The Sheik Retold(20)

I finally rose and found my robe laid out neatly upon the bed. It must have been Zilah. The timid girl was little more than a creeping shadow. I jerked my arms impatiently through it and then tied the sash. There was movement beyond the curtains. I hesitated, cursed myself for a craven, and then boldly drew them aside.

A man stood with his back to me. I froze again, but the short, slim figure in European clothes bore no resemblance to the tall Arab I had expected. This was the same man from the night before, the servant with his narrow, alert, clean-shaven face, sleek black hair, and dark, restless eyes. Suddenly awakened to my presence, he turned to me with a quick little bow. He spoke rapidly in a light and pleasant tone.

"I am Gaston," he introduced himself. "Madam is doubtless ready for lunch?"

With movements as quick and efficient as his speech, he pulled out a chair for me. Within minutes I had before me a lunch that was perfectly prepared and as daintily served—a salad of tomato and coriander accompanied by a cucumber and yoghurt soup, some goat cheese, and a loaf of crusty French bread. He poured me a cup of Etzai, the mint tea favored in this region. As I sipped it, I recalled the faint flavor of mint when the sheik had kissed me. I shook it away with a shudder, not wishing to dwell on any remembrance of him.

Gaston hovered about with an eager solicitude, attending me with dexterous hands and watchful eyes that seemed to anticipate my every need. He seemed to me such a curious adjunct to the household of an Arab chief.

"Monseigneur begs that you will excuse him until this evening, but he will return in time for dinner."

I regarded him blankly. "Monseigneur?"

"My master. The sheik."

My temper flared at the hypocritical beast who "begged to be excused!”

Gaston looked slightly hurt when I waved away the dessert that he offered, some kind of baklava crossed with a French pastry. After he removed the remains of the meal, I propped my elbows on the table and rested my aching head on my hands. A headache was among several new experiences that had overwhelmed me since the day before. Suffering in any form was new to me, and my hatred of the man who had made me suffer grew with every breath I drew.

The Frenchman soon returned with coffee and cigarettes, holding a match for me and coaxing the reluctant flame with a patience that denoted long experience with inferior sulphur. "Monseigneur dines at eight. At what hour will madam take her tea?" he asked as he folded up the table.

His quiet and deferential manner, as if there were nothing extraordinary about my presence in his master's camp, was almost harder to bear than flagrant impertinence would have been. I choked back the sarcastic retort that sprang to my lips and gave an indeterminate answer, but when I looked up again, he was gone. I heaved a sigh of relief to be left alone once more.

I could breathe more freely now that he was gone. I was also at liberty for further exploration. My natural curiosity once more struggled with my other emotions. I gave way to it to wander the big room. The night before, I had taken in little more than vague impressions of my surroundings. I'd been far too preoccupied by the man, but even in his absence, I found his personality still dominated.

The living area was appointed in the same luxurious manner as his bedchamber. The Persian rugs and hangings were exquisite. At the far end of the tent was a small doorway and beside it, a little portable writing table. There were one or two Moorish stools heaped with a motley collection of ivories, gold and silver cigarette cases, knick-knacks, and against the partition that separated the two rooms stood a quaintly carved old wooden chest.

The main feature of the room was a big black divan heaped with huge cushions covered with dull black silk. I recalled the black-and-silver waistcloth he had swathed around him. Doubtless, it pleased his conceit to carry out the color scheme of his person even in his domicile. Beside the divan, spread over the Persian rugs, were two unusually large black bearskins, the mounted heads converging. Though the furniture was scanty, the whole room had an air of barbaric splendor.

I looked to the couch where he had reposed the evening before. I would not touch it. Instead, I disdained the seduction of its comfort to examine the contents of the little bookcase instead. Although lurid novels would have seemed more harmonious with the sybaritic atmosphere, there were only a couple works of fiction, and an entire shelf was dedicated to the works of one man, a Vicomte Raoul de Saint Hubert. I thumbed through these, determining from the few scribbled words in the front of each book that they had all been sent by the author himself—one even was dedicated to "My friend, Ahmed Ben Hassan, Sheik of the Sahara."

I returned the books with a puzzled frown. It was another unexpected and disquieting glimpse into the paradoxical personality of my captor. He seemed now infinitely more sinister to me—a savage superficially coated with a veneer of civilization.

The day wore away quickly. The sun dipping toward the horizon told me he would soon return. I did not know how to face him or what to expect. "I must be strong. I must be calm," I whispered in a kind of desperation. My head still throbbed persistently. Clasping it in my hands, I fell back onto the big black divan that I had previously scorned, dropping down amongst the soft cushions. Not long after, I started at the sound of rattling metal—the Frenchman with tea.

"It is madam's own blend. If she will please be good enough to say if it is made to her taste." He placed the tray on a stool beside me, looking as if his whole happiness was contained in the tiny teapot.