The Panther and The Pearl

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “Done,” she said, and Memtaz sighed gratefully.

  Kosem rose and kissed Sarah’s cheek wordlessly, then quickly left the room.

  Achmed bowed and said, “ ” It was a blessing, and Sarah inclined her head in thanks.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Achmed asked.

  “You can bring a sleeping couch into this room. I’ll be staying here tonight.”

  “As you wish, mistress.”

  It was the first time he had ever called her that, and Sarah smiled. It had certainly taken an extreme circumstance to win his respect.

  When he returned with the couch Sarah sank onto it gratefully, drying her hands and ignoring the bloodstained clothes.

  “Wake me in two hours,” she said.

  “As you wish, mistress,” he said again, and took up his stance by the door.

  Sarah changed Kalid’s dressing several times that night, and by morning the wound looked less angry. She tended him all the next day, and in the evening he opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “Kalid,” she said, “do you know me?”

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it weakly as his eyes closed again. He was bathed in sweat; his fever had broken.

  “Tell the valide pashana that her grandson will recover,” Sarah said to Achmed, unable to conceal the delight in her voice.

  Achmed bowed and left to convey the message, returning shortly with Kosem, who put the back of her hand to Kalid’s forehead and said, “The heat has passed.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not yet. But he looked at me with understanding, and I think he knew who I was.”

  “He knew.” Kosem studied the American girl, then added, “I wanted you to tend him because no matter how much you may protest, I know you care for him. Loving hands make the best cure. You were better for him than any doctor we could have found.”

  Sarah looked away, touched.

  “How can I help you now?” Kosem asked.

  “He has to drink a lot of fluids to replace his lost blood volume. Water, juices, sherbets, anything like that. It’s better that he doesn’t take solid food for a couple of days yet, but a meat broth or a clear soup is fine.”

  “I’ll give the order to the kitchen. Memtaz will bring you something as soon as it’s ready.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Thank you,” Kosem said. “You will have my thanks forever, Sarah Woolcott of Boston, U.S.A.”

  Kalid was lying in a lake of fire, with a throbbing pain in his shoulder that would not stop. He heard voices from a distance, and people touched him and moved him, but he was detached from all of it, as if it were happening to somebody else. Gradually the pain receded to a more tolerable level, and he became aware of his surroundings. He knew he was alive, but injured, and he remembered the bedouin raid in which he had been shot.

  A woman was bending over him. He knew it was a woman because she smelled so good. It was a scent he recognized—not the powerful Oriental perfumes of the Eastern women but the light, delicate lemon verbena Sarah got from the kitchen help and crushed into a powder herself. But he knew it couldn’t be Sarah; she was locked up, on his order. How could she be here? Was he dreaming?

  He opened his eyes; even that much took an effort. Sarah was tightening the bandage against his shoulder, and when she saw that he was looking at her she froze, then smiled at him.

  She said something he couldn’t understand. Her free hand was lying against his chest. He reached for it and closed his fingers over it briefly.

  She smiled broadly.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, but he retained the image of her face before him as he drifted back into sleep.

  “Gah,” Kalid said, as Sarah held a bowl of broth to his lips.

  “Come on, you have to drink this, it will help to restore your strength,” Sarah said.

  He closed his lips and turned his head to the side.

  “All right. I thought you were interested in getting up off this couch,” Sarah said airily.

  He sighed and gestured for her to give him the bowl. When she did, he took it in both hands and drained it.

  “You are a tyrant,” he said wearily, letting his head fall back against his pillow.

  “It takes one to know one,” she replied, and laughed, pleased with herself.

  “You’re in a wonderful mood,” he said irritably, rubbing his sore shoulder. “I think you’re enjoying this role reversal.”

  Sarah snatched his hand away from the healing wound. “Maybe I am. I know I’m enjoying seeing you recover so quickly.”

  “Why?” he asked, watching her face.

  “It’s a testament to my nursing skills,” she replied, and he smiled archly.

  “Maybe it’s a testament to my spectacular stamina,” he countered, closing his eyes.

  “That too. Would you like to try some solid food?”

  “I would like to try a bath.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Wait another day.”

  “Achmed will take me to the hamman in the mabeyn as soon as you go to sleep.”

  Sarah looked down at him. He had several days’ growth of beard stubbling his cheeks, and he still looked somewhat tired, but the fire was back in his eyes and the purple shadows under them had vanished.

  “You won’t do that,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you may be as willful as a two-year-old, but you are not an idiot. I’ve brought you this far, and you will listen to what I say if you want to make a complete recovery.”

  “You’re feeling very smug, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, I am. And I must say I’m a little baffled, too. How could this have happened to you? Aren’t you guarded all the time when you’re out of the palace?”

  He stared at her. “You know I’m not. Were there guards with us when we rode to the oasis?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “I dismiss them when they are not necessary for ceremonial occasions.”

