Sues short story

The sea of sand is muddled in the dust. The once sharp edges of the high Saharan dunes have melted into the yellowy sky. The wind cavorts around the camels, lashes at their hobbled legs and ferocious needles of sand stab Harry’s bare brown arms. His face is masked with a bit of cloth with only his nostrils engaging with the onslaught. He and Mussafer, the camel train leader are huddled, almost cuddling under a woven carpet shelter.

Just as suddenly, the sand waves slow, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with hollowed cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth.

Harry grins back, jumps up and starts plodding through the deep sand to find Fanny, his camel. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, Harry moves down the line checking for his canvas duffle. He wants to whisper into each of their hairy ears, tell them how brave they are, but the smell of overripe regurgitated grass overtakes his love of them.

“Mussafer, Moooo Saaaaa fer” he yells “for God’s sake man, where is Fanny? Didn’t you hobble her to Jasper?”

“Yes Master. Yes, there’s Jasper”

“Yes, but where is Fanny? Where are my clothes?

“Gone Master”

“Gone!? What do you mean gone?”

“Disappeared with the sand riders”
“Oh God” mumbles Harry and he collapses to the ground in a mass of material

“My shoes, not my shoes” he yells to no-one and everyone

He pulls the Arab cape around his body, hugging himself, protecting himself. His tummy catapults into his throat, he nearly chokes and his face feels hot and itchy. He tries to imagine no shoes.

“Bare feet! No way! Can’t do” his brain vibrates

“Mussafer, I can’t”

“Can’t what Master?”

“Not have shoes. I’ve got to cover my feet”

Mussafer’s two back gold teeth glisten in the sun and his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause.

“Here master, have my sandals”

“What about my ..........................?” and he stops short of mentioning the ugly red scar that runs between his two little toes and his ankle.

He sits there huddled into the sand. The wind has gone quiet, the camels burp.

Images flash disjointedly through his mind. He’s five years old and his sister says he has funny feet, he’s on his way to Timbuktu to buy an pair of shoes, he’s in hospital as a child, his left foot is bandaged, he’s alone, he moves to Chelsea where no-one knows him, he opens a shoe shop, shit, he’s just lost his favourite beige suede boots.


********************************************

Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast”. In this picturesque oasis, in the middle of the desert live a small tribe of Twareg. They live in round huts of baked mud and palm leaf thatched roofs, one family to each home, all sharing one space.

Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting in the hut with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. Harry just stands and stares.

His eyes dart around the room. Grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls and colourful striped blankets are piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room. It collides with the steam to move to the door. Harry’s eyes rest on the doorway. It’s cold, it’s winter.

Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged and occasionally causing a ripple through the water. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll, his blue and purple dishdashah flows down around the ground like a dress, his eyes sting and tears trickle down his cheeks. They sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face.

He clutches his robes and guides them over his feet as he gently kicks off the dirty old sandals. His socks long gone, his feet now bare.

“It’s our custom Master. It warms the spirit, dispenses evil thoughts and relaxes the mind”

Harry makes it to the low wooden stool.

“Shit, oh no, Mummy” he yells as the stool falls backwards and he lands flat on his back, with all, yes all exposed.

Mussafer hoots and cackles. Harry whimpers and whines like a lost puppy.

“Up you get Master, no harm done” and Mussafer helps him to his feet. His scarred feet. Harry gulps, even Clara, his ex girlfriend has never seen his feet.

Mussafer pampers him and settles him

“There, there” he says, just like Mummy used to.

Harry sighs, closes his eyes and relaxes.

A new slideshow of images cascades through Harry’s mind. Mummy is washing his feet in the bath, the scar looks red and ugly, the Arab shoes are full of gems, ducks have webbed feet and they waddle, Clara left him last month, girls always leave him.


********************************************


Harry caresses the soft, kid leather and ambles his fingers around the red rubies. He has a warm gooey feeling in his tummy. The shoes are one of a kind, perfect for Sheik Michael’s wedding, he can vividly picture them sparkling under the Sheik’s cream silk suit.

“Master, do they feel OK? Says Mussafer. “Do you like them?” Harry can almost hear the next phrase “say yes, say yes, please say yes”.

“They are truly beautiful, Mussafer, thank you, thank you both”. He jumps up and grasps both men in a huge wrap around hug.

“Try them on, go on see what they feel like”

Harry goes to take off his sandals.

“Oh”

“What Master?”

“Oh”

“Master you’ve turned a deathly shade of grey. Are you OK?”

“Oh” and under his breath “how come I didn’t realise”

“Maybe, I won’t. Maybe Sheik Michael won’t like them after all”

“Maaaaaaaster!”

“Maybe he doesn’t like rubies”

“Master, think of your boutique, your reputation, your best customer, your friend, you must”

Images collide and confuse him. The sheik is buying him champagne, the Sheik’s future wife, Caroline is gorgeous, the scar is ugly, no-one has seen the scar, the bells of Westminster abbey are chiming, he’s in the Sahara desert, maybe they won’t notice.

Harry draws his dashdashah free of his ankles, and then lets it slide down.

“Come on Master”

Mussafer cocks his head to one side and looks at Harry weirdly.

Harry gulps, he feels like his hair is standing on its ends. He’s twitchy.

“Hey” yells Mussafer “look Mo, look at Harry’s left foot. Isn’t it beautiful? It must be a sign”

“A sign?” says Harry “What do you mean?” he can feel himself starting to roast

“Harry, didn’t you know?”

“Know what”

“That a long, long time ago there was an Arab prince who commissioned a special pair of shoes is made for him.”

“So”

“He had webbed feet. Or rather his left two little toes were webbed”

“What. What did you say?” His face is alight but his eyes hesitate and question

“Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide them?

“No, no, no. The prince wanted shoes that would highlight the webbed toes, show them off to the world. So between each toe the leather was stitched and detailed with gems then the two left ones which were bare, were studded with diamonds.”

“Harry your feet? Were they webbed?

“Well”

“Well” and Mussafer and Mo join voices

“Well, yes. I had them separated when I was six”

“Master, your feet, they are glorious, you are like a prince, you must be a prince” Mussafer and Mo throw themselves to the ground and just about worship their new found prince.

“Let us massage them Master, please”

“Wow” is about all Harry is capable of mustering.

All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How since he was old enough to be embarrassed, he has been embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet, to run away from his relationships, to compromise his sex life. How he’s had such a thing about feet and shoes that it’s driven his career, shaped his travels, dictated his wardrobe and perverted his life.

He breathes. He can feel each breath getting longer and deeper. He can feel the muscles in his back relax and sigh in relief. He can feel his face getting younger, his mouth soft and his lips slightly curving in a soft smile. He can feel every cell in his body.

Life does a cartwheel. The images play smoothly through his mind.

Clara is waiting for him at Heathrow, he travels again to Africa with his Mum, he and Clara get married, he opens shoe boutiques in New York and Hong Kong, he is the Sheik’s best man, Mussafer stays a friend for life.

And he has replaced his favourite beige suede boots.