Beyond the Gate of Worlds

by Robert Silverberg

  No. He wasn’t. For here came Hideki, transformed, accompanied by the girl rosebud who had taken him in charge and wearing, save the turban, identical garb. Djinghiz repressed an oath. In this attire it was impossible to mistake the sex of the young Japanese despite his still long hair. The shape of the throat alone, with its newly prominent Adam’s apple—!

  Whereas his companion was developing in totally different areas.

  There was no time to waste, though, on reproaching himself for his blindness. Immediately on spotting Ismail, Hideki had dropped to his knees and was approaching him in what ought to have been a clumsy, even ridiculous manner, rather like scuttling very slowly, and making obeisance every few seconds. Yet, because it was done with all the dignity of the theatrical tradition in which he had been trained, it was curiously impressive, indeed moving. No one could have mistaken the action for other than what it was: an expression of respect and gratitude.

  Far better acquainted with the customs of Japan than anybody had a right to be who had never visited those strange and far-off islands, Ismail waited until the boy was within arm’s reach and making a final bow so deep his forehead rested on the carpeted floor. Then, with surprising agility for so heavy a man, he rose to his feet in a single smooth motion, with a gesture invited Hi-deki also to stand, and in his turn performed a sweeping bow, as though before a sultan or a czar.

  A grunt of annoyance sounded from behind Djinghiz. He glanced over his shoulder. There in the doorway, rendered presentable by the ministrations of Ismail’s staff—and, incidentally, deprived of his dagger—was Slava with a face like thunder. To him Ismail accorded no more than a nod acknowledging his presence, and a waiter ushered him to the place between Feisal and Paluka while Ismail himself fussed over Hideki and made sure he was comfortable.

  It was clear that the other three were even more mystified than he was by these odd goings-on. Well, in due time they would no doubt all discover what their purpose was . . .

  “Pray do not consider our seating arrangements tonight in the context of precedence,” Ismail murmured, resuming his own place. “It is for convenience. Ratanayaka effendi is as you know a vegetarian, and in Japan little use is made of meat, although much fish is eaten; therefore it seems sensible to place these two together where they can share appropriate dishes.”

  As though that were more than just the beginning of an explanation, the others relaxed. Ismail clapped his hands and a waiter hastened to pour wine and water, while two others brought in the first course, serving the Orientals first. They were given beans cooked in a sauce fragrant with herbs, mushrooms with cream, baby turnips glazed with sugar or possibly honey, a grilled carp sprinkled with almonds, and sweet peppers stuffed with rice and raisins. Also, of course, baskets of pita bread, almost too hot to touch, were placed along the table. For the meat-eaters came slices of succulent doner kebab, broiled lamb cutlets, quinces stuffed with minced lamb in honey sauce, and a chicken boiled with lemons and almonds after the Circassian style, appearing intact but already jointed in the kitchen so one needed only fingers to divide it.

  Ratanayaka, surveying the spread, heaved a loud sigh. “Gospodin Ismail,” he said before touching the food placed before him, “your charity is indeed a great work.

  I must express my thanks for such a meal as I have not enjoyed in many months.”

  Hideki also uttered something, in Japanese—presumably the same kind of compliment. Ismail, though he smiled, waved it aside and raised his winecup, waiting for the others to do the same. They imitated him, even Slava, though it was obvious he would rather have grabbed at the food straight away.

  “To a memorable evening,” the host proposed, and they all dutifully drank, even Ratanayaka, although after one sip he set his wine aside and continued only with water.

  “And now—” Ismail ceremoniously offered bread to Hideki, and the waiters did the same to the others. Released from the bonds of politeness, Slava seized the nearest leg of the chicken and, disdaining cutlery, stripped it to the bare bone within seconds, then snatched a lamb cutlet and a piece of bread and gobbled as though trying to choke himself.

  Seeming offended by the behavior of their chance companion, Feisal and Paluka ate with greater neatness and reserve, but displayed just as much appetite—as did Djinghiz when he finally managed to put aside for the time being the mystery of Hideki.