  “That’s not very smart, is it?”

  He looked away. “Would you want a posse following you everywhere you went?”

  “I guess not.”

  The khislar entered and bowed. “The valide pashana requests permission to enter,” Achmed said.

  “She’s requesting permission again. She must think I’m getting better,” Kalid said dryly.

  Sarah laughed.

  “Tell my grandmother she may come in,” Kalid said to Achmed, who bowed again. The khislar went out to speak to Kosem and then stood aside as she swept into the room, beaming.

  “Look at you, son of my son!” Kosem said joyfully. “You will be out hunting again soon!”

  Sarah stood as Kosem entered. Suddenly the room spun, and Sarah sat down again, hard.

  “Are you all right?” Kalid said sharply, sitting up quickly and reaching for her.

  “What is it, my dear?” Kosem said, rushing across the room to bend over her.

  “I don’t know. I felt a little dizzy.”

  “Of course you feel dizzy—you have not left my grandson’s side for five days. When was the last time you had something to eat?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

  “How could you let her go without something to eat?” Kalid shouted at his grandmother.

  Kosem took Sarah’s arm and helped her to stand. “Kalid is right, this is my fault. I was so concerned about him that I forgot about his nurse. Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “I slept here on the couch.”

  “How much?”

  “On and off.”

  Kosem turned to the khislar. “Take Sarah back to the ikbal’s chamber and tell Memtaz to bring her a meal. And then leave word that Sarah is not to be disturbed until tomorrow morning. I will keep watch with the pasha tonight.”

  “But . . .” Sarah said, looking back at Ka
lid.

  “Go,” he said. “I will be fine.”

  Sarah was too exhausted to fight both of them. “All right,” she conceded. “But call me if he spikes a fever again.”

  “Spikes?” Kosem said.

  “If he gets hot, delirious.”

  Kosem nodded, and Sarah was led away by Achmed, who closed the door behind them.

  “How could you do this to me?” Kalid said furiously to his grandmother, as soon as they were alone.

  “Do what?”

  “Let Sarah tend me this way!”

  “She saved your life!”

  “She has seen me weak and puling like an infant, helpless and dependent. She will never love me now.”

  Kosem sat on the couch Sarah had vacated and patted his hand. “No wonder Sarah won’t sleep with you, Kalid. You have no understanding of women.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” he said wearily. “Your advice is worthless. She will despise me now. She feels sorry for me.”

  “She loves you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “She never left your side. She insisted on caring for you herself when Achmed wanted to bring in outside experts.”

  “What does that prove? Maybe she just wanted to keep me alive so she wouldn’t fall into worse hands than mine. Anyway, she is soft-hearted. She would have done the same if you had brought her a dog that was run over in the road.”

  Kosem shook her head. “I know devotion when I see it.”

  “Devotion to a patient! Her father was a doctor, and she learned to nurse the sick at his knee. Her reaction doesn’t mean she cares for me. She was only following the tradition of her family to aid others. Besides, she is an American. They are all like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Helpers, tenders, what the British call do-gooders. Americans are famous for it all over the world. They have more charities than people in her country.”

  “Kalid, listen to yourself. You are finding every excuse for her concern but the obvious one.”

  “It’s not obvious to me. You don’t understand her background the way I do. I met Americans at Oxford; they are not like us or anyone else. Bad circumstances bring out the best in them, and that is what you saw with Sarah during this past week. Once I am well, her pity will vanish and she will be cursing me again, hatching plots and hurling insults and trying to run away.”

  The khislar returned and took up his post inside the door.

  “Is Sarah asleep?” Kosem asked him.

  He nodded. “She ate and then went to bed.”

  “Good.” Kosem rose and kissed her grandson’s forehead. “I think you are wrong,” she said. “But we shall see.”

  Kalid watched her leave his apartment, then said to Achmed, “Bring me a jug of raki.”

  “Sarah said—”

  “I don’t care what Sarah said! Bring me the liquor. Now.”

  Achmed bowed and left the room.

  When Sarah saw Kalid the next morning, he had bathed and shaved and looked almost like his old self. Which put her on her guard once again, and he sensed it immediately.

  “I didn’t say you could take a bath,” she greeted him. He was lying on a divan in the sun in the courtyard of the mabeyn. A fountain splashed pleasantly in the background.

  “You are not giving orders anymore.”

  “That’s gratitude for you,” Sarah said, sitting on the stone balustrade of the fountain.

  “Is that what I am supposed to feel? Gratitude?”

  “Don’t bait me, Kalid. I’m just concerned that you might have a relapse.”

  He ignored her, bending forward to examine a chessboard on the table before him.

  “Who’s playing you?” she asked.

  “Achmed.”

  “Who’s winning?”

  “I am,” he replied.

  Of course, she thought. “Are you black?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “King’s bishop to knight four,” she said.

  He studied the board then shot her a sharp glance. “You play chess?”

