“Dhow ready for you, mademoiselle.”
The same familiar voice — deep, rugged, belonging to the hunchbacked Bedouin, my father’s most trusted lieutenant.
A crescent sword swayed from his side as the desert wind swept through, ruffling his robes — the gust seemed to irritate him, though his samurai-like stride betrayed no weakness.
A mare whinnied softly. He patted it in his usual dismissive way — flamboyant in a subdued sort of fashion, debonair even, with that ever-present smirk playing on his lips.
His chaps, once a rich magenta, were now faded to charcoal — a war trophy from days when tribes clashed and heads were counted. No more of that now, he’d once told me with a shrug, voice laced with a nonchalant, curse-like edge. “These spurs? Not even for menace-makers.”
“Duel? Jostle? Do I look that intimidating to you, mademoiselle? And what was your name before you went to—” He never finished.
The unanimous leader of a warrior race, he bore a spine-chilling glint in his eye. And no, he wasn’t truly hunchbacked — it was his way of showing obeisance. His loyalty lay, unwavering, with my father.
“Mills and Boon,” he probably thinks of me — frivolous, romantic. His words are always discreet, hoarse, clipped — like commands on a battlefield.
He never naps. No siestas. Instead, he strides to the souk, hubble-bubble pipe in hand. Occasionally. Otherwise, it’s “Come to Marlboro Country.”
“It’s sweltering,” she says. “Perhaps reschedule your summer break.”
“Yes, yes, he’s such a copycat — fake to the core. I should go now.”
“Hey, Mister Cowboy — where’s my black tea?”
Did he hear me? Perhaps. He always does.
“Wait until my grandfather arrives.”
“Hey, mister stone-deaf — don’t we pay you, slave?”
