The Waters of Eternity by Howard Andrew Jones Page B

before which Dabir stopped. In appearance the house’s walls were like any other upon the street—a blank, white, windowless façade—but I’d noticed on approach that it differed in the number of chimneys. I had counted five, four of them clustered near to one another. When I pointed this out to Dabir he explained simply that alchemists needed many fires.
    A young man opened the door for Dabir, wiped a great deal of sweat from his brow, and mumbled a greeting.
    “Tell Jamilah that Dabir ibn Khalil would like to speak with her.”
    The boy said to wait, but rather than inviting us in, he closed the door.
    “I guess that we will wait,” Dabir said wryly.
    Seeing a captive audience, beggars limped out to thrust toothless faces at us and wave withered limbs. I growled them away, but Dabir stepped past and gave out alms. My friend was a good Muslim in his way, especially when it came to almsgiving. I do not know whether this was through a natural inclination toward charity or merely an outgrowth of the fact Dabir had no head for finance.
    His generous flow of daniks and kerats brought smiles to wrinkled and dirty faces. No sooner would one beggar salaam and depart than two more would rush from the shadows and side streets. Dabir had just asked to borrow my own coin purse when the door behind us opened, praise be to God, and a woman’s voice called out to Dabir.
    “It is you, Dabir,” she said. “I thought my student mistaken. Please, come.”
    I saw nothing of the speaker, for the door was only a slim distance ajar. I must confess to no small amount of curiosity, for this strange woman was addressing my friend in a most familiar way.
    Once within the entryway, door closed and barred to the disappointed beggars, I could inspect the woman Dabir had come to see.
    Though a Muslim by her dress, the woman wore no veil. She squinted overmuch, in the habit of those who must bring things close to their face to observe details. Also she stooped a little. But as she smiled at Dabir beauty took fire and lit her features, from her long lashes to her full lips.
    “It has been too long,” she said in a kindly way. “The peace be upon you.”
    Dabir bowed his head. “And upon you. It is a pleasure to see you once more.”
    She laughed, her hands fluttering to her face before dropping again. Powdery white stains discolored her fingertips.
    I strove not to betray astonishment. I knew many of Dabir’s secrets, even the name of his true beloved, who lived yet but must remain ever apart from him, but I had no knowledge of this woman. I was no fool, and sensed that they must once have been something more than friends.
    Dabir turned to me. “You do not know my friend Asim el Abbas. Asim, this is Jamilah, the daughter of a former tutor, and an alchemist of some skill in her own right.”
    “I have heard of Asim, and of your exploits together. Who has not? But tell me. Have you pursued the art, Dabir?” she asked curiously.
    “I did not find further experiments rewarding. I fear that I lack your patience. Answers are simpler and cleaner when working with numbers.”
    “But are they as enlightening? Come, we will eat and drink together. What brings you here?” She clapped her hands.
    “Asim and I have just eaten.”
    “I insist,” she said.
    Before long we sat amongst some discolored old pillows and cushions, and her student with the help of an old hunched servant had delivered platters of fruit and bread before us. Also there were sweet cakes, which proved delicious. There was nothing about but wine to drink, which was unfortunate, for I grew thirsty.
    Dabir sipped at the wine, and our host, in the sunlight of the high windows, proved younger than I thought. Surely she could not be older than two dozen years, near our own age.
    Dabir commented upon the worth of the food and the kindness of the welcome. Both traded words about the pleasant weather and sundry unimportant things. Finally, as I was starting on the third cake, Dabir