The Book of the Seven Delights (15 page)

"How much money do you have?" Smith dropped back to ride beside her.

"Some," she said defensively.

"Enough for a night or two in a decent hotel?" he asked, his gaze moving continuously over their surroundings.

She nodded, imitating the way he scanned the area for any hint of danger… though in truth she had no idea what might constitute a threat… outside of dockside thieves, Legionnaires, scorpions, and superstitious nomads.

"This way, then." Smith kneed his mount and turned onto a broad street lined with the walls and gates of prosperous houses and neat-looking shops.

Before long, they arrived in a plaza planted with palms and surrounded by the front gates of buildings that looked more imposing than anything she had seen in Casablanca. Smith halted in front of a series of artful concentric arches that formed the entrance to a sizeable residence. It turned out to be the Hotel Raissouli, a place so respectable and expensive—according to Smith—that no one would think of looking for them there.

The price they were quoted for rooms seemed excessive, but when they were shown through the lofty corridors to their rooms, Abigail took one look at the damask draped bed and pale pink ochre walls and thought the coin well spent. A bath, she told the porter as he handed her the key to her room. She wanted hot water as soon as possible.

She fell asleep twice—once in a chair as she waited for water and once in the tub—before finally crawling into the clean sheets and sleeping the clock around.

She awoke the next afternoon with the feeling that she wasn't alone. When she sat up, there in a chair pulled up to the bed sat Smith with his boots propped on the mattress.

"What are you doing here?" She pulled the covers higher and blinked repeatedly, trying to focus eyes that still felt like parboiled onions.

"Checking our maps," he said lifting the curled bit of parchment dangling from his hand.

"How did you get in?" When he didn't answer, she glanced at the door, expecting to see it in splinters.

"What is the matter with hotels in—
our
maps?"

"Now that we're partners—"

"We're not
partners
. We're employer and employee," she declared irritably, climbing out of bed to grab the map from him.

"I thought I'd better see what we're in for." He sat forward, coming so close that she felt compelled to back up a step. "And what we're in for is disaster." He flipped the edge of the parchment now in her hands. "Except for Timbuktu, there isn't a recognizable place name on the entire thing."

"The professor was careful." She glanced at the map she knew by heart and then rolled it up. "He kept his journals in Greek and his maps in code."

"Yeah? Well, where's the key to this 'code' of his?"

"I have it." She omitted the qualifying:
mostly
. "I just need to consult someone here in Marrakech."

"Someone
who
?" His patience was thinning. "Partners don't keep secrets," he said hotly, his gaze roaming over her in a way that made her too aware of the nakedness inside her nightgown.

"Really?" The heat radiating from him made her feel jittery. She couldn't help noticing that he was newly shaven and his sun-streaked hair was damp. The scent of soap reached her. Her gaze dipped impulsively to his mouth and she prayed this wouldn't turn out to be another of those worrisome "opportunities."

"Then tell me what kind of trouble you're in,
partner
. Why did you go to England and then come back?

What is in those papers you hid in my bags?"

He glowered at her for a moment, then looked away.

"I know where we can get some decent food at a reasonable price." He rose and shoved the chair back across the tiled floor. "Get dressed." He flicked a disapproving look at her exceedingly proper nightdress.

"And try not to look any more
American
than you have to."

Two hours later, after a meal over which a list of supplies and equipment had been hammered out, Abigail announced she had to meet with someone and tried to dismiss Smith while keeping Haffe with her.

"You're meeting your
mystery man
. I'm coming along," Smith said flatly.

Her protests did nothing to convince him he wasn't needed or wanted. She was forced to lead both Haffe and him on a search through the heart of the city for the Ben Youssef Medersa.

"A Muslim holy man?" Smith was incredulous. "He'll never see you."

"He'll see me," she said striding on. "He's an enlightened holy man."

