Sands of the Two Queens , livre ebook
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112
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English
Ebook
2021
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Publié par
Date de parution
20 juillet 2021
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781662910029
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
1 Mo
Publié par
Date de parution
20 juillet 2021
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9781662910029
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
1 Mo
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The views and opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not reflect the views or opinions of Gatekeeper Press. Gatekeeper Press is not to be held responsible for and expressly disclaims responsibility of the content herein.
The Sands of the Two Queens: A Novel of Yemen
Published by Gatekeeper Press
2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109
Columbus, OH 43123-2989
www.GatekeeperPress.com
Copyright 2021 by Jess B. Nunnelee
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021931208
ISBN (hardcover): 9781662910005
ISBN (paperback): 9781662910012
eISBN: 9781662910029
When we are separated by the days The memories will bring us together -Yemeni proverb
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
CHAPTER 1
The five o clock prayer call pierced the quiet of the pre-dawn cool mountain air throughout the ancient city of Sana a. The stentorian, metallic chanting invaded every niche of the city, calling the faithful to the first prayer of the day. To the small group of expatriates sleeping in the camp at the edge of the city, it penetrated through the alcohol-induced veil of their unconsciousness and abruptly pulled them out of their near-comatose state. The sheer volume that shrieked down upon them from the mosque just behind the camp could not be ignored and, even if they had missed the persistent odor of raw sewage when they had deplaned the Lufthansa flight a few hours earlier, it was a sure reminder they were back again, once more.
Most of them could not, nor would they ever care to, comprehend the Allahu Akbar and the La Allah, La Allah, La Allah ella Allah wa Mohammedha Rasoulaha pouring forth in great volume from the minaret. Most had arrived in a typical state of near-complete inebriation. At least one would get a letter of reprimand sent to their company by the customs authority, for trying to illegally import pornography in the form of Playboy and Hustler magazines into the country. To a man, they each brought in the legally allowed two liters of alcoholic beverages. Many would also bring in large mouthwash bottles full of gin or vodka that had been colored with food dye.
The flights which had brought them all to this place had all been long, coming mostly from the U.S., Canada, England, Scotland, and Ireland, both North and Republic. The odd man came from Australia, Hungary, the Canary Islands, Romania, and there was one lone exiled Brit who resided in Thailand. It was typical that at least one of them per trip, usually an Irishman or Brit, would be detained by the authorities in Frankfurt or Amsterdam for refusing to obey airline regulations. Such things as smoking in a non-smoking seat while being drunk and disorderly were not tolerated, especially in Frankfurt, and the German police with their lime green uniforms and Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine guns would stoically escort the offender away for a night of sober reflection in the calaboose.
The camp where they were sleeping consisted of a collection of portable buildings on concrete piers, located inside a high-walled compound with a guard at the entrance gate. Each building contained two beds and a small bathroom. The heavy metal entrance gates to the camp stood perpetually open. The hinges on the gates had rusted from infrequent use, and a great effort and quantity of lube oil were required to close them, so no one ever bothered. The gate guards were local Yemeni men who utilized the small shack as a mufrage , to drink tea in the morning and chew qat in the evenings, rarely paying notice to those coming and going through the gate. The entire ground inside the camp was covered in several inches of coarse, light grey limestone aggregate, which clicked out tiny blue sparks when walked across at night. The largest building was the chow hall where breakfast was already being prepared.
The expats were slowly coming into a conscious state. The tiny minority of light or non-drinkers had been awake for hours; jet lag and the high altitude had precluded sleep for them. But for most of the crew, the trip had been 24 to 36 hours of heavy alcohol consumption, little food, and no sleep. They now began the process of recovering. They arose from the sleeping bunks which had been uniquely odorized by hundreds of different bodies, to shower (or not) in the undrinkable Sana a water, dress in coveralls or jeans with cotton shirts, and make their way across the gravel yard, hopefully without falling face-first into it, to the chow hall.
