Marrakech Travel Journal

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by Oopsy

Chapter One

Smells of the souk: spiced lamb shanks, smoky whorls of frankincense, and the cloudless mint tea… these things kept me up, in Marrakech.  The dry heat of the desert winds falling on the moist arms of the Atlantic: that, too.  Also, Sanae.  She called to me.  And I came.  Here now, in Marrakech, and not exhausted yet, even though it was late, by my clock.

Exhaustion may come.  For that, there is coffee, chewy with grounds: inscrutable beside thick, sharp, slabs of honeyed baklava.  I stretched, and looked.

The room, owing to experience, was brown-walled plaster, stains of cigarettes, and sweat, and the tracks of roaches.

Sanae, I am here.  Pointed East, with a beggar’s prayer.  I promised I would find you, now: hear my beacon heart.

A fly buzzed lazily, as I imagined what course to take.  My gaze followed the dark speck, circling the single, naked bulb.  And memory and vision conspired, to show me the way.

I put on my light jacket, peeled off some bills from the rolled wad of dirham --- not too many --- and a handful of coins.  I rolled the bills, and stuffed them in my left pocket, and dropping the jingling coins in my right.  I took stock of the little room.  No, nothing forgotten.  Oh, a hat.  I crammed my taupe bucket hat on my head.  Good, ready.  And left my little room behind, locking the door as I went.

I tromped down the small staircase, smiling, and giving way to a babbling crowd of tourists.  The cramped, shadowy, foyer held no mystery.  I waved at the fat man behind the counter, arranged to hold my room for the week (mail delivery included) and went out.

The moist heat, even so, hit me like a slap.

I ducked my head, and strolled east.  Merging with a tossed sea of people, mostly tourists, and the perfumes of the souk.  The kids came upon me in tightening swarm.  High, giddy, laughter and brilliant white flashes of teeth.  I pressed the silver and copper into uncounted brown palms… they left me, when my hand emptied.  Navigating through the rug-sellers and brassware merchants, and butchers, and bakers.  Smiling at each, and professing poverty, and disavowing disinterest.

‘Do you love me?’  Sanae’s words: cold, Times New Roman, twelve-point and glowing in the darkness.  I typed a terse ‘yes’.  And the words came, out of the aether: ‘come then.  I need you to come.’

“Here I am, Sanae, as I swore.”

“Pardon me, Sahib?”

I bowed, with apology, to the rug merchant.  I had not realized that I had spoken aloud.  I said as much, and then expressed interest in a beaten bronze pot.  Ever the salesman, he tried to extol the virtue of the piece of shit at issue.

I smiled another apology; I think he understood.  Anyway, I left.  I was to meet her by the incense merchants.  I checked my watch.  There was still time, yet I marched, double time.

Marching, plowing through the others; feeling shoulders, and forms, and murmurs of apology... feeling and not so much hearing... I came unto the section of the souk where the rounded pyramids of incense lay out, advertising; with pressed joss sticks thickly burning and advertizing in other ways.  The sweet odors of the incense, stealing my mind.  I lingered there, knowing that she would come.

I felt her, before I saw her... her heat rising against my back like a jinn.  I turned, and gazed upon the vision.  She was shorter than I imagined, her skin like cured tobacco.  Large, unblinking, black eyes.  I smiled tentatively.  Her full, chocolate, lips pulled back, revealing teeth like ivory.

“Hi,” she said at last.

“Sanae!”

She nodded.  “You.”

Indeed.  I embraced her.  Holding her, smelling her; not wishing to let go. “It’s good to see you.”

She pulled away finally, and brushed my cheek, as we parted.  “Just like your picture.”

“Ya?”  I shifted uncomfortably.

She gave a brisk nod that shook her full head of hair.

“Hungry?  Thirsty?”

She shook her head.  “Actually, I’m jonesing for a cigarette.”

I flinched, and incompletely covered my surprise.

“Can’t hurt, now, huh?”

“I guess not.”

We walked a small way, to a tobacconist’s, and bought a half-ounce of chopped cigarette tobacco, and a pack of Rizlas.  I handed her the purchases.  I watched, fascinated, as she rolled a tight cigarette.

“You want one?

I shook my head.  “You’ve done that before, I see.”

“A few times, yeah.”  She giggled and winked.  “And not always tobacco.”

I smiled.  Now, that’s good smoke.  “The things you learn in college, hmm?”

“Indeed.”  She lit the cigarette and took a deep pull; looked leisurely in the direction of the escaping cloud.  “Shall we meet the caravan?”

A feeling of intense discomfort washed over me.  “I guess.”

We continued east, finding the edge of town, and some dusty, placid, camels squatting by equally dusty palms.  She stubbed out the last of her cig, and tossed it away.  Men milled about: loading packages, shouting in sing-song Berber.  A clot of women sat to one side.  A second glance revealed their bonds.  I buried my horror.  Slavery is not a big deal here.  Indeed not.

One of the men spied our approach.  “Ah, beloved niece: you have come!  And, just in time!”  His voice was richly spiced with a dancing accent.

“Yes, Uncle.”  She indicated me, “this is my friend that we spoke of.”

“Ah.  The Westerner.”  He regarded me with flinty, flat, eyes.  “He is trusted…?”

I felt a quiver from tailbone to skull.  I’d never been that threatened by a simple question.

Sanae pulled me close.  “Yes, Uncle.”

He smiled so wide, that I marked missing molars.  “Well then, welcome!”

I was drawn deeper into the circle by his manacle-like, charcoal-dark, hand.   He introduced me to the group of traders, names I instantly forgot.  “I’m Rick.”  And, don’t forget to answer to it.

I was offered a glass of tea, which I drank greedily.  The hot, flavorful, beverage burned the heat like an actual thing… and I felt somehow cooled.

“Milk, Sahib?”  Uncle hefted a bulging skin.

I took it, the soft goat hair tickling my beard, as I tipped the spout to my lips.  The spicy, grassy, salty, bitter goat’s milk, thick as yoghurt.  Warm, and gritty from curd.  I swallowed, and the thick fluid slithered down my throat.  Don’t vomit.  I spat.  Took offered dates, and figs and apricots in turn; another sip of the herbaceous tea.  Even the slaves tittered behind hennaed fingers; the coin headdresses jingling in the shade of the palms.

I spat the stones of the dates and the apricots out on the sand, copying the other men in the caravan.

“Are you ready to set out?” Uncle asked solicitously.

I nodded.

Uncle barked orders, and the men packed a few final things on the camels, and started mounting up.  The slaves were stowed on camels as well.  I stood, a moment by her, as Sanae clambered aboard her animal… that was still placidly chewing a mouthful of fodder.

“You are SURE… about this?”

She nodded sharply.  “I am Amazigh… I do not go back on my word, ‘Rick’.”

Okay, Love.

I stepped back, to my own camel, and they helped me clamber aboard.  When I was seated securely (impossible to be ‘comfortable’ on a camel, alas!), Uncle marched to the head of the caravan, mounted up, and we moved slowly into the shivering, snake-air, horizon.

Staring at Sanae’s straight, shimmering back, for hours… and sipping at the goaty water, and intoxicated by the heat, and her perfection.  God, she is only twenty!  This is craziness.

I clucked my camel, and dug my heels in.  Works with mules back home… mmm what do you know?  I came up on her, my knee equal with the left rear leg of her animal.   “Sanae?

She looked back, eyes humorous over the swath of burnoose, “Yes?”

“Do the Amazigh eat camel meat, ever?”

She giggled so that her body shook, “yes, but not for such a feast.”

“Oh.”  I blushed, said, lamely, “I meant if we get trapped in the desert…?”

She barked a bitter laugh, “meat will be the least of our worries, if that happens.”

I couldn’t just then fall back in line.  “What about the slaves?”  I indicated the women at the tail of the caravan.

Sanae cleared her burnoose, turned and spat, “I’d as soon serve the camels.”

Oh.  I moved to speak again.

“Don’t try to save me, ‘Rick’… it’s too late, and too dangerous… for you.”

“I… okay.”  I looked directly at the red-tinged sun, “how far will we travel today?”

She grunted, “About three more hours, then we reach Wadi Il Jaffar.”

I reined in the animal.  Oh.

Drinking regularly, and the plodding feet of the animal my only company, until we wended down the little hill to the cool wadi, where the date palms swayed.

 

Chapter Two

The animals squatted automatically, and the men scurried to break camp.

