“Excuse me. What are those for?” the young man asked.
“Those are prospect wells. They tell us what’s underneath. Saves the company a lot of time and money.”
“I see.”
It was all utterly fascinating to the young man and his questions were endless.
“Excuse me. How do you know where to drill?”
“We got a lot of geologists—pebble pups—who take measurements of the strata and study the cuttings from wells. Then the rope chokers…”
“Excuse me, what’s a rope choker?”
“A driller. When they…”
Constantin Demiris worked from early morning until sundown, hauling rigs through the burning desert, cleaning equipment, and driving trucks past the streamers of flame rising from the rocky peaks. The flames burned day and night, carrying off the poisonous gases.
J. J. McIntyre had told Demiris the truth. The food was bad, living conditions were horrible, and at night there was nothing to do. Worse, Demiris felt as though every pore in his body were filled with grains of sand. The desert was alive and there was no way to escape it. The sand filtered into the hut and through his clothes and into his body until he thought he would go crazy. And then it got worse.
The shamal struck. The sandstorms blew every day for a month, driven by a howling wind with an intensity strong enough to drive men mad.
Demiris stared out the door of his hut at the swirling sand. “Are we going out to work in that?”
“You’re fucking right, Charlie. This ain’t a health spa.”
Oil discoveries were being made all around them. There was a new find at Abu Hadriya and another at Qatif and at Harad, and the workers were kept busier than ever.
There were two new arrivals, an English geologist and his wife. Henry Potter was in his late sixties and his wife, Sybil, was in her early thirties. In any other setting, Sybil Potter would have been described as a plain-looking obese woman with a high, unpleasant voice. In Fadili, she was a raving beauty. Since Henry Potter was constantly away prospecting for new oil fields, his wife was left alone a great deal.
Young Demiris was assigned to help her move into their quarters and to assist her in getting settled.
“This is the most miserable place I’ve ever seen in my life,” Sybil Potter complained in her whining voice. “Henry’s always dragging me off to terrible places like this. I don’t know why I put up with it.”
“Your husband is doing a very important job,” Demiris assured her.
She eyed the attractive young man speculatively. “My husband isn’t doing all the jobs he should be doing. Do you know what I mean?”
Demiris knew exactly what she meant. “No, ma’am.”
“What’s your name?”
“Demiris, ma’am. Constantin Demiris.”
“What do your friends call you?”
“Costa.”
“Well, Costa, I think you and I are going to become very good friends. We certainly have nothing in common with these wogs, have we?”
“Wogs?”
“You know. These foreign people.”
“I have to go back to work,” Demiris said.
Over the next few weeks, Sybil Potter constantly found excuses to send for the young man.
“Henry left again this morning,” she told him. “He’s off to do his silly drilling.” She added archly, “He should do more drilling at home.”
Demiris had no answer. The geologist was a very important man in the company hierarchy and Demiris had no intention of getting involved with Potter’s wife and jeopardizing his own job. He was not sure exactly how, but he knew without question that one way or another this job was going to be his passport to everything he dreamed of. Oil was the future and he was determined to be a part of it.
One midnight, Sybil Potter sent for Demiris. He walked into the compound where she lived and knocked at the door.
“Come in.” Sybil was wearing a thin nightgown that unfortunately concealed nothing.
“I—did you want to see me, ma’am?”
“Yes, come in Costa. This bedside lamp doesn’t seem to be working.”
Demiris averted his eyes and walked over to the lamp. He picked it up to examine it. “There’s no bulb in…” And he felt her body pressing against his back and her hands groping him. “Mrs. Potter…”