  Before tackling the sherbets that followed, delicate concoctions of fruit pulp whipped with artificial snow, and the red apples and Georgian or possibly Persian peaches of so pale a yellow they were almost white that succeeded them, all of them had recourse at least once to the closet of ease in the far corner of the room. Warmth and wine and the seductive music from below combined to generate a mood of relaxation. Even Slava forgot the grievances he had been nursing. Indeed he was the first to transform the stilted conversation which accompanied the meal into a free and easy mode such as might obtain among real friends. Unable to contain a monstrous burp, he made a laughing apology and look it as his cue to recount what he said was a Nordic folktale, extremely coarse but indubitably very funny. Even Paluka looked more kindly on him after that— even Djinghiz, to his own surprise.

  Most astonishing of all, even Hideki relaxed. Ismail had to translate the punch-line, and the young Japanese then proceeded to enact it, in dumb show, the way a Kabuki actor would have illustrated the story without the need for words. If anything, it was funnier than the original.

  Yet, so far, nothing of importance had been said. The host’s avowed intention of hearing travelers’ tales was unfulfilled.

  Abruptly Djinghiz realized they were alone. The waiters had vanished. The table had been cleared save for their goblets, dishes of fruit and loukoumi, the roses, and the hookah, which was uttering aromatic smoke through its several mouthpieces. Feisal, Paluka even Ratanayaka were partaking along with Ismail, though Hideki declined as did he himself, it not being a habit he had learned to enjoy. It felt as though it must be very late, yet it could not be, for they had started their meal comparatively early. Besides, the music from below was continuing, and one might guess that now it was accompanying a belly dancer, for it was frequently punctuated by applause and the sound of breaking crockery. But the sound seemed peculiarly far away, muffled as though by deep snow.

  A gust of wind whistled under the eaves, and Ratanayaka—who had contributed little to the talk so far—

  said suddenly, “I wonder if the kiteway worked this year. ’ ’

  The others turned inquiringly to him. Seeming embarrassed to find himself the center of attention, he went on, “Perhaps it means nothing to you: the kiteway?” Certainly it meant nothing to Djinghiz. He looked at Ismail, who was glancing politely from one to other of the company, and read from his plump face that he knew what was meant.

  Typical!

  “Ah, it would have been a great achievement,” Ratanayaka sighed. “You are perhaps aware that in my part of the world—that is, more exactly, further north on the subcontinent of Ind—there are two main seasons known by a name that means ‘steady wind’: monsoon. For part of the year it blows east to west, for the other part the opposite direction.”

  “Ah, we have indeed heard of that,” said Feisal. “But I never thought of Ind as a land of kites. China, now, and in particular Japan—”

  “But these were to be kites of a different and special kind,” Ratanayaka interrupted. “There was a man at the court of the King of the Mahrut, who conceived a plan for moving goods and even people over land instead of sending them around by sea. His idea was to build a sort of track, not exactly a railway but with wagons running on a bed of carved stone, to be towed by kites—huge strings of them, up to a dozen maybe— during one season in one direction, during the other, the opposite.”

  It occurred to Djinghiz that for someone so abstemious Ratanayaka sounded remarkably like a man whose tongue had been loosened by liquor. Had there been something in the food, in the hookah, in the very air of the room? There were all sorts
of perfumes that could mask it—

  But at this point Ismail put in a word.

  “Ah, I believe one has heard of this project. Was the name of its inventor Babu Ram Dass?”

  “It was indeed!” Ratanayaka exclaimed, and gave his host a look eloquent of respect for his peculiar knowledge.

  “I am most interested! Pray continue!” Ismail took a sip of wine. “If I dare say so, I doubt you Lankhans were in favor. Would it not have reduced the reliance of your northern neighbors on the ships that earn so much for your island people? ’ ’

  “Think you that I have much love for seafaring?” Pulling a face, Ratanayaka launched into a description of his miserable experiences aboard ship, when, he said, no matter what he ate he was obliged to renew acquaintance with it, and there always seemed to be something in what came up again that he could not possibly have ingested . . .