I threw a leg over and slid stiffly to the ground.  Fuck… my back hurts.  I was prepared to eat my camel out of spite.  And we were on a first-name basis, yet.  I called her, “Elsa”, and she called me, “Grooooaaaaan.”  Of course, she called everything that.  It’s a camel thing.

Sanae approached.  “You okay?”

“Great,” I lied.  Then more honestly, “bit of pain… don’t suppose they have invented springs for those buggers?”

She giggled.  “No.  We are very traditional, in the desert.”

We trailed the others to the tent by the wadi, where one of the youngest dug for water.  Another boy set calabashes, joined by coir ropes, nearby.  I licked my cracked lips, and eyed my empty goatskin.

“Don’t fear,” she said quietly, “after they water the animals, they will water the men, then me, then the women.”

I nodded sharply, as if that was expected.  “I could help?”  The longing in my gut would not be ignored.

She shook her head, “No.  Uncle wishes to speak to you.”

Oh.  I followed her lead.

Uncle sat on a cushion, on a carpet, leisurely puffing a hookah.  “Hello, American.”

I bowed sharply, “salaam.”

He indicated a free cushion, “sit.”

I sat.

He waved the pipe at Sanae.  “Get us a tea, and a few dates, Loved One.”

She spirited way.

He grinned conspiratorially at me, “That should give us some time to talk.”

I gulped.

He regarded me, like a leopard might regard a gazelle, the smoke wreathing his face.  “Have you smoked the shisha, before?”

“No, sir.”

He offered me another of the pipes.  “Then you must.”

I took the pipe, and let the smoke sit in my mouth, before releasing it.  It had a deep, complex, spicy-sweet flavor, unlike any tobacco I’d smoked.  I knew — from what I read — that they mixed molasses with the tobacco... and sometimes other flavors as well.  The smoke was dense, and humid.  As a gesture, I forced a little cough.

“Not what you are used to?”

I felt that a little, submissive, lie was in order, “It’s powerful, Sir.”

“Ah, yes.”

We smoked in silence, and I allowed the insidious, foreign, calm to wrest my thoughts.

“So, Sanae said you were going to chronicle this little event?”

“Yes sir.”  I brandished my tattered notebook.

“And you will be respectful?”

I nodded, nearly nervous.

He chuckled hard like wadi gravel, “not too respectful, I trust: mustn’t have flocks of tourists bothering us for the Special Meat.”

I found myself giggling at the prospect.  Then turned serious, “I will be careful, Sahib.”

“Oh.  ‘Sahib’, is it?”  He waved a hand, and puffed.  Then, he said, “send me the manuscript before you publish.”

“Yes.  Certainly.”

“Will you partake, Young American?

I don’t know.  “Sanae has asked it of me.”

He grinned at me, “excellent answer, for one so young.  Quite slippery.”

We smoked a while longer.

I couldn’t bear the silence, “You are all Muslims, right?”

He grinned wolfishly, “Yes, but not Arabs.” He spat into the sand.  “Arabs are dogs.”

“Oh.”  I sucked hard on the pipe; the jaunty bubbling from the hookah’s belly cloaking my confusion.

“I suppose you think that this rite is forbidden…?”

Stupefied, I nodded.  My lips refused to form words.  It didn’t seem to matter.

He knew what I would say, before I did. “Allah forbids the eating of pig-flesh and the imbibing of alcohol.  But not tobacco, hashish… nor, indeed, this ritual.”

I nodded again.

“Do you think me a barbarian, Young Cognoscenti…?”

“No, sir.”

“I speak three languages, and read them too… I preside over a clan of nearly 60 people… their finances, their needs… their education; I can play an instrument… and I have lived for 73 years in one of the most inhospitable place on earth.  Yet you view me as a savage, because I have a custom you do not, yet, understand.”

I shook my head vigorously.  “Not at all.”

His mouth slipped to a sardonic snarl.  “Don’t lie to me.”

I spread my hands, managed a weak smile.  “It’s all so strange.  And, I do not understand, in the slightest.  But, I want to.”

“Do you, now?”

I could only nod.  “Inshallah, inshallah.”

“Indeed.  You will eat then, Young One.  You must.  You will not be an outsider, forever.”

I felt sick… and comforted, all at once.

Just then, Sanae returned, bearing a tray… dates and apricots, naturally — and a teapot.   I stuffed my face while she poured the first round, and I tried to remember my manners for the drinking.  It is a slow, ceremonious, grateful, thing: tea drinking.  Yet, I was so thirsty.  I eyed the pot, and hoped I wasn’t impatient.

“Drink.  All that I own is yours.”

I was drinking.  Slaking thirst… one cup, two...  THREE...  Yet, each draught only made me thirstier.  I could not stop… and Uncle watched me with dark-eyed bemusement.  Finally, I was satisfied… and just in time…, as Sanae returned.  (I hadn’t seen her leave).  I covered my shame, wiping my hand across my mouth.
“Uncle, the meal is ready.”

Uncle looked at me.  He smiled with great humor, “hungry, Nephew?”

I nodded.  My belly gurgled, awash in tea.

“Bring them in, Niece.”

She hailed the company.  The servants came first, bearing tagines.  I smelled goat meat and about a billion unrecognized spices.  I was seated in the guest of honor position, to the right of Uncle; Sanae across from me.  The others found places encircling the meal.

No plates provided, except the heavy-bottomed, earthenware tagines… the traders passed loaves of flatbread around, and the slave girls lifted back the conical lids of the tagines.  Steam wreathed oval faces, and clung to slender fingers.  Then the traders dug in.

There was a level of Amazigh chatter, easily ignored.  I watched Sanae eat her last full meal, so like a bird.  Pick, pick.  Largely, she confined herself to tiny rips of bread, and stewed apricots.  She said nothing to me, but I assumed it was out of respect for her Uncle.

Quickly, it became clear that staring drew attention.  My tummy growled, and I flung myself in that pursuit.  In fact, I stuffed myself silly.  I tried to mangle my way through some Amazigh conversation.  But that went badly.  Still, hand gestures sufficed, when I ran out of couscous.  They laughed, choosing to be gratified by my antic gluttony… as if, what I lacked in manners, I more than made up for in zeal.  In truth it was a blur.  Hand to mouth was a comfort, and the exotic flavors assailing my taste buds did little — save empty my mind, even as my belly filled.  Finally, when it was all I could do, to lean back and groan… and the slaves began clearing the emptied tagine.

Sanae held out her hand for me.

“Come along, Cousin,” she said softly.

With a small, courteous, nod to Uncle, I rolled like a turtle to my feet, and toddled after the beloved Sanae.  She led me out of the tent, and over the next rise.  I found myself burping and muttering unintelligible lyrics, to very silly songs… as if intoxicated.  Maybe I was, for Sanae swayed, all spicy and feminine, and I remembered why I came in the first place… tried to forget why I was actually here, in the second place.

“I’m full,” I whined.

She gave no sign that she heard me.

Stumbling along, after her graceful soul, I looked to the heavens.  There is a quality of darkness in the midnight desert… clear as it is inscrutable: a trick mirror in a carnival that gives no reflection.  I could see a million stars in the sky… but not my Way, for all my promises.

“Here,” she said, pointing to the dark fly of a little tent.

I stared stupefied.  Images of her flashed in my mind, my whole body quivering with the prospect… yearning, indeed.  I saw her clearly: naked, groaning, singing; her strong thighs wrapped around my waist, her breasts crushed against me.  “I couldn’t…” I said, my breath wheezing.  “I mean… don’t you need rest?”

She peered at me, her brows knitted together.  I have never been so completely perceived in all my days.  “No.  This is your tent.  Sleep.”

Oh.  Well then.  I stumbled for the hole, aimed adequately enough, and found cushions.  Words found my lips, but ventured no further.  I did not dream, in the darkness.

 

Chapter Three

Will this desert ever end?  With the wind picking up, and the heat etching furrows in exposed flesh, I felt anaemic; and I had eaten two full meals to Sanae’s none.  I felt greasy and prickly: dehydration.  I drank deep draughts, even as the goat skin wilted, near empty.  I resisted the urge to baptize my head.  That would be a waste, though a delicious one.  God, the sun was like a scythe!  Even so, if it cut me, my sluggish blood would not flow.  I groaned, or my camel did.  I hear ya, sister.

