The Weight of a Stranger

by Julie Fogerson (United States of America)

Making a local connection Jordan

The big question anticipates our arrival in Egypt and follows us into Jordan. “Are you available?” I appreciate acceptance of my answer. “I am not.” And though a 40-something travel companion deceptively decorates her finger with a golden prop, she ever gives an enthusiastic and accurate reply. “Yes. Yes, I’m available,” shoulders floating up, eyes fluttering down. We misunderstand the schedule for the evening, sandwiched between two sunlit days in the Rose City. Realizing our error, we rush along the Siq to arrive in the middle of Nabatean history. This lateness perhaps makes for a more noticeable entrance. Or it might mean nothing to the sudden appearance of a Bedouin man, Rayan, who bows and asks: “Are you available?” He is difficult to make out but has expected kohl-rimmed eyes. Rugged clothes. A scarf across his brow, holding long hair back. Exotic at first. But I see every man in Petra could be in a pirate movie. They claim Johnny Depp stole the look. “I’m available,” my friend breathes. A blush can’t be seen, but I know it to be warming her face. “Would you like to see my cave? It’s nearby, in Little Petra.” She trills over Rayan’s possibilities, while wending whispers my way. I wonder, does she want to? Her preferences do not cross the canyon between us. “I would like to show you the desert sky. I would like to show you my home.” She makes the decision mine. “Shukran,” I say and mean. “But it’s late. We’re going back to our hotel.” I would want to see this home in a different life. The space at Rayan’s side fills with a second man, Ahmad. “Allow us to escort you out.” They take photos with our cameras, which will reveal nothing. It is too dark. Ahmad and I trade words as we walk, returning along the Siq’s mile slowly. Ahmad is asking about my family, from where do I come. He is mostly quiet but knows this role. I look over my shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he says. “They are fine,” not trying very hard to move me along. We pause under towering sandstone. I shiver beneath thin, wool layers. The ancient water system carved into the stone on one side snakes its way through the night. Ahmad offers a bottle of whiskey, taking pains to twist the cap near me, so I can see and hear the seal break. Pointing the sound out. Something I might not mark were he not intentional. He takes a drink, and I follow. We wait. “She is fine. I promise you.” And eventually she does burst forth, straddling a donkey, head thrown back in joy. Arms holding Rayan’s waist. The donkey is unsteady on the weathered cobblestone rutted by chariots. If the animal must make a choice, it will not choose them. We begin to walk. Partway along the path out of Petra, I turn to find the dusky space empty again. Ahmad still by my side though we had long ago used up our conversation. She is gone. I stop. Don’t worry. Remember? he shrugs, without saying. We slump in silence, halfheartedly passing the half pint between us. Resigned in our separate corners of a shared experience. He seems both protective and resentful of Rayan’s opportunity. Perhaps they now and then trade places. Possibly there are sometimes two available women. Or Ahmad might always be the distraction, whose job it is to occupy the one who is married. Firefly flickers caught in handfuls of sand flash patterns on our clothes. The moon watches overhead. Block gods in their niches stare, and the semi-steady flow of visitors gives way to stragglers. The time between each heading home lengthens. It is a trickle, then nothing. The reservoirs empty of rain. She erupts from the black once more. Scarf twisted around her crown in the Bedouin style. She breaks the circle she made around Rayan ages ago and slides off the donkey, giggling as she looks up and winks goodbye. Back in Wadi Musa, she’s angry I didn’t watch her better, while delirious still over the view of the stars under the weight of a stranger.