‘My mother once told me a king is always killed by his courtiers.’
‘That’s true, too. Only they know the weakest spot to strike.’
‘Who are your courtiers?’
‘Why are you so afraid?’
‘Because you are.’
He jerks his head in surprise, but I carry on.
‘I feel your fear all the time. I feel it in the constant surveillance we are subjected to, in your voice, in your body. Who are we being protected from, Blake?’
‘No one. I’m just a very thorough and cautious man. I don’t trust anyone and I would rather be safe than sorry. Now tell me.’ He smiles. ‘Is this the kind of conversation a girl has with her husband on her honeymoon?’
I laugh. It’s a nervous twitter, but it seems enough for him.
‘What happened to the panties with the lacy bits and the new techniques from London, you little minx?’
I stand. ‘Come into my tent in five minutes and I’ll show you.’ Then I turn and walk away, purposely swaying my hips in an exaggerated manner, so the robes swing tantalizingly around my body. At the tent entrance I turn to look at him. He is a silhouette, watching. And, for some reason, tense.
Slightly confused, I enter the tent, and stand for a moment behind the tent flap. I love Blake with all my heart, but his secrets are like a chasm between us. I get that he is trying to protect Sorab and me, but it pains me terribly to know that I have been deemed unsuitable to share his burdens.
For a moment, I close my eyes and give myself a talking to. This is your honeymoon, Lana Barrington. Are you going to spoil it? No, I’m not. I’m going to remember tonight as one of the best times of my life. I open my eyes and look anew at the magic that surrounds me. It is as if we have gone back in time. I note the wood stove, the cheap artificial carpets, the oil burning brass lamps, the antique wind-up gramophone, and the low bed, its orange silk sheets strewn with rose petals: our marriage bed. The smiling boy, Abdul, has done this.
It is a sweet touch.
The illusion is so perfect it is almost impossible to think that another world with Internet access, and automobiles, and TVs, and all manner of modern conveniences, exists. Strange, but I almost prefer this, this uncivilized existence. Meager and brutal, but real and honest.
Perhaps, in an odd sort of way, I have already nearly exhausted the trappings of wealth. I no longer care if my handbag has a Chanel logo on it. In fact, by a strange reversal I see the fake Chanel bag as the intelligent choice. The owners of the fake bags are the smart ones. They have understood a logic that the rest of us have been blinded to by clever marketing. Why pay seven thousand pounds for a bag you can get for twenty-five at the market? Especially since some of the fakes are so good the difference cannot be seen by the naked eye. A great con indeed.
My eyes return to the gramophone and my lips widen with pleasure. Blake remembered. I told him my grandfather had had one similar to this. I walk towards it. It is made of wood and it smells of lemon oil. I stroke the lovingly polished wood. I know exactly how to work it. Beside it there are new needles in a plastic bag. I take one out, and, carefully unscrewing the thumbscrew, insert the flat end of the needle into the hole. Cautiously, I screw it back on, as my grandfather stands over my left shoulder, saying in his gravelly voice, ‘Be very, very careful, Azizam, the thumbscrew can be anywhere from sixty to a hundred years old.’
There is no one to call me Azizam, my dear, anymore.
With the new needle installed, I go through the selection of records beside the machine. Old Persian music. How thoughtful my husband is. I take a record out of its sleeve, dust it with the tip of my sleeve, and place it on the turntable. With a smile of anticipation—this is always the best bit—I turn the crank on the side of the machine until I feel resistance. With the main spring wound, I release the brake lever, and the turntable starts spinning. I lower the soundbox onto the smooth outer rim, gently push it, and watch it slide into the playing groove.
Crackling Persian music fills the tent.
My grandfather smiles as I sink down on some cushions. The air around me shimmers with memories. My mother is still alive. It is Norouz and all the children in the neighborhood are jumping over the fire for good luck. Old Behrouz, the sweet seller, brings sweets in a cloth bag. From his wrinkled mouth flow stories of heroic warriors from times gone by. There are all kinds of delicacies to eat and money to be had from the elders. But the memories are old and faded around the edges. They don’t remain.
I stand, remove my long, thick robes and toss them on the carpet. They land, heavy, weighted with sweat and fine golden sand. I remove the expensive bits of underwear that I came to the desert with, and finding the long transparent blue veil I bought in the covered market, wrap it around my body and tie it over my breasts like a sarong.
There is only a small hand mirror with a carved silver back. I pull it down my body to see what I look like. My flesh looks pale, my nipples are twin peaks, and my belly button is a dark, round shape. I hear a rustle outside and moving to the middle pole drape myself around it.
The tent flap opens.
Three
A cold gust of wind redolent with the smell of spit-roasted mutton scatters goose bumps on my naked flesh and makes the open flames dance. Blake stands stooped at the entrance. His gaze, smoky with alcohol, ignites, and his breath comes out in a hiss. He had not expected such a gift.
Whatever tension had lurked in his eyes while we were out there is no longer. Now they shine like gems in the yellow light cast by the lamps and candles. He doesn’t say anything. Simply comes to within a foot of me, and stares: a hot, slow gaze. He seems different. He seems almost astonished… Maybe I am different too. His eyes meet mine, enchanting me with their magic, filling me with desert lust.
He reaches out a hand towards the veil, but I swirl away, nimble and light as an air sprite, and stretching my hands high over my head, I dance. The pulsating drums move my bare feet as I snake my body around the wailing music. I drag my hands up my thighs, my hips, up to my waist, and higher still, until they reach my breasts. Impulsively I pinch my nipples.
His eyes flare. Heat flushes in my belly. My nipples feel raw and my sex is swollen so thick I feel the lips rub sinuously against each other: maddening me. I look at him sensuously, with half-closed, come-hither eyes.
He responds to my silent call. He moves fast and is suddenly so close by, his deep voice vibrates inside my head. ‘Who owns this glorious creature?’
‘The one who dares…’ I suggest, my voice trailing away wickedly. Like the honey you leave as a trap for the unwary.
‘I dare,’ he whispers.
I pull the veil over my face so only my eyes are visible and, turning from the neck, look up at him. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask saucily.
An intrigued eyebrow lifts. ‘You should come with a warning, a bit like the cigarette manufacturers are forced to have on their packaging: Beware, scintillating to the point of incendiary.’
For some seconds I look at him. Outside miles of nothing, here, let there be swollen heat. I spread my legs and plunge my fingers into my wet folds. The action is primitive, perhaps even obscene, but here we are different animals. I thrust my fingers in and out, my breath becoming more ragged.
He takes off his thick robes and flings them to the floor, his eyes never leaving me. I see the smooth golden skin where his collar falls open. How beautiful is my lover. He pulls at the white shirt-dress. It joins the robe. Naked to the hips he comes forward, sexual energy rising off his glistening muscles like a heat haze. I gaze at his body. So familiar and so dear, and still the air zaps with my desire for it.