by August Li
“It’s true,” Janan said softly.
“Sir, I’m afraid you’ve been manipulated by these men. You are back where you belong now, and you don’t need to rely on them. Send them away and we can tackle this problem reasonably. We’ll get to the bottom of it. We have resources available to us.”
For a heart-stopping few seconds, Isra wondered if Janan would take her advice. Most sensible men would.
Instead, Janan reached across the table and grasped Isra’s hand. “I will go nowhere without this man. Nothing matters more to me than him, and I know he would never do anything to harm me.”
“How do you know these people aren’t responsible for your current condition?” she argued. “They could’ve kidnapped you, drugged you.”
“No!” Janan slapped the table, making the dishes and silverware jump and Sehrish flinch. “No. Tell me this. Did we trust each other?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I owe you a great deal. You gave me an opportunity I might not have otherwise had, and you’ve always treated me with respect. I would even like to think we are friends.”
“Then trust me now,” Janan pleaded. “Just entertain the possibility that what Fl—that what my friend says is true.”
She nodded slowly. “If I am willing to do that, what’s our next step?”
“I told you,” Flicker said. “We need to find the one responsible for the spell.”
“No.” Janan’s grip on Isra’s hand tightened. “Not tonight. First, I want to learn about myself, about the man I was. I want to talk about my past, any family. But even before that, I want to wash and rest. All of us have traveled all night, and we’re exhausted. Exhausted people are irritable and irrational. If this is truly my home, then everything here is offered freely to my friends.” He looked to Flicker. “Please, choose a room to rest or entertain yourself in any way you can find.”
The arafrit stood and tucked the corner of his shemagh back into his turban. “That’s generous, but I don’t think so. I can entertain myself more effectively down in the old city than in this… artificial bubble. I will return this evening so we can speak of your past over dinner.” Then he turned to Isra. “Will you be all right?”
His voice was kind, his hand on Isra’s shoulder so familiar that Isra wanted to cling to him and never let go. His one constant. With stinging eyes, Isra nodded.
“If that somehow proves untrue, I will be… unhappy,” Flicker said, fluttering his hand behind him as he turned back toward the house, boots clicking on the cut stones on the terrace.
“That fellow makes me uneasy,” Sehrish said after Flicker was gone.
Isra was emotional. Perhaps what Janan said about exhaustion was true, but he felt compelled to defend his oldest friend. “You know nothing about him. He’s been a dear friend to me since childhood. I wouldn’t be alive if not for his kindness.”
“Forgive me.” Sehrish lowered her eyes. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. The sheikh’s words are wise. We could all use a little time to rest and regroup. It’s been an afternoon full of surprises, and all of us are tense. I’ll see about having a proper meal delivered for tonight. Sir, do you need me to show you to your room?”
“No, I’m sure I can find it.” He drew in a slow breath. “Sehrish, I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course. What do you mean?”
“You won’t call the police, or a doctor? I don’t want anyone to know I’ve come back. Not yet. Even if you don’t believe it, I need to find the person responsible for what was done to me, and I want to keep the element of surprise.”
“You don’t want me to contact your family?”
“No, not yet,” Janan said. “Family. So strange to think that word belongs to people other than my tribe in the desert, to Isra. Are my…. Do I have parents?”
“They’re passed away,” she said gently.
“Passed away,” he repeated. “Did they… were they proud of me? Did they love me?”
“Of course.” She abandoned tradition and clasped his free hand. “I’ll tell you all about them tonight. And whether you remember or not, I’ll never betray you. Now go and rest. This is a comfortable home. Enjoy it. Both of you.”
She smiled at them as she stood to gather the dishes, and Isra was certain she knew the nature of their relationship—knew and maybe even approved.
“IT’S STRANGE,” Janan said as he walked up the spiral staircase. “I feel like I’m doing something illicit, being here. I feel like a thief.”
Isra understood, but at the same time: “There is something of you in this place, though.”