The
medersa
was a Koranic school of some renown, dedicated to the study of Islamic law and scriptures, and as such was forbidden to non-Muslims. Haffe was the only one of the three who could rightfully enter. After some discussion and the dispensing of yet another silver dollar, Haffe was persuaded to take the message she had written and make his way down a long, cool entry passage to the center courtyard.

The ban on clerics' contact with infidels had not stopped T. Thaddeus from meeting and getting to know one of the foremost teachers of that revered academy: Moulay Karroum. The Berber-Arab scholar figured notably in all of the professor's writings about Marrakech; it was clear he had taken Karroum into his confidence regarding his search for the library.

After a time, Haffe bustled back down the passage to collect her and Smith and lead them down a side street to a well-kept door. They were admitted by an older man with a frizzled white beard and lively eyes, wearing a white turban and the dignified white tunic and black sleeveless robe of a cleric.

Karroum welcomed them with a bow and addressed Smith exclusively at first. When he learned that it was Abigail who had come on behalf of his old friend, his eyes widened, but, as she hoped, he accepted conversation with her—an infidel and a woman—with surprising ease.

Then she informed him of the professor's death. Loss silenced him for a time, then he turned aside to collect himself and murmur a prayer. Then, recalling the Prophet's mandate for hospitality, he invited them into the house's reception room and offered them refreshment.

Over potent Moroccan tea, Abigail told him an edited version of how she came into possession of T.

Thaddeus's work and that she hoped to honor the professor by completing it. To authenticate her story, she produced the professor's final and most complete map, which she had decided now to carry with her at all times. As the old cleric stroked the meticulously drawn letters and features of the map, prisms of tears appeared in his eyes.

"There are legends, of course." Karroum wagged his head. "And my dear friend had searched for so long, he was convinced that his library could be found. 'But even if it is found,' I told him, 'the scrolls will all have turned to dust long ago.'" He raised a gnarled finger. "The mighty desert does not permit the insignificant works of man to endure for long in its domain. He knew this… he had seen the desert reclaim whole villages in storms… but still he searched."

"The professor wrote in his journal that you helped him with his 'navigation,'" she said, hoping to steer his reminiscing to more productive topics.

"Ah." His leathery face creased with a self-deprecating smile. "There are those who say I am a fair student of the heavens. An astronomer of sorts. It is good for a servant of Allah to study the glory of the stars. It keeps him humble."

"There is cause for humility all around." She smiled. "In the colors of the sunset. In the cry of a newborn child. In the impatient heart of an olive seed."

He folded his hands and settled a searching look on her. She had a strong sense of being weighed, and she prayed she would not be found wanting. After a productive silence, the old scholar seemed to have made his decision about her.

"You are indeed a student of my dear old friend. He too understood the impatience in the heart of the olive seed."

The knot in her chest loosened. "I was hoping you might take a look at something the professor wrote—or copied—in Arabic. It may be a valuable clue."

He nodded and when she produced a page from T. Thaddeus's journal, he carried it to the light of a window and held it at arm's length to study it. She joined him and when he finished, he seemed unsettled.

"It is phrases taken from the Qu'ran. Our most holy scriptures." He scowled, taken aback. "It is from the Prophet's descriptions of Paradise."

"What does it say?"

"It speaks of the maidens of Paradise… the virgins granted to those at the right hand of Allah… maidens with large, dark eyes and translucent skin… the ones who are immortal and do not age." He handed her the page and shook his head curtly. "That is all."

"But on the other side…" She turned the page over and showed him more characters text… some of which were juxtaposed to familiar Greek phrases.

He took the page back and studied it, then swayed back to his chair.

"Here are a number of Arabic words and phrases translated into Greek. Protector is
prostatis
, Caretaker is
epistatis
." He frowned in concentration. "Thaddeus speaks of the guardians entrusted with the books using two terms… 'protectors' and 'caretakers'… as if there were two groups." He scowled.

"One group, he equates with the houris of Paradise."

"Perhaps he meant that women tended—cared for—the books," she said.