Sanae shimmered in the near distance — swayed stoically beneath the lash of the whipping wind; and, as well, the lurching gait of her camel.  I predicted she would faint.  Nothing to eat, but an apricot or two, and little to drink…?  Yeah, she couldn’t possible hold up.  I sipped a mouthful of warm water from the skin, and watched her with a tinge of bitter sorrow.

So, I am not very good at prophecy… but glad about it: Sanae kept her seat.  She was drinking water, which was good.  I kneed my camel roughly in the ribs, and pulled even with Sanae.  “You okay?”

She swept her gaze in my direction, but her expression was distant: focused inward.  “I’m fine.”

“Need water?”

She shook her head.  “You’ll need it more than I will.”

I rolled my eyes against the penetrating heat, “okay.”  To prove her point, I drank the last of it, and looped the skin over the cantle of my saddle.  Just then, Uncle motioned me forward.  I obeyed.

“You are doing well…?”

“Dehydrated,” I admitted, with a wry grin.

He nodded.  “You must keep drinking water.  The desert is a harsh mistress.  It does not forgive weakness.  And, keep the burnoose up, lest you burn.”

Good advice.  But, a touch late.  My cheeks already looked like bacon.

He turned his vision into the world of smokeless fire, the home of the jinn.  “Are you prepared… for this ritual?”

The smart-ass remark dancing at my lips died there.  I shrugged.  How could I be?  I said as much.

His black eyes… disassembled… me.  Then, “I am Ibrahim, by the way.  What is your name?”

“Rick,” I answered instantly, just like Bogey in Casa Blanca.

He giggled.  “Ah, Young One.  Tell me your REAL name.”

“Matthew,” slipped from me with the greatest of ease.  Discomfited, I craned around to check on Sanae.  She was there, stoic and straight.  How can she want this?

“Didn’t you ask her?”

I blushed, not realizing I’d spoken aloud, “Yes, many times.”

“And she did not answer you?”

Again: the feeling of intense shame.  I admitted, “many times.”

“So, why do you question?”

“Well, I…?”

Ibrahim clucked as if he tasted something rotten.  He said, “As the desert despises weakness, She also has no patience for hypocrisy.  She will test you… and if a man is not who he is, the desert will eat him.  There won’t even be bones left behind.”

I nodded.  What else could I do?

“Now, Sanae was divided from us.  She took Shaitan’s path: chasing boys, chasing liquor… asking foolish questions that have no value… cloaking herself in all manner of hypocrisy… breathing lies, and rejecting the truth she knew in her heart.”  He spat.  “Now she comes back to us, forever.”

No SHIT.  “She told me that…”

“Why don’t you believe her then?”

My lips — dry and cracked — kissed hot air.  “I love her.”

He grimaced.  “I don’t?”

Oooh.  Got me.  I said nothing.

“She demanded this.  And that is what I support: her desire.”

“Okay.”

“We will be home in about an hour.  Things will happen quickly.  You must go with her.”

“What?  I thought we… I thought the feast was tomorrow night?”

He laughed, then said, “Yes, but there are a number things that must, first, take place.”

Right.

“She will want you to be with her, at the end.  But she won’t ask you.  Accompany her.  And bring your notebook.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ibrahim,” he said, absently, with his gaze elsewhere.  “You must call me Ibrahim.  All my sons do.”  Before I could object, or even accede, Ibrahim clucked at his animal, and I reined mine in.

I smiled tightly at Sanae as she passed.  I said, “I’m going with you, to the end.”

Her eyes lit up, over the edge of her veil.

I fell in line, behind her, and kept my peace; and we marched on, insensible, with the sun-wheel blazing overhead.

The Atlas Mountains loomed suddenly, like a mirage.  Tightening in my gut, light-headed, not from the heat.  I had finished all the water I had, so there was no help there.  I cannot change what will happen, I can only accept it.  My teeth ground together, in something like a smile.

For welcome, they pressed me with dried dates, and goat’s milk, and a thin mist of refreshing rose water.

I said the appropriate, scripted, things… and passed by them, my eyes on Sanae.  The younger sonren hugged legs and laughed, the youngest hid behind their mothers.  The adults clapped Sanae on the cheeks, touching her body, addressing her, and welcoming her.  Me, they fairly ignored.  They did not question my attention paid to Sanae.  They knew.  They were forewarned, probably by Ibrahim.  Though it was unheard of, they permitted me in the bath house with Sanae, to witness her ablutions.  My notebook was my passport.

Sanae stripped off her clothing and left the pile by the door, as old women filled the immense stone basin with geothermic hot water.  There was a scent --- very faint --- of sulfur, which was quickly subdued with the smell of rose and orange blossom oil.  I saw Sanae, completely, for the first time.  5’2’’… small breasts, the chocolate-kiss nipples pointing skyward… an impenetrable ellipse of midnight hair at her feminine core.  She chafed the gooseflesh on her arms.  Her eyes smiled, and her lips twitched, “I’m cold.”

The women continued to fill the basin, and the eldest conducted Sanae up the steps to it, and in, and she sat, with her back to me.  The women soaped Sanae, and washed her body thoroughly.  I watched, fascinated.  The old, gnarled fingers, massaging the fragrant soaps and oils into the body… Sanae’s body (I corrected myself.)  They paid special attention to her breasts, her neck, and her buttocks and thighs.  She couldn’t help mewling with pleasure, as she washed her matted sex, herself.

Sanae leaned back, mid-groan, her eyes fluttering open.  “This is so good; you should try it.”

I giggled, said without irony, “I’ll pass.”

Sanae nodded, and subsided with a groan.

The bath lasted about half an hour, but it felt shorter and longer, for all that.  Sanae stepped out… water and suds rolling off her, gleaming her skin… there was a river between her thighs.  When she got close, the sweet, earthen, musky, stink of her sex hit me in the nostrils like a blow.  In spite of everything I grinned, with a curling tightness in my loins.

They wicked the water off her with towels, and pulled her in the direction of a table.  The old woman motioned for her to lie there, and when she was comfortable, they depilated and exfoliated her body head to toe, first with bronze razors, and also with salt and sugar.

Sing-song moans from Sanae… and I was suddenly the horniest I’d been in my life.

The sound of her, the capsizing scent… never before had I wanted to heedlessly fuck someone.  I coughed.  They spread her legs, two women holding her open, and the third wielding the razor, and sliced away the thatch of her maturity.  She rested, a moment when they were done, then rolled, and stood.  I couldn’t help staring at her sex, all puffy and burgundy, with the arrogant clit like a garnish.

I wondered what she tasted like.

“I’m ready,” She said softly.  “Are you coming?”

To the ends of the earth, My Love.

Their rooms were carved into the mountain, and I marched along behind, captivated by her flexing, tight, buttocks.  Her straight back, the triangles of her shoulders, the veil of her glossy hair.

The bowels of the settlement.  The abattoir, where many sheep and goats and calves had lost their lives.  I saw the drain, and knew it for what it was, and the slender, hooked, iron bar, hung from the rafter with a cable trailing down… and I knew what that was too.

A man stood to one side, sharpening a moon blade.  Unsmiling, serious, jowls, and black eyes.  He saw us, and set the blade aside.  He was naked: dense curls of hair on his chest, and his circumcised penis the only hard thing about him.

The man looked suspiciously at me, but both the women and Sanae vetted me with a word and a glance.

“Hi.”  I offered a hand, and he shook it, diffidently.  “I’m Matthew,” I said.

“Call me Agzzar.”  He said.  Ah, yes… ‘The Butcher.’  I acknowledged him with a glance.

His massive shoulders flexed in a tectonic shrug, and he motioned to the bench, and Sanae lay upon it, face down.  He came up to her, and the women handed him a flask of oil, before filing out.  He anointed Sanae’s buttocks, and gently spread her cheek, and pushed an oiled finger into her anus… she squeaked, and moaned, as he plumbed her depths with the finger.  Her hips responded, rising to meet the invader.  He reinforced his incursion with a second finger… and, quickly, a third.

Best make a note of that…

Sanae: writhing, ecstatic.  She reached, right-handed, and thrummed her clit.  He let her.  He straddled the bench, as her butt tilted with a saucy invitation.  He hunched forward, his cock filling her… I watched, transfixed.  He thrust against her… his body weight pushing out a heavy grunt from her.  “Aieee!”

Now he fucked her, thrusts falling on each other, driving her into the bench.

