The man sat without moving. His mouth had gone faintly sour, and his eyes were fixed on the wall opposite him. But after Djoura had passed, fading into another dark alley, he raised his sight to heaven. “There is no God but Allah,” he intoned, “and Mohammad is his Prophet.”
“Yes, a fish,” Raphael admitted. “A fish, or a small bird. This orange tree, too, whispers His name to me, but only after everyone has gone to bed.”
“His name?” whispered the soft voice that came from the shadow.
“The name of my Father, whom they call Allah: the name I can’t remember from moment to moment,” Raphael replied. Then he pushed a weight of pale yellow hair from his eyes. “But none of these speaks as clearly to me of Him as one look at your face, Dami.”
Either the ghost laughed, or the wind made a rustle in the tree.
“Thank you, Seraph. Though I have no more face than the green earth and your memory give me, still that is good to hear.”
“The green earth?” Raphael moved closer to the voice of his friend. “I am made of the earth too. This—here—is the earth… See?” He lifted one fair arm and clenched and opened the hand. “It is earth itself my desire is causing to move. Flesh is earth, like wood, like fish scales.
“And it is me.” The deep blue eyes (not angel’s eyes any longer but Raphael’s eyes nonetheless) shone with particular intensity. “I am growing increasingly… what is the right word… TENDER of this body.”
Brown eyes, created of Raphael’s memory, answered his gaze. “You take your exile well,” Damiano commented, his words dusted with soft irony. “But I think you’ll get very tired of your body if you sit up every night, talking to ghosts and orange trees.”
Like a child, Raphael drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them. He closed his eyes contentedly. His form was obscured in a veil of light and shadow: Damiano covered his teacher with dusky wings. “Take it well? My exile? What else should I do? I am bound to this flesh. It colors everything that happens to me, and time does the rest; time is always around me, with the drip of the water clock—plink, plink, plink. Get up, void, eat, work, play for Rashiid, sleep (or try to). Is it time, flesh, or slavery that rules my life? I think if I were not a slave, with someone to tell me at every moment what to do, time would confuse me utterly.
“I do get tired,” he admitted. “But it is not because of your visits that I get tired, nor yet from talking to the orange tree. It is because my mistress keeps me awake every night.”
There was a moment’s meditative silence. “I have heard of men having that problem,” Damiano replied finally, in a careful voice devoid of expression. “I have never heard they were to be pitied, however.”
The man who had been an angel sighed. “I am not really a simpleton, Dami; I know when you’re making fun of me. Without cause, I assure you.”
The ghost grinned. Raphael’s answering smile was slow.
“It IS a problem. Ama sleeps during the siesta (which is something I’m not given time to do), and she cannot sleep all night as well.
“She wants to play with me then. She wants to sit on my knee while I comb her hair. She wants to complain about her husband, and she wants me to tell her stories.
“What am I to do? I am her servant, and besides, she is very sweet. But sometimes I’m asleep when I should be doing something else. Yesterday I fell asleep during my master’s dinner.”
“Did he beat you?” came the concerned question.
Raphael shook his head. Night-silvered hair spilled over his shoulders and cast milky lights on the water. “No. He only threatened to.” Raphael gazed upward at the full moon and yawned so hard he squeezed the moon out of his eyes. “I can never predict, about Rashiid.”
The spirit also laughed. “So! Sleep now, then. I’ll play for you— I’ll play especially dull music. You’ll have no choice but to nod off.”
It was not dull music, nor was the lute poorly played. It was to Raphael very dear music, for he had taught it to his student and Damiano had changed it and added to it until it came back as a gift to the teacher. And Raphael listened in no danger of falling asleep, for he was traveling a long way in his thoughts.
Chained to a framework of bone: prisoned in time. Not miserable, however, even though the damp reached through his cotton shirt like searching roots and his eyes were grainy.
For Raphael’s head was full of music: music which took time— man’s master—and played with it. It curled around his mortal bones until they shone with light. The walls of Raphael’s prison dissolved under the gentle siege of Damiano’s lute.
