LIBYAN LOVE LOST

A short story by

Vic o'Bradford

 

       Hot, arid sand burned his naked feet.  A cruel sun's glaring rays seared the exposed skin on his arms where the shirtsleeves were torn.  Iain Mackenzie's mind was hazy and his vision blurred as he feebly urged himself forward over the sand dunes in a painfully dehydrated condition..... slowly, he was dying.

        "Iain!"

        A familiar but unwelcome female voice detached him from his dream.

        "Wake up, Iain."

        The desert retreated and the dunes gave way to a sunny Scottish bedroom.  It was his wife's harsh tones that had penetrated his subconscious when she entered the room to investigate his late arrival for breakfast. 

        They still shared the same roof, but were no longer close.  Their five year marriage had never been a success and had recently deteriorated further as each began to lead a separate life.  

        "I shan't go on making your meals if you can't be here for them," she grumbled.

        "Yes, sorry Barbara," he apologised, rubbing imaginary dust from his eyes, "I'll be there in a few minutes..... but, for Heaven's sake don't nag, Woman!"

        "I don't know what it is you dream about;" she said, scornfully, "your legs were thrashing around again like a stranded thing in the sand." 

        How near the truth she was and didn't know it.  Years before his unfortunate union with Barbara, Iain had taken a four-wheel-drive holiday with an old school pal.  They had gone over to Libya and ventured into the desert on a four day excursion from Tripoli.  

        Disaster struck when their vehicle suffered engine failure. They set off to return on foot through the wilderness of Tripolitania and a violent sandstorm had separated them.  Iain was later to learn, sadly, that his friend never returned alive.

        As his shoes filled with sand, rendering it impossible to walk, he tossed them aside, balancing the risk of blistered feet against that of being unable to make any progress. Slowly, strength and stamina drained away in the heat.  He was alone and fading fast, crawling northward towards the road that he remembered would lead him back into Tripoli.  Soon the last glimmer of light was eclipsed from his encrusted eyes as Death's dark shadow hovered.  Unconsciousness triumphed. 

*    *    *

        " 'allo..... je m'appelle Annette," spoke a delicate French voice, emanating from the loveliest face he'd ever seen, peering down at him as he lay on some kind of couch. 

        "Oh, hello," he replied, slowly regaining consciousness, "I'm Iain.  Iain Mackenzie."

        "Ah, Engleesh;" she reacted, "mon Dieu, it is good zat I found you, Iain Mackenzie."

        "Well, Scottish actually..... from Edinburgh," he replied, hesitantly. 

        It transpired that she'd seen his senseless body lying face down at the side of the road into Tripoli as she returned to her hotel.  A young woman driving alone, she'd summoned enough courage to stop and found that he needed urgent attention.  With presence of mind she'd heaved him into her car and rushed him to the hotel to seek assistance.

        There he was carried along the corridor to her room where she'd dressed his burnt skin with lotion as he lay like a carcass on the settee, still unconscious. 

        Slowly he sat up.

        "How long have I been here?"

        He was taking in the long, dark hair and sleek body standing within close reach of him as he sipped the water she had offered….. 

        "Is this a hotel?" 

        "Ah..... all night; and oui, it is," she said, with a nonchalance no British girl would have displayed to a stranger sharing her bedroom, unconscious or not. 

        "And you've looked after me?"

        "Yes, I 'ave.... sorry, have..... my Engleesh is not good."

        "I think it's very good," he said, overcome by her beauty and by the whole situation. Everything about her was very good indeed. 

        They chatted together, Annette in her charming, broken English and Iain speaking slowly for her benefit.  She soon decided that this good looking man needed food..... and, before that, something to wear that would be more acceptable in the dining room than his desert shorts and torn shirt. 

        'Some sandals too,' she thought. 

        "Let me look at you;" she said, "do you know your..... er, seez..... sizes?"

        "My sizes, what do you mean?"

        "You're wai..... 'ow you say?  Waist, and you're jam..... legs.  I will go out and get somesing for you; zen we eat in ze 'otel." 

        "Oh, Annette, I don't expect you ....."

        "Non.  It is done.  You stay 'ere and wash.  I will come back wiz cloze.  You will wear." 

        They sat opposite each other at a sunlit table.  He felt like a man reborn in the simple outfit she had chosen.  The discovery of each other's lives had begun and the new magnetism that each felt for the other was irresistible.  His blue eyes and blond hair, contrasting with his over-sunburnt features, sent a tingling down her spine.  For his part, the olive glow of her skin and the softness of her dark, Latin eyes stirred a dormant spirit in his breast. 

        Before the meal was over, each knew that falling in love was inevitable.  Iain booked into the hotel and stayed until the end of her holiday.  It was four days of unparalleled bliss.

