“We can undress here, and take the steam, which is in another room nearby,” Tarik said. “And there are masseurs.”
“Very well. I must say, though—in such a hot climate, a steam bath seems almost superfluous,” Nigel pointed out.
His companion smiled. “It’s healthy to perspire. It purifies the body.” Tarik spoke a few words to the attendant, who, after making the inevitable bow, left the room.
“He will bring us refreshments,” Tarik explained, as he began to strip. “Something cold to drink—and something for us to smoke.”
Nigel undressed, too. When they were naked, he and Tarik wrapped towels around their waists, and Tarik led him to the steam room.
Nigel’s skin was flushed red, and he was sweating profusely, when he and Tarik returned to the cubicle. There, Tarik clapped his hands, summoning the attendant.
The man brought a brass tray, which he set down on the table. On the tray was pitcher of lemonade and two glasses, and a long, straight clay smoking pipe, with a bowl at its end. There was also a little folded paper packet, a lidded brass dish about the size and shape of an eggcup, and the kind of ordinary ceramic combination match holder and striker which could be found in any barroom or café.
“Excellent,” Nigel declared, after taking a sip of the lemonade, which was bitingly tart rather than too sweet. “I am thirsty.” He examined the tray and its contents. “And these smoking implements?”
“They are for the hashish,” Tarik told him, casually.
“Hashish? But I am sure I smell tobacco,” Nigel said.
“Yes.” Tarik opened the paper packet, revealing what looked like a fine-quality loose dark tobacco. “This is tobacco, as you see.”
“But the hashish?”
“It is here.” Tarik uncovered the brass dish.
Nigel was interested to see that the hashish was an innocuous-looking, reddish-brown paste.
“Are what you are proposing that we do—that is, smoking that substance—is it entirely legal?”
Tarik seemed surprised by the question.
“Entirely,” he assured Nigel. “Hashish is sold openly here, like tobacco. Of course, the quality can vary. This establishment prides itself upon providing its patrons with the best. In fact, the hashish can be mixed with a little tobacco, without losing its potency,” Tarik explained, as he did so. “And then it is smoked in the pipe.”
“Is it very intoxicating?” Nigel asked.
“Yes,” Tarik admitted. “Especially for those who are not used to it. That is why we shall take it in moderation.”
He lit the pipe with a match.
They passed the pipe back and forth. Following Tarik’s instructions, Nigel inhaled deeply, and he held the smoke down in his lungs for as long as he could before he exhaled.
“It is rather bitter,” he observed.
“Yes, at first. You will become accustomed to it.”
The hashish made Nigel’s throat constrict and feel dry at first. He drank more lemonade, to soothe his throat and keep his mouth moistened. But the slightly unpleasant sensation was soon replaced by a feeling of lightheadedness and euphoria. He realized that the drug was undeniably having an effect upon him.
“And now we may relax—and talk,” Tarik murmured.
“What shall we talk about?”
“About last night. You enjoyed taking your pleasure with Amirah and Faridah.” The way Tarik said it, it was a statement of fact, not a question.
“Yes. As such women go, they seemed quite enthusiastic.”
“You are acquainted with women of their type, then?”
“Well, I am no virgin. Once or twice—in London—”
“I understand. But you also seemed to enjoy it when I kissed you. You did not push me away.”
“No, I didn’t. Why should I? I have been given to understand that, here in your country, the men are more demonstrative with one another than we are back in England.”
“Are you Englishmen never demonstrative with one another? Not even in special circumstances?”
“Such as?”
“Perhaps while you were in school?”
“You mean at Eton?”
“I have heard of this Eton, the famous school. You attended it?”
“Oh, yes. I was an Eton boy,” Nigel said, not without pride.
“Did you ever enter into intimate friendships with some of the other boys?”
Nigel flushed. “Are you talking about uranian love?”
“I am not familiar with that term.”
“It is used by some scientists and medical men to describe love between men.”
“Ah. And was there such love, this uranian love, at Eton?”
The hashish had overcome Nigel’s inhibitions, and loosened his tongue. He saw no reason to be coy. Not, certainly, with a man of Tarik’s obvious sophistication.
