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Jamilah shook her head with relief. She needed space and air in order to gather her defences again.
They got out, and when the cool air hit her she shivered. She felt Salman dropping his warm jacket around her shoulders. She looked up at him, heart tripping. ‘I can get my coat. You’ll freeze.’
He smiled his lopsided smile. ‘I’ll survive. It’ll take more than the cold to do me in.’
He took her by the hand and reluctantly she gave in, knowing he wouldn’t let her go anyway. They walked towards the tinkling music. Some couples were strolling around, like them, hand in hand, amongst groups of teenagers and even some harried-looking parents with small children, seemingly oblivious to the late hour.
Salman said then, so softly that she almost didn’t hear him, ‘I’ve always loved fairgrounds. There’s something so escapist and other-worldly about them.’
Jamilah’s mouth dropped open, and she closed it abruptly when Salman sent her an amused glance. ‘Don’t look so shocked.’
‘When were you ever at a fairground growing up?’ They had nothing like them in Merkazad.
He was leading her towards where a merry-go-round glistened under a blaze of lights. There was a melancholic quality to his voice. ‘There used to be a fairground in Merkazad, but when the rebels invaded they smashed it to pieces.’
‘Oh…’ No wonder she hadn’t ever seen one. It would have been long gone by the time she’d been old enough to visit it. ‘Why wasn’t another one built?’
Salman shrugged. ‘I think people were having a hard enough time just rebuilding their lives and homes.’
‘Perhaps someone should build one again…’
Salman looked at her with an enigmatic expression. ‘Maybe one day someone will.’
The intensity of his gaze on hers made her look away and say a little breathlessly, ‘You don’t mind these horses…?’
He followed her gaze to the brightly coloured horses that went up and down and round and round. ‘No,’ he said tightly, ‘I don’t mind these horses.’ He looked back at her. ‘I don’t mind any horses in general, Jamilah. I just choose not to go near them. I leave that up to people like you and Nadim.’
His tone brooked no further conversation, and she caught a glimpse of something suspiciously like fear in his eyes. That slightly ashen tinge again coloured his skin. She’d been around horses and people long enough to spot someone who had a pathological fear a mile away, and for the first time she guessed that Salman’s antipathy to horses went far deeper than fear. It reminded her of a phobic reaction. Her curiosity was welling up again, and with it a sense of danger.
She took her hand out of his and stepped up to the beautiful antique-looking carousel, holding her dress in one hand. She handed some money over to the man operating the controls, and when it had stopped she jumped up to sit side-saddle on one of the horses. With a burgeoning feeling of lightness in her chest she stuck her tongue out cheekily at Salman, and just as it was about to start off again he threw some money at the man and stepped up beside her, standing close enough that she could feel his hard chest against her thigh.
‘Hey!’ she said, breathless all over again. ‘That’s cheating. You’re meant to sit on your own horse.’
He locked his hands around her waist and Jamilah had to hang onto his shoulders for dear life as the horse started to go up and down. They were moving. It was causing a delicious friction between his chest and her leg. He reached up and pulled her head down to his. She was powerless to resist. Their mouths met, the up and down motion of the horse forcing them close together and then apart in an intoxicating dance.
The music faded, and everything dissolved into the heat of the kiss and Salman’s arms around her, holding her like an anchor. Neither one of them heard the crude wolf-whistle from a passing crowd of teens. They didn’t come up for air until the man asked brusquely if they were prepared to pay for another go.
Cheeks scarlet with embarrassment, Jamilah slithered off the horse, legs wobbly, and was grateful for Salman’s steadying hand on hers as he led her away. Her heart was pounding and her skin prickled with anticipation. She had no doubt that right at this moment Salman intended taking her back to the hotel and making love to her.
Maybe he was right? Maybe they should indulge in this madness in Paris and be purged of this crazy desire and obsession? Perhaps that was what it would take to get him out of her system for good?
Just then Salman got distracted by something. She heard the rat-tat-tat of rapid tinny gunfire coming from a shooting range, and saw where a small boy of about eight was in floods of tears because he’d obviously missed his target. His mother was trying to console him, telling him she had no more money, pleading with the owner of the stall of give him something, but the owner was sour-faced.
Before Jamilah knew what was happening Salman was striding over to the stall, dragging her along in his wake. When they reached it, he let Jamilah’s hand go and bent down to talk to the little boy in perfect French. Jamilah smiled awkwardly at the beleaguered-looking mother, and wondered what Salman was up to.
After a few minutes of consulting with the now sniffling boy, who had pointed out the prize he wanted, Salman handed some money to the owner. Then he lifted up the boy and rested his feet on a rung of the fence around the stall. He helped him to aim—showing him how to balance the rifle on his shoulder, explaining how to keep a steady hand. With his arms around him, Salman encouraged the boy to take the shot. To his ecstatic surprise and the owner’s evident disgruntlement he hit it first time. A perfect hit, right in the bullseye—and it was the hardest target to hit, as it was clearly the most coveted prize.
Amidst much effusive thanks, Salman finally took a bemused Jamilah’s hand again, and with a wave they walked off, leaving the now chirpy boy with his grateful mum. But as they approached the car, she could sense his mood change as clearly as if a bell had gone off.
When they were in the car, Jamilah turned on a tensely silent Salman.
‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’
Salman didn’t turn to face her, and just said quietly, almost as if to himself, ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have encouraged him to take the shot. It was good that he missed. Better that he be disappointed and not want to do it again than…’ He trailed off.
Jamilah asked, ‘Than what? Salman?’
Suddenly a chasm existed between them when minutes ago it had been all heat and urgent desire. Salman had withdrawn to somewhere impenetrable. He looked at her, but his eyes were opaque, unreadable. ‘Than nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
