The Treasure of Al-Raqtan

By Don Howard

The story begins in 1968 in Saudi Arabia. Khalid Al-Raqtan dies just before making a pilgrimage to Mecca. He leaves a map and several clues regarding a hidden treasure. The hunt for Al-Raqtan's treasure is a loose link between a series of adventures.

Mark Holmes and Dominic O'Flaherty, two men of quite different characters, who are lecturing at the same university, learn of the treasure. They become involved in a race to find it. Mark is the protagonist of the tale, and he soon finds himself caught up in events that present danger and excitement. There is always friction between Mark and the less-scrupulous Dominic.

Most of the action in this novel is based upon factual incidents and adventures that take place in: Egypt: Where Mark and fellow members of a holiday group come close to disaster when an antiquate paddle steamer runs aground crossing the Nile.

The Lebanon: When the travellers are in Beirut, Israeli commandos attack the airport and destroy a number of planes. A wave of anti-American feeling sweeps the city.

Arabian Gulf: Mark goes on a pearl-diving trip. His shipmate is Naiem Al-Raqtan. Naiem agrees to be Mark's partner in the treasure-hunt. He gives Marksome written clues and a map left by his brother, Khalid.

Saudi Arabia: Mark leads a convoy of cars on a drive from Dhahran to Jordan. They are suspected of being saboteurs and are abandoned in the wilderness by members of a Saudi borderpatrol. The inevitable showdown between Mark Holmes and Dominic O'Flaherty occurs when they are still in the wilderness.

The story contains no gratuitous sex or foul language. The violent incident that does take place is essential to the telling of the tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528950541

Book preview

Seventeen

About the Author

Don was lucky enough to be offered a seven-year apprenticeship with Chadburns, a company producing ship’s telegraphs and other maritime equipment.

While serving his apprenticeship and later as a designer draughtsman, Don spent nine years attending night schools. At the end of the ninth year, he had been awarded, in the field of Mechanical Engineering, a Pre-National Certificate, an Ordinary National Certificate, a Higher National Certificate, and he had passed all of the extra subjects required by the Institute of Mechanical Engineers. Don was accepted as a Graduate Member of the Institute of Mechanical Engineers and later as an Associate Member of the Institute of Mechanical Engineers.

After a number of years working as a designer, he decided to make a career change. After completing a full year’s course in Technical Teaching, in Bolton, Don started out on what was to be his main interest for a major part of his working life. Don spent nineteen years developing courses and teaching in the UK, Bermuda, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain and Algeria.

He believes that his most productive years were spent in Saudi Arabia, where he had the academic rank of Associate Professor, and where he was the Director of the university’s engineering laboratories. On his return to the UK in 1978, Don discovered that the number of apprenticeships in the engineering industry had decreased dramatically and there were few courses being offered for their advancement. He decided to make another career change. After a full year’s course on Technical Authorship in 1987, Don set off on a new, challenging and rewarding career. Writing technical documentation for companies such as Shell UK, Shell International, Heinz Foods Ltd, and British Nuclear Fuels kept him busy for a further 12 years.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Don Howard (2019)

The right of Don Howard to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528902229 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528902236 (Kindle e-book)

ISBN 9781528950541 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

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Chapter One

From August through into December, the sun burned down relentlessly every day and the sky remained cloudless. The temperature had never fallen low enough to justify wearing a topcoat outdoors, not even at night. Mark Holmes was beginning to believe that rain would never fall again to cool the atmosphere. It came as a surprise to him when at last one December afternoon, the clouds rolled in from the Arabian Gulf. The benign-looking wisps of vapour were compressed into threatening grey mountains, as they rose on encountering the land mass of the Arabian Peninsular. The brew of cold, moist wind from the Gulf and warm, dry desert air produced huge thunderheads. The dense cover of clouds soon masked the light from the sun and a false dusk fell. For over an hour, flashes of lightning provided intermittent, eerie illumination, and the accompanying claps of thunder echoed around the vaults of heaven, but the clouds did not discharge their life-giving moisture. The electrically active centre of the storm had drifted eastwards, and Mark had begun to think that there would not, after all, be a downpour to end the long drought. When it came, the rain fell as a deluge. The desert appeared to become saturated very quickly, its mighty thirst quenched. After the desert’s crust had become waterlogged, then the water only slowly permeated the top few inches of sand. Surface water soon developed. Gravity pulled the water into small depressions and these tiny tributaries merged to form fast-flowing streams. Where streams intersected roads, the roads themselves became shallow rivers for a time and all traffic came to a standstill.