“Oh, wee… I… Oh… fuck…  Matt!”  Sanae, wild-eyed, found me staring.  “Come… I need you!”

I approached, guessing her need, and undid my pants.  They fell away, revealing a hard, hungry, cock head pushed out over the waistband of my boxers.  I released the shaft to her care, and she sucked me into her mouth.

“God!”  The moisture and the heat…. I felt like I was in an oven, as she bobbed on my cock, her eyes shaded and focused.  I couldn’t believe… my testicles tightening already… as the butcher ravaged her cunt.  I tried to think of anything else… my eighth grade math teacher… Guernica (the painting…) as her sucking mouth doused and enflamed my cock… oh, god...!  And, then,   I thought of her flesh, crispy, steaming; browned and beading oil for sweat.  I came.  My hips jerked, my eyes squeezing shut… flashing lighting over my eyes.  I groaned, my cock pulsing.  Sanae’s cheeks bulged.  Her throat worked and she swallowed… leaving only a lonely trail down the corner of her lip.  She said, brightly. “A fine last meal!”

I backed away, as she threw a glance to the butcher.  Curtly, “do it.”

He withdrew from her vagina, and drove to the hilt in her ass.  She groaned, but accepted it.  He fucked her with implacable, grinding, will.  I felt a twinge of horror, but I was faaaaaar beyond that.  Her moans climbing the scale, reaching crescendo…

“Do IT!  DOOOO IIIIITTTT!  I’m Cuuuuuuhuuuummmmmiiiiing!!!!”

Her body convulsed, pushed to the edge, staring down into the abyss for drainage in the floor.

“Aieeeeeeeeeeee…” as he bent her body back like an archer bends a bow.  Her breasts were splashed bright salmon with blood-arousal… her throat exposed… her eyes crazy and lost in lust.  The blade flashed, and sheets of blood sprayed out.  Her body spasmed and her severed windpipe sucked air.  Oh!  The blood pouring out, as her bulging eyes contemplated the torrent.

I was not expecting so much blood.  My eyes misted, as she jerked and bled out.  He bore her down, flush with the bench, and crooned to her, as she stilled.

He stood, his penis flaccid, filthy with oil and semen.  He wiped his blade on a cloth and set it aside.  Still her body twitched, as the final drips leaked from her.  “Was it as you expected?”

I shook myself, shook my head… blinked.  “No.  I mean...?”

He smiled, not unkindly, “are you going to stay for the rest?  You may leave now, if you wish.”

It felt like he punched me.  I said, weakly, “I made a vow.”

He nodded, “Do up your trousers, then, and help me.”

I obeyed — zip — as he twisted her savaged neck, and popped her head off her spine.  I flinched, despite knowing that she was beyond pain.  He put the head to one side, and I blinked.  Her gorgeous body, with a ragged, dripping, stump for a terminus.  Her head… her lips drooling spittle and gore.  Her eyes had no light, hooded and empty, watching me from the shelf.  I wondered what she saw.

He lowered the bar, and held out the cable end for me.  “Hold this.”

Numbly, I took it from him.

He stabbed the hooks into her Achilles’ tendons.  Her face was unaffected.  He smiled wryly at me, and retrieved the cable end.  He pulled hard and her body rose, jerkily, feet first.

Vomit rose with each increment, but I swallowed it.

He tied the cable end to the davit bolted on the wall.  There she… it… hung.  Near perfection, even when decapitated.  I smiled in spite of myself.

The butcher rinsed the body with cold water.  He handed me a bowl, and pointed to the delta of her rib cage.  “Hold this bowl here.”

The bowl was held at her midriff.  I tried not to see the bloody spatter staining my shoes.  He approached the carcass, and his knife flashed from groin to sternum.  Her belly opened; intestines pushed through the clean seam.  He reached in, coolly, and pulled out corrugated cables of gut.  The knife flashed again and again, and the bowl filled with offal.  He used a bone saw, cracked open her rib cage.  I flinched, recalled my duty.  I fetched other bowls for organ meats.  Ever, the flashing blade.  Stomach.  Gall bladder.  I held her liver in my hands, hands stained with her blood — Her liver!  Pancreas too, and the kidneys.  The Lungs: offal.  Then, with sacred grace, he excised her heart, and handed it to me, as easy as you please.  I didn’t know what to say, as I cradled it with two hands.  I stared at it, feeling the bunched striations of cardiac muscle against my palms.

“Put it in the bowl.”

Ah, right.

Somewhere in this (when I turned away to place a filled bowl with its mates?), the butcher had removed her internal sex, and her bladder.  There was nothing else: just containers of meat, and a hanging, decapitated, corpse cooling in the basement.  The room swam with the scent of copper.

He sighed, not unhappily, per se.  “We are done here.”

I nodded.  I looked down at my clothing, drenched in gore.  I said, ruefully, “I need a bath, and a change of clothes.”

“Speak to the Women, they will take care of you.”

 

Chapter Four

The desert is cold at night.  It’s absurd.  My body rebelled — my mind.  ‘How is it, that this intractable, daily, hell would turn so frigid, come Darkness?’  Though swaddled in rugs and blankets, I still felt a creeping, consuming, chill.  It was an uneasy night, and I awoke several times.

Each instance: bolting awake, shaking off diamond-beautiful sweat-flecks, “Sanae?”

Sanae never answered me with words.

Still, I felt... something.  She, Who Was Lost And Yet Found... Only To Eternally Lost...?  Yet.  Comforted by the weight of her ephemeral palm on the halo of my hair, I found sleep, each time.  Until...

“Good morning, my Son.”

I discovered dawning light through slit eyes.  And, the impassive gaze of Ibrahim.

Ibrahim sniffed his censure.  “You must bathe.”

“I did last night!” I whined, hugging my plump cushion.  Sleep called to me.  Dreams of Sweet Sanae.

“Yet, you must be Purified.”  Ibrahim frowned, “it is part of the rite.”

Yes.  Of course.  I struggled to rise; felt wickedly pleased with my success.

I followed Ibrahim down the long corridors to the bath --- the same bath, indeed, that Sanae had occupied not twelve hours before.

We were not alone.

She stood, attendant, and utterly naked.  I was at a disadvantage.  I did not seek to be captivated.  Her name?  This, too, was beyond my ken.  And yet?  She was real.  Her inscrutable, onyx eyes — demurely downcast — drew attention to her proud, taut, breasts.  And her belly... her navel.

I will not stare at her pussy!  I will not stare at her pussy!  I will not... and never mind.  On my list of failures, it is a small one.  Teensy, in fact.  For her florid thatch of black curls parted just so: revealing shy lips, crowned by a haughty clitoris.

Ibrahim waved at her, “her mother named her, ‘Ziri’.  She will assist you, with the bathing.”

“Yes, Sir.”  I bowed gallantly.

Two pairs of anthracite eyes regarded me.  Embarrassed into action, I shifted out of my night-clothes.  Naked, with prickling gooseflesh.  Inexplicably ashamed — Me.

Ibrahim took the discards up, and moved to depart.  Beneath the open arch, he half-turned.  “Only, do not defile her — lest she suffer the same fate as Sanae.”

The Dearly Departed.  Naturally.  Oh, MY.

Left alone (and, not quite), I approached the brimming bowl of the tub.

Ziri, in silence, had gone before me.  She turned, fully.  Half-smiling, her arms at her sides, she knelt at the far edge of the pool.  Her glistening thighs and breasts called to me.  Curls of steam hid (and promised) grave treasures.  And, so, I joined her.

The invading heat was an uncountable joy that I savored — to be enfolded in her grace... Ziri’s.

I leaned against her and sighed.  Her slick torso pressed back… hard, for all its softness.  The length of her mirrored the length of me.

She brushed my shoulders with a rough cloth, then a silken cake of goat’s milk soap.  She washed down my chest, the suds catching on my body hair, so that I was enshrouded by popping rainbows.  Tension that I had not realized I’d kept melted away.  For the first time in remembrance, I was truly relaxed.  But not for long.  For, Ziri’s nimble fingers pressured and sought, questing lower.  I permitted this.  ‘It is, after all, NOT a defilement... yet.’  By unspoken decree, I let the fingers of my right hand brush her cheek, her ear.  To reside, finally, in the luxuriant waves of her perfumed hair.

Her gentle invasions coalesced around my center.  She found my shaft — that which can only ever be hard, on account of her — her fingers embraced me.  She stroked the length.  I winced, for she had a stern grip.  Slippery motions, and an agony of silence.

