A Foreign Affair Read Online Free Page A

Rev’s graceless low-church grouchiness, so powerfully reminiscent of my sister-in-law Fiona’s Scottish Presbyterian joylessness, meant that I felt no compunction whatsoever about raiding the guesthouse kitchen cupboards for some leftovers: a dented tin of baked beans, another half tin of Colman’s mustard powder, a half-bottle of cooking sherry, an opened but still fresh pack of Bombay mix, a bar of Green & Blacks chocolate without it’s paper wrapper and a single serving box of past their sell-by date Rice Krispies.

 
    Chapter Three
     
    A tiny congregation of Protestant ex-pats had just struck up a horrible hymn about Jesus being the rock who rolls away their blues when I descended those narrow loft stairs at shortly after 7 am. I tried to ensure that my now rather heavy case thudded down each step in time with the musical beat, but it was no use. The cursed thing insisted on a syncopated rhythm so that on that sunny Sabbath morn those gathered in His name in Aden were treated to the sort of din the Devil himself might make.
    Out in the quiet cool of the compound at last, I breathed more freely. Neither of the young security guards, both of them dressed in navy blue slacks instead of those invitingly ventilated tablecloths - futas, as I learned to call them - showed any interest in the contents of my metal swag-bag. Instead, they confined themselves to admiring its shiny contours and streamlined design. Their curiosity sated, I was soon giving them something else to marvel at. I had them teach me how to say ‘good morning’ in their language. Sabbakh al - khair ! ’ whose literal translation, they told me, is ‘Morning the brightness!’ To this exclamation one replies with another Sabbakh al - Nur ! , ‘Morning the Light!’ What fine and generous sentiments! It strikes me now, and I hope I don’t flatter myself if I describe my default spiritual position as celebratory.
    ‘The Prophet himself – Peace be upon him! – could not speak our language as well you, Madame!’
    ‘Oh, you’re just saying that!’ I protested, chucking him under his hairless chin and feeling him recoil, as if I’d administered an electric shock – but a pleasurable one.
    Just before we stray too far from the subject of my spiritual side, I think I recall at this juncture experiencing a fleeting instant of sheer ecstasy at the mere fact of being alive and free to do as I pleased. A lightning bolt of intuition told me that my Flashman soul had at last found the space and time it required to expand and grow but how, when, in what, and at whose direction, I still had no idea. Ignorance, for the time being, was bliss.
    Aziz was as good as his word, waiting for me outside the compound’s high iron gates. He’d parked the recovered LandCruiser at a rakish angle, half on, half off the narrow pavement and was standing in a patch of shade beside it jabbering into a mobile phone, gesticulating with a Rothmans in his other hand. In his freshly laundered pink shirt and matching futa , he looked as fetching as a little girl’s birthday cake. I think I’d realised within five minutes of our meeting the day before that with his long eyelashes and smooth cheeks, Aziz was not what Nanny Atkins would have called ‘a man’s man’. It was probably why I’d instantly felt at ease with him. I would have nothing, except perhaps his driving skills, to fear by venturing out of town in his company.
    I gestured to him to toss me a cigarette. On the whole, I don’t smoke for fear of my lips ever resembling a cat’s anus, as Fiona’s are already showing signs of doing after years of pursing them at me, but there’s always been the odd occasion. Ummmm, I inhaled luxuriantly, as a plan of the day’s action began to form in my mind. By the time Aziz got off his phone, I was ready to issue some instructions, but he had a question:
    ‘You are leaving so soon, Madam Roza?’ he asked, pointing at my suitcase.
    ‘Only this place. I’m a sitting duck