It was three hours since the rain had ceased. Since then, all of the surface water had soaked into the ground and the sun was about to set. From where he stood, on the second-floor veranda of an apartment looking eastwards towards Dhahran International Airport, Mark could not see the sun slowly slipping towards the horizon. Remnants of cloud stretched out in long, wispy tendrils, drawn east to west, and the last rays of golden light illuminated their undersides. Water had drained from the road that Mark could see to his right, but its surface was covered with silt and rubble washed down by the rain. Other than being soaking wet, the desert scene appeared little different to Mark. This would soon change, as within a few days desert flowers soon appeared in profusion.

Mark was six feet one inch tall. He was slim, but his frame was well muscled. He wore his mousy hair brushed straight back, and he was a little peeved that at the tender age of just thirty-two he already had a small bald patch on the crown of his head. Mark’s blue eyes were set a little too close together for him to have been considered handsome. His rugged features gave him the look of a boxer, rather than the teacher he was.

He had been recruited to teach engineering subjects and mathematics at the College of Petroleum & Minerals (CPM) in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia. His contract ran from August 1968 to July 1970. CPM had two areas of housing, referred to as the North and South Compounds. Perhaps, a little over half a mile separated the compounds in a straight line, but following the circuitous road around the jabal (mountain) between them; they were more like a mile apart. On their arrival, Mark and Lydia, his wife, had been surprised and delighted to learn they had been allocated a two-storied apartment on the newly constructed South Compound. The apartments had been designed for desert conditions. Viewed from ground level outside, the blank walls and sheltered windows suggested they would be dim and claustrophobic inside. This was not the case. Huge, north facing windows allowed ample light to flood into large rooms with high ceilings.

The South Compound was situated on the lower slopes of Jabal Dhahran and from the compound’s elevated position Mark had a good view of the airport over two miles away. The roar of an aircraft’s engines attracted his attention. He looked towards the airport, where lights twinkled in the gathering gloom, and noticed a 747 standing at the east end of the runway. Mark imagined that the aircraft would be shuddering under the heavy vibrations caused by engines running at full throttle. He sensed the man-made beast straining against the wheel brakes. When it escaped its shackles, the aircraft sped westwards. The massive thrust from its engines produced incredible acceleration and it charged by the airport buildings in an instant. With over a third of the runway still available, its wheels lifted from the tarmac and the aircraft angled up into the recently washed atmosphere. Mark was an engineer and well acquainted with the aerodynamic processes that enabled aircraft to fly, yet, he was always mildly surprised when an aircraft the weight of a block of houses managed to get airborne.

Seconds after take-off, the aircraft banked a little to port and passed over the buildings of the American Consulate. The buildings were interspersed amidst trees and bushes, a little patch of greenery surrounded by hostile desert. Mark fancied that on being distracted all the officials paused, with their pens hovering over important documents, whilst the aircraft thundered over their isolated domain. Moments later, the plane flew over the South Compound. It was already over a thousand feet above the desert and still rapidly gaining height.

It’s heading westwards, Mark thought. Maybe it’s to be Riyadh first stop and then off to some exotic destination in the wilds of Africa.

Sunset was signalled by the boom of a blank charge fired from a cannon, and the noise reverberated around the gaps between the buildings. It was the Hegirae month of Rhamadhan and Muslims fasted between sunrise and sunset. The sound of the cannon informed the faithful that it was time to break their fast. A few days earlier, Mark had climbed the jabal to look at the cannon. The bronze barrel was burnished to a high finish and the wooden carriage and curved support leg were painted blue. To Mark, the weapon looked like a relic from the Napoleonic Wars and he had spent some time wondering about its possible history.

What time is George picking us up? Lydia called from the bedroom.

He said about eight, Mark answered.

George Jennings was a handsome bachelor who was into his second two-year contract at CPM. He had taken Lydia and Mark under his wing on their arrival and they had become firm friends. Seeing that Mark and Lydia had, as yet, no transport, George had offered to take them to the Naylor’s party on the North Compound. The consumption of alcohol was banned in the Kingdom, yet George was never short of a drink. Whatever the time of day, George always gave the impression of being slightly intoxicated. On several occasions he had offered to supply Mark with siddiqui.

