Imprints of a Gazelle

Imprints of a Gazelle

Geoff Brooker

AuthorHouse™

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© 2011, 2014 by Geoff Brooker. All rights reserved.

Geoff Brooker has asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. All the characters in this novel are fictitious and any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Geoff Brooker

Oxford

England

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/08/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1979-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1980-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Acknowledgements

‘Gazelle: A small antelope… noted for graceful movements and lustrous eyes.’

CHAPTER 1

Quickly and quietly, Brahim laid down his tools, gathered up his clothes and left the building site where he worked. It was important that he remain unseen. He kept his eyes down until he reached the corrugated iron gates and then, stepping out into the busy road, lost himself among the crowd.

It was an Algerian crowd, large, hurried and spilling out across the road from the narrow sidewalks. It was an Arab crowd, of colour, gowns and shrouds, turbans and darahas pushing into the flow of protesting traffic. It was an African crowd, with the smells and the dust of Africa, with the wind from the empty lands and the sun, always the sun, burning in open skies.

Brahim’s plan was clear. He had thought through each stage repeatedly as he lay in his dormitory during the hot, clammy nights. Learning by day and scheming by night, he had examined every angle, considered every detail and weighed the risks of every step.

For it was there in his lonely bunk that he had first dreamed of her. Never before in his eighteen years had he seen such loveliness. In the Saharan desert, his home until he came to Algiers, the girls were usually carefully protected and, other than his sister, he had rarely spoken to them. His time had been spent tending the livestock and riding with his brothers deep into the wild lands, where they hunted and searched for grazing.

Periodically, the families would gather by one of the tribal wells and it was there that the buying and selling, the courting and marriages, would take place. There amongst the great feasts, the dancing and the story-telling of the days when the desert had held gazelle and the hunting had been good.

His grandfather had owned many camels. Each year he would sell sufficient to buy bread flour and maize. The herd would produce young to replenish itself. There was grazing for the goats, and life, to a young boy, seemed full of happiness.

Now the land was dry, the grazing sparse and the watercourses empty. There was not enough feed for the camels and they had had to sell more than was usual. Many other families were doing the same and prices were low. The drought meant there was less flour to be bought and the price had more than doubled, so even more camels had to be sold. Only rain could stop this downward spiral, but for the past ten years, rain had not come. His grandfather’s magnificent herd, which gave him status among the tribe, had dwindled, until there were only enough camels to carry their few possessions from well to well, in a desperate search for fresh grazing.

In his homesick restlessness, Brahim would dream of his camel Al-Hamra with her red, dusty coat. She was a gift from his grandfather when he was thirteen years old. She was his to care for and ride; his claim to future manhood. She raised him high and women looked up when he rode by.

But he had been unable to find enough food and Al-Hamra had begun to weaken.

You had better sell her before she dies, his father, Mahfoudh ould Merzoug, told him.

They went to the camel market outside Glimim. Brahim fought hard to hide the boyhood tears as Al-Hamra stood tethered and the buyers circled around. Al-Hamra looked at him with large innocent eyes as if to say, I trust you. I have carried you since you were a boy. I crossed countless miles of desert for you. I saved your life when you were lost and I smelt the water and when you were ill I took you to Hajaba. You are my master. I have no future except what you choose.

Brahim felt he was betraying that trust, although his parents had taught him that there was no room for sentimentality in the harsh desert life.

The buyers said Al-Hamra was too old; she was too weak. Strong young male camels could be bought for the same price. So Brahim had led her home again.

When the day came that Al-Hamra was unable to stand, his father handed Brahim his gun. Al-Hamra lay alone close to the tents. A bowl of ground peanut shells, mixed with oil, remained untouched. Brahim never forgot that last knowing look in Al-Hamra’s sunken eyes before the loud bang.

It was a young man, not a boy, who handed back the gun and said to his father, ‘I am going to Algeria to find work.’

It was a natural choice. Both the Moroccans and the Mauritanians were persecuting Brahim’s people in the Western Sahara, their armies reasserting remembered claims to sovereignty following the Spanish withdrawal in 1976. One hundred and seventy thousand starving Sahrawis, almost half the entire population, walked the ungoverned lands in a desperate attempt to escape the bombing, the napalm and phosphorus, and fled into refugee camps set up by the Algerians. The men fought, while the women ran the camps. Indeed, Brahim’s brother, Nadhir, had left the family tents to join the Polisario, as the guerrillas were called, and fight for the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic.

With little education and no skills other than those of the desert life, Brahim passed from place to place until he found work at a private factory being built on the outskirts of Algiers. He ate once a day at the roadside stalls and slept in the Turkish Baths. They were bathrooms by day, migrant dormitories by night. The manager was a Rigibat from the Sahara and knowing Brahim was a refugee, let him stay free.

