Simon swallowed his first impulse to decline. Although the melancholy he’d briefly shaken off shadowed him again, he could no more keep himself from her than the stars could avoid the night. “Yes, my Scheherazade,” he murmured. “I will come.”
When he looked up again she was gone. Only the tantalizing scent of jasmine remained. He’d told himself he needed solitude, but just as the removal of light leaves only darkness, her absence only deepened his desolation. For the hundredth time he cursed himself for a jackass. Was he intentionally trying to sabotage himself? Knowing he could never have her, perhaps he was.
He felt almost light-headed every time her golden eyes looked his way. She’d only seen him at his worst: haggard, scruffy, disheveled, and foul-tempered to boot. He scrubbed his bristled face, wondering why she didn’t run from him in revulsion. He swore at least to clean himself up. He’d send for another razor and finish the job, even if he sliced off his damned nose in the process.
Salime could not relax. Restlessly, she paced her chamber, waiting and hoping but doubting he would come. Their morning together had not boded well. She’d hoped they could build on the progress from the night before, but that hope now seemed as frail as butterfly wings.
Her heart leapt at the soft knock sounding upon her door and then froze at the vision that greeted her. Gone were the blood-shot eyes, staggering gait, and reek of brandy that had clung to him the night before. Instead, he was dressed as if for a ball in a coat and breeches of silk with lace spilling from his cuffs and throat. “Good evening, Salime.” He entered her chamber with a formal bow.
As before, she knelt at his feet in welcome, but as she looked up, she suddenly realized what else was so different. It wasn’t just the clothing. It was his face. She never could have envisioned such a face. His hair was neatly tied back, and though numerous cuts marred his flesh, the scraggly beard had completely disappeared, revealing Simon in all of his glory. His features were perfectly sculpted, setting off large and expressive eyes. He reminded her of the golden god Helios who was crowned with the shining aureole of the Sun.
“You honor me too much this night, Efendi,” she murmured, barely able to tear her eyes from his.
“It was the least I could do for you, Salime.” Although she could sense his yearning to do so, he made no effort to raise her to her feet as DeVere would have done.
Standing on her own accord, Salime beckoned him into her chambers. This time, instead of choosing the couch, he lowered himself to a cushion, sitting cross-legged only an arm’s breadth away from where she’d sat the night before. It was as if he tested himself, another small step that lightened her heart.
“Would you care to take some wine?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” He shook his head. “Your presence alone soothes me…I missed you today.”
“Then why did you send me away?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “You must understand this is not easy for me. I’m trying like the devil to overcome this…this…thing that possesses me.” He waved his hand in an impatient gesture.
Although he had come to her, he appeared edgy, nervous in his own skin. “I can see you are not at ease tonight, Efendi. Does something trouble you?”
“Yes, Salime…You do.”
“Me? I do not understand.”
“Something you said last night troubles me. You told me you have been a captive. What did you mean?”
She shifted, nervously chewing her lip. Last night in her desire to earn his trust she’d volunteered too much. Now her own protective instincts surfaced. “I only meant I understand your suffering better than you think.”
“You are being evasive. You would have me believe you were speaking figuratively when I know you were not.”
“How could you know any such thing?” she asked.
“Your eyes, my dear. They betray you. It haunts me that you hide behind your veil. I wish to see your face, Salime. I have bared mine to you, and not without bloodshed,” he added deprecatingly, fingering the cuts that marred his perfection.
“It is not the same.”
“It is precisely the same,” he insisted. “I was hiding, and so are you. You are a woman of many secrets, Salime.”
“We all have secrets. Shall I read to you now?”
“No, I have no desire for Ovid tonight.”
The way he looked at her made her feel suddenly naked. She averted her gaze.
“In what way were you imprisoned, Salime?” he persisted.
“I do not wish to speak of my past.” She knelt on a nearby cushion and lit the hookah.
