The Panther and The Pearl (17 page)

“Like what?”

“Helpers, tenders, what the British call do-gooders. Americans are famous for it all over the world. They have more charities than people in her country.”

“Kalid, listen to yourself. You are finding every excuse for her concern but the obvious one.”

“It’s not obvious to me. You don’t understand her background the way I do. I met Americans at Oxford; they are not like us or anyone else. Bad circumstances bring out the best in them, and that is what you saw with Sarah during this past week. Once I am well, her pity will vanish and she will be cursing me again, hatching plots and hurling insults and trying to run away.”

The khislar returned and took up his post inside the door.

“Is Sarah asleep?” Kosem asked him.

He nodded. “She ate and then went to bed.”

“Good.” Kosem rose and kissed her grandson’s forehead. “I think you are wrong,” she said. “But we shall see.”

Kalid watched her leave his apartment, then said to Achmed, “Bring me a jug of raki.”

“Sarah said—”

“I don’t care what Sarah said! Bring me the liquor. Now.”

Achmed bowed and left the room.

When Sarah saw Kalid the next morning, he had bathed and shaved and looked almost like his old self. Which put her on her guard once again, and he sensed it immediately.

“I didn’t say you could take a bath,” she greeted him. He was lying on a divan in the sun in the courtyard of the mabeyn. A fountain splashed pleasantly in the background.

“You are not giving orders anymore.”

“That’s gratitude for you,” Sarah said, sitting on the stone balustrade of the fountain.

“Is that what I am supposed to feel? Gratitude?”

“Don’t bait me, Kalid. I’m just concerned that you might have a relapse.”

He ignored her, bending forward to examine a chessboard on the table before him.

“Who’s playing you?” she asked.

“Achmed.”

“Who’s winning?”

“I am,” he replied.

Of course, she thought. “Are you black?” she asked.

He nodded.

“King’s bishop to knight four,” she said.

He studied the board then shot her a sharp glance. “You play chess?”

“My father taught me.”

He sighed and pushed the board away from him disgustedly. “I should have known.”

“I’m surprised that you play,” she said.

“Why?”

“I didn’t think the game was known in this country.”

Kalid stared at her and then burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Chess originated in Asia. The word ‘chess’ comes from my name, Shah, which means ‘king’ in Persian.”

“I’m sorry I’m so ignorant of your culture,” she said tartly.

“Then I shall inform you. Chess originated in India. The first form of it was called
chaturanga
. It spread to Persia about thirteen hundred years ago, and the Arabs adopted it when they conquered Persia. The Arabs brought it with them to Spain and thus to Europe. Your country received it from the European settlers—and very late, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I guess you told me,” Sarah mumbled, peeling back the bandage on his shoulder to examine his wound. It was cool and dry, the healing skin pink and puckering.

“You can leave this off now,” Sarah said, discarding the bandage. “The fresh air will be good for it.”

“What did you use to pack the wound?” Kalid asked curiously. “Kosem said something about leaves from a tree.”

“That’s right. The Indians in the United States discovered a long time ago that the green sap has healing properties. It seems to kill the infection.”

“The Indians were the original people there?”

“Yes.”

“And the Europeans stole their land from them?” he added.

Sarah hesitated, then nodded.

“I seem to remember hearing something about this at school. Why are these people called Indians? Surely they are not from India?”

“No, the European explorers who discovered North America were looking for a passage to India, one that would not involve sailing around the continent of Africa to get there. When they landed, they thought they had already reached India, and so they called the people they found there Indians. The name stuck.”

“I see.”

“Of course, this problem was solved by the construction of the Suez Canal.”

He nodded. “You know many things,” he said, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice.

“Except about chess,” she said, and they both laughed.

“It’s what comes of being a schoolteacher,” Sarah said dryly. “You teach the lessons to the children and they stay with you.” She saw that a book was lying open-faced on the couch at his side.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Mr. Mark Twain, whose real name, it appears, is Samuel Clemens,” Kalid replied, watching her face.

Sarah stared at him.

He nodded. “Yes, I remembered that you said your favorite American author was this man Twain. So I ordered some of his books from an English language bookstore in Constantinople frequented by tourists.”

“Why didn’t you give them to me?”

“When they arrived, I had you sequestered in the harem. I was very angry with you, so I kept them to myself.”

Sarah bit her lip to keep from smiling. “That was very childish, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” he said, sighing. “You do seem to bring out the worst in me, kourista.”

He hadn’t called her by that name since he was hurt, and the sound of it on his lips was very winning.

“Which one is that?” Sarah asked with interest, leaning forward to read the title.

“His latest.
Huckleberry Finn
. It’s all about a homeless boy and a black slave traveling down a big river in your country.

“The Mississippi.”

“How did you know?”

“Twain always writes about that river. The time he spent on it was the seminal experience of his life. He even got his pen name from the river.”

“How is that?”

“He was a riverboat pilot when he was young, and the term ‘mark twain’ means two fathoms. It’s the minimum depth for most boats to pass through at low tide without getting stuck on the riverbed.”

“Oh. Well anyway, it’s a difficult book. Most of it is written in some regional dialect that I can hardly follow at all. My English is not good enough.”

“I’ll take it, then,” Sarah said quickly.

“You may have it,” Kalid said, grinning at her eagerness.

“What else did you order?” Sarah asked.

