Visions of Fire and Ice (The Petiri)

by Teresa D'Amario

  “A place called Abou El Sid. It’s a time-honored establishment with an old story behind it.”

  “Really? What kind of story?”

  “It is named for a man whose food was so prized the sultan wanted him for his own personal cook. The man refused, saying he wished to spend time with his family and enjoyed having his own place. The sultan imprisoned him for the rest of his life. It is his recipes which are served.”

  “What a horrible story!”

  “Times have changed, but Egypt was not always such an advanced culture. Surely your own country has stories like this in its history.”

  “Maybe.” Tamara thought about it. “Well, maybe not. I don’t think anyone in America was ever put in prison because he wanted to cook at home. Though I see your point.” Still, the idea of lifetime incarceration for such a simple reason gave her the creeps.

  “But, Kha-Ib, at least he lives on, through his restaurant. While it’s true he suffered greatly, this is a fine tribute to his work and past glory. Just wait until you see it. It is a wonderful place.”

  Tamara looked at Ramose skeptically, but nodded. “Okay, but it better be good. That poor man!”

  Jakkar dropped them as close to the entrance as possible, and, once they were out of the car, Ramose took her hand in his. A light chill passed over her fingers before his heat invaded her every pore.

  They passed from one world to a totally different one once inside the restaurant. For a moment, she thought they’d stepped back in time, into a world where Arabian Nights ruled. Muted shades of gold, red, blue, and green greeted her. Small booths tucked into cubbies offered privacy to the diners, while others included Egyptian settees and chairs. Pillows scattered across the chairs offered comfort and filled her soul with what felt like an ancient aura.

  A man hurried toward them, dressed in full Egyptian regalia. His white, blue-trimmed tunic whisked around bare ankles, giving way to worn leather sandals. His gnarled hand gripped Ramose’s with what appeared to be firm strength and pumped vigorously, his gray hair flying as he nodded and grinned.

  “Masā’a l-khayr,”

  “Masā’a l-khayr,” replied Ramose. “Greetings, my friend.”

  The two chattered in words Tamara didn’t understand. Their elderly host escorted them to a small, private cubby. The tiny room was simple with a picture of Abou El Sid on the walls. The only hint of present day glimmered in the tiny table with four chairs. Large, silk-covered throw pillows lined the walls, softening the look.

  Ramose pulled out a chair for Tamara and seated himself beside her.

  “This is amazing.” Tamara spoke at last, finally able to get in a word between the two men.

  “I told you it would be. I love this place. I have dined here many times.” He nodded to the host, who grinned, the lines cracking across his weathered face, and then took his leave.

  “I could tell. The maître d’ looked as if he adored you.”

  He shrugged. “I have been too busy to visit the last year or so. He was pleased to have me back. He thought I was not happy with the service.”

  Tamara glanced around. “It’s much too beautiful here to be displeased.” She gave Ramose a sidelong glance. “He certainly didn’t seem taken with me.”

  “Kha-Ib, he simply did not wish to offend. Certainly, you realize in Arabic cultures, men do not speak to women. Had you been with an American, he would have gone to great lengths to welcome you in the way of your people. With me, he chose tradition.”

  “In Arabic?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  She smiled, but shook her head at him, taking a seat. Turning her attention again to her surroundings, she searched the table. “No menus?”

  “I have taken the liberty to order for both of us. It should arrive shortly.”

  She let her fingers play over the surface of the table. “Now, this should be interesting,” she said dryly. “I don’t think anyone has ever ordered for me before. I can be rather picky when it comes to food.”

  “How can you be picky when you have not tried any of the local cuisine?”

  She laughed softly at his arched eyebrows. “Good question. I concede to your better judgment.”

  “So, tell me,” Ramose began, “what is it you do when you are not visiting Egypt on vacation?”

  “Me? I work in a small music store. I love all kinds of music, so it’s a perfect job for me.”

  A waiter stepped into the room carrying two plates with bowls and a tray of bread. “Please enjoy.” He bowed and then left the room.

  Tamara gave a suspicious glare at her meal and then Ramose. He dipped bread in the soup and took a bite.

  “Excellent,” he said, waiting for her to try it.

  Hesitantly, she picked up her spoon and tasted. Before she could say anything, he smiled. “That is not the best way to get the full flavor of the Molokheya. Dip the bread inside and let it absorb the juices of the soup then take a bite. Like this.” He demonstrated with another bite.

