The Sheik Retold(27)

I had been so intrigued by the animals that I had remained after the performance to speak with the tamer, a girl little older than myself. She had shown me the young lion cubs and had even allowed me to hold one in my arms as we spoke. After accepting my proffered cigarettes, she had taken me to see these special lions that were boxed for the night. I had wondered before if they were drugged, but as I wandered up and down the narrow cages, I knew they were not. The ferocious beasts were still very restless from the show.

"Are you ever afraid?" I had asked, laying my cheek against the purring cub in my arms. "Not of the ordinary performance, but of that last act, when you dine all alone with them?"

The girl had blown a little cloud of smoke and shrugged her shoulders before answering dryly, "One does not taste very much."

And so it was with me. Gaston had prepared a roasted rack of lamb with tomato-and-raisin-stuffed eggplant, potato and chickpea salad, and a medley of fresh Mediterranean fruits. It was accompanied by the requisite crusty baguette and goat cheese. It was a sumptuous feast but might have been sawdust for all I tasted.

During our meal, the sheik spoke of the desert and of the sport it offered. It seemed to me that he had made a study of my interests, because it was a topic that would not appeal to most women. Yet it pleased me. He also spoke well; what he said was always interesting and showed a deep understanding of any subject he broached. At any other time and any other place, I would have been fascinated and absorbed by the man, but here and now, this civilized conversation conducted in his soft and cultured voice only added a bizarre incongruity to my situation.

The role of willing guest that he enforced upon me was almost more than I could play, yet I somehow managed to maintain the sham throughout dinner. Conscious of the watching manservant, I made myself reply to his easy conversation and even initiated a bit of my own—albeit with the servant rather than the master.

"Gaston," I asked the valet, "can you tell me the fate of the first man who was injured today? Is he dead?"

"Oh no, madam." He smiled. "He has a concussion, but he will be all right. They have hard heads, these Arabs."

"And the second, the youth? What of him?

"Yusef?" Gaston grinned even wider. "Le petit sheik has a broken collarbone. It is nothing. A few days' holiday to be petted in his harem, et voila!"

"His harem?" I echoed in surprise.

"Mais oui, madam. He has two wives."

"Two?" I made an exclamation of contempt.

He shrugged deprecatingly. "Que voulez-vous? It is the custom of this country."

The sheik flashed me a warning look that told me that questioning the customs of his people was dangerous ground. I hastily changed the subject. "Where did you learn to ride, Gaston?"

"In a racing stable at Auteuil, madam, when I was a boy. Then I was five years in the French cavalry. After that I came to Monseigneur." He inclined his head in deference to the sheik.

"And you have been with him—how long?"

"Fifteen years, madam."

"Fifteen years," I repeated in wonderment. "Fifteen years here, in the desert?"

"Here and elsewhere, madam."

The sheik's gaze lanced his servant, as if he had said too much. The little man colored, murmured an excuse, and departed the tent, leaving me alone in the company of his master, who seemed little disposed to converse. Soon we would be alone together for the entire night. Although the dinner had seemed interminable, I now wished that it would never end.

Gaston returned with coffee, and with him came a huge Persian hound, almost upsetting the Frenchman in his frantic endeavor to precede him through the doorway. He flung his long grey body across the sheik's feet with a whine of pleasure and then turned his head to growl at me. But when I extended my hand, the growl died quickly away. I had no fear of dogs, and after a moment the brute lumbered to my side and thrust his big head onto my lap. I scratched behind his ears.

The sheik laughed in genuine amusement. "You are honored. Kopec makes few friends." The unexpected gentleness had come back into his voice, and the earlier lines about his mouth relaxed in a smile. Would I ever understand him? Did I even care to make the effort?

I made no answer to him but continued scratching and smoothing the hound's rough coat.

For some minutes the sheik sat silent as well, his coffee long since finished.

When Gaston returned to clear away the table, I looked desperately about for any distraction, any excuse to delay retiring for the night to his bedchamber. I had already lingered over my coffee until there was no further possible pretext for remaining at the table. Now my heart was turning slowly to lead. While last night he had given me a choice, rather than enforcing his will, I knew tonight would be different. Our dinner was but a brief reprieve from the inevitable. He had made that perfectly clear.

My patience is exhausted.

He made no comment when I rose and ventured to the little bookcase where I chose a book at random. I didn't know what I was looking at, nor did I care. I only prayed that I might be left alone and that the sudden silent fit that had come over him might continue. When I rose, he went to the big divan, followed by the hound. He lit a cigarette, his gaze assessing me. I knew he only waited for Gaston to be gone. My pulse jumped in my throat. Time was running out.

The valet had finished clearing away the dinner but paused to speak to his master. I heard the words "le petit sheik," but the rest was in Arabic and unintelligible. The sheik looked to me and then back to Gaston with an annoyed frown, but then he nodded, and the servant left the tent. A moment later, another voice made me look up. The young Arab who had ridden the colt was standing beside the divan.