lovemaking.
The niceties followed the sex. She brought out her best glasses and a bottle of rakı. Lion’s Milk, she called it in Arabic, for its potency and the swirl of white when water was added. He had already experienced its highs and its hangovers, first in Alexandria and again in Cairo.
She and her girls did not resemble the whores or grisettes in Paris, nor the seedy wenches in Kenneh and Cairo. Hers was a prelapsarian paradise, a lecherous Eden devoid of morals and contrition. Toothsome without being tawdry, he thought. Tremulously louche . She had raised ribaldry and lubricity to high art. Unlike most whores, she was not naughty or coy, but frankly available. Pleasure was the only commandment she obeyed and dancing was sexier than sex itself. A few years earlier, public dancing, like brothels, had been outlawed, forcing the courtesans south from Cairo to lesser cities. The only concession to this were the blindfolds the musicians wore as they sawed on sour violins, beat drums, and rattled tambourines.
Her dance movements were relatively crude: she squeezed her bare breasts together with her jacket and jerked her pelvis back and forth. When the music slowed, she rose up on one foot, then the other, pressing the lifted leg across her shin.
“Sheik Abu Dabu!” Gustave shouted above the music. “I have seen this dance before, on old Greek vases.”
Max shook his head. “The male dancers at Cairo were better.” They had seen the famous Hasan el-Belbeissi, who was faster, more agile and acrobatic, walking on his hands, tumbling through the air at breakneck speed.
“But not as beautiful,” replied Gustave.
Joseph smiled. “We say this on Nile.” He pointed to Bambeh, who had replaced Kuchuk Hanem as the soloist. “The beautiful women, they have the ugly feet.”
Gustave beheld her misshapen toes and calloused knuckles. His mind raced back to Louise’s milk-white, perfectly shaped feet and hands. His hot marble Venus. Satin slipper, bloody hanky. At home, one of his prized possessions was the pink satin shoe he had pocketed the second time he bedded her, along with a handkerchief soaked with her menstrual blood. The break with her was still fresh and painful.
Kuchuk’s ribaldry surpassed his own. She snatched his tarboosh and put it on. To discourage lice, he and Max had shaved their heads except for occipital knots of hair by which, according to Mahometan belief, they would be whisked to heaven when they died. She polished his pate with her jacket, then shooed everyone upstairs, indicating she wished to copulate with him again.
“Come, my dear,” said Gustave, “let me give you a ride.” To everyone’s amazement, he bent over and she jumped on his back. Then he hobbled off to a small cubicle and took his second turn with her, a brief but intense orgasm.
When they returned to the upstairs courtyard, Kuchuk mounted his back again. “And I have seen this before,” Max joked, “in a medieval tapestry. So often the Christian tarts ride their customers home when a unicorn is not available.”
“We are going to get a cup of coffee,” Gustave called back.
With the others following, he stumbled along the alleyway to the café next door, a wooden shack with a roof of sugarcane stalks thrown down helter-skelter. Demitasses of Turkish coffee soon arrived on a copper tray. A few moments later, the muezzin sang out the call to afternoon prayer over the rooftops of the city: “Allahu Akbar.” Kuchuk glanced through the open window, suddenly aware of the time.
“Beautiful melody,” said Max, besotted with rakı. “Allah il Allah,” he tweedled, mimicking the muezzin until the whores howled withlaughter. It was then that Kuchuk took Gustave’s face between her palms and pantomimed shaving off his mustache. “Abu Chanab,” she whispered, Father Mustache, planting a kiss on his cheek.
“She say not to cover your pretty mouth,” Joseph translated.
He and Max decided they would visit her brothel
The niceties followed the sex. She brought out her best glasses and a bottle of rakı. Lion’s Milk, she called it in Arabic, for its potency and the swirl of white when water was added. He had already experienced its highs and its hangovers, first in Alexandria and again in Cairo.
She and her girls did not resemble the whores or grisettes in Paris, nor the seedy wenches in Kenneh and Cairo. Hers was a prelapsarian paradise, a lecherous Eden devoid of morals and contrition. Toothsome without being tawdry, he thought. Tremulously louche . She had raised ribaldry and lubricity to high art. Unlike most whores, she was not naughty or coy, but frankly available. Pleasure was the only commandment she obeyed and dancing was sexier than sex itself. A few years earlier, public dancing, like brothels, had been outlawed, forcing the courtesans south from Cairo to lesser cities. The only concession to this were the blindfolds the musicians wore as they sawed on sour violins, beat drums, and rattled tambourines.
Her dance movements were relatively crude: she squeezed her bare breasts together with her jacket and jerked her pelvis back and forth. When the music slowed, she rose up on one foot, then the other, pressing the lifted leg across her shin.
“Sheik Abu Dabu!” Gustave shouted above the music. “I have seen this dance before, on old Greek vases.”
Max shook his head. “The male dancers at Cairo were better.” They had seen the famous Hasan el-Belbeissi, who was faster, more agile and acrobatic, walking on his hands, tumbling through the air at breakneck speed.
“But not as beautiful,” replied Gustave.
Joseph smiled. “We say this on Nile.” He pointed to Bambeh, who had replaced Kuchuk Hanem as the soloist. “The beautiful women, they have the ugly feet.”
Gustave beheld her misshapen toes and calloused knuckles. His mind raced back to Louise’s milk-white, perfectly shaped feet and hands. His hot marble Venus. Satin slipper, bloody hanky. At home, one of his prized possessions was the pink satin shoe he had pocketed the second time he bedded her, along with a handkerchief soaked with her menstrual blood. The break with her was still fresh and painful.
Kuchuk’s ribaldry surpassed his own. She snatched his tarboosh and put it on. To discourage lice, he and Max had shaved their heads except for occipital knots of hair by which, according to Mahometan belief, they would be whisked to heaven when they died. She polished his pate with her jacket, then shooed everyone upstairs, indicating she wished to copulate with him again.
“Come, my dear,” said Gustave, “let me give you a ride.” To everyone’s amazement, he bent over and she jumped on his back. Then he hobbled off to a small cubicle and took his second turn with her, a brief but intense orgasm.
When they returned to the upstairs courtyard, Kuchuk mounted his back again. “And I have seen this before,” Max joked, “in a medieval tapestry. So often the Christian tarts ride their customers home when a unicorn is not available.”
“We are going to get a cup of coffee,” Gustave called back.
With the others following, he stumbled along the alleyway to the café next door, a wooden shack with a roof of sugarcane stalks thrown down helter-skelter. Demitasses of Turkish coffee soon arrived on a copper tray. A few moments later, the muezzin sang out the call to afternoon prayer over the rooftops of the city: “Allahu Akbar.” Kuchuk glanced through the open window, suddenly aware of the time.
“Beautiful melody,” said Max, besotted with rakı. “Allah il Allah,” he tweedled, mimicking the muezzin until the whores howled withlaughter. It was then that Kuchuk took Gustave’s face between her palms and pantomimed shaving off his mustache. “Abu Chanab,” she whispered, Father Mustache, planting a kiss on his cheek.
“She say not to cover your pretty mouth,” Joseph translated.
He and Max decided they would visit her brothel
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