(Siddiqui is the Arabic word for my friend, and it was also the term used by expatriates for illicit alcohol) but, wanting to stay on the right side of the law, Mark had always declined.

How does this look? Lydia called.

The door to the veranda stood open; Mark pushed the lace curtain aside and walked into the bedroom. Lydia stood posing, with her arms raised to shoulder height and her torso slightly swivelled to her right. The fringe of her short, black hair framed large, brown eyes that looked quizzically at Mark. Her red velvet dress clung to her full, shapely figure. They had been married for seven years, but Mark was still impressed by her beauty.

She looks much younger than thirty and taller than five-two. She’s a stunner. She could have made it as a film star. Then he mused, I wonder why she settled for an average sort of bloke like me.

What’s your verdict? Lydia asked.

It looks great, but the hem is trailing the floor.

It won’t when I put high-heels on. She fingered the patterned neck of the dress and asked, Don’t you think all this gold embroidery looks a bit too much?

No. It looks great. In fact, you look absolutely fabulous.

Thank you kind sir, she said and curtseyed.

* * *

All fifty-three bungalows and eight apartments on the North Compound were of prefabricated construction. The Naylors lived in a bungalow with two bedrooms. It was ideally situated on the central road of the compound and surrounded by well-established trees and bushes. There was a good sense of community amongst the souls living in this little desert hamlet. On the night of the party, Tracy, the Naylor’s nine years old daughter, slept at a neighbour’s house and the furniture from her room had been moved into the master bedroom. The large living room was packed with guests. Those seeking a bit more space spilled over into Tracy’s room and the kitchen. Mark knew all the partygoers by sight and most of them by name. The venue for the parties changed, but it was nearly always the same people who attended. The majority were American or British, but some French, Lebanese, Syrian, and Saudi nationals were also present. The French contingent comprised three young men. As French conscripts, it was their right if they elected to do so, to spend their National Service in a foreign land.

To an outsider it would have appeared to be a strange party indeed. A table was loaded with snacks of all kinds, but there was only fruit juice, Pepsi Cola, or lemonade to drink. To drown the loud hum from the air-conditioning unit, the volume control of the radiogram was set to maximum. Music played, but, in deference to the Muslims present, nobody danced.

Mark knew that the main purpose of the parties was to exchange gossip. The major talking point at the last party, held at the end of November, had been the Smith affair. Adrian and Sibyl Smith were young Americans, and the couple belonged to an obscure religious sect. Their cult’s leader had prophesied that Christ would be born again in 1970, in Saudi Arabia. After Adrian was offered a teaching post at CPM, the Smiths sold their home in Texas and moved to Arabia. If they had restricted themselves to waiting for Christ’s return all would have been well, but they had a secondary objective. Almost as soon as they arrived, they set about trying to convert the Muslim students into the Christian faith. Not surprisingly, the authorities took a dim view of their activities. The news that they were to be deported enraged the Smiths. Mark had met Adrian on a number of occasions and he always thought the man had the look of a fanatic. Mark predicted that the Smiths would not leave Arabia without seeking revenge, but he was amazed at the form their retribution had taken. The houses on the North Compound had thin, brittle walls. In an astonishing outburst of crazed destruction, the Smiths knocked large holes in the walls and ceilings, smashed the windows and reduced the furniture to matchwood. As a result of their bizarre behaviour, they were forced into spending their last night in The Kingdom in a locked room at Dhahran International Airport.

Lydia beckoned to Mark from across the room. Have you got a sec? she called. Mark walked over to join his wife, Amanda Naylor, Betty Lee, and Marisa O’Flaherty. Mark and Simon Naylor were good friends. Lydia appeared to get along reasonably well with Amanda, and the two couples spent much time together. Mark considered Amanda attractive and a pleasant enough companion, but not very bright. Marisa was a short, chubby woman. Mark knew she was a few years younger than Lydia, though she looked much older. Her dark eyes were always active and she was the principal gossipmonger on the North Compound. Her husband, Dominic, was detested by everybody. Mark shared the general, extremely low, opinion of Dominic and he felt sorry for Marisa. Joe and Betty Lee attended all the parties, but to Mark’s knowledge, they had never hosted one of the events. Joe and Betty were slightly older than most of the partygoers and they did not have the social skills to mix well. Betty was pleasantly plump and in common with many overweight people, she had wilted in the extreme heat of Arabia. She always appeared to be completely drained of energy. Joe Lee taught in the physics department. His aloof attitude ensured he had few friends. For reasons Mark could not understand, Joe Lee and Dominic O’Flaherty had become bosom buddies.