But his reverie was a slave’s reverie and he did not forget that in the morning he would have to help Fatima bake the breakfast breads. Nor that he would then wake up his mistress and attempt the duties of lady’s maid. There would be digging, or picking, or pruning, and during the hot hours Rashiid would want his music. Sand the morning’s dirty pots, crank the great fan in the north chamber, then dinner and more lute playing (unless there was someone to impress, Rashiid preferred it over the ud). And tomorrow night his sleep would be interrupted or forestalled as it always was, by little Ama, restless as a bird.
He carried all these burdens with him through his joy, like a man dancing with a sack of rocks on his back.
And his sad smile, as he gazed into the darkness where he could not see his friend, was ancient.
Raphael heard a noise through the music. He turned his head to peer over the packed earth of the yard, but he knew already what it was. Ama was coming out.
She walked on her tiptoes, not out of stealth but out of bouncy habit. Somewhere she had found a completely unorthodox, unsuitable scarlet shawl, and she had wrapped this thing around her head and shoulders, making her appear more birdlike than ever. She blundered over a garden rake on her way through the yard.
“Hisst! Hisst!” She scrambled around the edge of the fish pond, calling in too loud a whisper. “Raphael. Pinkie! Where are you? Don’t tell me you’re not here; I won’t believe that!” Her padded skirt caught twigs off the ground. One foot sent a Utter of gravel into the water.
Raphael crawled to his feet. He looked questioningly in the direction of Damiano, but the bodiless playing continued. “This is she,” Raphael explained, speaking without sound. Damiano made no reply.
He stepped over to Ama. “I didn’t say I wasn’t here.”
She gave out a treble yelp, shied away from him, and slipped one foot into the cold water.
Raphael caught her, and for a moment she struggled in his grasp. Then she was giggling, and she put her arms around his neck and kissed Raphael. She kissed him wherever she could reach: on the left corner of his mouth, his nose, his chin. Her kisses were short and sharp: like bird pecks.
He put her down on the pathway and turned, self-consciously, to the spot the music came from.
“Don’t mind me,” came a ghostly whisper. “I doubt very much the child can see me.” Damiano struck up a saraband.
Ama was rubbing her mouth thoughtfully. “Raphael! Do you know you have a beard coming?”
Confused both by Damiano’s and Ama’s words, Raphael put his own hand to his face. “A… a beard?”
Ama bent him down with a hand behind his neck. She ran her fingernails backward over his cheek with female expertise. “Yes. You’re growing a beard.” She snickered, came up on tiptoe and poked him under the jawbone. “Well, why not? We both know what you are—or aren’t!
“My secret stallion!” Ama bubbled over with connivance as she added, “But how we’ll hide THIS from Rashiid I don’t know. Unless we pluck them all out, of course.”
“Sounds painful,” murmured Damiano from nowhere in particular.
The slave, too, made a tentative demur, but Ama was having none of it.
Raphael shot his friend a pleading glance as his mistress dragged him toward the house. The ghost, however, made no move to interfere.
By the light of one candle it was very difficult to find the fine yellowish hairs on Rapha
el’s cheeks. Sitting on her subject’s lap was also not the most convenient way to set about the task. But there was only one stool in the women’s hidey-hole (now that Moorish visitations had become much rarer) and Ama was used to working in bad light. She was expert with the tiny brass tweezers.
“There’s one,” she hissed, and the implement hovered closer. The tweezers struck with the speed of a hawk and Raphael flinched just perceptibly.
“Poor Pinkie,” Ama crooned, and left a kiss on the spot she had stung. The kiss took much longer than the plucking.
Raphael looked around at the candle-dancing clay walls.
“Perhaps I should simply tell Rashiid that I am not a eunuch at all,” he ventured to suggest. “It is the simple truth.”
Ama drew her breath in in a hiss. “Raphael! Then you would BE a eunuch for certain. Do you want that to happen?”
He squirmed in his seat, considering the question. “No,” he replied with some decision. “I don’t know quite why, but that is a very repellent thought.”