“I...” Her voice was shocking and liquid and breathy, “must feel you.  Only: you cannot enter me.”

I hunched forward in prayerful consent.

Ziri swam around.  She straddled my legs.  The hair on my thighs bristled deliciously at her embrace.  I felt her closeness.  How could I not, as her nipples brushed my chest?  I felt Sanae tickle my spine... from the base of my skull to the curve of my coccyx.  I weathered the electric storm, and smiled at my ‘Attendant.’  In this delightful prison between two lovers (the one spirit, the other flesh) I lay, watching Ziri’s smile grow impish.  Ziri glided forward, captured my penis between her thighs... tightly in the seething grip of her puffed labia.  She rode up on me, my glans crowning over her clit.  She teased me with her aperture, but escaped: levered back and down... up and forward... the escapement gear of our linked sexes made metronomic music in the churning pool.

I watched her, amazed and hungry.  “I want to fuck you,” I rasped.  I envisioned impaling her on my shaft.  I wanted to turn the water pink with the blood of her maidenhead.  I wanted her to feel complete ecstasy.  I wanted to hear her scream inchoate joy.

“Don’t,” she murmured.

Shocked, reminded, and cleansed (for a moment) of lust, I regarded her.  “How...?”

“‘...Do I know your speaking?’” (All the while, her hips worked their inexorable cadence.)  “The same as Sanae, I went to Your schools.  But I never learned ALL that she did.  Just enough.”

Indeed!

With renewed appreciation, I allowed her to ride me.  Up and forward; down and back.  Slithering: tick, tick, tick.

My hands found her hips, with respect.  Her animal heat broiled my palms.  I sighed, in unison with her own.

Suddenly, she shuddered.  Moaned.  Her cadence changed.  Her being.  A laden gasp ripped from her.  Her labia quivered and convulsed.

“Ziri...” My penis, electrified, jerked.  I bucked.  Groaned.  Slender, pearlescent, streams bridged the space between us, splashed obscenely on her smooth belly.

I coughed a laugh, and movement subsided.  I was utterly spent.

After time and all ended, and strength leaked back into my sinews, the gracious lady — the sorceress — brushed my cheek with taloned fingers.  “I want you to have me.  You, alone.  But, After.”

My brows chided her.  I couldn’t put it into words.

“I know.”  Then, Ziri withdrew.  I watched her proud, perfect, buttocks flex and shed water as she arose and led.  I longed for a glimpse of the promised land.  I was rewarded.

“The ritual,” she said, with a sardonic gesture.

Right.  Mutely, I accompanied her.  She led me to a little grotto.  She conferred on me a full complement of Amazigh robes.  I dressed quickly, with her aid.  The clothing felt heavy, but the weight brought comfort.  Then, upward and onward.  Ziri delivered me into the hands of my host.

“Ah, my son!  Are you refreshed?”

“O, Sir, Yes!”

“Ziri was to your satisfaction, then?”

I sudden realized the wisdom of being careful.  “Ziri was the soul of hospitality.... Sahib.”

“Was she, now?”

I nodded... suddenly shy.  I bore witness to the fact that the women wielding keen steel, turned Sanae’s tripe, kidneys and liver into stew pieces.  I made notes.

The crone at the head of the table caught me spying.  She delved into me, with a flinty glare.  She was old, when Noah was a tyke, I thought.  She smiled, showing a ragged line of broken teeth.  Skin-bone fingers held up a chunk of bloody liver.

Without thinking, I popped it in my mouth.  I was overrun by the pudding-smooth texture... the blade-sharp flavor of iron.  I swayed, leaving the morsel to melt on my tongue, and leak down my throat; and I made a smile that I hoped meant gratitude.

The crone chuckled.  I think.  The sound defies description.  Just that her esophagus jerked, and the sound impaled my soul.

I made a note, and turned to Ibrahim, to share this multitude of discovery.

And, never mind.  For my host was leading me onward, with a flick of his wrist.

Obediently, I followed.  Ancient men had carved these pathways, and even though infinite feet had smoothed down the edges, I was convinced I could espy the tool marks.  We stopped, at last, near a large plaster well.  I peeked inside.  The boys had gathered a nest of sticks.  Now, the men were coming with feast: the carcass of Sanae, impaled on a wooden rod, and wrapped in water-darkened canvas.  They lit the nest, and placed her meat inside, to roast.

Thus, ended the beginning.  I watched them, as they piled in charcoal and wood — the flames climbed up to the mouth.  Laughing, the men closed the well with an earthenware lid, and sealed the joint with rams’ muck mixed with water and clay.

“There.  Now we wait!” declared Ibrahim.  He countenanced me slyly, “Come: let’s smoke.”

I followed — mute, though my pen was busy.

Ibrahim’s apartment was brocaded with silk.  Tapestries decorated the walls.  Killims (some ancient and stained and threadbare) carpeted the floor.  It was as warm as a womb.  At the heart of this sanctuary: an unlit brazier, aside that, the slender hookah, and, also a squat copper pot, with a slender carafe, abiding... awaiting to be charged with the ever-cloudless tea.

“Sit.”

I made a nest of cushions, and settled in.

Ibrahim lit the brazier, and levered the glowing coals hither and thither with a set of tongs.  He selected one, and set it in the plate atop the hookah.

“Now, my Son,” he said, passing me a pipe, “we smoke!”

The hookah chuckled as he drew, the released.  Hubble-bubble, then silence, apace.

Quietly, gravely, I followed his lead.  I let silence be my other companion, and watched the man.  He stared at the fold of his knees, and seemed to weigh secrets.  My pen ached to document this, but I’d acquired enough wisdom to be still, and patient.

He touched the pipe to his pouted lip, and a sip of smoke escaped.  An acidic tear carved a track down his cheek.

My Arabic is threadbare, and my Tamazight is worse.  When he spoke, in private to himself, I left it be.  I was his guest, not he mine.  Hence, his treasured secrets were his to deliver at his choosing.  The Journalist Soul begged to ask; yet I waited.

His eyes, sharpened by fluid, cut through me entirely.  He saw me (or, didn’t).  “Sanae, my Beloved,” he murmured, “can you see me, yet, from you new abode?  For I miss you already.”

I nodded, fumbling gratitude with wonder.

He chuckled wryly.  Saw me, as if for the first time; and he shook off an unsettled burden, “she had a laugh, you know?  A laugh that could turn back the fury of a winter storm.  I need her laughter sometimes.”

He drew carefully on the pipe.  Misty smoke seethed past his dragon’s fangs.   “I have seen too many winters.  And now that Sanae is gone, Ziri is all that I have left of their mother.”

I nodded, hoped I made a decent mime of wisdom.  It was a faint hope.  Ibrahim knew that I was scanty wise.  Though, I knew what was coming, poised and eager at the mouth.  I awaited the Question, and hoped I could frame an adequate response.

“As for Ziri… did you hold to your vow?”

“Sir, the lady is a delight.  But, I could not think to abuse your hospitality, nor Sanae’s memory… nor, especially, the sanctity of this ritual.”

A smile of mild reproof flitted, with humming bird haste, over his features.  “A bit too formal to be ENTIRELY accurate.  But I have trusted you with everything I hold dear.  I shall trust you in this as well.”

“Thank you!” Quoth I, dumbly.  I smoked, or some such.  I let the molasses-sweetened tobacco be my guide.

“I’m old.” Ibrahim announced suddenly.  “I never thought I’d ever feel so old.  I never wanted to be old!”

The look I gave him, what did it say?  Certainly not, ‘I know how you feel...’ because, clearly...

“I feel weak… in body… I sometimes forget what I am doing, and the memory, after is… worse.  Christian… do you know?” Ibrahim regarded me; smoke billowed, as he studied my cultivated non-answer.  He said, “never mind.”

I drew on my pipe, and let the smoke escape.

I watched the elder statesman, also smoking.  He smiled wryly in my sight.  He said, “perhaps tea will enliven my spirit?”

He did not wait for concurrence.  He set about tea manufacture, the wide-bottomed copper pot with the water, already bubbling, he poured a measure into the glass and silver carafe, and then added the chopped leaves.  The odour hit me: grassy, fermented, tea; and bracingly fresh and sweet mint.   He let the mixture steep, and the water assumed the golden-green cast of excellent tea.  He poured two glasses in my sight, and handed me one.

