Equivocality

She thumped the big book down on the counter. Textbook of Surgery, International Student’s Edition, he read.

“You’re a medical student?

“A doctor, actually. I’m starting my surgery internship next week.”

Her English was clear and spoken easily. Educated, confident. He saw that her eyes were that strange golden brown unique to the Arabs. Everything else was covered in her black abbeya, no veil. She was smiling and looking right at him.

“Ah. So you have a week to read the entire textbook.”

“No, no,” she laughed, “I have four months. But I need to learn how scrub in before I start. I know the basics, but… And you, you are visiting Oman?”

“Yes. Just for a week. Tomorrow I’m going to rent a car and drive down the coast.”

“Where are you from?”

“America.”

“And what do you work at?”

Still holding his gaze.

“I’m a journalist. Freelance.”

She looked away to receive her change and put the heavy book in a plastic bag. She was intrigued; he was attractive, polite. And foreign, therefore different and interesting. But there was no more reason for her to be there.

“Well, enjoy.”

And she left the store.

He paid for his map. It was three rials, expensive. Everything in Oman was expensive for a foreigner, but there was no option. The cashier put the map in a plastic bag despite his protests, and he walked out of the Al Wadi shopping plaza into the fierce heat of daylight.

She was descending the steps as he came out the doors.

“You again.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him, waiting.

“So. What should I see in Oman?”

Now they were standing face to face on the steps, a meter apart. He wondered if was unusual or suspicious for a woman alone to talk to a strange man in public. The capital cities were usually more liberal, but there was no way to know for sure.

“Well, Sur is nice.”

“Yes. I’m heading there, to see the turtle nesting grounds.”

“There is also an island a little farther down the coast, Massirah.”

“Massirah?”

“It’s really beautiful. And the sands too, the Wahiba.”

That wasn’t what she really wanted to say, he was sure. He looked carefully at her face. Her expression was warm, but there was simultaneously something slightly brash. Cute, he decided. He caught himself wondering what she looked like under all that black cloth.

“I would really like to see that,” he said out loud. “I spent quite a long time in the dunes in the Sahara, I loved it there.”

No, she decided, I would never marry just for a visa. But she was curious, and she’d heard that some Western that men actually preferred independent women. How was this supposed to work? Would he simply invite her on a date if they were in America? She wanted to ask him.

“It will easy to arrange a tour from Sur,” she said instead.

And if. Just supposing, he wondered. Would they have to keep it a secret from her family?

“Look,” he said, “are you allowed to shake my hand?”

“No. But I’m going to do it anyway.”

Would he understand this?

He gave her his name and extended his right hand.

“I’m Nura,” she said, with a rolled “r” that he couldn’t pronounce. Her hand came across the space between them. It was small and warm in his. There was something tentative, uncertain about their contact.

Pause.

“Well.”

“Yes.”

“Nice to meet you, Nura.”

It came out like an ending, when he had intended a beginning.

“Nice to meet you too.”

She didn’t know what to do either.

And they walked in opposite directions to their cars.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 27th, 2007 at 11:37 pm and is filed under Fiction, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.