A Canopy of Rose Leaves

by Isobel Chace

  Roger took it from her, lifted it off her shoulders and folded it neatly into a small, square parcel that he tucked away under his arm.

  ‘No?’ His tone was disbelieving. For some reason she came closer then to losing her own temper with him than at any time during their encounter.

  ‘No! Why should I? I certainly wouldn’t try to impress you, Mr. Derwent, because I already know what you think of me. If you want to know, I was trying to be obliging, no more than that! And give me back my chador!’

  ‘Yours? It isn’t right for your image, my dear. I prefer you without it.’

  ‘You prefer—?’ She felt deprived of breath. The sheer impertinence of it! ‘What are you going to do about finding Maxine?’ she demanded.

  The corners of his mouth kicked up into a smile. ‘Nothing. What would you have me do?’

  ‘We can’t just abandon her!’

  ‘Why not? Under the same circumstances she would undoubtedly abandon you to make your own way home. You don’t have to worry about Maxine.’

  She came to an abrupt halt, digging in her heels with a suddenness that made him take a step backwards too. ‘That’s just the sort of beastly thing you would say!’ she cried out. ‘You don’t like anybody but yourself and you can’t be bothered to make any effort with people who happen to like you—unless they’re a walking encyclopaedia of useless knowledge. You don’t care if they’re nice, and if they have feelings that can be hurt, or just a bit silly! Well, let me tell you, they may be silly, and female, and not a bit clever, but they know much more about living and life than you do!’

  He put his head on one side, his face expressionless and his light grey eyes veiled from her by his lashes. ‘Like yourself?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘Do you know all about life, Deborah Day?’

  She stared back at him, then swallowed. ‘Me?’

  ‘I thought not,’ he went on drily. ‘You don’t know the first thing about it. You ought to know better than to make speeches just for effect, my girl. Did Ian teach you nothing at all when you thought you were engaged to him, or are you a slow learner?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m warning you that where I’m concerned you should mind your step, or you’ll learn more about life than you’ll like. Now are you coming?’

  She hesitated, her eyes wide. ‘Where to?’

  An exasperated look broke up the serious lines of his face and he smiled at her. ‘I ought to take you home, but I have an hour or so before I need to leave you. I thought you might like a cup of tea?’

  ‘If you’re sure you can spare the time,’ she shot back at him, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I shouldn’t want to upset your priorities—’

  ‘Deborah! Another word and you’ll get a great deal more than you bargained for! Or is that what you want?’

  She couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. ‘I want to wait for Maxine,’ she told him. ‘I’m worried about her. Besides, she’d be upset if you were to have tea with me and not ask her as well. You know she enjoys your visits, yet you didn’t come the other evening. She was terribly disappointed.’

  ‘I doubt that. Maxine and I understand one another far too well for such wasted emotion.’ He looked amused. ‘You can’t tell me that she hasn’t got half a dozen men trailing after her hoping for a kind word?’

  Deborah shook her head. ‘Only Reza—and he doesn’t count.’

  ‘Why?’ he laughed. ‘No, don’t answer that. He comes round to see you, not Maxine, and you try to pretend that he doesn’t.’

  ‘I don’t have to pretend,’ she denied. ‘He’s nice, but he could never be special as far as I’m concerned. He’s promised that he and his mother will teach me Farsi.’

  ‘His mother? That sounds serious,’ he said.

  She shook her head again. ‘His mother’s an American. Better still, she has a lot to do with the Qashgai tribes and Reza is taking us out to meet her. I’m hoping she’ll put me in the way of some business. I need a break like that. It’s difficult to get things going without any previous contacts.’

  ‘I know her,’ Roger said with disapproval. ‘Your Reza must be Dr. Mahdevi. How did you meet him?’

  ‘At the chai khane in the square by the bazaar.’

  His hand closed about her arm again. ‘Then I shan’t take you there now,’ he said. ‘I know of another place that I infinitely prefer.’