  “My father taught me.”

  He sighed and pushed the board away from him disgustedly. “I should have known.”

  “I’m surprised that you play,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t think the game was known in this country.”

  Kalid stared at her and then burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Chess originated in Asia. The word ‘chess’ comes from my name, Shah, which means ‘king’ in Persian.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so ignorant of your culture,” she said tartly.

  “Then I shall inform you. Chess originated in India. The first form of it was called chaturanga. It spread to Persia about thirteen hundred years ago, and the Arabs adopted it when they conquered Persia. The Arabs brought it with them to Spain and thus to Europe. Your country received it from the European settlers—and very late, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I guess you told me,” Sarah mumbled, peeling back the bandage on his shoulder to examine his wound. It was cool and dry, the healing skin pink and puckering.

  “You can leave this off now,” Sarah said, discarding the bandage. “The fresh air will be good for it.”

  “What did you use to pack the wound?” Kalid asked curiously. “Kosem said something about leaves from a tree.”

  “That’s right. The Indians in the United States discovered a long time ago that the green sap has healing properties. It seems to kill the infection.”

  “The Indians were the original people there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Europeans stole their land from them?” he added.

  Sarah hesitated, then nodded.

  “I seem to remember hearing something about this at school. Why are these people called Indians? Surely they are not from India?”

  “No, the European explorers who discovered North America were looking for a passage to India, one that would not involve sailing around the continent of Africa to get there. When they landed, they thought they had already reached India, and so they called the people they found there Indians. The name stuck.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course, this problem was solved by the construction of the Suez Canal.”

  He nodded. “You know many things,” he said, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice.

  “Except about chess,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “It’s what comes of being a schoolteacher,” Sarah said dryly. “You teach the lessons to the children and they stay with you.” She saw that a book was lying open-faced on the couch at his side.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “Mr. Mark Twain, whose real name, it appears, is Samuel Clemens,” Kalid replied, watching her face.

  Sarah stared at him.

  He nodded. “Yes, I remembered that you said your favorite American author was this man Twain. So I ordered some of his books from an English language bookstore in Constantinople frequented by tourists.”

  “Why didn’t you give them to me?”

  “When they arrived, I had you sequestered in the harem. I was very angry with you, so I kept them to myself.”

  Sarah bit her lip to keep from smiling. “That was very childish, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” he said, sighing. “You do seem to bring out the worst in me, kourista.”

  He hadn’t called her by that name since he was hurt, and the sound of it on his lips was very winning.

  “Which one is that?” Sarah asked with interest, leaning forward to read the title.

  “His latest. Huckleberry Finn. It’s all about a homeless boy and a black slave traveling down a big river in your country.

  “The Mississippi.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Twain always writes about that river. The time he spent on it was the seminal experience of his life. He even got his pen name from the river.”

  “How
is that?”

  “He was a riverboat pilot when he was young, and the term ‘mark twain’ means two fathoms. It’s the minimum depth for most boats to pass through at low tide without getting stuck on the riverbed.”

  “Oh. Well anyway, it’s a difficult book. Most of it is written in some regional dialect that I can hardly follow at all. My English is not good enough.”

  “I’ll take it, then,” Sarah said quickly.

  “You may have it,” Kalid said, grinning at her eagerness.

  “What else did you order?” Sarah asked.

  “Tom Sawyer, The Prince and the Pauper, The Innocents Abroad,” he replied, reciting titles. “They’re all in my room. I’ll have Achmed bring them to you.”

  “You should get Life on the Mississippi. It deals with Twain’s days as a student river pilot. It’s very funny.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you.” Sarah glanced away for a moment, and when she looked back, Kalid had dropped his head back against the pillow on the divan and closed his eyes. His newly washed hair shone like polished ebony in the full sun. His lean torso, bare to the waist above his tight trousers, was like a sculpture cast in gleaming bronze, balanced in proportion, perfect but for the single blemish of the wound on his shoulder.

  Sarah felt a lump growing in her throat. She stood and whispered, “I should go and let you get some rest.”

  He didn’t answer. She leaned closer and saw that his breathing was deep and even.

  He was asleep.

  Sarah brushed his hair back from his forehead, then walked across the courtyard to the entrance of the mabeyn, where the eunuchs were waiting to escort her back to the harem.

  When Sarah arrived at Kalid’s apartment the next day, Kalid was not there. Achmed announced that the pasha was at the stables, preparing to ride.

  Sarah flew out of the mabeyn and into the hall, where two halberdiers blocked her path. Achmed followed more slowly.

  “Achmed, tell them I must be allowed to go to the stables. Kalid can’t ride yet. The exercise will be too much for him.”

  The khislar gave the order. The coterie of servants looked after Sarah as she ran through the palace, past the Boxwood Gardens and through the Kushane Gate to the riding stables, where Kalid was just saddling Khan.