AUTUMN APPROACHED. THE CRUEL summer heat softened, and the garden erupted into a blaze of color—red hibiscus and subtle pink mimosas, yellow jasmine, and delicate passion flowers, all set against a backdrop of blinding crimson bougainvillea. Dar Khalifa was an oasis, a sanctuary encircled by reality. Ariane would prod her tortoise across the lawn after school, little Timur would slurp his milk in the shade, and I would sit there, watching them both, thankful. We may have been beset with local difficulties, but we were blissfully separated from our previous lives. When the telephone rang, it would be our relatives or friends, rather than some annoying voice trying to sell a holiday or a pension. There were no computerized switchboards to deal with or parking meters, no gridlock traffic or triangular sandwiches with upmarket names. Certainly, there was a language barrier, and a cultural one, but I found myself happier than I had been in years. Late one night a close friend called to say that his Californian home had burned to the ground.
What do You think about The Caliph's House (2006)?
