Alexandra Singer by Tea at the Grand Tazi

hysterical in his excitement; his behaviour seemed so out of character. She realised he exuded only a hint of warmth when he was displaying his accumulated
possessions. He had carved out a niche for himself here, and somehow he was both guarding it and showing it off to her. She wondered if perhaps he wanted her to return home and talk about him, to
gossip about his success to his former colleagues.
    “I knew the man who made this,” he said, pointing out a cabinet, which he assured her was made by the Ashanti tribe deep in West Africa. “I stayed with him for several weeks...
but now he is dead.”
    “Why have you never returned to London?” she asked, hoping he might share some of his past while he was so relaxed. “Surely you must miss it. You were such a fixture
there.” Maia tried to sound casual.
    “Yes, I was.” He was thoughtful.
    “You know, I don’t believe it about you, those rumours – ”
    “One has to live, no?” he said, almost nonchalantly, and carried on down the passageway.
    At that moment, as she saw his face darkening, she knew that she had made a mistake.
    He whirled on her. “If you wish to stay here, never talk to me again about the past.”
    She said nothing. He disappeared upstairs, then seemed to regret it, and he returned. But already she was sorry; she pitied him in his exile.
    “I know I can be sharp,” he said, “but I am so used to being alone here.”
    Maia was silent.
    “Come and see.”
    The house was tall and narrow on the upper floors, several storeys high. Rubble lay scattered on the ground.
    “I began all of this restoration several years ago, but I never do seem to get round to finishing the work. Or even simply to stay here to see the whole thing completed.” He waved
his hand with an excessive flourish of his long, tapered fingers, as if they might brush away the rubble.
    “Can you not trust somebody to check on the work, and pay the builders?”
    “I trust nobody!” said the Historian vehemently.
    His complaints were incessant. The people here were unreliable, useless. The builders were lazy and corrupt.
    “I am always deceived,” he said, bowing his head ruefully.
    Maia almost believed him, but in his self pity he was almost comical.
    “I have exact plans for this place.”
    Despite his relentless criticisms, Maia was convinced of his devotion to his place here. She smelled the scent of the oranges hanging succulently from the trees; saw the tiled blue fountain in
the courtyard where he often spent the evenings, smoking incessantly.
    He saw her looking at it, “Why do you never come down here in the evenings? I do hope you are not scared of me.”
    Now that he was behaving so hospitably, she hardly felt able to tell him that he had failed to make her feel welcome. “I thought you would like to be alone.”
    “Of course you may come down,” he said, and clapped her lightly on the back.
    Maia was only able to speculate at his sudden turnaround. She wondered how he coped with his resentment, his self imposed exile, the ostracism and critical treatment from his fellow academics,
but he didn’t mention it again.
    When they stopped in the corridor leading to the front of the house from the courtyard, Maia was able to see that the corridor was turned at such an angle that nobody from the street was able to
see directly into the house. The house was well protected, with long, twisting passages, offering her security, protected from the loud intrusion of the people outside. The Historian led her
through a delicately tiled arch into his reception room. Both the floor and the low, round tables had been constructed from dark cedar wood and the walls were painted a deep, dark green evoking the
cool enclosure of a forest. Stuccoed, geometrical designs flitted across the side of the far wall and in high alcoves the bookcases spilled over with huge tomes on subjects ranging from the
esoteric and the philosophical to psychology and mathematics. Strangely,