“You torture me, sweet Salime. You and your mysteries hiding so enigmatically behind your veil. You soothe and excite. You make my breath come faster…my blood heat…my pulse race.”
She shook her head. “This is only a manifestation of physical desire.”
“There is no doubt of my desire,” he said thickly. “But it’s much more than that. You are the most fascinating creature I have ever known. I have known many women, but I have experienced what I am feeling only with you. You have sprung straight out of my dreams.”
She shook her head slowly. “It is all but an illusion, Efendi, an infatuation with a fantasy. Men only want what they think they cannot have. I know of what I speak. Many men have desired me, but once the fantasy is fulfilled…” She shrugged.
“Damn it! Don’t tell me what I feel! And you are unjust if you believe all men are so shallow.”
“A man’s heart is easily led by his lust, Efendi. It is only my perceived beauty and the mystery that charms you. It is all any man cares about. Shall I tell you another story? One that proves my point?”
Simon settled back on the cushions. “Is this one as tragic as the others?”
“This is a tale of love. And all tales of love are tragic.”
“You are wrong, my girl, and I promise to prove it to you.”
“Many worthy men have wasted their efforts on lesser quests.” She smiled sadly and then began, “It was long ago in the days when the Jinn often showed themselves to man.”
“The Jinn?” Simon inquired.
“The Jinn are other worldly beings, Efendi. According to the Qur’an, Allah made the Jinn from a smokeless and scorching fire. Like human beings, the Jinn have free will and can be good or evil. They also may take any form, including that of a human, in order to mislead and destroy their victims. Such was the case with the evil Jinn in the story of Asma and Aashiq.
“Cloaked as a wolf, he is stalking a flock of sheep when he sees the beautiful shepherdess named Asma and falls instantly in love with her. In his desire to have her, he transforms himself into a young, handsome prince, and declares his passion, but Asma spurns him. She has already given her heart to another, a shepherd named Aashiq. In his jealous rage, the Jinn transforms Asma into a toothless old crone. But as every curse must have a cure, he proclaims that only a passionate kiss from her true love can break the spell.
“In a fit of helpless despair, Asma hides herself away for days until she finally decides to send for her beloved. She arranges to meet him under the cover of night, but even the darkness cannot disguise her hunched form and the croak in her voice when she declares herself to him, but he does not believe her.
“When Asma attempts to explain the curse and claim the kiss from her beloved that would break the curse, he shoves her away in horror. Aashiq is a man, and men are blind to all but what is before their eyes. Still, she clings helplessly to him. Deaf to her plea, Aashiq responds by beating her off with his staff.
“With her body bruised and her heart shattered, Asma crawls to the highest cliff and casts herself off. Upon meeting her death, dashed against the rocks, she instantly resumes her true form. The next morning after having searched everywhere for his love Asma, who he believes failed to meet him, Aashiq finds her broken body. He weeps a thousand tears and then casts himself off the same cliff.”
“I suppose you believe this is a true tale as well?”
> She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It could well be so, Efendi,” she asserted. “In matters of the heart, the eyes are often blind.”
“Bollacks,” Simon declared flatly. “It’s a bloody cock-and-bull story.”
“How do you mean?” Her eyes flashed in anger. “Again you mock me?”
“No. I tell you the truth. Aashiq never truly loved Asma. If he had, he would have known her, even had he been struck blind and deaf.”
“But her shape and voice?”
“Would still have spoken to his soul. He would have known her, Salime,” Simon insisted. “I maintain that he never truly loved her to begin with. Aashiq, like the Jinn, was merely enthralled with her beauty.”
“You speak with such scorn. I cannot believe that you have never been so infatuated.”
“Me?” Simon laughed outright. “A hundred times I have been an utter fool for a pretty face. But that was in the madness of my youth.”
“And now?” she asked. “Are you not still moved by beauty?”