  By the time he finished he had them almost weeping v/ith laughter. Slava, his former anger quite forgotten, slapped the table with an open palm and declared that he would like to see Hideki imitate that in dumb show, adding in an almost shamefaced tone that if he’d realized how clever a student of the profession he was separating from his fellow actors, he’d have settled for keeping his mah-jongg winnings intact.

  Well, / suppose that’s as near as a fellow of his stamp will ever come to apologizing . . .

  But Ismail was guiding the conversation back to the main subject, the kiteway, and Ratanayaka, wiping his cheeks, was saying:

  “Yes, you were right, of course. The Lankhans were less than enthusiastic. But there was no need to worry.”

  “Why?”

  A shrug. “The monsoon failed for the first time in living memory. The king was so angry, he ordered Babu Ram Dass crushed to death beneath the wheels of one of his useless wagons.”

  There was a sudden chilly silence. As though regretting what he had said (Djinghiz wondered why, because everyone knew how cruel the Kings of Mahrut were), Ratanayaka reached blindly for one of the cups before him and drank a healthy swig, not caring that it held wine rather than water.

  Sensing more clearly than the others the nature of his reaction, Ismail reached across the table to the nearest bowlful of roses. Selecting a particularly handsome bloom, bright red at its petal tips, almost white at its heart, he contemplated it musingly.

  The music from below died away, as though he had given an unheard order, then resumed, but far more softly.

  At length he said, not raising his eyes from the flower, “The sign of this house is the rose. There is an ancient tradition attached to it. I wonder whether it’s a symbol you ’re acquainted with. ’ ’

  Having indulged in more wine than was commensurate with adherence to the laws of the Prophet—which allowed none at all—Feisal hiccuped.

  “Sounds like my field of study! If, as I take it, you mean a certain Roman custom?”

  “I do indeed!” Ismail beamed avuncularly.

  “We’re not on land that Romans ever ruled!”

  “What difference does that make? Were your beliefs less strongly held while in Shinto Japan or Christian Russia? Are Ratanayaka effendi’s, here where Islam was so long dominant and still preponderates? Is Djinghiz’s contempt for all religions affected by his current location? ’ ’

  Having thus contrived to arrange for three people to answer him at once, he sat back smugly and waited for one clear voice to emerge from the confusion. Even as he spoke up in reply, Djinghiz found himself envying more than ever this fat old man’s ability to manipulate those around him. Whereupon a strange thought crossed his mind:

  Maybe I ought to study with him, find out whether such a trick is teachable. I could see it being very useful . . .

  Then the clear voices emerged: not one, but two. The first was Hideki s.

  “Gospodin Ismail, it is true that the official religion of Japan is Shinto. More important, though, in the daily life of my people, is the Buddhism I share with the holy man at my right. ’ ’

  Ismail bowed acknowledgment of the correction, but went on waiting. His eyes, half-hidden by the suety rolls of fat that were his eyelids, were—Djinghiz could tell— focused on Paluka . . .

  Who duly spoke up, having said very little during dinner because his mouth was otherwise occupied. Djinghiz had heard tales about the vast quantities of food that Japanese wrestlers could put away; what he regarded as a meal, it was reported, they would dismiss as a mere snack. For the first time he had seen proof of the fact, albeit in the person of not a Japanese but a Hawaiian. Without appearing in the least discourteous, let alone greedy, Paluka had engulfed enough for three ordinary men.

  And, contentedly reposing on his digestion, was saying:

  “Earlier on I mentioned that I am ill acquainted with European history. Be so kind as to enlighten me concerning this Roman custom.”

  “Why!” Ismail returned. “In any house, or any room, where a rose was placed above the door, those within might reveal their inmost hearts, free from fear of retribution. No matter what they said, it must remain in confidence, and punishment awaited those who broke the seal.”

  He glanced at Ratanayaka.

  “Some of their punishments, by the way, were worse than what the King of Mahrut inflicted on your bold inventor. ’ ’

  Renewed silence. At last Paluka gave a harsh laugh.

  “I’ll speak my mind anywhere! It’s not the custom of my people to dissimulate or lie! Openness is all!”