Have I got a sec for what? Mark asked, as he elbowed his way through to join the women.

To answer a question, Lydia explained.

Fire away.

We can’t find anybody who knows this chap Ibrahim Khan from the physics department, Lydia said. Do you know anything about him?

I’ve never even heard of him, Mark replied, Joe’s in the physics department, so he’s the man to ask.

We already have, Betty said, and he claims not to know the guy.

Why are you interested? Mark asked.

He’s married to an English girl, Carol, Amanda explained, they’ve got a little girl of about two and they had a baby boy last month. Apparently, the boy has been abducted.

Seeing there was little crime of any sort in the country, Mark was shocked. From their house? he asked.

So they say, Marisa said.

Something in Marisa’s tone prompted Mark to say, But you don’t believe them.

There’s something fishy about it, Marisa reckoned.

What makes you think so? Mark asked.

The very same day that the child was supposed to go missing, they put in a claim for blood money, Marisa answered.

Blood money, Mark repeated, that’s a gruesome expression. What does it mean?

It seems that if you suffer some loss as a result of a crime you can claim compensation from the government, Marisa explained, if the compensation is for a crime like abduction, it’s called blood money.

I’ve heard you can get a wad of money, Amanda informed them.

"I believe it can be as much as a hundred thousand riyals (approximately £8500 in 1968), Betty said, The rumour is that the police are going to search all our houses looking for the baby."

If you don’t believe that the baby’s been abducted, what do you think has happened to it? Mark asked Marisa.

She shrugged her fleshy shoulders. Who knows?

We’re bound to learn the truth in the long run, Lydia said.

Mark continued to move from group to group. When the gossip was stale he quickly moved on, but he stopped to listen to any new snippets. Mark was not the least bit interested in tittle-tattle; the only reason he bothered to listen was that Lydia always quizzed him after parties. In a gossip-driven community, she felt she could not afford to miss a single juicy titbit

Whilst circulating, Mark heard two different stories concerning men being deported for brewing illicit alcohol and a tale about a faculty member’s wife granting sexual favours to several Yemeni gardeners. Mark thought that amongst the women this story was likely to be the night’s choicest piece of gossip. The tale that he liked the most was an amusing yarn about faculty members’ cars being trapped for a week in a street in Al Khobar (the closest town to Dhahran). Men working on a new sewage system dug a trench at each end of the street, without first informing those parked. Everybody, apart from the vehicle’s owners, thought it was a great joke.

The sound of George’s voice attracted Mark’s attention and he noticed that he was talking to Dominic O’Flaherty. They both taught in the English department, where for some unknown reason, morale always seemed to be very low. Had George and Dominic been able to get along a bit better, it might have helped to improve the situation a little in their department, but George professed to loathe his colleague. Mark decided to rescue his friend.

I don’t believe it, he heard Dominic say as he drew close. Dominic was one of those unfortunate people who subconsciously scratched themselves, no matter what bodily part was the target. As Mark approached, Dominic was busily scratching the left cheek of his buttocks.

You don’t believe what? Mark asked.

He doesn’t believe I’m about to find treasure, George explained. George was something of a prankster and he often told tall stories. People had grown used to treating most of his tales as enjoyable fantasies. He grinned and then said, He doesn’t believe it, but it’s true.

Dominic’s brown eyes were slightly hooded by droopy lids. He looked at George with contempt and said, Someone’s having you on. Either that or your brain’s been completely destroyed by a combination of sun and alcohol. I reckon the second option is the most likely, he added cruelly.

"You’ll sing a different tune when I’ve got wajjid flooce (lots of money)," George said.

Lots of sand is all you’re going to find in this dump, Dominic said, before slipping away to inflict his company on somebody else.

Is there any substance to your story, or is it something you’ve just made up to annoy our friend? Mark asked.

Friend! George exclaimed and gave a derisory laugh. There was some talk about me having to share a course with him next semester. I would have ended up doing two sets of preparation, because that lazy sod won’t do any. He spends more time inventing excuses for not doing something, than it would take to do the job. The students hate him. I told Singleton that if he didn’t think again I’d resign. There’s no way I’d work with that creep.

I don’t blame you. He does seem to hold a grudge against the whole world. But back to business. You still haven’t answered my question, Mark reminded him, Is this treasure story a pack of lies?

