City of Jasmine

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Something of Halliday reminded me of him, a trick of the light, the curve of a high cheekbone, perhaps. But Halliday’s eyes were a mild grey where Gabriel’s had been such a startling blue I had sometimes looked into them and completely lost my train of thought. There was something similar to Gabriel’s lazy grace in Halliday’s gestures, his economy of movement, but the effect was of a serviceable copy instead of the glamour of the real thing.

  Of course, that wasn’t Halliday’s fault at all, so I smiled back and he tightened his hold. We danced on until the end of the song. When it finished I started to step back, but he did not let me go. “One more?”

  I went willingly into his arms. It was a delicious feeling after so many years without Gabriel, and I found myself thinking an unmaidenly thought or two as we moved. The song came to an end, but he made no move to stop dancing and neither did I.

  Just as the conductor raised his baton for the next number, the maître d’ thrust his head behind the palms to speak to him. The conductor shrugged and something changed hands—money, no doubt—for the conductor leaned forward and murmured something to his musicians.

  They fumbled with their sheet music, casting aside the next song on their list, and launched into a pretty little prelude. Mr. Halliday and I began to dance again, and just as he swung me into a graceful turn, I felt a shiver run down my spine.

  “Evie?” His eyes were full of concern, his arm tight about my waist.

  “‘Salut d’Amour,’” I said.

  “Beg pardon? Oh, yes, I think it is. Pretty little piece, isn’t it? Shame I’ve such a wretched memory for music. Never can remember who wrote it.”

  “Elgar,” I said stiffly. “It’s Elgar.”

  His expression brightened. “Of course it is. Now, Evie—Mrs. Starke? You’ve gone quite pale? Are you feeling all right?”

  I forced a smile. “Quite, but suddenly the room seems beastly hot. Forgive me. I must excuse myself for just a moment.”

  He held onto my hand, patting it solicitously. “Anything you like. May I take you back to the table?”

  “The ladies’ cloakroom, I think.”

  He walked me as far as the door and I turned to put my hand to his sleeve. “Would you mind going to check on Aunt Dove? I oughtn’t have left her quite so long. I’m feeling frightfully guilty.”

  He hesitated. “If you’re certain you’re all right.”

  “Perfectly. Just a little warm. I will bathe my wrists and be right as rain in a few minutes. Please don’t trouble yourself. Go order some more champagne and I will be back to the table by the time it arrives.”

  He trotted off and as soon as he was out of sight, I ducked behind one of the palms. I waited until the maître d’ strode by and jumped out to pluck at his sleeve.

  The poor man nearly jumped out of his skin. “Madame! You have startled me.”

  “I apologise, but I must speak with you.”

  He preened a little, stroking his moustache. No doubt he was accustomed to intrigues in his establishment, but I had other fish to fry. I leaned closer.

  “It is a matter of some delicacy, monsieur.”

  “Naturellement.” He put on a conspiratorial smile and laid a finger to the side of his nose. “This way, madame.”

  He led me to a quiet little alcove sheltered from the rest of the club by a carved screen. “What may I do for you, madame?”

  “The song the orchestra is playing now, ‘Salut d’Amour—’ why are they playing that piece?”

  He shrugged. “It is a pretty and popular piece, madame.”

  “I think it is more than that. I believe you paid the conductor to play it. Why?”

  His dark eyes gleamed. He was enjoying himself. “Madame is observant.”

  “Madame is a little impatient, as well. Why did you pay him? Did someone pay you?”

  He shrugged again. “It is customary to pay extra for special services,” he said blandly.

  The hint did not go amiss. I fished in my tiny beaded bag and withdrew a paper note. His eyes lit with avarice and he plucked the note from my fingers, whisking it into his pocket before I could object.

  “To answer your question, madame, yes. I was asked to make this request of the conductor.”

  “By whom?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward and I took out another note. He made to take it, but this time I held it just out of reach.

  He sighed. “Ah, madame grows cynical. Quelle dommage. Very well. I was given money to request the song, but monsieur was most insistent that it be played immediately.”

  “Describe monsieur for me, please.”

  He thought. “My own height, perhaps a little less slender. Dark hair and dark eyes with tiny moustaches. An Arab,” he added. “And a very young one. Not yet twenty.”

  My racing heart slowed. It could not be Gabriel. The maître d’ was less than five foot eight and inclined to slight embonpoint around his middle. Gabriel had been six feet even and well-built. Even more damning, although he had dark hair, his gentian blue eyes would have given him away even if he could have passed for someone almost two decades his junior, which I distinctly doubted.

  The maître d’ winkled the note out of my fingers. “Does madame have any more questions?”

  “Yes,” I said suddenly. “How much did he pay you?”

  “Two hundred francs.”

  “And how did he pay?”

  “In two 100-franc banknotes, madame.”

  “You gave one to the conductor?”

  He gave an indulgent laugh. “Madame underestimates me. I gave him fifty francs.”

  I pulled out the largest banknote I had in my bag. “Give me the notes he gave you.”

  He took the note from me and held it up to the light.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m no counterfeiter!”

