“Your wife—”
“Has plenty. Yes. And,”—self-righteously,—“it would never do for a gentleman to accept money from a woman. Surely even you know that.”
Then, when the other grew angry and abusive, Omar the Black pointed to the door:
“Begone, O creature!” he shouted.
He instructed the palace servants that hereafter his twin brother was no longer to be admitted; and when Fathouma, who had heard him give the order, argued with him, he told her:
“You do not know my brother. Always, since his early childhood days, he has been a most lawless and sinful person, has always tried to lead me down the crooked road of temptation. He, I assure you, is not the proper companion for the like of me. And his way with the women—to kiss and ride away—shocking, shocking!”
Hypocritical? Not really. Or if he was, he did not know it.
Indeed, somehow, he meant what he said; began to fancy himself as a most sober and respectable citizen.
* * * *
No longer did his heart leap and skip like a gay little rabbit across the land whenever he beheld a new face, a young face, a pretty face. And one day when Fathouma mentioned that Timur Bek and his bride were expected home from their honeymoon—and what about entertaining them at dinner?—he shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“But—isn’t Timur your friend?”
“He is. But Gotha—”
“Yes?”
“A toothsome morsel, I grant you. Only—inclined to be flighty.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I know. Why, the very first time I saw her, she gave me the quirk of the eye. She asked me, if you want blunt speech—”
“Please! Not too blunt!”
“You are quite right. It would not be fit for your ears. Anyway, I would have none of her. For by the Prophet, I have always followed the white road of honor—naturally, being what I am. Besides, was not my friend Timur Bek in love with the young person? So, as you know, I let him have my jewels, so that he might buy himself his heart’s desire.”
He smiled benignly; went on in resonant and rather unctuous accents: “The Lord’s blessings on them both!”
Maybe Omar the Black believed that he spoke the truth. Maybe Fathouma did likewise; and maybe, being as clever in one way as she was simple in another, she did not—though without letting on.
For she loved her husband. She loved his very failings, and defended them, even to herself. She was happy—and happiest when, more and more frequently, he would spend the night at home and they would be alone; when he would sit by her side, pleasant and jovial and companionable, and tell her tales of his past life, his past prowess and bravery, his past motley adventures, east, north, south, west.
The love in her brown, gold-flecked eyes would enkindle his imagination. And—oh, the clanking, stirring tales he would tell then:
“The pick of the lads of the far wide roads I was, with ever my sword eager for a bit of strife, ever a fine thirst tickling my gullet, ever the bold, bold eyes of me giving the wink and smile at the passing girls, and they—the dears, the darlings!—giving the same wink and smile straight back at me—”
He would interrupt himself.
“That was,” he would add, “before I met you.”
“Of course.”
She would laugh. She was not jealous of the past, being wiser than most women. Also—oh, yes, she was clever—the very fact that his mind was dwelling more and more on former days and former deeds, proved to her that he was getting old and ready to settle down—which was as she wished.
And so late one afternoon when—it happened rarely nowadays—Omar the Black had gone to split a bottle or two with a boon companion, Fathouma decided that she would surprise him, would buy him a present: the handsomest carved emerald to be had in Gulabad.
She put on her swathing street veils and called to one of the lackeys, a Persian, who had recently been hired and who was a most conscientious servant—always present when he was needed and ready to do her bidding:
“Hossayn!”
He salaamed. “Heaven-born?”
“I am going to the bazaar to do some shopping. Come with me.”
“Listen is obey!”
Again he salaamed. He led the way out of the palace, crying loudly:
“Give way, Moslems! Give way for the Heaven-born, the Princess of High Tartary!”
He stalked ahead, clearing a path with the help of a long brass-tipped stave.
Fathouma followed. She was excited, elated. Ah, what an emerald she would buy her lord! She tripped along. And she did not know that, as they passed a dark postern, Hossayn exchanged a cough and a fleeting glance with a stranger who stood there hidden in the coiling, trooping shadows. Nor could she know that several days earlier Hossayn had been buttonholed on the street by this same stranger, who had spoken to him at whispered length and taken him to a tavern.
There, over glasses of potent milk-white raki, they had continued the conversation. There had been spirited haggling and bargaining. Finally with a sigh, the other had well greased the Persian’s greedy palm, giving him whatever gold and silver coins remained in his waist-shawl. He had added, for good measure, a couple of rings and a dagger.
He had leaned across the table, had asked:
“Do you know what I am thinking?”
“Well?”
“I am thinking,”—in a purring voice,—“that I have three more daggers, not as handsome as this but quite as sharp—and thinking, also, that, should you deceive me, yours might be a fine throat for slitting.”
The Persian had turned pale.
“Do not bristle at me, tall warrior!” he had begged. “I—deceive you? Never!”
“Of course not.”
“Only—”
“Only?” threateningly.
“I am not the only servant. Nor can I tell when the Heaven-born will—”
“I know. And I do not demand the impossible. All I expect you to do is to be attentive to her, to make a point of hovering near, being watchful.”
He muttered instructions; and the Persian inclined his head.
“I understand.”
So there was now, in passing, the glance, the cough—and once more:
“Give way, Moslems! Give way for the Heaven-born, the Princess of High Tartary!”
The people gave way as well as they could. But as Fathouma and the lackey approached the Street of the Western Traders, where the jewelers displayed their precious wares, the alleys and squares and marketplaces became ever more packed with milling, moiling, perspiring humanity, not to mention humanity’s wives and children and mothers-in-law and visiting country cousins.
For today—and as it turned out, it was a lucky stroke of fortune for the stranger who had left the postern and was following the two as closely as he could—was a great Islamic festival: the day preceding the Lelet el-Kadr, the Night of Honor, the anniversary of the blessed occasion when Allah, in His mercy, revealed the Book of the Koran to His messenger Mohammed.
A most solemn occasion, the Lelet el-Kadr—it being the night when the Sidr, which is the lotus tree and which bears as many leaves as there are human