No, it’s true, George claimed, I’m about to become filthy rich.

Mark was still not convinced. Where is this treasure? he asked.

George tapped the side of his nose with the index finger of his left hand and said, That would be telling.

Mark reasoned that if there was a treasure, and George knew where it was, he would be busy digging it up. He would not prefer to be at a booze-free party. You might have got hold of some rumour concerning treasure, but you don’t know where it is, Mark guessed.

I don’t know yet, George admitted, but I’ve got a map and instructions. It won’t be long before I’ve got my hands on the loot.

When you’re rich as well as handsome, you won’t need that beaten up old jalopy of yours, will you? Mark asked.

I’ll hand you the keys when you drop me off at the airport on my way out, George replied.

Prawns fished from the Arabian Gulf are huge, and Mark was highly partial to eating them boiled and dipped in hot sauces. Noticing that there were just two people standing by the food table, Mark said, I’m going to get some prawns before they all go. Do you fancy joining me?

No thanks. Eating ruins your appetite, George joked.

Whilst Mark was contentedly consuming prawns dipped in Tabasco sauce, Joe Lee ambled up to his side. I believe you are going to Egypt, Joe said.

"We’re going with the DOGs (the Dhahran Outing Group) over the Eid-Al-Fitr (the holiday after the fast of Rhamadhan)," Mark confirmed.

You must have friends in high places.

What makes you say that?

"You’ve got to be an ARAMCON (the Arabian American Oil Company) employee to be a member of the DOGs," Joe answered.

That’s not true. Anyone can join.

Joe still appeared to be sceptical. Are you sure?

Positive, Mark confirmed. I’m surprised you didn’t join ages ago.

We haven’t been interested in taking holidays, Joe admitted, as soon as we arrived we knew it had been a mistake to come. Neither of us likes the place. We’ve only stuck it this long to save as much as we can.

Travel is one of the main reasons we came out. Lydia is all fired up about going to Egypt. I doubt we’ll save much during our first two years.

I think you’re crazy to spend all your cash on holidays. If you don’t do a second contract, you’ll regret not putting a bit aside whilst you had the chance.

Perhaps, Mark conceded without conviction.

There’s no perhaps about it, Joe said with some heat. For some reason their exchange had made him angry. He scanned the occupants of the room searching for a target on which to vent his spleen. His gaze finally rested on Adnan Faheem. Adnan was tall for a Saudi and repulsively fat. For much of the time his features were set into a sickly grin, but his eyes never smiled. As far as Mark could determine, Adnan had no notable talents or skills; nonetheless, he treated all foreigners as lesser beings. Joe had the misfortune of having to share the teaching of several physics courses with Adnan and he was forever complaining about his obese associate’s high-handed attitude.

If I’d known Fatty Faheem was going to be here I wouldn’t have come, Joe complained, I see enough of him during the day. Just look at the mangy cur.

Thinking the signs indicated that Joe was about to deliver yet another harangue about the Saudis, Mark attempted to change the course of their conversation. Adnan is the same as all Saudis in one respect, he said, they’re all a bit obsessed with qualifications. But he’s not typical when it…

He’s dead typical, Joe interrupted, he’s slimy and underhanded, just like the rest of them. They expect to be treated like royalty, but they treat us like dirt. It makes me sick to watch the way some people toady-up to them. You’ll never catch me kow-towing or pulling my forelock, he insisted, as soon as they get their worthless degrees from the States they think they’re something special, but despite their overseas educations they’re still nothing more than shifty camel traders at heart.

Mark smiled and said, Dear, oh dear, oh dear. You should hear yourself harping on and on. Anybody listening would think you had more problems than a cyclist with haemorrhoids. It was an attempt to lighten Joe’s mood, but it failed; he was far from amused. I think you’re being oversensitive, Mark went on, I see them as colleagues, not bosses.

Joe’s eyes gradually grew larger, as he stared at Mark in disbelief. His stony expression did not alter much, but a subtle change in his manner, a slight stiffening of his body, warned of his pent-up anger. As usual, you’re spouting absolute garbage, he snapped, we don’t work with them, we work for them.

I don’t see it like that.

You wouldn’t, but it’s true. To the Saudis we’re nothing more than lackeys.

If we are lackeys, at least we’re highly paid lackeys, Mark pointed out. Anyway, we had a similar discussion to this a few months ago, Mark reminded his irate compatriot, then, you claimed that we were mercenaries.

