The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [91]
Before long the maid returned and indicated that I was to follow her. We ascended a staircase to the first floor and went along a carpeted corridor. She opened a door and waved me in.
It was like stepping from the nineteenth century to the fifteenth – crossing in a single stride the thousands of miles that separate London from Old Cairo.
Persian carpets covered the floor in careless profusion, layer on layer of them. Walls and ceiling were draped with gold brocade, even to the windows – if there were windows, for not a beam of light entered. The only illumination came from hanging lamps pierced in intricate patterns and suspended from chains so fine that the slightest movement of air set them swaying and sent golden specks of light darting through the gloom like falling stars, or the small fiery insects that inhabit the western continent.
I thought at first that no one was there; but after my eyes had adjusted to the dim light I made out a form, sitting still as any statue on a divan against the farther wall. Unconsciously my hands tightened on the handle of my parasol. I had no reason to fear attack, for I knew nothing that threatened her; but the atmosphere reminded me, painfully and vividly, of another such room in which I had recently spent several of the most uncomfortable hours of my life,5 and the sweet-scented smoke from a low brazier beside the couch on which she reclined made my senses swim.
But only for a moment. I remembered my mission; I remembered who I was, and what she was. By Eastern custom, the inferior waits to be addressed before speaking. I cleared my throat and addressed her.
‘Good morning. I apologize for the intrusion. I am –’
‘I know who you are.’ She gestured – a movement of exquisite grace. ‘Sit there.’
It was not a chair she indicated, but a low hassock. Most Englishwomen, I daresay, would have found the position uncomfortable, if not actually impossible to attain. I promptly sat down and arranged my skirts neatly.
She was now only a few feet away, but I still could not make out her features clearly, for she wore the long burko, or face veil, suspended from a jewelled band around her brow. This veil is fashioned of white muslin or silk, and it is not ordinarily worn in the presence of other females. I could only assume Ayesha intended a subtle insult of some sort, but it was too subtle for me; I did not understand what she meant by it. Her veil was so fine it outlined the perfect oval of her face, the strongly modelled nose and firm chin. Her head was bare. The waving tresses that fell over her shoulders gleamed like black satin. Her garments were of the sort worn by highborn Egyptian ladies in the privacy of the harim – loose trousers of striped silk and a long vest clinging tightly to her upper body and arms. It left half the bosom bare, for she wore no shirt underneath. All the areas thus defined, or exposed, were quite admirable in outline and in texture; her skin shone like polished amber.
Her pose was negligent, even contemptuous. Leaning on one elbow, she raised her knee, and the silken garment slipped back, baring a limb as shapely as that of a nymph. The trousers – quite contrary to the usual custom – were slit from hip to ankle.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked.
She spoke English, with only a slight trace of accent. The ways of the East are subtle and cunning. The women especially, who are denied the right to speak out on almost any subject, have developed their own methods of expressing disdain. Her use of my language – for she must have known I spoke hers – was a means of asserting superiority, and the question itself implied much more than it actually said. (For the sake of my duller readers I will spell it out. By not asking why I had come, she confirmed that I had reason to do