I sipped the delicate brew, and paired it with a draw from the pipe.

“So.  The time for the feast draws nigh.”

“Yes?”

“Hmmmm… would you appreciate some hashish, Christian?”

I considered my response with care.  “Thank you, but no.”

“It is from Afghanistan.  The best.”

Stoutly, I shook my head.

“They say that, how they collect it, is by sending young women — naked, young women — through the crop… and, afterwards, scraping the resin off of their bodies.  The effect is quite magical, I’m told.”

I wanted to say something amusing, like, ‘oh, twist my rubber arm!’  What came out instead: “D’rather not.  But I am in debt to your kindness.”

He laughed slyly, “Not even though it aids appetite?”

Then it came: Sanae’s fingers in my hair.  “Sir,” I said, “I am much too comfortable, as it is.   I want to have some of my head, for the Ritual.”

“Ah, yes.  You are much too sharp, Christian.”

“Uh.  Thank you?”

He slouched back.  Took a mouthful of tobacco smoke.  He drew himself up, to full height, on exhale.  “You must help me.”

“Sahib?”

“Just one small favour.  I shall be in your debt.”

“Anything, Sahib.  Anything.”  I wondered if I should chase the words, and eat them.

His whole being sagged with exquisite relief.  He turned to the door, and clapped his hands.  To the boy that came, he said, “bring Ziri.  Quickly!”

The boy vanished, and Ibrahim examined me.  “Do not fear, My Son.  I just have a… family matter… to tend to.  For my Will.”

While we waited, he lit the incense burner.  Preliminary smoke from the sparking, graying, charcoal — woodsy and dark.  Then the small candy-coloured beads of resin bubbled, and smoke billowed up, in thick, dancing strands.  Sanae’s spirit felt very near.  I felt stupefied, with the thick, sweet, citrusy, smell of the incense, and the faintly bitter aftertaste of tobacco in my mouth.  I felt sacred.

Ibrahim smiled, and drew me into an embrace.  I felt like I was privileged to take part in a grand conspiracy.  “What do you think of Ziri?”

Shaken, I said, “She’s very beautiful.  And kind.  She is… hospitable.”

“Indeed?”

Abruptly cut free, I felt the need to anchor myself.  “She will make somebody a good wife some day.”

“Yes.”

“She will be a great mother.”  It sounded lame and scripted, but true enough, for all my blundering.

“Do you have a wife?”

I shook my head.  I felt awareness of something — a tease that receded.

“Why not?”

I laughed bitterly.  I didn’t know how to say, ‘I have no idea!’

“And you like Ziri.”

Again, the laugh.  I sensed his meaning, but the mind makes excuses, and hides from simple truths.  “I don’t really know her…?”

Now he laughed.  “But, what you know, you like.”

“Yes, Sir.  I mean… uh… what’s not to like?”

“You Christians are so amusing... never able to stand by a point.  Never trusting the moment, when the answer seems loaded with unanswered questions.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind.”  He took my hands in his skeletal fingers.   “Call me Uncle.”

I nodded.

“And drink your tea.  It’s getting cold.”

Grateful for the release, and having no confidence that I would not betray myself, I fled to tea drinking.  I gulped it down in two swallows.  And, oopsy.  Because, now I was vulnerable to his probing gaze.  He said nothing, for the space of two sips.

Then he asked, “Out of curiosity, can you support a wife?”

I tried to evade him with another laugh.  No dice.  “Well travel-writing isn’t exactly… uh… lucrative, you understand?”

“Pish!  You are young, and strong — and well spoken.  You could find a way, if you needed to.”

“Yes.  I mean, hypothetically.”

“A bit too smart to be a husband, perhaps?  My experience is: women find a little stupidity to be attractive.  A truly wise man remembers, ‘there are times to be blunt.  Sharpness does not sit well.’  Or do you think differently?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Humph.”  He poured another tea for us, each.  “The thing is, I am dying.  The physician in town blames the tobacco.  But, the truth is, Allah calls to me.  I feel Him.  There is another matter.  Though, I love my family, our way is dying, as well.  There are no men ready to do this duty.  I feel that my Ziri is not safe here, amongst even my brothers.”

“Ah?”

“Ziri is a child of a new age.  And the old one seems to forget its greatness.  Too many of my People remember the wrong things.  They are consumed with petty lusts.  They are irresponsible and greedy.”

‘I see.” On sum a lie — but a companionable one.

“No, you don’t.  But thank you.”  He smoked.  Then he offered, on exhale.  “Perhaps you do know something.”

I accepted the compliment with silence-that-I-hoped-looked-like-Grace.

“Do you care for Ziri?”

“I don’t know, for certain.”

He laughed.

“I just met her!”

“You have answered all my questions honestly.  I couldn’t ask for a better discussion.  I think I know who you are.”

“Sir?”

He said, seriously, “I need Ziri… removed… from this place.  I need her to live her life fully, and not be bound by cowardly men and spiteful women.  Do you believe me, when I tell you she has had many suitors?”

“Yes.  Of course.”

“It began when she was thirteen.  But then, most of the lust was aimed at my fortune, and not her body.  It’s since shifted, but it’s the same thing.  Greedy, hateful, fools who would rather steal something, than earn it… spend it, without appreciating it.”

“I understand.”

“I believe you do.  That is why I must ask you a favour.”

Oh shit.  Here it comes.

“I was originally intending to tell you, ‘take her away with her, and set her free.  She is a smart, wilful, girl.  She could find her way.’  But I see that you have more quality that that.”

No I don’t!  I am a Shit.

“You must take her hand in marriage.  That is my favour, that I ask.”

“Uh.”

“She has a dowry, by decree, of ‘the maiden’s weight in silver.’  Of course, I will wire you the equivalent, in American funds?  That seems more prudent.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Of course you don’t.  That’s why I mentioned it.”

“Sir… the thing is…”

“There is no ‘thing,’ my son.  I am dying.  My way is dying.  My community is dying.  For Ziri to have any kind of life, she must be far away from here.”

Please not this!  Please NOT this.  Please, please, please.

“What is in your mind, my Son?”

“You don’t know me, Ibrahim.”

“Perhaps….” he chuckled, “you don’t know You?  You may be well versed in what you are not.  But what right do you have to claim what you are?”

Eh?  What?  His words tasted like sour milk.

“I need a grandson, who I will know will be the man to carry my posterity, into this uncomfortable new world.  You will be his father.  I know that, at least.”

“Sir… I wish…?”

“… That foolish old men did not ask you for a favour?”

“NO!”  Uh.  Um.  Oh, fuck.  “What if she has a girl?”

He laughed, equal parts mirth and sadness, “Then she will grow to be the most powerful, wonderful, beautiful woman, since Ziri…”

Oh.

“… And, Sanae.”

I could not conceal the hurt.  Dared not.  You wound me, Ibrahim.

He forced a light giggle.  “Besides, you could always try again?  I hear that option has certain compensations?”

Yeah.  “I need to think.”

“So, think.  We have time.  Perhaps one minute.”

“What does he need to ‘think’ about, Uncle?”

Never has amnesty sounded so sweet, or felt so complete.  Ziri stood in the doorway.  I was broken completely, seeing her.  She was so fine, and her guileless eyes pulled me into molten pools of dark chocolate.  I remembered her, completely.  I was lost, as much as found.  And, all I had was my petty freedom granted by her arrival.

“Tell her, my Son.”

“I… uh… your Uncle wants me to marry you… uh, take you as my wife,” I said, blushing.

Ziri blushed, red as an apple.  She giggled, “Uncle?”

Ibrahim rolled his eyes.  He said, “You are quite the Romantic, aren’t you, Matthew?”

I shrugged.  Guilty.

“Ziri, come in.  And, close the door.”

She obeyed.

I watched her glide toward us, and felt something rise inside me… an emotion I dared not name.  I sighed.

“What do you think of our friend, Matthew, here?”

“Um.  I think he is a very nice gentleman.”

“I’m sure you do.  And you are a terrible liar.  What do you think of him?”

“I don’t know him very well.  But he is kind, and gracious.  And very polite.  And… em… brave?”

“Oh, really?  Why is that?”

“Well he’s here, isn’t he?”

“An excellent observation.”

She nodded, shyly.  She seemed relived.

“And what do you think he thinks of you?”

“I think he likes me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He said as much.”

“Did he now?  So you think he is ‘Trustworthy’, as well?”

