The Haj - Leon Uris [87]
‘You must learn to allow yourself to be touched,’ she said.
‘I did it wrong.’
‘Stop that. Learn to be touched. Learn to enjoy your own stillness.’
Haj Ibrahim gasped several times. Everything was running together: the long drive from Tabah, the spellbinding arrival in Damascus, this night of paradise, Gideon’s home, the moon rising over the Golan Heights, tanks, cannons, Tabah ... Tabah ... Tabah ... the road to Jerusalem.
‘I must confess that for the first time in my entire life, I am somewhat tired,’ he said.
‘Not to be so certain,’ she answered.
Ursula sat up, opened a bedside table drawer and withdrew a little jeweled box, opened it and took out a stick of hashish and crumpled some in a pipe.
Aha! Now that I am weak she will give me hashish dipped in poison.
Before anxiety overtook him he saw her light the pipe and draw a deep, hungry puff, then offer it to him. He smiled, almost aloud, at his own foolishness. As he relit the pipe for a second draw, her hand brought his down.
‘It is very strong,’ she warned.
‘Yes,’ he said in delight, ‘yes.’ The room swirled and the aroma of frankincense glazed his mind. Everything about him was satin. Ursula’s touch had now become incredible. He never realized such finesse existed. She licked him entirely, endlessly. What he thought was dead between his legs began to come alive again.
‘Don’t move, don’t grab me,’ she instructed. ‘Accept.’
‘I will try, but you are driving me out of my mind.’
‘Try. You are a good man.’
‘I’ll try,’ he repeated.
She bathed herself in scented oils before him under a dim light, then bathed him. As she slithered atop him she admonished him again softly to remain still. He allowed himself to be taken over. Ursula was in control and loved him and loved him and loved him until he was holding a volcano at bay inside himself. This time she joined in the delight, forcing him to submit to her in tiny stages until the volcano could no longer contain eruption and the most blissful of all weariness overcame him.
‘Ursula,’ he whispered later.
‘Yes?’
‘Why did he bring me here?’
‘I should not tell.’
‘Please.’
‘Tomorrow you will meet with Kaukji and Abdul Kadar Heusseini.’
Ibrahim sat up, his fogginess dispelled instantly. ‘But they are my blood enemies. They are Kabir’s blood enemies!’
‘It seems that all Arabs are to become brothers, now.’
Haj Ibrahim grunted in dismay. Ursula put the pipe in his mouth again and lit it. He took a very deep draw and fell back on the pillow and she was beside him.
‘I will begin to worry tomorrow,’ he said.
5
THE VOICE OF THE muezzin, wailing out to call the devout to prayer, pierced the air as night turned to day. Haj Ibrahim awakened to it automatically, as he had done every day of his life. He blinked his eyes open slowly. He was very groggy. Damascus! The Effendi Kabir! He bolted upright and his head pounded from the night of hashish, wine, and lovemaking.
He looked quickly to his side. She was gone, but he could still smell her fragrance and the pillow was indented where she had slept. He moaned an enormous sigh of remembrance and smiled, groaning equally at his hangover, smiled again, and threw the sheet back. It probably never even happened, he thought. Even if it had been a dream, it had been worth it.
Haj Ibrahim unrolled his prayer rug, laid it down facing Mecca, and bowed.
‘In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate.
Praise belongs to Allah, the Lord of the worlds,
The merciful, the compassionate.
Wielder of the Day of Judgment.
Thus do we serve, and on Thee do we call for help;
Guide us the straight path,
The path of those upon whom Thou has bestowed good,
Not that of those upon whom anger falls, or those who go astray.’
When the prayer was done he arose gingerly, for he ached in many places. ‘I have prepared a bath,’ a woman’s voice said behind him. He turned to see Ursula by the door and his heart raced. ‘I’ve ordered breakfast on the veranda. Your meeting is not until later.’
She helped him down three steps into a great marble caldron of a tub. They