“Or maybe he would merely kill you in his rage!” Ama’s dark threat dissolved into a giggle. She plucked and kissed three times in succession. Then she kissed three times more. “My dear Pinkie. You’re funny, with your ‘simple truth’ and all!”
Ama was so small and warm and cuddly that Raphael found himself hugging her. Her hair was against his lips. He stroked it. She lifted her face to his.
The only other woman who had ever touched him had had hands less soft than these. Black hands, which had bathed him and combed his hair. Hands that smelled like sun and sand. Raphael heard Djoura’s rich, brocaded songs in his ears as he held the little Arab girl.
His embrace grew tighter, with an urgency that seemed imposed upon him from outside, against his will. Ama pressed her round, fragile body against his. The last kiss did not end, but wandered from her mouth to her neck. Raphael’s flesh was singing like the strings of a lute struck all together. So this was lust, he thought to himself.
This beautiful thing. Lust. A grin stretched tightly across his face.
“Why aren’t you looking at me?” hissed Ama in his ear. “Why are you sitting there smiling into space like that? Don’t you like to kiss me?”
Raphael had to swallow before talking and still his voice was thick. “I do,” he said, smiling shyly. “And I don’t know why I was staring out; I just was.”
“Then kiss me again, and keep your eyes closed,” she insisted. Raphael obeyed his mistress, and she in turn took his hand in her smaller one and placed it where she thought best.
The stool Raphael had been sitting on had gotten lost somehow. They were sinking to the floor. And the floor was warm. It was as though the earth were turning soft and silky: like flesh.
But behind his closed eyes the flesh he stroked was not amber, like that of Ama, but ebony, and the mouth that touched his was heavier. And more proud.
“I want you to be my husband,” Ama crooned, burying her face against Raphael’s breast. “You are so beautiful. So gentle!
“I don’t love Rashiid; I hate him! He is a bear. A stupid pig! I want YOUR love.”
Raphael’s blue-black eyes clouded over. He struggled up from the floor, pulling his mistress onto his lap once again. He nestled her sleek head beneath his chin.
“Poor Ama,” he whispered. “My poor, dear Ama.”
Ama struggled free. “What do you mean, ‘poor Ama’? You are supposed to say, ‘lovely Ama, beautiful, generous Ama’! Are you not my slave, after all? Is it not I who am conferring honor?”
She stood, and thus was slightly taller than he was, seated. Her taper threw a writhing shadow on the wall behind. Raphael saw a small candle flame in each of her shining brown eyes.
“I… I called you poor Ama because you said you were unhappy,” he said simply.
Ama settled her clothes, like feathers, into place. She leaned forward to him, hands on her knees, and kissed the tip of his nose. “Ah, but you can make me happy!” she whispered, and her ready grin was back.
“See this?” She let the brilliant shawl fall about her face. “Isn’t it terrible? Spanish. I wore it for you!”
Raphael took the fabric in his hand. He didn’t think it was terrible at all, even if Spanish. It suited Ama’s olive coloring very well. He thought it would look good on Djoura too.
“How can I be your husband when you already have a husband?” he thought to ask.
“If Rashiid will be angry to learn I am a man, will he not be much angrier to find you want to…”
Ama cut him off with a grimace. “Rashiid is not to know, mooncalf!”
“This is Rashiid’s house. You are Rashiid’s wife, and I am Rashiid’s slave.” Raphael folded his hands between his knees and let his head hang forward. For a while he watched the play of shadows on the tile floor. “I may be a simpleton, as everyone says, yet I know we cannot act THAT part for long here without the master discovering us.”
There was total silence from Ama, which lasted until Raphael lifted his eyes to see she was crying.
He opened his mouth in incoherent apology, but Ama spoke with trembling voice. “Don’t you love me, my Pinkie, my Raphael? I have loved you since the first time I saw you. It was because of you I made Rashiid buy that nasty black Djoura, and…”
“Djoura isn’t nasty,” he began, but seeing Ama’s expression, immediately took a new tack.
“You are very dear to me, mistress. You are my closest friend in this place, and…”
“You have closer elsewhere?” Her dimpled chin jutted forward.
