Samir was, apparently, the one who determined which language his wife and children practiced each day. The first thing I heard in the morning, other than the trickle of coffee and tea, was Murphy's father asking me if I spoke Bedawi.
I think I said yes. But, I meant that I knew it was a dialect that I could manage to recognize by the sound of it without being fluent at all. I could speak some Arabic phrases, but I was certain my accent and word use was all over the place, having learned from a crew that spoke at least three dialects between them.
Samir asked me a question, and I knew it wasn't about coffee, as Garin had taught me those words.
I shook my head.
Samir made a gesture toward Murphy, who was sleeping nearby. "He wakes in the night?"
"Yes." I nodded. "How can I say 'coma'?"
"Ghaybuba."
"After the coma." I nodded.
Samir smiled. I assumed this was for my efforts in language and not because I confirmed his son was having nightmares. I realized, also, this meant he'd been awake enough to watch me sooth his son back to sleep, though I'd been half-asleep myself and barely remembered doing it.
I made further effort in excusing myself to meditate and moved to the partially raised entry flap where the air seemed freshest.
Soon, the others woke; first Maya and Me'rah from behind the curtain behind Samir, and later, Murphy.
I joined them for coffee, over which Samir indicated that after prayer we would strike camp and drive to Wadi Feiran, then stay overnight, before continuing to St. Katrine the next day.
I was little help in folding the tent, though Murphy signaled me to watch and follow what he did. I was better able to carry gear from the camp to Samir's Hispano steam-cab.
We were not in the vehicle long. We had only to backtrack to the place we'd left the worn dirt road and then follow it a couple miles up to another bed of seasonal waterways. There was a town grown about an oasis.
The first sights were small temporary houses, sheds, and tents, but as we went, there stood trees and permanent structures. There was rock and dust and low shrub and then, in the space between two peaks, there was greenery:
Date palms, some few citrus trees, grasses.
We drove slowly past aged structures of stacked stone and low rectangular houses of concrete block.
Along the roadway some women and children retreated at our passing, while others approached. A train of children with a dog ran after the cab.
Samir parked the Hispano alongside a low brick wall surrounding one of the houses. Maya leaned from the cab to speak with the children. Both Samir and Murphy opened their doors, but while Samir stepped out of the vehicle, Murphy remained seated.
"Jerry!" he called.
The dog which had been following found the open door and put its paws to the running board, with much panting and wagging.
Murphy rumpled its neck and the dog leapt up into the back of the cab.
"Female?" I asked.
Murphy's eyes remained on the animal as he answered, "Oui, ce belle chienne est Jericho!" Why he switched to French I did not know, unless to speak privately to me while his father was away.
"She's pretty," I said, cautiously offering a hand. Jericho, a sleek animal with feathery gold fur on her ears and limbs, sniffed at my wrists and knees.
"I missed you," Murphy said, patting Jericho's flank. "She was in Cairo with me, but I wasn't able to take her out of the country."
"I never had a pet."
"Truly?"
I shook my head. "My family had a horse, of course. Wàbizì. But, he was more a work animal than a pet."
"Wàbizì's not an English name?"
"It's Algonquin, on account of his white color."
Murphy smiled. "The same as mine. His proper name is River of Egypt, but we call him Wadi. He was my best friend, before I moved to Cairo. He and Jericho were my hunting partners."
"You have the horse still?" I asked.
"Tyron," Me'rah called from the front seat.
I looked up, as Murphy did. Samir had come from the nearby house with another woman. She wore a dark outer garment as Me'rah did, but her veil was shaped to expose her eyes and ornamented with what looked like coins.
Samir beckoned and Murphy hopped down from the cab to join him. The woman side-stepped to peer at me around Murphy's side. There was some conversation between them, some cheek kisses, and lots of nodding on Murphy's part.
Murphy came back to the car, followed by his father and the lady. He spoke first in Bedawi and then repeated each phrase in English, "Laila, this is my friend Julien Dangerous from New York; Jules, this is my father's second wife, Laila al-Isra."
"Pleased to meet you."
Laila bowed her head.
Murphy took a noticeable extra breath before continuing in English. "Laila keeps my father's house in the oasis and because some other guests are visiting there's not much room. But, Nablus is away and his wife is staying in El-Tor, so we can stay in his house with my brothers and nephew. It's just across the way."
"Oh." I had the impression our arrival had caused some embarrassing familial misunderstanding they wished to quickly cover.
I followed Murphy and Jericho at his heel to fetch our luggage, and we then walked along the main road through the town to another house.
A perimeter was marked with stacked rocks and the home's rectangular facade had a portico of plastered columns shading a series of sliding doors. In the yard there was a fig tree, a few palm huts, several black goats, a boy, and two men wearing waistcoats over striped gallabeyya.
"Tyron's back," one said.
"I thought I smelled camel piss," said the other.
I could not tell them apart.
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Chapter 92!
The media is "Desert Rose" by Sting, which is only mildly lyrically relevant.