How delicious the fruit here is, she thought, closing her eyes with pleasure. It was as if they absorbed the sun’s warmth, day in and day out.
When she opened her eyes, they met Wahida’s. Her mahogany-colored eyes flashed. Lalla Jasira too was watching her with a little smile.
“Look at our esteemed guest nibbling at this plum,” Wahida began. “Is it not as though she were stroking a man at his most sensitive place?”
Sibylla’s cheeks grew hot. She knew the women in the harem were sometimes given to suggestive conversations. Rusa usually saw to it that these never turned too coarse, but during this special feast, they were permitted to get carried away a little. In any case, the qaid’s mother had nodded off after the sumptuous meal and was not paying attention to the salacious turn things had taken.
“The woman with the lion’s hair is blushing like a girl before her first night of love, is she not?” Wahida continued. “And yet our Engliziya’s rosebud has opened and given her two strong little rose stems.” She picked a juicy golden grape and consumed it gracefully.
Sibylla had no idea what to say, having had no experience with this kind of thing. Nervously, she looked to Lalla Jasira. The qaid’s first wife was holding the tip of her veil over her mouth and chuckling softly. Sibylla resolved not to betray the fact that she hadn’t understood even half of Wahida’s words. She could guess what the concubine meant by “rosebud,” and that was shocking enough. But what on earth did the plum have to do with a man’s body? Her mind reached back to One Thousand and One Nights, but she could recall no story in which the eating of plums had anything to do with making love. Besides, during the few intimate nights she had shared with Benjamin, she had noticed no sensitive areas.
If anyone knows where they are and if he even has any, then it is Firyal, she thought soberly.
“If you ladies will excuse me.” Unsettled by the concubine’s teasing, she nodded to Lalla Jasira and Wahida, stood up, and walked toward the stage that had been set up beneath a bright silk canopy.
To celebrate the Eid al-Fitr, Rusa had engaged some traveling musicians, ten women and one blind man, who were dancing and singing provocative songs. Sibylla joined a group of women standing in a semicircle, cheerfully singing along and beating small copper cymbals in time. Three young concubines swaying their hips pushed past Sibylla toward the blind musician, who was strumming the al rababa, a one-stringed instrument.
“Are you truly blind or do you secretly enjoy looking at forbidden fruit?” one of them whispered so close to his ear that her breath touched his wrinkled neck. Another giggled as she took her veil and tied it over his dim eyes. He too seemed to be enjoying the fun because he suddenly reached out one arm and took a few steps forward, making the young women screech and scatter. Sibylla had to laugh. What did it matter that Wahida had teased her a little? Today was a holiday, after all!
Boom, boom!
Sibylla started. The women stopped their conversations, the children their play, and the musicians their performance. Rusa sat up in her chair and looked about in a daze.
“Gunshots. They’re coming from the beach!” one of the women shouted.
“Let’s go to the rooftop to see,” another suggested.
All of them hastened up the stone steps, pulling their veils over their hair and faces so that, from afar, they resembled a flock of birds. The older children excitedly ran ahead; the younger ones were carried by their nannies. Sibylla, Lalla Jasira, and Wahida followed together with Rusa, who walked with the aid of her personal slave.
“What a terrible racket!” the qaid’s mother said with concern. “I hope nothing has happened down there.”
“I believe I know why they are shooting,” Sibylla replied. “This morning, my husband told me he had to go to the beach this afternoon because His Excellency wanted to test the guns he had ordered for His Majesty.”
Boom, boom! came the confirmation.
The spectacle from the roof proved exciting indeed. Ten men, among them the qaid, were galloping across the sand, their burnooses blowing in the wind. Their horses were adorned with splendid bridles, and long colorful fringes dangled from their saddle blankets. The men held their weapons in one hand, twirling them skillfully above their heads, while driving their horses with the other and uttering battle cries. Once the group split up, Sibylla noticed a structure consisting of two wooden planks that had been driven into the ground and a third laid across the top. This third plank had some strange-looking objects hanging from it.
“Are those melons?” Rusa asked and squinted in the direction of the beach.
