A Foreign Affair Read Online Free Page B

for any stray bin Baddy with a bomb in there – they’ve been attacked three times,’ I answered him breezily, ‘It’s the Sheraton for me tonight! Now, could you just...’
    Staggering under its weight, Aziz heaved my case into the back of the car. I hadn’t wanted to tackle the task myself because I was wearing a carefully tailored cream shalwar kameez that I’d had run up for me somewhere off Brick Lane, some gold suede mules and a matching scarf draped over my blond curls in that loosely romantic style the late Benazir Bhutto always favoured. A pair of gold rimmed aviator-style sunglasses by Chanel completed a look I imagined could have passed for that of a visiting princess from one of the more westernised Gulf states – Kuwait, Qatar, or Bahrain perhaps.
    ‘Do I look all right, Aziz?’ I was fishing for the sort of compliment a beautiful woman only hears from gay men.
    ‘Believe me, Madam Roza, you are another Queen of Sheba!’ he answered obligingly.
    ‘I don’t think so! Only one queen around here!’ I quipped back but he didn’t hear over the noise of air-conditioning. I decided to drop it. Somewhere I’d heard that in countries like Yemen one can’t assume people have even seen the closet, let alone considered opening it or stepping out. By the end of my week among the Yemenis, I would have discovered, to my considerable personal discomfort, that they punish homosexuality with death, but I’m getting way ahead of myself now... ‘Aziz, how long will it take us to get to Silent Valley and back?’
    ‘Certainly no more than an hour, Madam Roza.’
    ‘Fine. Let’s head there first while it’s still cool, and then it’ll be straight to the Sheraton to check in, have a nice swim and a drink before a decent lunch. Does that sound like a good plan of action?’
    ‘Yes, Madam Roza, it does and much more interesting than my usual work. Most days there is nothing for me to do because no ships are visiting Aden. What a curse is this al-Qaeda! They have ruined everything for us with their evil craziness!’
    ‘But can’t you find a more interesting job? Your English is good.’
    ‘Perhaps it is hard for you to understand Madam Roza, but in this so- called Republic of Yemen I am a privileged and lucky person just because I am a civil servant with a salary and a pension, thanks to my father. I can feed my family –
    ‘What family?’
    ‘My two wives and five children, two boys and three girls.’
    ‘Really?’ I changed the subject, ‘Now, I understand I need some sort of permit from the tourist police?’
    Striking himself on the forehead three times in a theatrical fashion, Aziz swung the car around in a screeching U turn, narrowly missing a couple of shaven-headed schoolboys kicking a Coke can along the road, and we headed straight back in the direction we’d come, towards the offices of the Tourist Police.
    He escorted me up to an office on the first floor of a sadly dilapidated old colonial building that he explained had been a boarding school for the sons of tribal sheikhs in colonial times. Fearing for my cream get-up and golden mules amid the filth of the ancient linoleum floor and fly-specked overhead fans, I nevertheless extended my hand politely to an ancient Tourist Police chief sitting at a desk strewn with dusty manila envelopes and unwashed tea glasses. I also accepted a seat in a sweat-stained armchair and another cigarette. On the wall facing me, behind the old man’s head, was a touched-up photograph of a very young queen – pale-skinned, ruby-lipped and coltish in yellow sling-backs, sleeveless cotton frock and white gloves - dubbing some uncomfortably crouching Yemeni a worthy knight of the Empire.
    Our chat went well. I was English and, although he’d been one of those involved in taking up arms to eject us Brits in the mid-1960s, he greatly admired what he called my ‘masterful race’. While my lack of a valid Yemeni visa was irregular and even regrettable, he assured me