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ he asked when she fell behind, intent on her own thoughts.

  ‘I’m not sure I ought to go with you,’ she told him. ‘All I seem to do is annoy you—’

  ‘Yes, and you know why!’ he retorted.

  ‘But I don’t!’

  He turned and faced her. ‘I could slap you—’ he began. Then he broke off and his expression softened. ‘I keep forgetting how young you are,’ he said, and it didn’t sound like a compliment. He made her sound like an adolescent and not a very bright one at that! ‘Growing up can hurt like hell—and I don’t want to hurt you, Deborah. But don’t trade on my good nature, there’s a love. I’m not used to denying myself any of the goodies that your sex cares to offer me, especially when they’re as pretty as you are!’

  ‘I grew up a long time ago!’

  He dismissed that as easily as if she had been the child he thought she was. ‘You’ve hardly begun,’ he said with a sudden smile.

  ‘I’m as old as Maxine—’

  ‘And?’

  And nothing! Her heart missed a beat and then made a rush to catch up. ‘And I’m no more foolish than she is,’ she said.

  ‘Which isn’t saying much,’ he told her.

  ‘As a professor you ought to make a better teacher than Ian,’ she went on. ‘If you think I have so much to learn, why don’t you teach me?’

  He strode down the street without answering and she had to run to catch up with him. Even then he didn’t wait for her. He turned to the right inside the rear entrance to the bazaar and she thought he meant to take her straight home after all. But then he turned sharply left, down one of the narrowest streets Deborah had ever seen. She was afraid she would lose sight of him altogether and ran the harder, tripping over the uneven ground. He disappeared into a doorway on the right-hand side and she stumbled after him, down some steps and through a blanket-covered doorway which led into a dimly-lit room that was full of clutter of every description. It was quite unlike any chai khane she had ever seen.

  She hesitated in the entrance, uncertain of herself and still a little afraid of him. She looked about her and her eye fell on some illuminated Korans locked away behind the glass doors of a casement bookcase.

  ‘Oh, they’re beautiful!’ she exclaimed. She crossed the room in a rush to see the delicate brushwork that lit the pages the better. ‘They’re not very old, but they’re very fine! I wish the light was better. One can’t see much, can one?’

  He was looking at her and not at the Korans. ‘Do you know anything about Perso-Arabic calligraphy?’ he. asked her.

  ‘A little,’ she acknowledged. ‘Not nearly enough. I wish I knew more.’ She smiled at him over her shoulder. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are being able to read it and everything. All I can do is admire it as an art form, which is something, but I’d love to be able to write it myself!’

  ‘If you stay around for long enough, I’ll teach you,’ he offered. For a minute she wasn’t sure if he were serious. His negligent attitude told her nothing and it was too dark to see the expression in his eyes.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said a little shyly. ‘I was trying to learn something about it in London by myself. I know that in the eleventh century there were six basic styles of writing in common use. Aglam al-Sitta, the six hands, they were called.’

  ‘And can you recognise any of them?’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘I can recognise Kufic—’

  ‘But that isn’t one of the six. Can you recognise Ta’liq and Nasta’liq? They didn’t appear until the fourteenth century, b
ut by the fifteenth and sixteenth Nasta’liq became the predominant style in use in Iran. It derived from Ta’liq.’

  ‘Ta’liq,’ she considered. ‘Oh, yes, I do know it! A “hanging” script with short thin verticals and broad horizontals. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Quite right,’ he agreed. ‘You seem to have taken in something about the subject after all.’

  ‘Well, really!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m not a complete fool!’

  ‘No?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I am,’ she admitted. ‘I’m a fool to rise to your bait. I don’t think I want you to teach me about it after all.’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t you want to know why the Persians used Ta’liq and Nasta’liq, and the Arabs didn’t?’

  She did, but she hesitated to admit it. She would never measure up to his standards, she thought, and she couldn’t bear the thought of all that her failure might entail.