The old scholar looked dismayed as he handed her the paper.

"Women scholars? Caring for books?" He shook his head in disbelief. Abigail caught Smith's taunting smile and battled an infantile urge to stick out her tongue at him. "I fear my old friend was ill and merely anticipating the pleasures of Paradise. Perhaps he did indeed embrace our faith before he died. I wish I could be of more help, Miss Merchant."

After a lull in which she folded away her documents, he made a decision.

"I do have something," Karroum said. "Thaddeus gave it to me to keep for him on his last visit."

He levered himself out of his chair and swayed deeper into the shady house. He returned with a flat, polished wood box and placed it in her hands.

"I believe he would wish you to have it."

She ran her hands over the beautiful marquetry work on the top. When she opened it, her eyes widened and Smith left his chair to kneel on one knee beside her.

In the box, on a bed of formed red velvet, lay a polished brass disk that she recognized as instrument used by sailors to take navigational bearings.

"An astrolabe?" she said, realizing instantly how it must have applied to the professor's work and just as instantly how useless it would be in her own hands. "Did the professor actually use it?"

"Oh, yes." He smiled at her expression of dismay. "He spent many hours with me, becoming adept. It is a dying art, you know, to use such an instrument for navigation."

Smith reached into the box for the engraved disk, and she was forced to either let him take it or risk rebuking him in the cleric's presence. She had no way of knowing how far the teacher's tolerance of women extended.

"It is quite beautiful," she said, trying to contain her irritation at the authoritative way Smith handled and examined the pieces. "But I'm afraid it won't be of much help. We have limited time and don't know how to use it."

"Speak for yourself," Smith said with a glint in his eyes, assembling and dangling the instrument from the ring and chain that accompanied it. "The astrolabe and I are old friends."

"You might have given me some hint, some indication." she said irritably after they exited the cleric's house and reached the main street.

He tucked the box under his arm and struck off for the nearest market at a fast pace. She had to work to keep up.

"That I know how to use an astrolabe? Fine. Notice is hereby served that I may possess a number of arcane but potentially useful abilities."

"Like what?" She strode faster, infuriated by her own curiosity. "And how do you even know a word like 'arcane'?"

"Misspent youth." He quickened his pace and cut her a brief glance from the corner of his eye. "And what was all of that nonsense about 'virgins in Paradise' and 'ignorant olives'?"

"
Impatience
in the heart of an olive seed. It's a metaphor for eagerness to embrace life and growth…

the professor used it in his journals." She slashed a look back at him. "It's profound. You wouldn't understand."

She regretted the words the instant they left her lips. He stopped dead in the street, his humor evaporating, his mouth tightening into a thin, hard line.

"Oh, yes. For a minute I forgot." He strode back to stand over her, each step jarring free more emotion until his whole body seemed to be humming with it. "I'm a functionary… a tool of colonial military expansion… a strong back and weak mind… a means to a bloody end… literally."

Deep in his hazel gaze, powerful currents were moving.

Snatches of comments hinting at betrayal and loss came back to her. She realized with sobering certainty that he had lived at the extremes of human existence: education, class, and privilege… ignorance, powerlessness, and servitude. He was a son of the cultural and economic elite who had become an expendable drudge serving the impulses of that same group. And he was raw inside from experiencing life both ways.

What began as another of their bantering exchanges had become something far more revealing.

"I don't know what you are," she said quietly.

In her awareness the people on the street around them disappeared… there were no ochre-red walls or carved cedar screens, no scent of animals and dust and spice, no cries of vendors plying their wares in the nearby square. There was only him… the turbulent, fascinating, sometimes troubling essence of him: A man with a murky past and an uncertain future.

She felt drawn in a way she didn't understand toward the disturbance in his depths. She wanted to delve into it and shake it up… explore it more fully.

He lurched back a step and she felt like some of the strength in her bones went with him. She fell back a step herself, to regain her bearings as she watched him stalk off down the street with his hands in his pockets.