The Fierce and Tender Sheikh Read Free Page B

fact which Sharif had discovered without surprise when he returned to the car—he had every reason to hide to avoid a meeting.
    But it was imperative that he find the boy again.
    At the next door, a Bagestani woman held a baby, another child clutching her skirt.
    â€œThis is Mrs. Sabzi,” the assistant read aloud. “She has three children—a son, Hani, a daughter, Jamila, and the baby.”
    Sharif brought a fist to his breast and bowed.
    â€œExcellency.” Farida returned the salute, then stood rocking the baby and looking anxiously at him. Her eyes wide with fascination, the baby reached one hand to the Cup Companion, letting go of her teething ring.
    The blue rubber teething ring that he had last seen under his own foot on the highway.
    Sharif smiled. Got you! he told the boy mentally, putting out a finger to the baby, who clutched it and fixed him with a heart-rending look.
    â€œYou have a son, Mrs. Sabzi?” he asked.
    Alarm darkened her eyes, and she licked her lips. “I—yes, my son, Hani.”
    Sharif smiled. “May I meet him?”
    â€œExcellency, you are very kind! It is good of you, but you are an important man and my son…” She shrugged to show how unimportant her son was.
    Sharif inclined his head. “If he is here, I would like to meet him.”
    â€œAlas, he is not well, Excellency! I have told him to stay in bed, though he was very eager to meet you. We are Sabzipeople, Excellency, from the islands,” she said brightly, in an obvious effort to turn the conversation.
    â€œIs your son here now?”
    â€œYes—no!” the woman began, and then her eyes moved, and her small gasp made Sharif look towards the door of her room. There was the boy, gazing straight at him with an accuse-and-be-damned look. He limped towards his mother and she put an arm around his shoulder, drawing him against her.
    â€œHere is Hani, Excellency!” she said, her voice going up an octave, though she tried to appear calm. “You see he is not so ill that he will stay in bed when a Cup Companion of the Sultan visits!”
    She looked anxiously between Sharif and the boy as if expecting him to denounce the boy, and almost wept in relief when instead he said, “You say you are from the Gulf Islands?”
    â€œYes, Excellency. Our home was the island of Solomon’s Foot. They destroyed our house and drove us out of the island. My husband was arrested. Fifteen months, Excellency, and I have heard no news of him!”
    â€œThe Sultan’s people are working to reunite all political prisoners with their families. I hope you will soon hear news of your husband, Mrs. Sabzi.”
    â€œBut here we are so far away! Many, many thousand miles, they say. How will my husband find us? Please tell the Sultan that we want to come home.”
    Unless she was a miracle of preservation, she was not old enough to be the boy’s mother. Sharif’s gaze raked her face for a resemblance to the boy. Family connections were often constructs in the camps, partly because of Western ignorance of the importance of certain relationships in other cultures, partly because distant relationships increased in importance when many family members had been lost. So great-uncles became fathers, and second cousins became brothers and sisters, to satisfy the requirements of an alien authority.
    But he could see no trace of family resemblance at all.
    â€œYour husband, Mrs. Sabzi…” he began.
    â€œI think you have dropped something, Excellency,” the boy interrupted.
    The mother choked with alarm.
    Sharif glanced down to see his wallet lying against his foot. The boy bent to retrieve it, straightened and, with a level, challenging look, offered it to him.
    The director blinked. “Is that your wallet?” he cried in English. “How did it get there?”
    â€œIt must have fallen from my pocket,” Sharif replied.
    â€œI doubt it very