Now you’re nit-picking. Mercenaries or lackeys, what does it matter? They certainly don’t treat us as equals. They take all the top jobs and leave the rubbish for us.

Who can blame them for wanting the top jobs? After all, this is their country. If the positions were reversed, we’d act in precisely the same way, Mark contended, I honestly believe it’s no different here than anywhere else. There are some decent guys and some good-for-nothings.

I can’t see why you always defend the sods. In my book, they don’t deserve loyalty. Perhaps being treated like a flunky doesn’t bother you, but servility isn’t one of my strong points.

The taunt angered Mark and he retaliated. But self-pity is. Normally, he was able to control his temper and he immediately regretted his lapse.

Joe treated Mark to a withering look. Then, without another word, he filled a plate with a selection of sandwiches, sausage rolls and biscuits, before walking over to join his wife.

It’s a sign of weakness to let people get under your skin, Mark scolded himself. He is always bellyaching, but I should have held my tongue.

Left by himself, Mark began to study the people in the room, particularly the two department heads amongst the guests. Social status within their little community was largely governed by one’s position in the academic hierarchy, and the department heads and their wives were not given a minute’s respite from those currying favours.

I suppose it’s the same wherever you go, Mark mused. Climbers will always try any manoeuvre to impress their superiors. In their homelands time isn’t a critical factor, they can scheme and plot over long periods, but for an expatriate on contract time is limited. Life for gold-diggers must be a constant struggle. For a start, the go-getters are always battling amongst themselves, and the wives of those contending for high positions don’t even talk to each other.

Mark smiled inwardly at some of the pointed slights he had witnessed in recent times.

Given that these people are from vastly different backgrounds, and they’re in direct competition for advancement up the academic ladder, it’s a volatile brew we’ve got here. I’ll bet the locals have a good laugh watching our antics. They’ve got cause for thinking that all foreigners are slightly crazy. This thought set his mind off down a different track. It’s strange that the Saudis are willing to entrust the education of their brightest youngsters to foreigners. Mind you, it’s not without precedent. Greece at the height of its glory used slaves as teachers, Mark remembered. Men of the calibre of Socrates, Aristotle, and Plato were apparently content with the system. If they were willing to accept the idea of foreigners as teachers, who am I to question it? His mind slipped back to something Joe said. I think the Lee’s have been misguided to work overseas simply to accumulate money. Those who do seem to end up extremely disgruntled people. I think we’ve got it right. The aim should be to make a reasonable living, whilst doing the best job you can, and to enjoy yourselves. I think it’s a sin to come all this way without travelling a bit in the area or attempting to make new friends.

Unbeknown to Mark, at the time of his reverie Dominic came across Lydia alone in the kitchen. It was an opportunity he had longed for and he was determined to seize his chance. Dominic was thirty-one years old and a little over six feet tall. He was quite slim and bony, yet he had a round, cherub-like face. He wore his jet-black hair parted in the middle and plastered down flat with hair-cream. In spite of spending nearly five months in a land of fierce sunlight, his complexion was unnaturally white. When Lydia first set eyes on him, she told Mark that Dominic reminded her of a baby-faced gangster she had seen in a thirties’ movie. Fate had not been unkind to Dominic, yet he felt maltreated. He grieved that the heyday of his youth had been wasted and this made him a bitter, ill-natured man.

Dominic sidled up to Lydia and said, I see you’ve found the ice.Before answering, she took two cubes from a plastic bag containing ice and popped them into her glass of orange juice. She then closed the refrigerator door and said, I thought the fridge might be a good place to look.

Dominic chuckled mirthlessly. I hear we’ve got a lot in common, he said.

Such as?

Well, I hear you’re an avid reader and you’re interested in poetry. I’ve written quite a bit of poetry.

I read a lot but I’m not the least bit interested in poetry, she lied.

He had planned on poetry providing the means by which he could ingratiate himself. Her professed disinterest took him completely by surprise. His mind raced, but no alternative ploy came to his aid. Several seconds passed in awkward silence, before he asked bluntly, By the way, what type of wife are you?

What do you mean?

Are you the kitchen sink, chained to one-man type? Or are you a liberated, modern type?

What you’re really asking is am I promiscuous, isn’t it?

That’s about it, Dominic admitted.

What would you think if your wife was having a conversation like this with another man?

"Who’d