“There was a great deal of leaving one’s own bed, after the lights were turned out, and climbing into another boy’s bed with him,” Nigel explained. “Just for the sake of comradeship, and to stay warm, you understand. But,” he added, immediately contradicting himself, “there was also a lot of rubbing against each other, and—and other such tomfoolery,” he concluded. “After all,” he joked. “They don’t call it the Eton rub for nothing!”
“The Eton rub?”
“That’s what we called what we did in bed. We used to joke that we were simply practicing our declensions of Latin verbs, as in frico, fricasi, fricui, et cetera. That is to say, ‘I rub, you rub, he rubs, and so forth.’ It was a sort of frottage, you understand.”
“Ah, I think I understand perfectly. Will you demonstrate it for me?”
“What, here? Now? With you?”
“Why not? Do you find me repugnant?”
“Not at all. I like you, Tarik. I like you very much.”
“My dark skin does not offend you?”
“Don’t be absurd. I find it attractive, in fact. You are an extremely handsome man.”
“And you—you excite me,” Tarik confessed. “Forgive me for my boldness, but I should like it very much if you would rub yourself against me.”
Under the influence of the hashish, Nigel smiled in a way that was, for him, extraordinarily seductive.
“Very well, Tarik. We must take off our towels, and then you must lie on top of me,” he instructed.
“Does it matter which man is on top?”
“No, they can take turns. But to begin—I should like to feel your body, on top of mine, pressing down on me.”
Both men discarded their towels, and Tarik got into the position Nigel had suggested.
“Ah, this does bring back memories. Your penis is very large, and very hard,” Nigel observed, when Tarik was lying on top of him.
“So is yours.”
“Could the hardness be an effect of the hashish?”
“Possibly. Sometimes it can cause a temporary impotence. At other times, it has the opposite effect.”
“This would appear to be one of those other occasions. I am almost painfully stiff.”
“Then we must relieve the pain,” Tarik said, decisively. “And the most efficient way to do so would seem to be—”
“Friction applied directly to the penis, resulting in an ejaculation.”
“Yes, that should do,” Tarik said, with a smile. “First though, I would like to enjoy this frottage which you were telling me about.”
“Of course. Don’t be shy. Lie fully on top of me, Tarik. Press your body down against mine.”
“Like this?”
“Exactly. Now, we must rub our bodies together. Back and forth—”
“Slowly, or rapidly?”
“Either way. At any speed, as the mood strikes us.”
“And taking care to keep our erect members in contact?”
“Preferably.”
“Am I doing it in the correct way?” Tarik panted. “Is this an Eton rub?”
“No undergraduate could do it better,” Nigel assured him.
Chapter Eight: Algerian Hospitality
It was now a matter of routine for Tarik to report to the hotel in the morning, to await Nigel’s pleasure.
“Good morning, Tarik,” Nigel greeted the guide the next day, after Nigel had breakfasted.
“Good morning, monsieur.”
“Today I should like to see something of the Kasbah by daylight. Shall we go there?”
“At once, if you wish. And perhaps, while we are there—?”
“Yes?”
“Will you pay me the honor of visiting my humble home?” Tarik asked.
“You are very formal today, Tarik. Why?”
“It is appropriate, monsieur.”
“Nonsense. I don’t see why you need to behave in such a servile manner toward me. But—if you insist—then yes, I would be delighted to visit your home.”
“I will be glad to entertain you.”
They took a carriage to the native quarter, where they dismissed the driver. Then, on foot, they began to ascend one of the narrow alleyways.
Night, Nigel now realized, let a certain air of mystery and glamor to the place. In the harsh, unrelenting glare of the sun, it was more colorful, to be sure. But it was also dirtier and more sordid. Nigel saw hints of real poverty all around him.
To amuse himself, Nigel often paused to examine the wares of the street peddlers. He also entered some of the shops, although among the merchandise he saw nothing which appealed to him. He was more interested in the steady stream of men, women, and children who passed him and his guide in both directions.
