Web Wonders - Sue

The once sharp edges of the high Saharan dunes melt into the yellowy sky. The wind swirls and cavorts around the camels, lashes at their hobbled legs and creates a spiralling whirlwind of sand and dust as it heads for the woven carpet shelter. Harry pulls the colourful blankets over his head to ward off the ferocious needles of sand so only his nostrils engage with the onslaught.

The sand waves gradually stand still, the dust starts to seep back into the ground and Mussafer, the camel train leader, peels off his head gear. A narrow black face with sunken cheeks and piercing grey eyes widens in a smile of crooked yellow teeth.

Harry starts as if woken from a dream. He stares at the sand, virginal and clean, sees the camels standing patiently and watches Mussafer as he dismantles their shelter. Then he remembers the email message that started this whole adventure.

“Attention, all Arab Princes. A jewel-studded pair of leather shoes has been discovered ten kilometres east of Timbuktu – a camel train leaves in 3 days”.

Harry has always had a fetish for shoes. He loves them, especially those that are exotic and outlandish. The invitation to Africa is therefore irresistible so, unbelievably, here he is in the middle of the Sahara desert and in the middle of a sand storm.

Harry’s first priority is to retrieve his boots which he’d slung over his camels back when the sand storm began. Like a sergeant in the army inspecting the troops, Harry moves down the line of camels 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 shoes?”

“Gone Master”.

“Gone! What do you mean gone?”

“Disappeared with the sand riders”.

“Oh God” mumbles Harry. His legs turn to jelly and he collapses back into the sand.

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

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

“Bare feet! You’ve got to be kidding!” 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 as his face creases in deep furrows of laughter. There’s a long unsettling pause. Mussafer’s eyes see through to Harry’s soul.

“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.

Images flash disjointedly through his mind. He’s five years old and his sister says he has funny feet. He’s in hospital and alone. He moves to Chelsea and opens a shoe shop. Shit, he’s just lost his favourite beige suede boots.

******

The trio are almost to Timbuktu and Mussafer and his brother, Mo, are sitting inside a Bedouin tent with their feet soaking in a steaming bowl of oily essence-filled water. The hut is obviously set up to share. Three grass mats that look low, flat and lumpy lie around the walls with colourful striped blankets piled into the corner. A lonely lopsided cooking pot sits on a few smouldering charcoals and smoke ambles around the centre of the room.

“Hurry Master, hurry, the water is cooling fast”.

Mussafer and Mo seem to be meditating, their hairy legs exposed to the knee, their brown beautiful feet submerged. Harry is frozen to the spot, eyes transfixed on those feet. His legs are taut and stiff like a wooden doll and tears seep down his cheeks to sizzle on his embarrassed and confused face. Even Clara, his ex girlfriend, has never seen his feet.

He cautiously guides his robes over his feet and manoeuvres off the dirty old sandals. His socks long gone, his feet now bare.

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

“Shit, oh no” Harry yells as the little low 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 and pats him gently on the back.

“There, there” he says.

Harry sighs, closes his eyes and relaxes.

More images cascades through Harry’s mind. His Mum is washing his feet in the bath. The Arab shoes are full of gems. He and Clara are holding hands.

******

The Royal Palace drips with gold. Lush red velvet drapes hang behind an ornate high-backed chair and potted palm trees line the pearl inlaid floor. King Maimon has his audience enthralled.

“You’re not an Arab Prince. You can’t go. Next please”.

“Wait, I must, please, I need those shoes. I’ll do anything. I’ll pay, I’m rich” replies Harry.

“No, the next part of the journey is only for princes”.

“Look, I have diamonds” and Harry opens a little blue velvet pouch and gently shakes the contents onto a low table. They twinkle in the candle light.

Maimon hesitates, he stutters a quiet “No” but at the same time he peers greedily through the flickering light.

“And rubies”. Harry rushes on pretending he didn’t hear. The red stars join the silver jewels in a kaleidoscope of bouncing light. He watches Maimon. His eyes are huge and Harry can see the jewels reflected in dark pools of grey. The room has gone dead quiet. Harry can sense his own breath as it beats a drum in his temples.

“No, no, no. I will not be bribed” yells Maimon.

“I can get you camels. I can get you a fair English rose, a beautiful white girl to add to your harem. Just imagine your legs entwined in a tangle of pearly white flesh”.

“Go away, Harry” says Maimon. “Just leave. There’s not a place for you in the camel train”.

Harry’s shoulders droop. If he was a dog, his tail would be down and his ears flat against his head. He would slouch into the shadows.

Then Mussafer pipes up. “Master, Master, show him your feet. Go on”.

“My feet!”

“Yes Master”.

“My feet, my feet, why my feet?”

“Master there’s something you don’t know about those shoes”.

“Oh”.

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

“So”.

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

“What. What did you say?” He feels his face soften and relax. “Why did he want special shoes? Didn’t he want to hide his ugly feet?”

“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”.

“Weeeeeell” the crowd bend towards him.

“Well, yes. I had them separated when I was six”. His voice sounds tiny.

No-one moves. Maimon just stares.

“Show them Master, they are really beautiful”.

Harry shakes his head in disbelief.

Images of the jewellery studded soft leather shoes and his poor scarred feet jostle in his mind as it works out which is the most important.

“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.

“I must have those shoes” he mutters as he slowly guides his Dishdashah away from the ugly red scar.

“Hey” yells Mussafer.

“Look Mo, look Maimon, look at Harry’s left foot. It’s a sign”.

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

“Master, you are a prince. Only princes have webbed feet. It is written”.

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

All Harry can think about is the massive cover up his life has been. How he’s spent his life being embarrassed. How he’s gone to enormous lengths to hide his feet, to run away from his relationships, to compromise his sex life by never exposing his feet. 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 becomes soft and his lips slightly curve in a smile.

Life does a cartwheel.

“A prince, you’ve got to be kidding”. He bursts out laughing. He laughs at the prince thing. He laughs at his feet. He laughs because he’s in the middle of the desert. He laughs as he imagines wearing those shoes. He just laughs until his stomach has such an ache that tears start running down his face.

“Just imagine. I am going to turn up at Heathrow Airport with webbed feet and toes studded with diamonds.” He bends over almost double as the giggles come back.