  He threw up his hands with a gusty sigh. “Madame must forgive my cynicism, but it is the burden of the Frenchman. When a lovely woman wishes to pay him far more for his money than it is worth—” He trailed off, leaving me to draw my own conclusions.

  “You’re quite right to be cautious. But I think there may be something for me on one of the notes.”

  He lifted his brows, a delighted smile playing about under his moustache. “La! An intrigue! Why did madame not say so before?”

  He drew out the two hundred-franc notes and handed them over, happily pocketing the larger note I had given him in exchange. He leaned over while I examined the notes.

  “What do they say, madame? Anything?”

  I scrutinised the notes in the dim light. “Nothing,” I said, but even as the word was out of my mouth, I saw it. In faint pencil, on the very edge of the note. REAPERS HOME.

  “But what does this mean, madame?”

  I forced a bright smile and brought out another banknote to press into his hand. “It is an assignation. I must trust in your discretion, monsieur.”

  He pocketed the banknote swiftly as he bowed. “But of course, madame! I am the very soul of discretion. It is more than my life is worth not to be,” he added with a wistful smile. No doubt he had seen his share of intrigues and thought himself a sort of Cupid, helping them along. Or he simply enjoyed the extra money he extorted for his silence.

  I slipped the notes into my décolletage and slid out of the alcove, fluffing my hair as I made my way back to the table.

  Halliday rose and handed me a fresh glass of champagne.

  “Feeling better?” Aunt Dove asked.

  “Much. It was wretchedly hot on that dance floor,” I said, turning from one to the other with a smile. I lifted my glass in a toast. “To Damascus. To old friends and new.”

  We drank together and Halliday and Aunt Dove fell into conversation about what we ought to see and do in Damascus. I tried to
keep up my end, but my thoughts kept turning to the banknotes rustling in my cleavage, and when Halliday at last dropped us at our hotel I was grateful to bid Aunt Dove good-night and go directly to my room. To Aunt Dove’s disappointment, Halliday hurried away, and I felt a trifle guilty I had warned him off. He was a big boy. I had no doubt he could take care of himself and would be gentleman enough to be gracious to Aunt Dove when he rebuffed her advances. Still, it was sometimes better to head off trouble at the pass, I had found, and I would have hated to lose Mr. Halliday as a connection. I had a feeling he could prove useful to us, and with so little to go on, I wanted every possible advantage in tracking down the facts behind the photograph.

  I pulled out the banknotes and studied them again. There was nothing remarkable about them, no other pencilled messages, no distinctive scent. Just those two words and the song the orchestra had played. “Salut d’Amour.” It was a beautiful melody with just a touch of nostalgia to save it from sentimentality. There was something haunting and old-fashioned about it, and although Gabriel and I had quarrelled good-naturedly about music, it was the one song we had agreed upon. I could never convince him that jazz was going to be the next big thing any more than he could make me love Palestrina. But “Salut d’Amour” had been ours. We had danced to it the first night we met and every night after. No matter how badly we fought or how cold our silences had become, every evening after dinner Gabriel had started up his gramophone and played it, taking me in his arms and leading me into a sweeping turn that left me dizzy.

  I tucked the banknotes into my cleavage and wound up the tiny gramophone I carried with me on my travels. It took me a few minutes to find the right recording, but at last I did. I went to the window, opening the pierced shutters to look out over the sleeping city. The moon was waxing and hung half-full like some exotic silver jewel just over the horizon. From the courtyard below rose the scent of jasmine on the cool night air. A slender vine had wound its way up to the balcony, and I reached out, pinching off a single creamy white blossom. I lifted it to my nose, drinking in the thick sweetness of it as it filled my head, sending my senses reeling. There was something narcotic about that jasmine, something carnal and ethereal at the same time. I crushed the petals between my fingers, taking the scent onto my skin. It was not a fragrance to wear alone. It was too rich, too heady, too full of sensuality and promise. It was a fragrance for silken cushions and damp naked flesh and moonlit beds. I rubbed at my fingers, but the scent clung tightly, keeping me company as I sat in the window, listening to a song I had almost forgot and thinking of Gabriel Starke and the five years that stretched barrenly between us.

  Three

  The next morning I popped in to see Aunt Dove just as she finished her breakfast in bed.

  “Oh, this apricot jam is absolutely exquisite. Did you have some, dear?” she asked, feeding the last bits to Arthur Wellesley on a piece of bread.

  “I did, and it was sublime. What shall we do today?” I asked. I was already washed and dressed and only the tiniest bit put out that she hadn’t even risen yet.

  She gave me a wan smile. “Do you mind terribly going on without me? I’m afraid I’ve caught the indolence of the East and I’m feeling lazy as a harem girl today.”

  It wasn’t the East so much as the relentless travel of the past few months, I thought. Her complexion was a little paler than I liked, and in spite of her delight in the jam, most of her breakfast had gone untouched.

  “You’re off your feed,” I said, helping myself to a fig. “Shall I call the doctor?”

  She flapped a hand, startling Arthur, who retreated to the bedstead, squawking irritably.

  “Heavens no! You know what English doctors are like—all purgatives and little pills. No, I just need rest, child, and I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  “If you’re sure,” I said a trifle uncertainly.