The cook was a portly Yemeni with the given name of Hassan. He had been the cook at the camp from the beginning, when it was built to serve the crew constructing the main oil pipeline which ran from the desert across the mountains and down to the coastal plain, ending at the tanker terminal in the Red Sea. It was still referred to as the mainline camp, even though work on the pipeline had concluded years before. Years of cooking for the diverse group of expats had taught Hassan how each preferred his breakfast. For the rig hands and field men from Louisiana and Texas, it was scrambled eggs, bacon, soft white biscuits, sliced jalape os with picante sauce, and white cream gravy slathered over it all. For the Brits, Irish, and Scots it was stewed tomatoes, bland sausage, fried or poached eggs, toast, muffins, and pork and beans, with barbecue sauce or maybe chutney on the table. Of course, the main prerequisite was a large percolator of coffee brewed to Texas specifications and definitely not to Louisiana specifications. Texas-style coffee seemed to be preferred by all nationalities.
The men filed inexorably inside, unshaven for the most part, with the general appearance of experiencing intense, possibly terminal pain. Inevitably one came through the door arm around the shoulders of another and showing very recent signs of the pox.
See you caught the pox, mate. Sly grins appeared feebly throughout the room. Must be careful, lad. That nasty pox will fly up and smash you in the face in an instant.
Hit took me and Bubba both to pull his sorry ass up. He swan-dived from the top step. Gravel stuck to his face like shit on a sharpshooter. Weak laughter ensued with no one yet having the required strength for a good belly roll. The pox victim sidled into the lavatory and viewed, through bloodshot eyes, his face pockmarked where the gravel had impinged the flesh, as he flicked off the last sharp-edged pebble.
Slowly they continue to file in, order their food and get their coffee. Gradually the hatchet buried between the eyes, the ice pick stabbed through the ear, the razor blades in the stomach, and the concrete churning in the bowels begin to ease a bit. They had not seen each other for 28 days. Slowly they looked around the tables and started to take the roll.
Where s the tin man, lad?
The tin man?
Aye, the tin man.
I guess he s with fucking Dorothy in the land of Oz, Mick.
No, no, the tin man. Name escapes me.
What the fuck are you talking about, Mick? The tin man . Oh! You mean Sharply, the rig mechanic.
Aye, the tin man you always travel with.
Yea yea, Mick, he s still asleep-drunker na waltzin pissant. I ll have to pry his sorry ass out of bed. Tin man, you crazy fucker. It s thin. With a th. Th, th, thin, not tin.
Tha s what I said mate. Tin.
With the first wholesome food in their bellies in at least 24 hours, and with the coffee beginning to take effect, the headaches and pain began to ease a bit. As they finished eating, cigarette smoke began to fill the hall and the mood lightened a little. Do you Texans know the difference between an orange and an apple, mate?
Whaddya ll mean, Mick?
You heard me, mate. Give it a go.
Huh?
You ve never heard anybody say you apple Irish bastard.
The Brits and the Irish laughed uproariously; the Texans and the boys from Louisiana were much slower on the uptake.
Ya ll should a seen dumbass Ronnie on his first trip over. Laid over at Heathrow. Went for breakfast and ordered biscuits and gravy. That English waitress looked at him like who da thunk it and said did you say biscuits and gravy, sir? Yes ma am, biscuits and gravy. She kept lookin at him lak he was dummer n a cedar post. Ronnie said Ma am, don t you have biscuits? Aye, she said. And gravy? Aye, she said again. Well, that s what I want! So she brought him out a plate of cookies and a bowl of beef broth.
As the expats continued to struggle into the chow hall in ones and twos, they were reunited with their comrades. Keyf Hallak, you bastard, was heard more frequently, and the mood and laughter continued to increase gradually.
In the Arabic language, there are many sounds which no foreigner can ever learn to pronounce correctly. One has to be born in the land and grow up with the language to ever be able to sound it properly. They say the Hebrew speakers come the closest of any foreigner, but even they never get it quite right. Even the Egyptians and the Saudis cannot speak the language in its purest form as spoken by the Prophet, peace be upon him. It is said throughout the Arabic-speaking world that the purest and most correct pronunciation of the language, in general, can be found in High Yemen. Scholars from around the world come to Yemen t