Raphael was not allowed to reply, for Ama found her own answer. “Djoura! That’s why she wanted you sold together; she said you were her brother, but what she meant was quite different, I’ll bet! I’ll bet you lay together every night you could!”
“That isn’t true,” he said, but as he spoke his mind filled with unbidden images, with the Berber’s song all mixed with Ama’s warm skin and the divine irresponsibility he had just learned to call lust. Therefore his words did not carry authenticity to his mistress’s ear.
“I’m going to tell Rashiid you attempted to force yourself on me!” the girl declared.
“Please don’t,” Raphael said weakly.
“Why not? Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s not the truth.”
This plain response seemed to daunt Ama. “Well, I’ll just tell him you’re a whole man. That’s the truth, and will be the same in the end.”
He reached out a hand to her, but hers hid behind her back. “But you said he would do me harm.”
Ama snorted and looked down the length of her nose at the fair face before her. “A moment ago you were the upright one: the one who wanted to tell him. And you a mere Christian—a giaour! Trying to make me feel low. Well, where’s your courage now?”
The entreating hand dropped to Raphael’s lap. “I never said I was courageous, Ama. In truth I am not very brave at all.”
He blinked confusedly and rubbed his face with both palms. “Nor very clever, I don’t think.
“But I do know this; if I lie with you, mistress, it will lead to great unhappiness, maybe death, for us both.”
His blue eyes gazed so steadily that Ama turned her head to one side. “I’m not afraid.”
“I am,” whispered Raphael.
Ama ground her teeth. “Then be afraid of this, Pinkie. Unless you’re a lot… nicer to me by tomorrow night, I have every intention of telling Rashiid what I know about you.”
Ama snatched the candle and stalked out of the room.
He sat with his forehead propped on his spread fingertips, his elbows on his knees. “How have I gotten myself into such a sticky web, when to my best understanding I did nothing wrong at all?”
It was the sort of question a man asks of the air, but in Raphael’s case the air replied. “Know your own duty; that’s all that’s asked of you, and it’s simple enough, isn’t it?”
Raphael lifted his beautiful, offended face.
By the velvety movement of a shadow it seemed his friend was standing just outside the window. “No, it is not! Simple? How can you say…”
Damiano’s vague form wavered, shruglike. “That’s word for word what you said to me once.”
“I did?” The slave hoisted himself out of the window again, and took a calmative breath of night air. “How dared I open my mouth about mortal concerns, having never been a mortal of any sort?”
There were the stars, up above his head in a Spanish sky untainted by clouds. There was the full moon. Unaccountably, Raphael thought of Djoura. “A mortal of any sort,” he repeated, lamely, to those stars.
“Yet your advice was always of the best,” Damiano chuckled, in a voice as soft as the wind. “You told me to dress myself to attract girls. You cut my hair becomingly. You even won over my sweetheart, who felt she had reason to hate you.
“In fact, Raphael, mortal or no, you have always known how to please the ladies.”
The blond turned to stare at Damiano, which was difficult, since he had no clear idea where he was. “You were listening!” he blurted aloud. “To Ama and me!”
There came a soft rustling, not like that of orange leaves but like that of a man shifting from foot to embarrassed foot. “Yes, I was listening. Shouldn’t I have been?
“After all, I hadn’t said I was going away, had I?” Then, in tones airy and droll, he added, “Perhaps I should write you a note to tell you when I’m nearby. I remember someone suggesting that policy to me once.”
The ghost’s voice had taken Raphael to the garden wall. He slumped against it, feeling its coolness as a relief more than physical. “Don’t make fun of me, Dami. If I was officious in the past, you can console yourself with the knowledge I’m wretched enough now.”
Damiano stood beside him in an instant, perfect from his rough hair to his large mountaineer’s boots. His square hand (nails cut blunt on long musician’s fingers) rested on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Seraph,” he said. “I was only trying to make you laugh.
“Is it what your mistress said that disturbs you? Is it her displeasure, or do you fear your master will really do you harm? I have some advice on that point, if you’d care to listen.”
Raphael Page 20