So it was that against the background noises of sleep, he would dream of his desert. He would stare out of the small, high window into the turquoise night and return to the wide-open spaces. In his mind, he was home at his father’s tents, teasing his sister and hunting with his brothers. Al-Hamra was young and strong again and led him home when he was blinded by the sand. But now the sky was dark and the sand was black, though he did not know why.

These were his dreams until he saw her.

Zahra came with her father who was visiting the factory. Alert and young, she stood just behind him, looking about with wide and curious eyes. She was dressed in an orange, checked apron with a neatly pressed, black scarf covering her hair. Brahim couldn’t help but stare.

He stared like he did when once, on the back of Al-Hamra, he had seen a wild gazelle grazing in the desert. Its coat was a shiny speckle, its body lithe and graceful. He had aimed at it with his long gun, for a gazelle is the most prized of all hunts. Its skin when stretched and dried is a valuable gift, and its meat, succulent and soft. It would bring great happiness to his family.

The gazelle had raised its head and looked directly at him without fear. Never before had he seen anything so beautiful. They stared at each other unblinking, as if in mutual recognition of the wonder they shared.

‘Shoot now!’ a voice inside him said, and as if catching fright, the gazelle turned and scampered away, moving quickly into the safety of distance.

He thought of giving chase but its beauty had overpowered him, and he didn’t want to hurt it. He simply wanted to watch it and he resolved that if ever he saw a gazelle again he would capture it so he could own and admire it forever.

But as he returned to his tents, he pondered and realised that a captured gazelle was not what he wanted after all. A broken, tethered animal would no longer have the spirit of the gazelle he had just seen. He wanted to delight in racing with it across the dunes, he wanted to watch it leap about playfully in the early morning crispness as cold withdrew its heavy cloak, and he wanted to see it silhouetted in the moonlight, still and at peace. He wondered if it was ever possible to share an animal’s freedom and so experience its true nature.

You frightened it, Brahim, said his father who had accompanied him. It is the same as with people. Once they feel fear they change and you never see the true person again.

He realised that it was when he had thought of killing it that he had shattered the moment and replaced it with fear. With that simple wish, he had destroyed any chance of sharing a free communion with the gazelle ever again.

When the girl turned and looked at him directly, her eyes reminded him instantly of the gazelle. Her gaze was steady and curious. Her skin was clear and smooth, a soft, light colour that he had not seen in a woman before. When she turned and followed her father, he knew that for the second time he had seen the gazelle. This time he would not make the same mistake.

He dreamed of her that night as his aching body lay resting. And he dreamed of her again. Even though he did not see her the following day, or the day after, the following week or the week after, he still dreamed of her.

In the third week, Brahim was told to go with some other workers to Benaknoun, a part of Algiers he had not seen, where the houses were big, with high walls around them. Through the gates, he could see freshly cut grass and trees and a road that led to each house. He had never before seen such wealth, nor imagined that people lived like this. At one such house the van stopped and the driver shouted into a black box by the gate. The gate opened and they drove inside.

They were to do some building work at the house. Brahim mixed the cement and carried it to where the bricks were to be laid. It was more relaxed than at the factory. He worked, marvelling at the house and the comforts around him.

A black shiny car came up the drive and two young women emerged from the back. Ignoring him and the other workers they ran excitedly into the house.

Later, in casual clothes, the girls came into the garden where they played with racquets and a ball. Brahim’s mind was racing, his heart thumping, but he continued his work. Suddenly there was a loud cry. The ball had been thrown into a tree where it was caught among the branches and the two girls were jumping up and down trying to dislodge it.

Brahim climbed the tree and freed the ball. One girl caught it and ran back to continue the game but the other waited until he had climbed safely down.

Thank you, she said.

Brahim could only stare at her.

I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? She searched her memory. I know! You are one of the builders in my father’s factory. Her eyes opened wide with the recollection and she smiled.

Come on Zahra, shouted her companion.

Just a moment. Then turning to him, she asked, What is your name?

Brahim.

Brahim, hmm… you are not from Algiers are you?

No.

Where are you from then?

The south. He did not want to say too much as her father was obviously someone very powerful.

Ooh, the desert, she said. Are you really from the desert?

Yes.

And can you ride a camel?

Yes.

Hurry up Zahra! Her friend shouted again.

You don’t say much, do you Brahim?

No.

Why do you keep staring at me?

You remind me of a gazelle.

I’ve never seen a gazelle, what are they like?

They are very beautiful. One day I will show you. Brahim answered softly. If Allah permits.

So it was that their relationship started. A magical moment that eclipsed all sense and caution. A time tick, in which was awakened, life’s longing for its own fulfilment—a longing which neither of them, even had they known it, could control.

Driven first by curiosity a friendship grew, which blossomed into a romance. Zahra loved the depth in his eyes. It was as if through him she could see the whole of the southern desert with all its mysteries. He spoke of his life with the passion of a storyteller and enthralled her with his humour and suspense. His soft voice lulled her with its unusual dialect and poetic rhythm.