“
Tom Sawyer, The Prince and the Pauper, The Innocents Abroad
,” he replied, reciting titles. “They’re all in my room. I’ll have Achmed bring them to you.”

“You should get
Life on the Mississippi
. It deals with Twain’s days as a student river pilot. It’s very funny.”

“I’ll get it for you,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.” Sarah glanced away for a moment, and when she looked back, Kalid had dropped his head back against the pillow on the divan and closed his eyes. His newly washed hair shone like polished ebony in the full sun. His lean torso, bare to the waist above his tight trousers, was like a sculpture cast in gleaming bronze, balanced in proportion, perfect but for the single blemish of the wound on his shoulder.

Sarah felt a lump growing in her throat. She stood and whispered, “I should go and let you get some rest.”

He didn’t answer. She leaned closer and saw that his breathing was deep and even.

He was asleep.

Sarah brushed his hair back from his forehead, then walked across the courtyard to the entrance of the mabeyn, where the eunuchs were waiting to escort her back to the harem.

When Sarah arrived at Kalid’s apartment the next day, Kalid was not there. Achmed announced that the pasha was at the stables, preparing to ride.

Sarah flew out of the mabeyn and into the hall, where two halberdiers blocked her path. Achmed followed more slowly.

“Achmed, tell them I must be allowed to go to the stables. Kalid can’t ride yet. The exercise will be too much for him.”

The khislar gave the order. The coterie of servants looked after Sarah as she ran through the palace, past the Boxwood Gardens and through the Kushane Gate to the riding stables, where Kalid was just saddling Khan.

“Kalid, please. You can’t go riding—the jouncing might open up your shoulder,” Sarah said breathlessly from the entrance, leaning against the doorway.

“I’m just going to canter around the paddock,” he replied. “Khan needs the exercise.”

“Let one of the grooms exercise him,” Sarah said.

Kalid turned to face her. He was wearing the loose cotton shirt and twill trousers he used for riding; with the knee-high boots, the clothing gave him a vaguely piratical air.

“Why don’t you come with me?” he said reasonably. “You can ride Ousta and make sure I don’t overdo it. The head groom tells me you’ve been out here practicing riding while I was ill, so you should be able to keep up with me by now. The shalwar are just like pants, so you can ride astride without having to change.”

Sarah knew he was humoring her, but she was concerned enough to go along with his suggestion. By the time they were riding slowly around the huge ring of the paddock, she was glad she had accompanied him; it was a beautiful day, cooler than usual with a crisp breeze, and the fresh air would do them both good.

“How am I doing?” Kalid asked, teasing her.

“You seem to be all right,” Sarah conceded, cantering slowly at his side.

“If I fall out of the saddle, be sure to call for help. I don’t think you can lift me by yourself.”

“I lifted you many times when you were injured,” Sarah replied, looking at him.

He glanced away diffidently. Clearly this was a subject he did not wish to pursue.

“Everyone falls ill at some time or other, Kalid,” Sarah said gently. “I never thought you were superhuman.”

“You don’t think I’m human at all,” he retorted, pulling up on Khan’s bridle.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sarah inquired, slowing her horse also.

“You think I can be around you all the time without wanting to make love to you,” he said bluntly.

Sarah said nothing.

“Come on back to the stables,” he said, dropping the subject. “Khan’s had enough, and I ordered lunch for us in my quarters.”

“You were pretty sure I’d show up when I heard you were going riding,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry I’m so predictable.”

“You’re not predictable at all, kourista. You are just an excellent nurse.”

They returned the horses, and as they walked past the gardens Kalid said to her abruptly, “I don’t think I ever thanked you for saving my life, Sarah.”

“I didn’t save your life, Kalid, I just—”

He stopped walking and took hold of her shoulders, spinning her around to face him.

“Kosem told me what you did,” he said. “You saved my life. It’s not easy for me to express gratitude . . .”

“Yes, I know,” she said quietly.

He sighed and pulled her toward him. “But I am grateful, and I want you to know that,” he said, enfolding her. She rested her cheek against his chest and heard his heart beating under her ear.

“My little American,” he said tenderly, stroking her hair. “How could I know when I saw you at the Sultan’s palace that you would become so important to me?”

Sarah wrapped her arms around his waist as she felt the burning of tears forming in her eyes. He was so many people; she didn’t get to see this gentle side of him very often.

“You fit against me very well,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Just shoulder high.” She felt his fingers moving through the mass of her hair, settling on the nape of her neck, caressing.

She buried her face against his shirt, inhaling the piney fragrance of his soap, and clutched him tighter.

“What is it?” he said, holding her off to look at her.

“I was just thinking about what might have happened to you if I hadn’t been here when you were shot,” she whispered.

“Don’t think about it,” he said briskly, taking her hand. “Now let’s go. I’m hungry.”

When they reached his apartment, a gilt table in his inner chamber was laid with dishes of lamb cutlets, goat cheese borek, and rice pilav, as well as eggplant and other vegetables roasted slowly in olive oil. Kalid dismissed the servants and then poured them glasses of wine. Sarah left her goblet of bright yellow liquor untouched while they ate until he said, “Taste the retsina. You might like it.”

Sarah took a sip and made a face. “It tastes oily.”

He nodded. “It’s resin wine, from Greece. An acquired taste, but now I like it.”

“I don’t think I want to acquire that taste.”