She nodded.

“And, do you find him attractive?”

She ducked her head, in half a nod.  “Yes.”

Ibrahim looked at me, bluntly.  “See?”

I said nothing.

“Never mind, then.  More proof is needed.”  Ibrahim turned from me.  “Tell me again, My Precious Dove, of your fondest dream.”

“I… don’t… what is this about?”

Ibrahim sighed, with exaggerated patience.  “What did you tell me, before Sanae announced her intention to return?”

“Um…” Ziri closed her eyes, for remembrance, “that I wished to see New York City, with her.”

“And?”

“See the Metropolitan Museum of Art…?”

And!

“Go to Yankee Stadium, and watch the Baseball.”

With exquisite, probing, palpating, gentleness, “and…?”

Ziri blushed furiously.  Her cheeks were so red; her lips so pursed, that her mouth turned white at the corners.  She ducked her head, and whispered, “and eat a hot dog.”  She looked at me, with child-like boldness, “maybe taste your American beer!”

“Thank, My Sweetness.”  He turned sharply; cut me with a glance.  “You can do this for her.  And ONLY you.”

“That’s not FAIR,” I thought.

“What do you mean, ‘not fair?’  Why not?”

Oopsy.  “Because… surely… there are better men!”

“There are not.”  He sighed.  “Obviously, you need more proof.  Okay.  Ziri, take your clothes off.”

She flinched, and looked at me, for aid.

“Ziri.”  His voice, as immediate, hard, and continuous, as rolling gravel.

Never mind, she looked at me, as she obeyed — I saw only her eyes, as she let her robe slide down.  Her hair in tight braids, with a rainbow of beads… her full mouth… her chin… her delicate neck, with her life’s pulseHer perfect breasts… voluptuous belly, and wide, sexy, hips.  I saw her liquid eyes.

“Look at her, and tell me how ‘imperfect’ she is.”

“Ibrahim!  Don’t do this!”

“Why shouldn’t I?  Why do you care?  She is just some girl who washed your back, once… isn’t she?”

“Ziri.  Put your clothes on,” I said, desperately.  To him, I said, “Can’t you see you are embarrassing her?”

He skewered me with a look made of icicles.  “So?  Why is that your concern?”

“Yes!  Yes!  I care about her, Oh-KAY!  Just STOP this!”

“I can’t.”  Ibrahim shuddered, and the dam on his tears nearly broke.

He said, “If she does not leave, she will end up just like Sanae!  Or worse, a wizened crone, never having known love.  When I die, she will be at the mercy of brutal, ignorant, men… who lust for her treasures.  She will have nothing, and I will have failed everyone I ever loved.  It will be worse for her, than even Sanae!  You MUST take her far away, and never…” his voice sundered, and he wept openly.  With effort, he mastered himself.  “Never return.  Not ever.  You must give her the life she deserves.  The one I never could, and they never will.  Promise me.”

“Okay,” I said, intending to merely placate him, for I was embarrassed.  But I realized, the instant I said the thing, my honour bound me to it.  I looked upon the beautiful woman.  I said, wearily, “Ziri: put your clothes back on.”

She slumped, gratefully, and obeyed me.

I could have wept.  But if I had, I would never find the strength to stop.  I sighed, and wiped a knuckle on my cheek.

Ibrahim took up my free right hand, and placed Ziri’s within.  Our fingers laced naturally.  “Matthew: greet your bride.  Ziri: greet your husband.”

I kissed her mouth, and both cheeks.  I held her as she wept.  Her shoulders shook, for emotion so great, it could probably be called happiness.  “I love you,” I said.  And that MUST be true.  It just had to be.  As was the fact, “It will all be okay, my Darling…” I said it too lightly, but she heard me.  She looked at me, and smiled.  So many promises, there!  I dared not count them.  I’d be there all day.

“Now,” Ibrahim said, with a sad, forced, grin, “to the feast.”

Ah yes.  That.

 

Chapter Five

The banquet hall was a large, circular, grotto, centered by a shallow pit, and carpeted with killims.  I plopped down on the nearest cushion.

“No, My Son, come sit here, at my right hand.  Ziri: to my left.”

“Actually, I would like my wife by my side… to translate.”

“Is that all?”  Ibrahim chuckled.  “As you wish my Son.”

We settled in.  Only then did the company arrive: filing in, with sombre attitude.  Only then did I see him, and funny that I never saw him before.  Perhaps a Husband’s eyes are different?  He was lanky and hard, and undisguised hatred flashed on his teeth, when he saw where I was sitting, and, also, Ziri.  Thankfully, he had enough respect, not to fracture the peace of the ritual.

Best to watch him though.  He had an unsavoury look… if that isn’t jealously speaking.  I’ll kill him, if he looks at my wife in that way again: lust and suspicion.  Luckily he had a little wisdom… cowardice, cowardice.

Ibrahim raised a hand to the congregation.  Conversation stilled, and attention shifted.  He spoke in Tamazight.  Ziri leaned in, and whispered the translation, “[All my Beloved children… know that I love you.  And know, as well, that this Event is both Solemn and Joyous:  ‘Joyous’, for the Lost Lamb has returned — ‘Solemn,’ for the manner of her return.  Tonight we must eat, and feel only gladness.  Sanae — my beloved, is ascending to heaven.  But the hour is upon us.  God his Great, and his ways are perfect.  Let us eat, and be thankful, and receive satisfaction.  Let us honour Sanae’s sacrifice, and welcome her spirit back to our family.]”

A smattering of desultory applause; grumbles of assent.  The tagines were opened, and a multitude of dark hands reached for the meat.

It was not Sanae — I told myself this, even though: clearly…?  The eating was done in measured bites.  Liver, kidney, and tripe in thick gravy, sopped up with tough flatbread.  I chewed through my portion, and was forced to admit, it tasted marvellous.  It was unlike anything I’d ever eaten.  Ha ha… but, yes.  The first tripe I should have would be Sanae’s.  I decided not to meditate on the weirdness of it.  I reached for more, and ate, and dreamed of Sanae.  Is this what praying actually is?

As the slaves cleared the empty vessels, I noticed a hateful glance.

“Who is that man?” I whispered to Ziri.

“His name is Mahmoud.  His father wanted us to wed.  They were banking on it… since I was eleven.”

“I see.”  You are wise to be jealous.  He is the wolf at the door.  “I should keep an eye on him.”

She squeezed my thigh playfully.  “You should, yes.  He doesn’t like to lose.”  She regarded him coldly. “It’s a pity he’s so good at it!”

By then, the next course arrived.  One large tagine carrying Sanae’s lungs and stomach, stuffed with couscous.  I tried it.  Not my favourite.  Still… edible.  I wiped gravy from my mouth, and laid my hand on Ziri’s neck.

“I am glad you are my wife.”

“Really?  I was a little afraid…”

I shrugged, humiliated by her questioning eyes.  “I was fearful I was not worthy.  It doesn’t matter now.  You are mine.  Are you happy, too?”

She smiled.  “Wait until we are alone.  I will show you how happy I am.”

What if I can’t wait?  Oh, I must?  Damn.

Ibrahim clapped his hands; said something in Tamazight.

I looked to Ziri.

“He called for the lamb.”  She murmured.

Two burly ghosts slipped into the hall, carrying ‘The Lamb’ on a pole.  The golden carcass steamed as they set it in the holder.  ‘Agzzar’ carved ribbons of meat of the arms, back, belly and thighs, and passing them around.  There was a bit of squabbling over the luscious hams, but there was more than enough to go around.  I watched them eat, in the style of shawarma, with the flesh wrapped with yogurt and pickles, inside a pita.  I copied them.

Now this is meat!  Like fine-grained pork, but sweeter and spicier.  I wondered how I could thank Sanae.  I said a prayer, anyway.  Looking up, I noticed that Ibrahim was sitting quietly, his hands folded in his lap.  “Uncle?  You aren’t eating?”  Indeed, he’d eaten nothing, as yet.

Ibrahim favoured me with a friendly smile, which tightened.  He said, “My portion is coming.  Ah, here it is!”

The crone brought in a silver-lidded tray, and laid it at Ibrahim’s feet.  He looked at it, a mixture of nervous sadness battling on his brows.  “Sanae asked this of me, to honour her time in Marseilles.  I agreed — to honour her.”