Most of all she loved the way he treated her. She loved his gentleness wrapped in such a strong body, his attentiveness and concern. He never sought to dominate her or control her, never presumed her opinion or decision and never belittled her. He would listen to her with an intense yet quiet attentiveness, giving her room to tell him how she felt and what she thought. She saw in him qualities of honesty, sincerity, compassion and kindness. She knew that although they would not make him rich, they would make her happy.

When the job at the house was finished, she gave him a key to the little gate at the back of the garden wall and their relationship continued in secret stolen moments.

Jealously guarded daughters in their teenage years love deeply and easily. Sense and forethought do not guide them. Social distinction and barriers become mere obstacles against which to prove their stubborn independence. Tall, brick walls that surround and imprison become the young man’s challenge, the night his friend, the silence his ally. The guard dogs, which kept determined thieves at bay, were Zahra’s friends and so became his sentinels, their ears flicking back and their noses sniffing the air.

Fear of discovery adds to the intensity of love. Rebellious love offers escape from the claustrophobia of parental possessiveness. Zahra’s natural curiosity and sense of adventure led her down a reckless path. It took her into narrow emotional gorges, finding a way between large, impenetrable cliffs of cultural restriction, repression and tradition. She emerged into a wide-open plain of seemingly endless possibilities and promise, her teenage heart beating wildly with every stolen glance and kiss, and she did not know the way back again.

One evening, as they stood together, hidden in the protective shadows of garden trees, Brahim felt a footfall on the soft grass nearby. He did not hear it, he did not see anything; he only sensed a tightening in his body, an almost intuitive forewarning. There was no need to speak. Zahra sensed his tautness and held her breath. Hearing nothing, she smiled and relaxed but his eyes warned her again, in time, for her father then called her name. The dogs began to bark. Terrified she looked at Brahim, eyes pleading for guidance, but he only smiled and brushing her lips with his fingers motioned her to go. The dogs unleashed, ran to her, she called out in reply. Her father urged the dogs on into the trees but in that moment of hesitation and noise, Brahim moved. When they searched, they found only the shadows. But, for the first time, Zahra lied to her father and when next Brahim and Zahra met, both knew it was time.

There comes a point in every relationship when the future beckons and lovers need to choose. For her there was fear but no doubt. She knew in her heart that she could never lose him. The harshness of the desert took on the romantic hue of a simple life which she would be free to share with the only man who had never sought to control her. She would be free to have his children and they would care for their family together.

Young love believes it is an island unto itself. It is a most profound revolution repeated the world over. The wisdom of the elders, aware of the need for stability and thus relying on tradition, is ignored in favour of an idealistic independence. It is so common as to have become the norm, yet causes outrage each time. The advantages of her fine upbringing and the uneducated reputation of her future husband’s people were not factors in her decision.

When she came out of college one day there were two cars waiting: a shiny black Mercedes and a taxi. One was behind the other. She only hesitated for a moment.

The driver said that by the time he realised something was wrong, the taxi had already moved into the traffic. He followed it towards the Chemin-Oeuvre bus station, and then lost it.

Zahra’s father called together her three brothers.

The taxi driver, when found and questioned, said he dropped them at the bus station. She had changed into an al-hayek that the boy had given her to hide her face. It seemed to amuse them both.

On no account were the police to be involved: the family could not lose face.

Bus tickets had been sold to them for Tindouf, a town three days drive away, far to the southwest near the Moroccan and Mauritanian borders where the refugee camps lay. A Bedouin from the desert had walked off site the same afternoon. The sister, when challenged, had burst into tears and admitted that she knew of the affair but not the plan to elope.

So began a desperate chase. Zahra’s brothers took a four-hour flight from Houari Boumediene airport to Tindouf, which overtook the slower bus. They knew she had to be found before reaching the camps. Once sheltered by her lover’s people, she would be impossible to trace. They were waiting when the bus pulled into the station. As the doors opened, they sprang quickly inside before the passengers could leave, but the driver said they had left the bus at Hassi Khabi, a village some 400km back. In a rented four by four the brothers gave chase. In the village, they found out that a Bedouin with a young woman had bought a camel and supplies early that morning, and then ridden off towards the Moroccan border.

They paid good money for a local guide. The track became smaller as it meandered to the west. There was optimism now for it was late in the day and no one would travel at night where the Polisario guerrillas operated against a heavily guarded Moroccan border. Soon they would catch sight of them or see by the firelight where they had made camp. Then there would be a matter of family pride, about which the police would never know.

They drove until the road ran out; they searched until the dark covered the sand. They looked with an increasing sense of desperation, until later, much later, that night, they returned to the village and telephoned Zahra’s father.

* * *

Brahim held her