  ‘If you want to tell me about it,’ she compromised.

  ‘Oh, I do. If you’ve finished looking round in here we’ll go through and have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  Finished? She had hardly started! There were so many things to see in the crowded room, things that she badly wanted to look at so that she would be better able to judge the modern examples she might want to buy.

  ‘You can come back,’ Roger told her gently, ‘but come and have some refreshment now. I suppose you prefer sherbet as Maxine does?’

  ‘It’s too sweet,’ she answered. ‘I’d rather have tea.’

  He gestured her towards a door she hadn’t noticed before and Deborah found herself preceding him round an awkward corner and into the chai khane itself. It wasn’t nearly as grand as the one in the square, but it was just as comfortable and with a whole lot of things hanging on the walls, some of which she could only guess at what they could have been used for.

  She sat down quickly on the delicate furniture, her hands and feet feeling at least two sizes too large. Roger sat down beside her, turning a little to face her.

  ‘Tell me about the scripts!’ she bade him, sure that he was about to say something personal that would add to her discomfort. She wondered if he had taken Maxine out often and where they had gone. Did he find the American girl a more adult companion than herself?

  ‘Okay. Aesthetically the choice was the right one. In Arabic, the definite article, represented by two parallel verticals, lends a recurring beat and a shape to the rhythm of their writing. But the Persian language has no definite article and the undulating waves of the Ta’liq and Nasta’liq scripts compensated for this.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She sighed, feeling a little lost. If she wanted his interest she had a lot to learn, she thought. More, possibly, than she could cope with.

  It was something of a relief when the waiter came for their order. He brought the tea at once, set out on a wooden tray with two charming little bowls for them to drink out of. Deborah handed one of the bowls to Roger.

  ‘There isn’t any milk,’ she said. ‘And I don’t know if you take sugar?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  That seemed to be the end of the conversation. Deborah cudgeled her brains for something intelligent to say, but her wits had deserted her.

  ‘You’re not enjoying this much, are you?’ Roger observed at length.

  ‘Yes—yes, of course I am!’

  ‘Still mourning your engagement with Ian?’

  ‘No,’ she said expressionlessly. ‘I hardly think of him at all.’

  ‘Good.’ His eyes flickered over her averted face. ‘Who do you think about?’

  ‘I have my work,’ she said. ‘I think about that a great deal.’

  ‘I see.’

  She wondered if he did. She didn’t have to look at him to see in her mind’s eye the way his hair curled into his neck, the beautifully moulded lids to his light grey eyes, and the firm, almost cruel look to his mouth. The odd thing was that she could hardly remember what Ian looked like. She would recognise him if she saw him, of course, but his image wasn’t burned into her consciousness in the way that Roger’s was. If she never saw him again she would never forget a single detail of how Roger looked!

  She jumped visibly, thinking he had said something, but he was not even looking at her.

  ‘Reza’s mother—’ she began, glad to have finally found a subject that they could safely talk about.

  ‘Don’t get too involved with Reza,’ he cut her off. ‘His mother may be an American, but he is from a different culture. Sooner or later, he’ll want more than you’re prepared to give.’

  Deborah sat up very straight. ‘I think I can manage Reza without your advice. He’s very—biddable, and I like him very much!’

  Roger made an impatient gesture. He leaned forward and replaced his empty bowl back on to the tray.

  ‘His view of women is not what you’re used to,’ he told her abruptly.

  Deborah’s already tense nerves dissolved into a hot, angry fire in her blood. ‘I prefer it to yours!’ she declared. ‘I understand it better too!’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Do you now? I didn’t think I’d left any room for misunderstanding in my dealings with you?’

  Her anger turned to defeat. ‘It must be nice to know you’re only worthy of the best—perfection! I wish you joy of it!’

  ‘You sound as though you hope it poisons me,’ he returned, obviously not minding.