“Every man is,” he said softly. “But some men have eyes to recognize other kinds of beauty. I don’t mean a preference for fair over dark complexion, or a plump figure over slim. No, I refer to the grace of her movement, the brilliance of her smile, the melodious tone of her voice, her unique scent, her easy laughter or sense of the absurd, the peculiar way she cocks her head, the sparkle of her wit; even a steadfast character has beauty. Beauty appears in myriad manifestations. Hundreds of unseen things can make even a plain woman beautiful if a man has not scales over his eyes.”
She stared at him in breathless incomprehension, feeling as if scales had suddenly dropped from hers. She hadn’t believed such a man existed…yet his words made her pulse race. She shook herself out of such fanciful thoughts, reminding herself that in the end they were only words. And words could not be trusted.
“You have a golden tongue, Efendi. Do such professions always fall so effortlessly from your lips?”
“Do you think I flatter you? That I am trying to seduce you?” He gave a deprecating laugh. “If only that were so.”
“Has it been so very long since you have known a woman?”
“Yes,” he replied on a long hissing breath. “Years. An eternity.”
She shook her head sadly. “You are now free but still fettered by your fears. Do you not see? You’ve made your own prison, Efendi.” She quoted softly, “‘What is agony of the spirit? To advance toward death without seizing the water of life’.”
Simon bolted up, bitterness now edging his voice. “The last thing I want is your pity!”
He was three strides to the door when she called. “Please, Efendi…Simon. Don’t go.”
He halted with his back to her, his body stiff. Slowly he turned around, his expression once more contrite. “I swore I wouldn’t do this again, that I wouldn’t act like such a brute. I’m sorry. I don’t know how many times I must beg your forgiveness.”
“There is no need,” she replied. “Love prospers when a fault is forgiven, but dwelling on it only separates friends. Please, stay with me.”
“As what, Salime?” He shut his eyes, his throat working on a hard swallow. “What am I to you?”
“What do you wish to be, Efendi?” she answered softly. “The choice is yours.”
So thou but love me, dear, with thy whole heart
What care I for the rest, for good or ill?
What for the peace of soul good deeds impart,
What for the tears unholy dreams distil?
These cannot make my joy, nor shall they kill.
Thou only perfect peace and virtue art
So thou but love me with a perfect heart.
-Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Chapter Eight
“Do you wish it now? To couch with me?” she whispered.
A hundred emotions passed over his face at once. She desperately wanted to see him reclaim himself. He would never know peace until he drove out these demons that still enchained him.
“Dear God! How can you even ask? More than anything…” He clasped a hand to his face and shook his head. “But it’s impossible.”
“All things are possible, Efendi. Is it touching another or becoming the object of one’s touch that most disturbs you?”
“Both,” he said. “My skin crawls at the thought of any physical contact.”
“Perhaps thinking is the problem.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Do you enjoy dancing, Efendi?”
“Dancing?” He looked surprised by the question. “I was once a passable dancer, but such pleasures have not been part of my life for a very long time. Why do you ask?”
“I should like very much to dance for you.” The answering heat in his eyes warmed her insides. “It is a talent for which I was once well renowned.”
“Where did you dance, Salime?”
“In Constantinople.”
“Is that where you are from?”
“Yes, Efendi.” She gave an indifferent shrug. “And now I am here.” She lit the hookah.
Simon stared in incredulity. He then made an exasperated noise. “You cannot possibly leave it at that. You must tell me how you came to be here?”
“More questions?” She arched her brow. “I shall only answer them if you share the hookah with me. It is a fair bargain, is it not? An exchange of trust for trust?” She cast him a sly look through her lashes. “My Lord DeVere always smoked with me when I danced for him.” Her lips curved into a secretive smile. She was doggedly determined to help Simon help himself whether by fair means or foul.
Simon’s face infused with color. The hard lines had returned to his mouth. “You also danced for him?”
“Yes. He is most enamored of the Oriental dance.”