Janan turned to him with a bemused smile. “How so?”
“Well, this is an expensive home, no doubt. But it isn’t the home of a man flaunting his wealth. It’s functional and understated. The colors remind me of you—the way the windows frame the lawn and trees like works of art.”
“Hmm. I don’t even know if I chose any of that,” Janan said. “It could be a builder came, and then a designer. For all I know, I simply took the key when everything was complete.”
“I doubt that,” Isra said. “You’re not a man who is content to leave your decisions to others.”
“How have you come to know me better than I know myself?” Janan moved to the railing and looked down into the open space. “It seems empty. Maybe I was waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Someone to share it with.” Janan smiled. “Someone to help me choose things to fill a home that would belong to both of us.”
Isra forced a smile, but the idea troubled him because he didn’t think he could be that person. A powerful businessman like Janan would be expected to marry and father children. And even ignoring that, Isra didn’t think he could be happy choosing plates and sofas and staying in the same place all the time. If that was the future Janan craved….
He put it out of his mind. He was too tired to make important decisions, and so much remained uncertain. He simply whispered, “Perhaps.”
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway bisected the second floor. On the left, above the garage, they found a trio of guest rooms, all tastefully furnished with pale wood and neutral palettes and sharing a washroom between them. There was even a second small kitchen with a breakfast bar and a bowl of fruit on the round table. Isra would not have been surprised to learn no one but servants had ever set foot in any of these rooms.
The suite opposite them was another story. The library, though the size of two of the guestrooms, put Isra in mind of a winter tent—cozy, all the space used, filled with items that felt used and loved. The hundreds of books on the tall shelves scented the still air. Between them, busts and statues stood in alcoves. Midnight blue papered the walls, and vertical blinds covered the two sets of double doors that led to the balcony. The leather chairs and sofa here looked used—worn slightly in places and dented where Janan usually sat. More books sat on the coffee table in front of them and on the floor between them in haphazard piles.
An archway led to the bedroom with its massive mattress atop a simple platform. The walls here were a softer blue-green, and the bedclothes, curtains, and chaise lounge were all white. It was airy, soothing, lit only by the late-afternoon sun coming from the balcony. It felt intimate, and Isra felt like an intruder. He waited at the threshold as Janan went to the dresser, picked up one of the framed photographs, and held it for a long time without speaking or moving. But when he bowed his head, shoulders shaking, Isra couldn’t leave him to suffer alone.
He hurried to stand behind Janan and wrap his hands around his waist. Janan gave in to the comfort, leaning his weight against Isra as if he’d lost the strength to stand. That was all right. Isra would hold him up for as long as he needed it.
In the photograph Janan held, an older man in a traditional turban and white jubbah stood next to a plump, smiling woman in a simple kaftan and hajib with a jeweled necklace over top. She held a chubby baby while her husband looked on with pride. Janan sniffled and took
a few slow breaths. When he composed himself, he said, “It was so different when I didn’t know if I had a family. It was all… academic. Distant. Now…. These people were real, and they loved me. I loved them, I’m sure, but I cannot even remember their names. I can’t recall a single day we spent together, and I feel… empty. Robbed.” He held the picture to his chest. “It hurts, Isra.”
Isra pressed his cheek to Janan’s back and whispered, “I’m sorry.” What else could he say?
“Did you ever wish you’d known your mother?”
“Only out of curiosity,” Isra admitted. “I was raised by my father’s other wives and by my uncle’s wives and daughters. I had my brother and plenty of cousins to play with, and I was never unhappy. I once asked my father why she didn’t want to stay with the clan, with me, and he simply told me she was wild. A man can tame a goat, make it content in captivity, but not an ibex. He can chain a dog but not a fox. He told me she was a shaman, and the desert called to her—things the rest of us couldn’t hear or see. It was just her nature, he said, and I accepted that.”
“I feel so lost,” Janan choked out, trying to swallow his sobs.