  “Quite,” she assured me, clipping off the syllable sharply. “Now, I don’t like the notion of you bumbling around Damascus on your own. You’re far too pretty for that. You will want a dragoman.”

  “Aunt Dove, really! I hardly think they go in abducting women off the streets. I’m sure I shall be perfectly safe.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “I mean it, Evie. I know this part of the world. Arabs could teach the English a thing or two about courtesy, but there are more than Arabs in Damascus. Some of those wretched Turks—”

  I held up a hand before she had a chance to warm to her theme. “I’m sure there are perfectly courteous Turks to be found, as well. But if it makes you happy I’ll engage a dragoman and see the city in style. Is that better?”

  “Much.” She began thumbing through the letters on her tray, clearly finished with me now that I had promised to be a good girl.

  I left her then, dropping a kiss to her cheek and nearly getting pecked by Arthur for my troubles. I opened my phrasebook and began to sound out a few key words. I was so immersed that I completely missed the last step of the stairs, stumbling neatly into a young Arab man.

  He caught me, setting me gently on my feet, then dropped his hands at once, bowing gracefully.

  “Oh, forgive me, sitt! It is not proper to put hands upon a lady. I have offered the gravest offence.”

  “Don’t be silly. You saved me from a nasty fall,” I said, smiling to reassure him I was not offended.

  I didn’t bother to ask how he knew to address me in English. The hotel catered to an international crowd, and English or French was any Damascene’s best bet if he wanted to make himself understood.

  I thought my smile and pleasant tone would convince him I was not bothered, but he looked up at me, his expression stricken.

  “But you must permit me to make amends.”

  I bit back a smile. He was very young, no more than fifteen, I guessed, and so earnest, I hadn’t the heart to let him think I found him amusing when he was taking the whole thing so seriously.

  I inclined my head with as much gravity as I could manage. “That isn’t necessary,” I assured him. “There is no offence, and I thank you for your quick thinking.”

  I moved to go past him, but he darted in front of me, his dark brown eyes snapping brightly.

  “Then the sitt will consider hiring Rashid as dragoman,” he said suavely.

  That time I did smile. He was slender as a girl and far younger than the dragomen who clustered about the court waiting for clients. But he had a true entrepreneur’s spirit, and he had seized the advantage in speaking to me.

  Still, I thought a fellow with experience might be best, so I shook my head.

  “Thank you, but no.”

  I stepped forward and he dodged in front of me again, his striped robe billowing.

  “Then the sitt speaks untruly, for she has not forgiven me,” he said, his face mournful as he turned those expressive dark eyes heavenward.

  “Oh, really, that’s not fair,” I said, laughing. “You can’t think I would actually hold a grudge over something so trivial. I promise, I haven’t. It’s just that I want a dragoman with experience.”

  He rose to his full height, which was very nearly my own, and lifted his chin as his hands sketched a graceful gesture. “I have experience, sitt. I am a gentleman of this city.”

  The words were spoken with a solemnity beyond his years, and I suppressed another smile.

  “And I suppose you have twelve cousins who all own shops and want you to bring business there, is that it?”

  He scowled a little. “I have no kinsmen in trade,” he said, nearly spitting the word. “I am a son of the desert.” He finished with a little flourish and a phrase that sounded something like ibn al-Sahra.

  “You are a Bedouin then?” I asked, fascinated in spite of myself. To the casual traveller, all Arabs were alike. But I had learned enough from Gabriel to understand that the Bedouin were s
pecial. Nomadic and proud, they were held to be the very embodiment of Arab virtues. They were more than a little fascinating, and I found myself giving way almost before I knew it.

  “I haven’t much money to pay you,” I warned him. I had finally opened the fuel bill for the Jolly Roger and it had been so horrifying I had thrust it at once into the toe of an old boot.

  He made another graceful gesture and named a price. It was so low, no other dragoman would have taken as much to get out of bed in the morning, but I was in no position to question him. I agreed and he grinned—a beautiful, engaging smile. He was a remarkably handsome young man, and he must have set a dozen hearts fluttering back home.

  But he was all business as we ventured into the city. He might have charged me a pittance, but he was determined to be the best dragoman in Damascus. He hailed taxis, nipping neatly into traffic to snatch them up before anyone else could. He kept a sunshade firmly over my head, scolding me for coming out with only a small-brimmed hat as we made our way through the old city.

  Rashid was as good as his word. He was knowledgeable and courteous, and when it was time to lunch, he guided me to a small restaurant where a Western woman eating alone would not attract too much unwanted attention. There was no menu—only Rashid, speaking firmly to the staff about what he wanted. They brought out dish after dish of delicious things, from stewed chicken with pistachios to a pomegranate custard that melted on my tongue. I finally pushed away from the table, groaning a little as I did so.

  “I ought never to have doubted you, Rashid,” I told him. “That meal alone was worth engaging your services.”

  He made another of his courtly bows. “Now, the sitt must see the city as only a Damascene can show it.”

  “I thought you were a son of the desert, ibn al-Sahra,” I replied mischievously, mangling the phrase as I tried to repeat what he had said earlier.