  “You’ve never used a feint in wrestling?” said Ismail, feigning, himself, wry innocence. Paluka blinked.

  “Ah . . . Well, I regard that as a different matter!”

  “Yes, I’m sure you do.” Ismail tossed the rose into the air. How it was done, not even Djinghiz could tell, who had seen the portly man perform similar tricks in the past, but it darted upward to the ceiling and remained there. In the same instant, the last vestige of sound from outside died away, except the recurrent growling of the wind.

  “Now!” Ismail said with unexpected briskness. “If you are persons of honor, and I’m sure you are, it’s time to pay for your dinner.”

  “I said I would take travelers’ tales in trade. We have heard from our Lankhan friend, and - in a sense - from Hedeki also, although he used no words in the telling.

  Who will be next?”

  Six : Ramblers

  Briefly Djinghiz wondered whether—indeed hoped that—this was the moment Ismail had appointed for him to brag of his deeds. He tensed as words rose to his lips, yet instinctively he bit them back, fearing with half his mind that even under the sign of the rose it was too risky. And his reaction proved to be the right one, even though none of the others ventured to speak up.

  Instead, having waited a long moment, Ismail resumed in a musing tone.

  “Perhaps you mistrust my promise of secrecy. It’s no wonder, if you never before encountered the symbol of the rose. Besides, you no doubt still regard me as a stranger. Let me speak a while of myself, therefore. I shall do my utmost”—inclining his head towards Paluka—“to live up to your ideal of openness.”

  Leaning back, drawing now and then on the hookah, his eyes focusing on some point far away in time as well as space, he began in his high yet resonant voice to recount a story Djinghiz already knew, that of his journey from Istanbul to Krakdw and the reasons behind it.

  Listening as attentively as the others, as though he too were hearing it for the first time, he felt a shiver crawl down his spine at the emotionless tone of the words, the apparent absence of resentment, the bald detachment he displayed, as though these terrible events had happened to someone else, a virtual stranger.

  He told how his father, whose only son he was, had run afoul of powerful rivals at the Sublime Porte; how they had schemed and plotted to bring about his downfall, and succeeded, so that in the end the Sultan ordered the bowstring put about his neck, and for fear he might become a later focus of rebellion sent the boy to this city which at the time had still been an outlying co
mer of the Ottoman Empire. Later, when word was sent that he had entered puberty, it was decreed that he must be shorn of his nascent manhood so greatly did the Sultan still fear his years-dead courtier, for no reason save a pack of cunning lies.

  The Sultan died; his successor withdrew his armies from Poland; the boy contrived to remain in Krakdw, living under the protection of wealthy old men with a taste for pretty youths. When he could no longer attract such patrons he fell in with Darko, who then owned this hostelry, and—as Djinghiz had already reminded himself—not only restored it to its former glory but made it one of the most famous in the world . . . among, at least, the monied and discerning. That part of his narrative, however, he summed up in a couple of sentences, concluding with, “And here I am, as you see me.”

  Yet that was not the ending. As though the recital of his life story had provoked deeper reflections, he went on in so low a voice it was scarcely audible.

  “There is, I often suspect, more than a grain of truth in that teaching to which our friends on my right adhere: the notion that there are inexorable trends and patterns in events.”

  Djinghiz almost blurted a contradiction. Had he not, himself, and recently, so acted as to break the pattern— to move the Gate of Worlds so that history adopted a new course? But perhaps that was not the point Ismail was driving at. He forced himself to be patient, and his guess was confirmed.

  “Some, too, would of course maintain that whatever we puny human beings set out to accomplish, we can never overrule the will of Allah.” Ismail’s gaze, Djinghiz noticed, was fixed without seeming to be fixed on Feisal—whose lips, most curiously, did not move in response to mention of the Deity. Even those less than obsessively devout were conditioned from childhood to append some such phrase as “may his name be exalted.” Djinghiz himself had taken years to conquer the habit.

  Suddenly, however, as though recollecting himself, the Ethiopian reacted. What he uttered was a soundless whisper, but it seemed to satisfy Ismail, who continued.