Isra gently took the photograph from his hands and set it down. He guided Janan to face him and used his thumbs to wipe the tears from the other man’s cheeks, and then he held his face and kissed him. Janan kissed back desperately, like he needed it to survive, and they didn’t separate until the need for air forced them apart. Then they pressed their foreheads together and wrapped their arms around each other, the taste of tears haunting Isra’s mouth. Shadows crept into the bedroom as they held each other and the sun pulled away to the west. In the yard below, the automatic lights blinked on, throwing the geometric pattern of the leaves against the filmy drapes.
“You will never be lost,” Isra said. “Before I knew who you were, before I even saw your face, I found you. I will always find you. I swear it.” He chuckled. “A Bedouin can tell the tracks of a red fox from a fennec fox. I can tell my camel’s footprints from those of my brother’s camel. Your camel. She is waiting for you. So is the tribe. If… if things don’t work out here, you always have a place with us. With me. Now come.”
Isra hoped it wasn’t arrogance to think he would be enough as he slipped the shemagh from Janan’s head, and then he pulled his jubbah up and off. He took a few moments to trail his fingers over Janan’s soft skin, slender chest, and taut belly, and then he led him across the room to the bath, where they found matches and lit the dozen amber-scented pillar candles on their brass bases and removed the rest of their clothing. They stripped slowly, lingering over deep, wet kisses and drawn-out caresses. Their leisurely explorations continued when they stepped into a shower the size of a small room, tiled in iridescent blue squares. Four showerheads pelted them with jets of steaming water as their wet skin slid together, heated bodies pressed close and rocking and squirming to get closer. Closer. The thick fog, smelling of the citrus and sage soap, wound around them and veiled them as they panted into each other’s open mouths, fingers digging into hips and legs, pulling closer and closer, until they were like one being inside and out and the pleasure that conjured couldn’t be contained.
Afterward, they dried each other with towels as soft as clouds and climbed between sheets smoother than anything Isra had ever felt. Surrounded by crisp cool, their skin was warm and damp in comparison as they found their way back into each other’s arms. There, with the silhouettes of vines and flowers meandering across the high ceiling, they distracted themselves from the uncertainty to come until their bodies could no longer stave off sleep.
Chapter Twelve
JANAN NAVIGATED by the light from the enormous walk-in closet next to the bathroom. He didn’t want to wake Isra, who looked so content sleeping on his stomach with his arms folded under his head, his dark skin standing out against the white sheets, ringlets of hair falling over his eyes. Beautiful man. As he watched him, Janan knew he’d give up this house, the dozens of expensive suits and silk ties hanging before him, for this man. It wasn’t the wealth. But he wanted to know his family, know himself. He had to. How had he come by his money? Was he really a decent man? The two rarely coincided. What responsibilities did he have to Sehrish and others? Would they allow him to return to the desert? Would he even want that after….
He liked the sight of Isra in his bed, the smell of his skin and sex mingled with Janan’s soap. He remembered the fragrance of that soap. He must’ve favored it. Here in the closet, everything had a perfumed aroma, and he discovered a dozen bottles of cologne behind a door, expensive things with swirling letters written on gem-cut glass. There was also an entire dresser filled with satiny underthings, a cabinet where cufflinks, rings, and watches sat in velvet-lined drawers. He stood looking at the Western-style suits, shirts, sweaters, and trousers, wondering if he should put them on, see how they made him feel. What would Isra think?
Janan shook his head as he lifted a pinstriped blue blazer from its hanger. Isra didn’t care what he wore. He was the least shallow man Janan had ever known. Still, maybe he should go more traditional. There were a few kaftans here, but Janan got a sense he didn’t wear them often. There! He would split the difference and put on a pair of dark jeans and a paisley button-down shirt. It was a simple style he’d noticed on many of the men of Cairo as they’d made their way from the oldest parts of the ancient city to this, the newest.
The mattress creaked, followed by the slap of bare feet on the wooden floor. He turned when Isra said, “My whole family could live in here.”