Tarik led him around one sharp corner after another, until Nigel lost all sense of direction. With the noonday sun high overhead, he could not even tell east from west, or north from south.
“What a labyrinth this is!” Nigel exclaimed. “How do you ever find your way through it?”
“By long practice, monsieur.”
“It’s more like a rabbit warren than a place fit for human beings to live in.”
“And yet we do live in it—quite comfortably, in fact.”
“You amaze me. But lead on. I am following you—to the best of my ability,” Nigel said, wryly. “If I get lost—”
“You will not get lost. Not while you are with me. And we need walk no farther. Here we are.”
It was relief to leave the hot sunbaked outdoors, step over a shadowed threshold, and enter the interior of one of the houses.
Nigel found himself in what appeared to be an antechamber of sorts, small and so densely furnished that it resembled an antique dealer’s shop, crowded with merchandise, rather than a room in a private dwelling.
Everything was brightly colored, indeed rather gaudy.
The walls and ceiling were draped with a striped fabric, bright red and yellow, with darker red and yellow rosettes superimposed upon the stripes and complicating the pattern. The floor was covered by a carpet on which enormous flowers seemed to have bloomed in a dense jungle of green and yellow vines and leaves. The effect was like standing inside a tent.
Pinned to the walls’ draperies were many little pictures—postcards, photographs, and illustrations cut out of newspapers and magazines. Interspersed among these were several strange small objects fashioned from flat pieces of brass and tin, which Nigel guessed to be talismans and charms.
On a small table stood an ornate brass oil lamp. Beside it was a large wooden chest or coffer, studded with huge brass nails, hinged and clamped with brass, and painted a brilliant green. Near it, touching one of fabric-draped walls, was a mattress covered with multi-colored rugs which obviously served as a daybed—for seated upon it were two people, a man and a woman.
The man was a tall and large youth, dressed in a bright yellow jacket cut like a Zouave’s, wide drawers of white linen, yellow slippers, and a turban. Around his waist he wore a sash, made of a long and narrow red and yellow shawl with fringes and tassels. He was squatting cross-legged on the heap of rugs. He wore a moustache and a small, blue-black beard. His heavy-lidded eyes were half shut, as though he was daydreaming, or indeed on the verge of napping, and the expression on his face was one of mindless contentment. Despite his height and breadth, his large limbs, and his beard, there was about his whole person a peculiar, exotic air of effeminacy, which seemed heightened, rather than diminished, by his bulk and his virile contours.
In contrast to the young man’s languor, a little way apart from him on the mattress a young girl sat straight up, like an idol, with her legs and feet tucked away and completely concealed by her draperies. She was smoking a cigarette.
She sat there in her brilliantly hued finery like a parrot on its perch—at ease in its surroundings, calmly watchful, in an attitude suggestive of indifference.
Was she pretty? Nigel could not make up his mind on that point. Under its thick and garish application of cosmetics, her face, with its heavy features, its sultry, sullen eyes, its plump cheeks, and its sensual lips, would surely not be thought pretty by any man who was accustomed to admiring the beauties of Europe.
The young woman sat quite still and stared at Nigel. She showed no surprise at the Englishman’s presence, and no real curiosity. Her expression did not change. Her motionless, painted mouth was set like that of a statue, carved from some inanimate material. Only her bosom stirred with the regular up and down movement of her breathing, beneath her vividly colored bodice, her jewels and her strings of coins.
Nigel felt obligated to break the silence.
“Are these members of your family?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” Tarik replied. “They are my servants. Their names are Saim and Damali.”
“You have servants, then?”
“You seem surprised. I know that this is not one of your great manor houses, in England. But even here an unmarried man such as myself may have his servants—as you have your valet. I am not a rich man, but here servants ask for very little. I give them their room and board, and their wages, and they are content.”
“They do indeed seem to be content. In fact, if I may say so without offense—they do not appear to be very attentive, or energetic.”
“They are not,” Tarik agreed. “They are lazy. Lazy to a degree which you would never tolerate in your man Mornay.”