I stared at the dome, whitened by steam.  I knew what lay inside.  Indeed — when he swept the dome aside and revealed Sanae’s uterus, stuffed with rice and almonds, and surmounted by her roasted vulva — I could only marvel at how the presentation rivalled a three-Michelin-star hotel.

He nosed his fork into the tender flesh, and cut a bite free.  He examined it carefully, and then brought the glistening meat to his lips.  He kissed the flesh; then He chewed thoughtfully, and his eyes watered.  He murmured a Tamazight prayer, and cut in, again.  He ate in patient silence… methodically lifting his fork, kissing the meat, and consuming it.

I was hypnotized, watching him.  He noticed.  He excised the clitoris and held it before me.  “Would you care for a taste, my Son?”

How could I refuse?  How could I even be flippant?  I accepted the morsel.  I hoped Ziri didn’t mind; I dared not check.  Oh, GOD!  The flavour!  The texture!  The dainty melted like butter… the taste like…?  ‘Like”?  NOTHING!  It really is indescribable.  I swallowed, and looked a Ziri.

She gazed at me, her eyes expressionless.  I resisted the urge to kiss her.  It may be against the custom… and, well, it’s just impolite, to kiss a woman, with the flavour of her sister’s sex careening around your mouth!

I glanced at her hands.  She had not finished her portion.  I pointed.

“I’m full.”  She announced.

“Me, too,” I realized aloud.  Indeed, overfull.  I tried to bury a burp in my fist.  I sat back, leaned on Ziri’s chest.  “I think I need to go to bed.”

She murmured, “If I take you to bed, you won’t get much rest.”

Indeed?  But then, I recall the company I’m keeping.  I sat up, and blushed.  Ibrahim was nearly done his portion.  And, the carcass was down to bones.  I glanced around the room.  Only Mahmoud met my gaze.  And only hate washed back.  His gaze shifted, turned hungry, as he lit on Ziri.  I AM going to have to kill you…?   It was a happy thought.

I heard the metallic chime of fork on empty plate.  I looked back.

Ibrahim wiped his mouth and sighed.  He raised a hand, “[Friends.  We have all performed the Duty.  I thank you for your kindness and forbearance.  Now, if I may prevail on your patience, a moment longer…  Our honoured guest has honoured me, by asking for my beloved niece’s hand in marriage.  And I have accepted.”

I didn’t need Ziri to translate the ululation of consternation.  I was a little surprised that Mahmoud and ‘Agzzar’ shared a look off betrayal.

“What’s that about?”

“Didn’t you know?  He is Mahmoud’s father.”

I laughed.  Figures.

“Grandfather…” Agzzar said, carefully.  “May we discuss this in private?”

“Certainly.”  Ibrahim strode to the door, flanked by the butcher and the wolf.

“I’d better go along,” I whispered to Ziri.

“It might be wise?”

I levered myself up and followed the men.  I found them, arguing, in Ibrahim’s apartment.

“Be seated, Agzzar,” Ibrahim commanded (in English, for my benefit).

Agzzar scowled at me.  Said something in Tamazight.  I felt the contempt, both in his tone, and his choice of language.

“We will conduct this discussion, in English, out of respect for our guest.”

The butcher moved to speak.

“Unless you think I should call Ziri, to translate…?”

Agzzar glowered.

Mahmoud spat.

Ibrahim favoured the boy with cold smile.  He’d just as well have slapped him.

Agzzar started, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.  “How dare you not consult me, Ibrahim?  You know Ziri is intended for Mahmoud?”

You Ziri for Mahmoud.  I never have.”

Agzzar looked greedily at me, “He hasn’t defiled her?  Is that your reason?”

“Certainly not.”

“Look here,” I said, “Ziri is none of your business.  She is my wife.”

“Silence, Boy.  She is not yours, yet.  Unless you lie.”

“You will not speak of my wife in this fashion.”

Agzzar laughed.  Muttered a Tamazight curse.

“Agzzar.  You forget your place.  Finding a suitable husband for Ziri is my responsibility, not yours.  And I will tolerate no further rudeness to my guest.”

“I am sorry.”

“…sorry that you are such an old FOOL!”

Both men rounded on the wolf-pup, and he flinched, and fell silent.

“The decision isn’t final.  You can change your mind?”

Ibrahim shook his head.  “I won’t.  Ziri will be as far away from your son as I can make her, inside the week.”

“You’ve gone mad!  You’ve lost your mind.”

“To the contrary.  I am resolved, and clear on this point.  You will have no part of Ziri, while I am alive.”

Agzzar fingered the butt of his knife.  “We could solve this the old way…?  With blades?”

I knew I was eager for the idea.

“There will be no fighting, on the eve of the ritual.”

Agzzar laughed contemptuously.  “Stop hiding behind that slut’s skirts!

Ibrahim boxed the man on the temple.  “How dare you!”

Agzzar laughed bitterly.  “Ibrahim, you old fool.  Perhaps, the weight of governance has exhaust…”

“Father,” I said gently.  “I wish to exert my prerogative, as a husband.  Let me kill this animal, for you.”

Ibrahim looked at me, grief like a cloud.

“My honour has been insulted.  I demand satisfaction.”

“What?  I meant…?”

“Sir.  Your meaning is clear.  Prepare the space, for me to meet your son.  I have nothing else to say.”

“I warn you now, Agzzar.  Tonight it ends.  Whatever happens, you will have nothing, after.  Your schemes are shattered.”

“[So be it.]”  He said it in Tamazight, but it was clear.

We left together, with Agzzar taking to the lead.

“You don’t have to do this, for me,” Ibrahim murmured.

“I’m doing it for Ziri.”

We re-entered the hall.  The room seethed with conversation, and smelled richly — even still — of Sanae.  It seemed that Ziri was elevated and changed… inducted into a sisterhood — the women fawned at her, like she was an icon.  I smiled at her triumph.  She saw me, and came to my side.

“[I have an announcement to make!]”  Ibrahim called, “[Mahmoud has made a claim on Ziri.  And he will not be satisfied without blood.  And, Matthew has consented to the duel].”

A throaty swell of excitement and consternation arose.  I saw the shock in Ziri’s eyes — and the hurt… and the fear… and the wondrous pride.  One way or another, I resolved to never see her hurt again.

“How do we do this?” I asked impatiently.

Ibrahim handed me his knife from his belt.  It felt increasingly weighty.  “Just kill him.  It’s not very formal.”

Let’s DO this!  I handed the sheath back, and tested the balance of the knife.  “I’m prepared.”

Mahmoud lead the way.  He stopped, and whispered final instructions to his son.

The community formed the sacred ring.  A hundred black eyes burned into me, like lasers.  Only Ziri’s had any power.  I gazed at my enemy.  I wished for a bleak phrase, to turn the screw.  Nothing came.  More’s the pity.

We stood in silence, for a brace of seconds.  Is there supposed to be some kind of signal?

Mahmoud stalked forward knife held by his waist.

I guess not.

I mirrored my enemy, keeping just out of range.  I watched, with amusement, as his face dissolved in frustration.  I teased him, from afar.  And his neck turned purple.

“Yes, Pup.  Get the blood flowing!”

He screamed and charged.  I slipped out of the way, and let my knife graze him.  He wheeled, with surprising speed, and I barely deflected his stab.  He seized my robe, and tried to throw me down.  I hooked my leg around his ankle, and used his momentum to take us both down.  We rolled.  He got a nick in.  I went nearly blind from the pain.  I felt my side go wet.  Maybe, not a nick.  With supreme effort, I parried his next wild slash, and cut his forearm…  Blood welled up.  He howled, tried an over-handed cut.  I caught his wrist, and I held his knife hand up, and thrust my blade into his lung.  He wheezed, and coughed.  He arms went slack.  I stood, and pulled him too his knees, by his hair.  I looked at Agzzar.  I looked at Ziri.

“I’m Sorry, Ibrahim.” I said.  My hand moved, and Mahmoud’s blood was upon me.  His body jerked, and shivered.  I let him fall.  Never letting my gaze break from Agzzar.  I see you.

It was hard not to look at the shattered man, and not feel pity.  I shrugged and tried to breathe.  A liquid, electric whip on my side.  I checked the wound.  Not too, too, bad.  No.  No pity. 

“Ziri,” I murmured.  “Let’s go.”

 

Finis

One Comment

  1. lens
    January 28, 2014 @ 3:03 pm

    Interersting, exotic and enjoyable. Thanks and best wishes. lens

    Please wait...

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