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‘The desert,’ I heard a cool voice beside me. Looking over, I saw Mr Ambrose regarding the craggy landscape before us with narrowed eyes.
‘Thank you,’ I told him. ‘I think I realized that much myself.’
No reply.
‘Don’t take that as a criticism, though,’ I continued. ‘Those are the first words you’ve said to me in more than a week. You’re making progress. Now you’ve just got to remember that your vocal cords are actually good for something, and maybe we’ll have a nice chat one of these days.’
No reply.
‘Or not.’
Again, no reply. With a snap of his cane, Mr Ambrose spurred his camel forward, forging ahead, into the desert. His top hat didn’t wobble in the slightest from the camel’s march on the rough ground, but remained still and steady as a black marble tombstone.
‘Beware of the sun!’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Beware of the sun,’ I muttered. ‘What helpful advice! Why, thank you for mentioning that before you force me to ride hundreds of miles through the desert!’
Sighing, I eyed the glowing, simmering landscape in fron
t of me. Well… what was one desert? Just a stretch of land without trees, after all. It couldn’t be that bad.
I spurred my camel forward.
*~*~**~*~*
‘Please, please let me die!’
Mr Ambrose glanced over at me. ‘Be my guest.’
‘I wasn’t talking to you!’ I groaned, wiping the sweat from my forehead. Or at least one litre of it. Another six litres remained, stuck to the skin under the scorching sun. They felt more like glue than perspiration. ‘I was talking to God!’
‘I see.’
Blast him! How could his voice be this calm, controlled and, most baffling of all, cool in this abominable heat? Balefully, I glared at his face. His voice wasn’t the only part of him that was cool.
‘How is it,’ I demanded, ‘that while I’m quite literally sweating my guts out, there’s not a drop of sweat on your face? Not a single blasted drop!’
He shrugged.
‘You just bloody shrugged! That’s no bloody answer!’
He shrugged again.
‘Gah!’ Grasping the hem of my headscarf I tried to pull it further down to get at least a little more shade, but to no avail. The sun had already heated up the cloth mercilessly. It was like a woven oven. ‘Still, not a single drop of sweat! And you’re not even wearing anything for protection!’
‘Certainly I do,’ he contradicted me, one long pail finger tapping the side of his black top hat.
‘That’s no protection against sunlight! At least it’s not supposed to be! Why do you think the Arabs make all their clothes from white cloth? Because black attracts heat!’
‘Does it indeed?’
‘Yes!’
‘I see…’ He gave me a long, cool look. He didn’t even have to speak the words out loud, I could hear them as clearly as if Moses himself had shouted them from the nearest mountain: Then why are you sweating, and I’m not?
I was damned if I was going to give him an answer! Especially since I had none.
‘You should put on a thobe and headscarf yourself, or you’ll get heatstroke!’ I prophesied darkly, hoping to hell I was right.