  ‘That too!’ she agreed.

  ‘Would you like me any better if I started an affair with you?’ he asked in exactly the same conversational tones he had used earlier. ‘Or is it, as I suspect, that unresolved commitments don’t hold muck appeal for you?’

  She didn’t know how to answer this. ‘Does it have to be unresolved?’ she asked him at last.

  ‘With me it does. I’ve told you that all along.’

  To be fair, he had, but she had shut her ears to everything but what she had wanted to hear. She could imagine none other as her particular ‘minstrel of the night’, none other who would spread rose petals over her head for her delight, whom she would not think foolish to make such a gesture.

  ‘Is that why you think me a child?’ she asked.

  ‘I think you can do without that particular gloss of sophistication,’ he drawled. ‘You’re a much nicer person as you are.’

  She looked at him then, a quick puzzled look, and then her eyes fell to the bowl of tea she was nursing again. ‘I don’t think you’re nice at all!’ she told him.

  His laughter crashed like thunder in her ears. ‘Drink up your tea, Debbie, and I’ll take you home,’ he commanded her. ‘Maxine will be wondering where you are.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He put a hand over hers, threading his fingers through hers. ‘Not to me,’ he said. ‘I have no reputation to lose in that direction. But it would matter to you, and rightly so. You want a young man you can be sure of, who’ll think you the sun and the moon and the stars! Someone who won’t put you in a quake every time you open your mouth in case you haven’t said the right thing.’

  She was astonished that he should know so well how she felt. ‘You’ll have a hard job finding another woman who’s an academic like your mother, and everything else as well!’

  He stood up suddenly. ‘I’ll see you home,’ he said. He put some coins on the tea-tray and reached down a hand to her, pulling her up on to her feet.

  ‘Reza isn’t ashamed of me,’ she said, as a parting fling.

  ‘How do you know I am?’ he retorted.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  His hand tightened on hers, refusing to let her go. ‘As it happens, I rather enjoy the tough quality of your mind,’ he answered her. ‘I like the way you face up to things and go on seeking an answer no matter what difficulties are put in your way.’ He smiled slowly. ‘I like the way you look and move even more, but that’s another story. You may not realise it, young woman, but I’m being kinder to you than I am to most of your sex. I’m allowing
you to be the one who got away!’

  If she had been quite sure that this was what she wanted she might have been amused. As an example of kindness, it was typical of him, she thought. He had made the decision, just as he had made up his mind what kind of man would be best for her regardless of her own expressed wishes, and he was completely sure he was right to do so.

  ‘Roger, suppose Maxine isn’t at home? What should I do then?’

  ‘She will be,’ he said with calm certainty. ‘If she’s not, we’ll send your maid out to look for her. I told her not to go there—’

  ‘But she isn’t the sort of girl to meekly accept your proscriptions about that sort of thing. She has too much spirit!’

  ‘I’d call it something else,’ he retorted.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said, ‘but I admire Maxine for making up her own mind about these things. One should never take anything on trust without questioning its validity for oneself. Should one?’

  ‘Deborah—’ She waited for him in the doorway, an innocent, questioning look on her face. ‘Deborah,’ he said again, ‘if you’re not very careful, I’ll forget all my good resolutions about you and give you a little of what you deserve!’

  Her lips trembled. ‘And what would that be?’

  He let the curtain fall and they were alone on the awkward stairs. She turned to face him, her eyes bright.

  ‘I’m more likely to beat you,’ he warned her.

  She moved closer. ‘I’ll take the risk,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not with me you won’t!’ He shattered the intimacy of the moment by running lightly up the steps and out into the sunlight.

  She followed him almost immediately, managing a half-smile as the strength of the sun dazzled her eyes for a moment. She took the chador he was carrying for her and tucked it under her own arm.

  ‘When Reza has taught me enough Farsi to get by,’ she said brightly, ‘I’ll let you know. I’d like to be able to read and write too.’