He turned to the two servants, and spoke to them in Arabic. The girl, Damali, replied to him with great rapidity, and an air of almost impudent familiarity that seem inappropriate coming from a servant, in Nigel’s opinion. As the conversation, which was incomprehensible to the Englishman, continued, Tarik seemed to be maintaining a good-humored tolerance, while the girl became more animated. She gesticulated with her jewel-laden hands, and she rocked to and fro on her seat as though her bodily motions were her way of giving added emphasis to her words.
All this while, the large and placid young man named Saim stroked his bluish-black beard with his hand, and he looked calmly at his master, without smiling.
Finally, both of the servants rose and left the room.
“I have given them their instructions,” Tarik said.
Nigel could not imagine these instructions, whatever they were, being carried out with much alacrity or enthusiasm. But when Tarik invited him to accompany him, he followed the Algerian behind one of the wall coverings and through an open doorway concealed behind it.
Tarik led him along a long, narrow hallway which seemed to provide access to the rear of the house. He opened a door midway along the passage, and with a mute gesture he urged Nigel to precede him into the room that lay beyond.
The effect of this chamber was that of two rooms in one, for an enormous screen of carved woodwork, in the center of which was a small round arch, divided the space into two distinct compartments. On either side of this arch, facing the entrance door, were divans covered with embroideries and heaped with enormous cushions. Rugs covered the floor—rugs of confusingly varied patterns and colors, on which blues, yellows, greens, mauves, pinks, reds, purples, and browns competed for the eye’s attention. The win
dows were equipped with lattices of more intricately carved woodwork, which could be opened and closed at will. At the moment they were open. Beneath them were fitted bookcases containing rows of books. There was a large writing table of lacquer work, on which stood an oil lamp with an amber-tinted glass shade, in the midst of a rummage of pamphlets and papers. Nearby were a coffee table and two deep armchairs. From the ceiling, which was divided into compartments painted in dark red and blue, hung a heavy lamp, suspended on a chain of gilded brass. A stick of incense burned in a bronze holder.
The dining room, on the other side of the screen, was fitted with divans running round the walls, and contained a large table and a number of chairs with curved backs. The table was covered with a long and exquisitely embroidered Indian cloth, of which the prevailing color was a brilliant orange-red, which glowed and had a sheen which was almost fiery. In the center of this table stood a Japanese cloisonné vase, filled with flowers.
Nigel looked around in silence, with eyes that missed no detail.
“This is where I entertain my visitors,” Tarik explained, in response to Nigel’s unspoken question. “Most of them,” he added.
“Most of them?” Nigel repeated.
“If you will come this way—”
Nigel followed Tarik back out into the hallway.
“I will show you my room in which I often sit alone. When I do not wish to be disturbed by anyone, when I want to be by myself and forget my affairs, I shut myself up in here. It is also where I entertain my close friends.”
An embroidered curtain, the ground of which was orange in color, embellished with silk threads of various other hues, faced them at the end of the corridor. Tarik pulled aside this curtain, pushed back a sliding door of varnished dark wood which was almost black, and ushered Nigel through the opening.
Nigel found himself in a large rectangular room, which was dimly lit, almost nocturnal, so cunningly were the shutters and draperies of the windows arranged to block out the fierce glare of the afternoon sun. The far end of the space contained a low dais with curving divans, divided by two sliding doors which were now pushed back in their recesses. The wooden ceiling was painted in geometrical patterns of black and gold. All of the windows had lattices of pierced rosewood fitted to them, and all of these lattices were closed. Against the walls, which were as dark in color as the rosewood, there were a number of carved brackets, on which were displayed a bewildering assortment of objects—inexpensive and garish vases and cachepots, in some of which houseplants were growing, a table clock,, a music box, and a grotesque monster, a cross between a lion and a dragon, molded in rough yellow and blue earthenware. There were no chairs in the room, but all of the lower part of the wall space was filled with broad divans. All over the floor were strewn exquisite rugs, with embroidered cushions set upon them here and there. The room was pervaded by a faint but heavy perfume, which had upon the senses an almost narcotic effect.
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