waited in the Hillman, waited to drive up The Mountain to the villa, just as he did every evening.
Chapter Ten
MacAlistair sat at the piano in the salon, his fingers striking the keys, filling the room with furious music, arpeggio after arpeggio fleeing from his hand like frightened doves.
Under the colonnaded archway, Zaid leaned against the carved doors that opened on the courtyard. He had bleached his hair that week and a bright blond curl on his forehead stood out against his swarthy skin.
In the cool autumn dusk, under the open sky, a table had been laid for dinner next to the blue-tiled fountain. Idly, Zaid watched the servant, Faridah, dismantle the table setting, stacking bright earthenware plates into rickety piles, yanking off the white linen tablecloth. Tassels, fringing the scarf that covered Faridah’s head, wavered disapprovingly in the evening breeze.
“Getting too cool to eat outside,” Zaid said and pushed back his strand of yellow hair.
Faridah carried the dishes and cloth into the house toward the dining room. Strident piano chords reverberated against the tiles and quivered in the alcoves. The vibration made the copper lamps weave back and forth on their chains; lacy patterns of light on the walls swayed in dizzying arcs.
The effort made MacAlistair cough and he stopped playing. Sweat dripped from his temples; two flaming crimson patches on his cheeks stood out against the pasty whiteness of his face.
Zaid reached into his pocket for a cigarette. Drury watched Zaid with a bemused smile and dropped into a cushioned chair in the garden, looking away at the rose bushes, studying the mosaic pattern of the pavement.
“What are they angry about?” Lily asked Drury.
“Who?”
“MacAlistair and Faridah.”
“Are they? I didn’t notice.”
A clatter of pots and dishes erupted from the kitchen. The odor of spices and cooking meat drifted out to them, mingling with the sweet perfume of roses, gardenias, and lemon trees in the garden.
“Faridah is making pastilla tonight,” Zaid said.
“What’s the matter with her?” Lily asked.
“It’s nothing,” Zaid said. “She’s angry that her husband sends her out to work, doesn’t let her keep the money.”
“I didn’t know she was married,” Lily said.
Drury looked puzzled. He rose, scrutinizing Zaid with narrowed eyes. “Neither did I.”
“Well, then,” Lily said, “why the….”
“Come to the table,” MacAlistair called from inside. “Faridah wants to leave early.”
In spite of the tension in the house, Lily still savored the sensuous details of the room, the polished softness of the cushions, the intricately carved plaster of the walls and ceiling, the silken carpet, the corner vitrine made of burled thuza wood and filled with artifacts—Roman figurines, ancient pottery, bronze oil lamps, gold earrings the peculiar matte yellow of ancient gold.
She remembered the first time she had seen the cabinet.
MacAlistair stood next to her then. “My little collection,” he said. “You see this.” He opened the cabinet door and took out a decorated glass bead with a bearded, bug-eyed face. “The Phoenicians used these as charms to allay danger as they sailed past the Straits into the Atlantic. They stopped here in Tangier, ancient Tingis, to make sacrifices. According to legend, Tingis was founded by the son of Poseidon. Ancient Berbers lived here, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, long before Arabs and Europeans came.”
He put the charm back. “And here,” he reached into the cabinet and took out a marble bust mounted on a plinth of polished wood, “is the bust of a Berber youth from Volubilis.” He looked over at Zaid and smiled, then lovingly ran his fingers along the tangle of curls on the head of the marble youth. “You must go to Volubilis, must dig there someday. It holds the heart of Morocco. The first Sultanate under Moulay Idriss began there. Latinized, Christian Berbers ruled there before the Moslems
Chapter Ten
MacAlistair sat at the piano in the salon, his fingers striking the keys, filling the room with furious music, arpeggio after arpeggio fleeing from his hand like frightened doves.
Under the colonnaded archway, Zaid leaned against the carved doors that opened on the courtyard. He had bleached his hair that week and a bright blond curl on his forehead stood out against his swarthy skin.
In the cool autumn dusk, under the open sky, a table had been laid for dinner next to the blue-tiled fountain. Idly, Zaid watched the servant, Faridah, dismantle the table setting, stacking bright earthenware plates into rickety piles, yanking off the white linen tablecloth. Tassels, fringing the scarf that covered Faridah’s head, wavered disapprovingly in the evening breeze.
“Getting too cool to eat outside,” Zaid said and pushed back his strand of yellow hair.
Faridah carried the dishes and cloth into the house toward the dining room. Strident piano chords reverberated against the tiles and quivered in the alcoves. The vibration made the copper lamps weave back and forth on their chains; lacy patterns of light on the walls swayed in dizzying arcs.
The effort made MacAlistair cough and he stopped playing. Sweat dripped from his temples; two flaming crimson patches on his cheeks stood out against the pasty whiteness of his face.
Zaid reached into his pocket for a cigarette. Drury watched Zaid with a bemused smile and dropped into a cushioned chair in the garden, looking away at the rose bushes, studying the mosaic pattern of the pavement.
“What are they angry about?” Lily asked Drury.
“Who?”
“MacAlistair and Faridah.”
“Are they? I didn’t notice.”
A clatter of pots and dishes erupted from the kitchen. The odor of spices and cooking meat drifted out to them, mingling with the sweet perfume of roses, gardenias, and lemon trees in the garden.
“Faridah is making pastilla tonight,” Zaid said.
“What’s the matter with her?” Lily asked.
“It’s nothing,” Zaid said. “She’s angry that her husband sends her out to work, doesn’t let her keep the money.”
“I didn’t know she was married,” Lily said.
Drury looked puzzled. He rose, scrutinizing Zaid with narrowed eyes. “Neither did I.”
“Well, then,” Lily said, “why the….”
“Come to the table,” MacAlistair called from inside. “Faridah wants to leave early.”
In spite of the tension in the house, Lily still savored the sensuous details of the room, the polished softness of the cushions, the intricately carved plaster of the walls and ceiling, the silken carpet, the corner vitrine made of burled thuza wood and filled with artifacts—Roman figurines, ancient pottery, bronze oil lamps, gold earrings the peculiar matte yellow of ancient gold.
She remembered the first time she had seen the cabinet.
MacAlistair stood next to her then. “My little collection,” he said. “You see this.” He opened the cabinet door and took out a decorated glass bead with a bearded, bug-eyed face. “The Phoenicians used these as charms to allay danger as they sailed past the Straits into the Atlantic. They stopped here in Tangier, ancient Tingis, to make sacrifices. According to legend, Tingis was founded by the son of Poseidon. Ancient Berbers lived here, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, long before Arabs and Europeans came.”
He put the charm back. “And here,” he reached into the cabinet and took out a marble bust mounted on a plinth of polished wood, “is the bust of a Berber youth from Volubilis.” He looked over at Zaid and smiled, then lovingly ran his fingers along the tangle of curls on the head of the marble youth. “You must go to Volubilis, must dig there someday. It holds the heart of Morocco. The first Sultanate under Moulay Idriss began there. Latinized, Christian Berbers ruled there before the Moslems
Similar Books