“What is DeVere to you, Salime?” A fierce look had come into his eyes. “Why do you come at his beck and call?”
She shook her head. “I do not wish to speak of it.” Although she could feel his growing frustration, he had no right to press, to pry into her past. He would have to make some concessions first. “I shall share my history with you when you smoke with me.” Pulling a silken pillow from the divan, Salime knelt on the floor beside the pipe. “Come,” she gently coaxed. “You shall partake of the hookah, and I shall dance for you.”
His gaze tracked from her face to the water pipe and back again. For a moment he held the uncertain look of a wild animal poised to take flight, but then he came to her, shedding his coat.
“Lie here. I will not touch you.” She plumped the cushions for him and waited in hopeful expectancy until Simon stretched himself out full length. She smiled reassuringly. “Your trust honors me, Efendi.” But when she pushed the hookah toward him and offered the stem, his gaze flickered in uncertainty. “Please. It will help you to relax.”
Simon made no move. Lines etched his mouth, and his body resonated tension like a tuning fork. Although she had taken care to tread cautiously, his extreme wariness had returned.
“What do you fear?” she asked.
What do you fear?
Disappointment. Failure. Frustration. The future. Loneliness.
The list of his fears was almost infinite. And he was damned tired of it. Of the fears. The disappointments. The failures. To his family, his friends. His life had become worthless, of no value to anyone—himself included.
Simon accepted the stem of the hookah from her with a hissed breath as their fingers brushed.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded. “Now very slowly draw the vapor into your lungs and hold it there.” A few seconds passed. “Now exhale…even more slowly. Empty your mind, Efendi. Release your thoughts. Blow them away into the smoke.”
Simon exhaled a long cloud. Almost instantly, the stiffness eased from his body, replaced by a familiar lethargy, the heavy and languid feeling he’d experienced with laudanum.
His eyes snapped open, meeting hers accusingly. “This is not shisha, is it?”
“It is shisha mixed with a very small amount of opium. I pr
omise it will not harm you.”
Having already come this far, Simon was resolved to prevail. He took another lazy pull on the pipe, his gaze tracking her movements as she disappeared behind an Oriental-style dressing screen.
The air had become hazy, and his blood weighted and torpid. Another lungful of smoke brought with it a wonderful sense of well-being. His body was strangely light, as if it defied gravity, but his mind was still sharp and clear. Take care, Sin. It would be damnably easy to adopt this hookah and smoke himself into an eternal slumber.
A whisper, a rustling, and a soft jingle stole his attention.
Salime came into view again, and Simon almost swallowed his tongue.
Good God! She wore almost nothing at all!
Her breasts rose high, round and soft as choice fruit from her bodice, a scanty garment that failed to cover more than a few inches of her torso. Her Turkish trousers were replaced with a diaphanous scarlet petticoat that revealed the shadowy outline of her long and slender legs. Low on her curvaceous hips was a heavily embroidered girdle covered with coins that jangled as she moved. With her hair hanging loose in a long, silky cascade, he couldn’t help but stare where it tickled the dimples above her lovely arse. The display of olive-colored flesh was almost too much.
“Music, Mustafa,” she commanded. The tiny brass cymbals on her fingertips clattered as she clapped her hands, adding percussion to the symphony.
Her eunuch appeared with a strange lute-like instrument. Mustafa settled cross-legged in an unobtrusive corner of the chamber. A moment later the music commenced. The instrument had a tone similar to a guitar Simon had once heard played by a renowned Spanish master. At times plucking and at others strumming, Mustafa played his instrument with comparable skill.
She came toward him with a slow sway of her hips. Every movement made the coins jingle. Salime dominated the room, retreating into the music with arms outstretched and eyes shut as if she were in another world. Her head swung side to side in slow cadence with her swaying hips. Her black hair tumbled across her face. There was nothing earthly about her. That body moved unnaturally, perfectly. Her seductive undulations made his mouth go dry.
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