“I think they’re animal bladders filled with water. They seem to be using them as targets,” Sibylla answered. “Look there, the sand underneath is wet.” Then she recognized Benjamin. “Ah! That is my husband down there.”
Benjamin was sitting on his red stallion well away from the scaffold and the Arabs with their guns. He himself was not armed. His horse was prancing nervously and he was busy keeping it under control.
“Is this what Englishmen wear when they ride into battle?” Lalla Jasira asked incredulously as she looked at Benjamin’s top hat, his bobbing coattails, and his knee-high leather boots.
Sibylla shook her head. “The cavalry wears a uniform. If you would like, I’ll have a picture sent. My husband is wearing the riding costume of a civilian, a gentleman, as we say in England.”
Wahida lifted her veil slightly to better appraise Benjamin. She had long wondered what Sayyida Sibylla’s husband might look like, and she was distinctly disappointed. The pale man was tall and thin like a reed, certainly not strong and sanguine enough to keep up with this lioness. She felt pity for the Engliziya as she thought about how unsatisfactory her love life must be. She lowered her veil and leaned over to Sibylla. “The next time your husband calls you, take him a cup of wine seasoned with a pinch of saffron. This will invigorate his loins and make him hungry.”
But Sibylla was not listening. She was mesmerized by something on the beach. Wahida followed her gaze and understood at once.
“So it is the faransawi whom you desire,” she whispered to Sibylla. “A beautiful man, by God. He makes a woman’s heart sing, does he not?”
Sibylla had not noticed André Rouston right away. But now, as he ran toward the scaffold followed by some of the same Arab boys who had played with her sons and their kite, her heart skipped a beat once again.
Stop it, she thought and pressed her fingers against the stone balustrade. Stop indulging in these improper fantasies!
Still, she was unable to avert her eyes as André carefully checked that the riders had loaded their rifles properly. Even the Arab riders showed their respect and bowed their heads when he returned their guns to them.
“Sayyida Sibylla.” She jumped as Wahida gently touched her arm. “If you wish, I can have my slave take a message to the faransawi.”
Sibylla jerked away in alarm. “You are mistaken, Wahida. I am a married woman and a mother!”
She was terrified to learn that her feelings for Rouston were so apparent. Unsure, she looked to Rusa. Fortunately, the qaid’s mother had eyes only for her son, who was trying to keep his horse under control. But Lalla Jasira’s dark eyes met hers and Sibylla felt as if the woman could read her thoughts. Sibylla blushed, and the woman placed her hand reassuringly on Sibylla’s shoulder and nodded discreetly.
All Sibylla could do was nod back and look to the beach again. In anticipation of a great spectacle, the Arab boys had sat down in the sand. Rouston pulled his pistol from its holster and took a step back from the scaffolding. He raised his right hand and held it up for several seconds. When he finally fired, the riders began to charge with their rifles held high. The horses’ hooves tore up the sand and screams filled the air.
Boom!
The animal bladders exploded with dull thuds. Water squirted everywhere, and the smell of gun powder permeated the air. The women around Sibylla exploded into laughter. The children on the roof ran around, gleefully imitating the sound of gunfire. Yet Sibylla felt suddenly alone and dejected. She bade farewell to Rusa, Lalla Jasira, and Wahida, and was escorted out of the harem by a slave.
“The lady with the lion’s hair is a virtuous woman,” Lalla Jasira said reproachfully to Wahida.
“Certainly,” the concubine replied, looking at the beach, where the riders had taken their positions again. “But is the well not dry when it lacks water?”
“Sibylla!”
She spun around. André had suddenly appeared behind her in the narrow street.
“What are you doing here? Why are you not at the beach?”
Instead of replying, he took her by the arm and guided her behind a small bakery. A massive oven stood in the middle of the courtyard. It resembled a large beehive constructed of dried-mud- and-straw tiles. The oven belonged not only to the baker but the local residents as well. Every morning, neighborhood women would bring their freshly kneaded dough on large wooden planks. Now, in the late afternoon, the courtyard was empty. Two cats preening themselves on a pile of wood scurried away as the humans approached. Voices could be heard from several doorways, and the air smelled of the food the baker’s wife was preparing for dinner.