The Magic Kingdom

Ahmed sat cross-legged on the oriental rug pouring Arabic coffee from a Dallah into a small glass and handed it to his Western guest, who received it with a nod of his head, before sipping the hot, cardamom-laced liquid.

“So, Mr. Matthews, how many camels must I give you before you let me marry your wife?” he asked, the smell of his expensive Oud mingling with the aroma of the coffee. It was such an evocative, sophisticated smell and Paul always associated it with well-groomed, wealthy Arabs.

Ahmed laughed mischievously, his eyes glittering, his even white teeth bright against his olive skin, emphasizing his handsome face.

“We can only have one wife in our country, Ahmed. You know that and Ellie is mine!” Paul said, firmly. He was never sure whether to take Ahmed seriously or not, but thankfully he knew that he was joking about wanting to barter for his wife, who worked in the same department as him at the hospital.

“Yes, I am only playing with you, but you should have seen your face!” he exclaimed.

Paul liked Ahmed and was honored that he had invited him to his home, and had entered via the men’s entrance so as not to encounter any of the female members of his family when he had arrived earlier.

“But I am looking for a second wife,” Ahmed continued, nonchalantly, “and as you cannot — or will not — help me, I will keep looking.” He sipped his coffee, holding the glass between his forefinger and thumb.

Paul smiled. He had worked with Ahmed at the Military Hospital in Jeddah for some years and was impressed with his impeccable English; it put his small selection of Arabic phrases to shame, even though he had lived in the Kingdom for almost six years.

The conversation turned to more serious matters and Ahmed asked the man sitting cross-legged opposite him whether he had heard anything about a bootlegging ring operating in the Kingdom. Paul was careful not to impart what he had heard on the ex-pat grapevine because it was only supposition and gossip. He hoped that what he had heard was just that: gossip. If not, his good friend, Chuck, could be in deep trouble.

Skilfully, he steered the conversation away and on to the lighter subject of where it was possible to buy the incredibly expensive Oud that Ahmed wore. He thought he might even treat himself to some, one day.

To round the evening off, the men chatted about a couple of projects that they were involved with at the hospital before the call for Isha prayer meant that Paul knew that it was time to go, and he bid his colleague farewell with a firm handshake and a smile.

As he drove along the busy four-lane Al Malek Road back to the Western compound where he and Ellie lived, Paul put a Phil Collins tape into the stereo of his company Cadillac and his thoughts turned to their upcoming holiday to The Maldives. They hadn’t had a break in months and the long days and five-and-a-half-day working weeks were taking their toll, not to mention the oppressive heat and humidity, but their increasingly fattening bank accounts were compensation enough and the reason they had chosen to live half-way around the world, far from their family and friends.

Pulling in through the gated entrance to the compound, the guard greeted Paul with a friendly wave and a smile, “Good evening, sir,” and then lifted the barrier to let him through. He smiled and waved back before driving slowly over the numerous speed bumps until he reached the furthest section of the compound and parked neatly in one of the bays allocated to the Cordoba residents.

Ellie was reading a book by the pool and when she saw Paul, she got up from her lounger and accompanied him into their villa.

“Are you alright?” Paul asked, seeing her slightly clouded expression.

“I’ll tell you inside,” she replied cryptically.

Once inside the villa, she turned to Paul in the large, open-plan lounge/diner and said, “Charlene rang me from Florida earlier. She can’t get hold of Chuck and she’s really worried.”

“What? What do you mean?” he said, laying his car keys on the coffee table.

Paul sat down on one of the cream-colored sofas and crossed his ankle over his knee taking in what his wife had just told him.

“Wasn’t he flying to Riyadh today for some big meeting?” he quizzed.

“I don’t know. Charlene left yesterday, exit-only, but Chuck was staying on for a couple of months to ‘tie up some loose ends’ — I assume with his work contract?” Ellie surmised.

“How did Charlene sound?”

“Upset and really worried. Why do you ask?”

“I can’t say, Ellie. You have to trust me on this one.”

“Hey! I’m your wife, for goodness sake. What’s going on?” she demanded.

Paul got up and walked to the square beige push-button telephone on the TV cabinet, ignoring his wife’s question.

“What’s going on, Paul?”

“I don’t know! Let me think. Go and pour me a Scotch, will you?”

Ellie sensed her husband’s unease and obediently poured two fingers of Jack Daniels into a heavy cut-glass tumbler, which she placed on the coffee table in the lounge area. She thought about pouring herself one but decided against it; the bottle of Jack Daniels had been a gift from Chuck to Paul and it was as rare as hen’s teeth.

When she and Paul had first arrived in Saudi, she quickly discovered that most ex-pats have access to alcohol and as long as they drank it behind closed doors on their compounds, a blind eye was generally turned. However, she also knew that it was prohibited in the Kingdom and was always careful, just like the rest of the expatriate community, because they knew they could face hundreds of lashings, deportation, fines or even imprisonment if they were caught drinking or in possession of alcohol.

Paul made some phone calls while Ellie prepared for bed. When she came back down from upstairs wearing a knee-length silk robe, Paul was on his second tumbler of whisky which was half-full.

“What’s going on Paul?” she asked, her voice full of concern.

“Chuck seems to have vanished off the face of the earth,” he said solemnly, staring at the glass in front of him.

“What do you mean? He’s probably with some mates somewhere. You know what he’s like…”

Paul took a slug from his glass and winced.

“Go to bed, Ellie.”

Sensing something was seriously wrong, she reluctantly turned around and went back upstairs.

Three days later, there was still no news of Chuck either on the ex-pat grapevine or from his wife back in Florida.

Paul had a clandestine meeting with Chuck’s trusted colleague, Randy, who was also in the dark about his friend’s whereabouts, although they both had their suspicions: buried in the desert with a hole in his head.

There was little they could do to find him and the company Chuck worked for had even approached the authorities, as well as checked with all the hospitals in the area, in case he had been involved in a road traffic accident.

Stories circulated regularly among the ex-pat community about Siddiqui stills or fake passports because there will always be those who choose to take the low road to earn a fast buck when an opportunity presents itself. Sadly, it seemed that Chuck had fallen into this category.

Ellie and Paul had a long talk and decided that it was time to call it a day and repatriate to the U.K.

Chuck’s disappearance had rattled them and they applied for their exit-only visas and organized the packers to come into their villa and pack up their six years of life in the ‘magic Kingdom’. They hosted a Ma Salama party by the pool outside their villa and thanked their ex-pat buddies for being such good friends to them; they had had a wonderful time and would be sad to leave.

Six weeks later, when they were unpacking their shipment from Saudi into their country cottage in Hampshire, there was a knock on the door. Paul went to answer it.

It was a man with a package addressed to Mr. Paul Matthews.

“What is it? Ellie asked, curiously.

“How should I know? I haven’t opened it yet.”

“You haven’t ordered anything, then?”

“Nope.”

In among the copious amounts of packaging finally appeared a small bottle of Oud, accompanied by a note:

“May your kindness brush up against all those who meet you and have the pleasure of working with you.

I was sorry to hear about your friend, Chuck. I cannot be seen to get involved but I will try to put in a good word for him at the prison.

Take care, my friend.

Ahmed.”

This short story was first published on Medium, where you can find more of my work. You can also follow me on Twitter and I post a weekly newsletter on Substack, called Rosy's Ramblings. Check it out!