flights of stairs take such a toll . . .’
Philip knew it was no use answering. He had known El Kassem since, as a boy, he had accompanied his father as far as Oran, before one of Desmond’s many departures into the desert. El Kassem was his father’s guide and bodyguard, bound to him by the loyalty that only the men of the desert are capable of. Stalwart and untiring, he could ride for days without a sign of weariness, catching a bit of sleep now and then without leaving his horse’s saddle. He was extraordinarily skilful in the use of any weapon and could bear up under any hardship, heat or cold, hunger or thirst.
El Kassem knocked at the door and the shuffle of slippers could be heard on the other side. An old man’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s us,’ answered El Kassem in passable French.
The door opened and an old man greeted them. He was wrapped in a creased dressing gown, but his hair was neatly combed.
Philip recognized him and opened his arms. ‘Lino!’
The old man looked puzzled for a moment, then said, ‘Is that you, master Philip? Oh, Holy Virgin, it is you! Come in, come in. But look at you! Look at what a state you’re in!’
‘My dear old friend,’ said Philip, embracing him.
The old man dried his eyes with his sleeve and had them sit down so he could make them coffee. El Kassem sat on a carpet with his legs crossed, while Philip settled in an old armchair with worn upholstery. Everything in the little apartment seemed frayed and shabby, and Philip couldn’t help but think of how things had changed for the old man. When he’d met Lino, Philip was an adolescent,
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