“It does seem excessive,” Janan agreed, drinking in the sight of Isra’s naked body, his half-wilted erection and heavy balls. “Do you think it could be necessary, that a man could lead a life that made all this necessary?”
“Necessary? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s expected.”
“You should wear something of mine,” Janan said. Suddenly he desperately wanted to see Isra in a shirt and trousers, as if it would prove Isra could acclimate to his world, be a part of his life. He selected some tan linen trousers, a matching blazer, and a white shirt. “We’re close enough to the same size.”
He waited, wondering if Isra would refuse, but of course he didn’t, simply taking the proffered items and heading back into the bedroom while rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Janan had to believe that was a good sign.
Downstairs, Sehrish had somehow set up a table and sideboard in the space beyond the kitchen. Candles burned, crystal and silver glimmered, and food waited beneath glass and metal domes, the savory aromas sneaking out to make Janan’s mouth water.
Sehrish had changed into a lavender floor-length dress with long sleeves, which she wore with a plum-colored hijab edged in gold embroidery that matched her shimmery eye shadow. She smiled when she saw them and said, “Both of you look much better. I trust some rest and a shower did you a world of good. And now a decent meal. One can’t go wrong with traditional French. Please.” She waved her hand at the table. “Given the… covert nature of our conversation, I declined to secure waitstaff. We’ll have to serve ourselves.”
“We aren’t used to being served,” Isra said. “We’re grateful to sit down to a meal, and we thank you for seeing to everything.”
“That must’ve taken some getting used to for you, Sheikh Mu’awiyah.”
Looking at the spread, Janan couldn’t imagine eating this way on a regular basis, let alone having his food carted to him by an entire staff. “The first thing I remember was begging on the street. When that was unsuccessful, I ate the fruits and vegetables the merchants threw away. And in the desert, meals are earned and appreciated. Each is a blessing and a reason to celebrate God’s mercy. They don’t appear from nothing.”
She opened her mouth, but whatever she planned to say was interrupted by a knock on the door—the front door, not the one leading from the garage—followed by Flicker sweeping into the room in a black suit that made the ones upstairs look like rags. He also wore a black shirt an
d black tie. His gold jewelry seemed to draw all the light, making everything else seem dimmer next to his sparkle.
Sehrish shook her head. “You look like an assassin.”
Flicker smoothed his lapels with a wicked grin that belied his innocent tone. “Something wrong with that?”
“An assassin from a bad movie,” she specified.
Rather than take offense, he scooped up her hand and kissed the back—something no modern Egyptian man would do to a strange woman. “Well, you look lovely. Like a princess from an old story. You should be on the balcony of a palace somewhere, waiting for your lover.”
“Don’t attempt to manipulate me,” she rebuked, though Janan noticed her cheeks pinked very slightly. “I’ve never waited for anyone to come to my rescue, and I certainly don’t plan to start. Now sit down so we can have something to eat and try to figure out what in the world is going on here and what we need to do about it.”
As she uncovered the dishes, Janan realized he recognized them, knew their names. He stood next to Isra and pointed to each one. “Soupe à l’oignon. And this is endive stuffed with goat cheese, dressed with champagne vinaigrette. Crêpes au fromage de chèvre. Poulet au porto—that’s chicken with a white port wine cream sauce and mushrooms, and I think this one is filet de boeuf aux morilles. Another mushroom dish.”
“I remember that you like them,” Sehrish said. “Especially in autumn. There’s tarte tatin for dessert.”
As they sat down to eat, Janan noticed Isra watching him carefully, emulating him as he filled his plate, cut his meat, and ate with the silverware Sehrish had set out. Clearly he worried about breaking some societal rule, and this was nothing like the way he normally ate with the other nomads. Janan squeezed his knee under the table. “Try to enjoy the meal. These truly are… some of my favorite dishes. I hope you’ll find something that appeals to you. But there’s no need to be so formal. This is just a dinner among friends. Right?”