A Wind in Cairo Read Free Page B

he let her do as she would. Which was to tend his most intimate needs, and bathe him from head to foot, and change his bandages. She clothed him in a fresh bedgown; she drew up the coverlet. He smiled drowsily. She returned the smile. He caught her hand. That startled her, but she eased quickly.
    â€œStay,” he beseeched her. “Until I sleep.”
    She stayed. She let him hold her hand, though it was cool in his own, neither responding nor resisting. He held it to his cheek. So comforted, he slept.
    This, he knew, was morning. His body sang with it. His hurts were fading with miraculous swiftness. His head was clear. He sat up, and he was briefly dizzy, but he was strong. He stretched his good arm, arched his back. He yawned until his jaw cracked.
    Somewhat gingerly he edged from the sleeping mat to the cool stone of the floor, gathered himself, rose. He reeled, steadied. He essayed a step; then another, growing stronger as he moved.
    He circled the small room. He relieved himself in the basin that lay discreetly covered in a niche near the mat; he washed with water from the basin beside it. He counted bruises. They were hideous to see, greening as they healed, but the worst of the pain had passed.
    He lay down again, light-headed with all he had done, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was there.
    She was veiled now. A very thin veil, hardly more than a token. It aroused him as no bare face, however beautiful, could have begun to do. She smiled through it, murmured a greeting, an exquisite courtesy. He echoed them with a dreamer’s languor, or a lover’s.
    She had food for him. He let her feed him. His eyes feasted on her, but discreetly, through his long lashes. She was lightly clad: a chemise of fine linen, and under it thin drawers, and her drift of veil. None of it hid anything that mattered. She was a perfect beauty, deep-breasted, great-hipped, but slender between; her thighs were richly rounded, her calves a flawless curve, her feet slender and touched lightly with henna.
    His blood was rising. Her eyes were bold, level as a man’s; they did not lower when he met them. He smiled. She blushed a little, charmingly, but she smiled in return. He drew a breath that caught. He was in love. He choked on a mouthful of gruel; she rose swiftly, bending. She was in his arms.
    It was a torrent in him. It bore him all unresisting; it swept her with him. She struggled, startled: a gazelle, a fawn. She was no match for his lion’s strength. He laughed and set his lips on hers. She bit. He bit harder, Her hands clawed, raked. He snatched at her drawers. She twisted. Wondrous passionate, this slave of the Hajji. He took high delight in proving himself her master.
    He paused only once. Astonished. He was the first ever to pass her gate. He broke it in exultation and cast it down. He made a woman of her.
    He dropped from her at last, exhausted. She lay beside him. There was no fire left in her. He stroked her. She quivered. He smiled. “My beauty,” he said tenderly. “My beloved.”
    White pain seared his cheek. He surged up in shock. She was out of his reach, pausing once in her swift flight, turning. Her eyes struck him more terribly than any slash of her nails. Black, burning, relentless hatred. But worse than that: contempt. She spat in his face.
oOo
    He was up when the Hajji came, pacing, brooding on the incomprehensibility of women. Had he not offered her the greatest gift which he could offer? Had she not begged him in all but words to take her and be her lord? And what had she given him in return? Hate. Scorn. Bitter ingratitude.
    â€œAllah be thanked,” he said, “that I was not born a woman.”
    â€œIt is a pity you were not.”
    Hasan spun. He bowed as low as his hurts would allow, but his mind was not on it. His heart had shrunk and chilled. The Hajji’s face was ice and stone. “I regret,” said Hasan. “Honored master, I regret my