        "Iain, you will write to me, mon cher," she implored, on the very last evening, "zen we arrange for you to come to Paris."

        "Yes, Annette, I shall certainly do that," he promised, handing her his parents' address and expressing his true love, "and after that you must come to Scotland."

        Letters filled with emotion crossed the Channel, frequently at first, but declining as time and life's distractions overtook their best intentions.  He never made the journey and nor did Annette.  Difficulty in co-ordinating time off work led to one postponement after another.  Reunion became little more than a fond hope as delays in letter-writing increased. 

        Iain remained a bachelor for several years, never meeting anyone who could stir his heart to such depths as his pretty French girl.  Then he did receive a letter announcing that Annette had married, but giving no address.  He knew that his neglected hopes were finally ended and soon he met and married Barbara, partly in a kind of reaction, and put his earlier love out of his mind. 

        But Annette had probably saved his life on the edge of the desert and they'd loved in a way that had lifted them both beyond the stars. These things he could never really forget. 

*    *    *

        It was late one night when Barbara came home after a meeting with one of her men friends.  She had taken more to drink than usual and approached him in a loud manner that he found irritating:  

        "I want a divorce, Iain," she blurted, "and I want it now."

        This kind of thing had happened too often, but his loyalty had always prevailed. On this occasion he raised no objection.  Life with Barbara had become intolerable and he would no longer stand in the way of a solution. 

        "If you're sure that's what you want," he replied, "then I'll have to agree."

        The plan was enacted and he was left with an empty house, free from Barbara's antagonism, but alone now and often lonely.  Soon he moved to live with his parents again and sold the marital home.  

        In the weeks that followed he repeatedly experienced the desert dream.  Every time it happened his thoughts returned to the adorable Annette, although it was a full nine years since their holiday romance and there was little chance of contact now as Iain's parents had moved house twice.

        'I wonder if she's happy,' he would think to himself, 'and where she is now.'            

        How he wished he'd kept up those letters; he was really the principal culprit in their being allowed to lapse and he always knew that a marriage with Annette would have guaranteed happiness.  No one he'd known before or since could lift his soul to such heights and he was certain that she'd experienced similar delight in his company..... but it could be only a treasured memory now for them both.  Their Libyan love was lost. 

        Over in France Annette was experiencing similar difficulties.  She had married a man considerably older than herself, a most kind and gentle man, but a man who generated no spark in her heart, no tingling in her limbs, as Iain had done in those first few perfect days of enchantment.  They too had drifted apart.

        'I wonder where you are, Iain, mon cher,' she would think to herself in her state of loneliness.  'Are you married?  Are you happy?  Do you ever think of me?' 

        Such thoughts would bring a tear to her cheek as a hollow yearning encompassed her.  Night after night she found herself unable to rid her mind of the memories until sleep came with its welcome comfort.

        Eventually she determined that she would have to discover the answers to those incessant questions if she were ever to gain peace.  Through the French Post Office she began a series of searches based on the name 'Mackenzie, Iain P., Edinburgh'.  After some degree of perseverance, and even more patience, she obtained information that appeared marginally relevant, but held out little real promise.  Soon she began to resign herself to failure. 

*    *    *

        Iain's mother had been ill for some time.  Finally she had passed away and his father looked desperately to him for support.  When not at work, he spent most of his time sitting with his dad, providing friendship and solace to a man who had lost interest in life since his wife's companionship had gone. For the first time he told his father of Annette, of how they had met and fallen in love; how they had intended to continue their relationship, but that it had too easily faded into obscurity with distance and the passage of time. 

        "I loved her so much, Dad;" he told him, "when she was in my arms, the world stood still."

        His father's interest sharpened: 

        "Go on, Iain," he said, "tell me about it."

        He grasped the nettle, overcoming the natural embarrassment that such personal matters can create between parent and son, and gave a heart-stirring description of his Libyan affair.  

        "It was never like that with Barbara," he ended, "I think I might have loved her a bit at first, but more for her practical abilities than for reasons of the heart."

        "Now I understand, Son," replied his dad, who had always rather liked Barbara, "it's difficult to repeat a trip to Heaven with a different partner. Perhaps your marriage could never have worked. You probably sought a replacement for that first ethereal love and it's never possible..... I do know....."

        Iain had just learnt something about his dad too, but the discussion was interrupted by the doorbell.  His father went to the hall.

        "Iain, there's a lady here asking if I know where you live," he called.

        "Oh, really; I don't know who that could be.  I'll come."

        On the doorstep stood a vision.

        "Annette!" 

        She was back in his life.  This time he would never let her go.

                                                                  

 END