Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [60]
I tried once to introduce an interesting subject, but when I mentioned Ali, Sweet frowned and shook his head. ‘Yes, I had heard. It is very sad. Too sad to think about on such an evening. Have you tried the couscous, Vicky? Delicious!’
I tried the couscous. I don’t remember what else I ate; it was all delicious, but I couldn’t remember the names even if I had been paying attention. As I wandered to and from the groaning board I caught glimpses of Schmidt, enjoying himself as only Schmidt can.
After dinner we retired to the lounge for coffee and entertainment. Almost everyone was a little tight by that time, and they entered into the contest for best costume with childish delight. Suzi tried to belly dance and Louisa struck a pose, arms raised and bent, à la Steve Martin imitating King Tut. The prize for best men’s costume went to, of all people, Larry’s secretary, who had apparently been persuaded to take the evening off. He looked very authentic in Arab costume, with dark glasses and an Ibn Saud moustache under his checked headcloth.
Our little musical ensemble had traded in their Western instruments for drums and pipes. They gave us a brief concert, and then Hamid, the master of ceremonies, made an announcement. We were in for a treat, it appeared. He would say no more, except that the dancer we were about to see ordinarily did not perform in public. This was a gracious gesture, a tribute to a particularly distinguished group of visitors.
Feisal walked out onto the floor.
I had never seen him in other than Western clothing. His robe was plain, light grey in colour. He looked gorgeous just standing still. Then the band struck up, if that is an appropriate phrase, and he started to dance.
I knew belly dancing was a bastard form, and that the classic form of the art is performed only by men. If you think a man dancing alone looks effeminate, you haven’t seen Baryshnikov or any of the other great premiers danseurs. In a completely different way, and in a completely different idiom, Feisal had the same power. I can’t describe what he did. It involved movements of arms and body and head, sometimes graceful and gliding, sometimes forceful, almost abrupt. By the time he finished, every woman in the room was dry-mouthed and I was thinking things I would call sexist if a man had been thinking them about me.
Feisal stood still for a moment, acknowledging the applause with a slight inclination of his head. Then he held out his hands and gave us a brilliant smile. ‘Come, who will join me?’
Suzi was the first onto the floor. They glided around for a while; at least Feisal glided, holding her out at arm’s length, only their hands touching. Graceful she was not, but she enjoyed herself hugely, flashing teeth almost as white as Feisal’s, emitting peals of laughter when she tripped over her own feet. Sweet and Bright were the next to try it; they circled solemnly, waving their arms. The effect was not at all the same.
I decided I needed a cup of coffee. As I approached the dance floor, Feisal passed Suzi neatly off to Bright and caught my hand.
‘All the ladies in turn,’ he called, towing me onto the floor.
There wasn’t much I could do; he had a grip like a steel trap. I tried to be like a good sport, but I could feel my face turning red. I’ve always been self-conscious about my height. Even when they are clumsy, little women manage to look cute. Tall women just look clumsy, period.
‘You are very graceful,’ Feisal murmured, steadying me as I stumbled.
‘And you are very much a liar. I’ll get you for this, Feisal.’ He laughed, throwing his head back. His throat was smooth and brown, corded with muscle. ‘Have you been avoiding me? I have seen nothing of you.’
‘You’ve been busy. Oops. Sorry.’
‘Relax, don’t fight me. You would do well if you were not so afraid.’
As double entendres go it wasn’t awfully subtle, especially when it was accompanied by a languishing look from those