  With trepidation, Tamara picked up a slice of bread, tore a bit off, dipped it into the soup, and took a hesitant bite. Surprised, she smiled. The two flavors melded together beautifully, giving a richness she’d missed with the spoon.

  “This is good. What is in it?” Then, before he answered, she said, “Never mind. I’m not sure I want to know, yet.”

  He laughed, before turning back to their conversation.

  “Tell me, what kind of music do you sell in this music store?”

  “All kinds. From classical to pop. I’m not much into jazz or hip hop, but just about everything else is fair game.”

  “You like pop music?”

  “Oh sure. I love listening to the radio, enjoying new releases and old music alike. Lately, I’ve been into Adam Lambert and Gaga. What about you? What type of music do you like?”

  “I like classical, but also many of the early American rock and roll style.”

  She grinned, intrigued. “Tell me! Give me an example.”

  “I like a lot from the fifties, like the Beach Boys, Fats Domino, and the like.”

  She narrowed her gaze and looked him up and down. “I guess you do kinda look like Fonzee, don’t you?” She laughed when his eyebrows rose.

  “Fonzee?”

  “You don’t know who Fonzee is? Oh, my God, we have to work on bringing you into the twenty-first century.”

  “You have no idea,” he drawled, his smile mysterious.

  “I’ll just have to introduce you to newer music.”

  “And I shall introduce you to older music,” he said with a sly smile. They both laughed. It was nice to relax together.

  “Well, this is a surprise.” The baritone voice came from the doorway. Tamara turned to find a tall man leaning against the doorframe. Dark hair hung loose about wide shoulders. A sultry smile accented a small dimple on his cheek. He took in Tamara with his eyes, marred by what appeared to be a small bruise beneath his left eye.

  “Ramose, I thought that was you in here. Selket told me you might show up.” The man grinned at them both, his long muscular arms folded across his narrow waist.

  “Darius!” exclaimed Ramose. “Em Hotep, my friend, what brings you here?” Ramose stood, greeting the man with a powerful handshake and a slap on the shoulder. He turned, a comfortable grin on his face. “Darius, meet Tamara, Tamara, this is Darius. We have been friends for a long time.”

  “An understatement,” murmured Darius, stepping forward.

  Tamara grinned. At last. Maybe she could wheedle out some personal information about Ramose. After all, what were friends for? “Hello, it’s nice to meet a friend of Ramose’s.”

  “No, the honor is all mine,” he said. Bending, he took her fingers in his and kissed her hand, holding her fingers a little longer than necessary. Ramose seemed to be shooting daggers from his eyes at his friend, but Darius only smirked good-naturedly.

  Tamara blushed and pulled her hand back.

  “What brings you here? Sure
ly, you weren’t here for dinner.”

  Darius shook his head, a secret smile showing in his dark eyes. “I was speaking with Selket, and she told me of the news. Perhaps I now understand what this change is you mentioned.” One long, refined finger rubbed at the mar beneath his eye. “I think I owe you something.”

  “Darius,” Ramose growled a warning.

  Tamara stared between the two men. There was no danger, yet there was an undercurrent of secrets not shared, experiences she couldn’t begin to conceive. But she wanted to. She was never good at leaving things alone, curiosity always driving to ask more questions, but before she could, the man grinned.

  “And on that note I have a gift for you, so you will always remember this day.”

  Tamara’s brow furrowed. What had Ramose told this Selket about her? She glanced toward him, but Ramose kept his eyes firmly on Darius. Warning him?

  “What kind of gift?” Ramose’s voice was near a growl, and Tamara had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. She didn’t know how she knew, but what this gift was would be very embarrassing for Ramose.

  “Now, I know you aren’t lying about being old friends. You two are worse than me and my brother.”

  The two men turned the force of their gazes on her. One, amused and dark, filled with laughter. But it was the other which took her breath away. Ramose’s eyes were filled with dark sensuality, mixed with a wariness she didn’t understand.

  “One I promised you a long time ago. I think the time has come.”

  “You did not!” Ramose’s chin dropped, horrified.

  “I did.” Darius smirked. “Please, sit, enjoy your meal.” He bent down, picked up a CD player sitting on the floor by his feet, and deposited it on the windowsill. He clapped his hands then tapped a button on the machine.

  Music flowed from the player, heavy and earthy, filled with drums, cymbals, and flutes. A tall, beautiful woman entered the room dressed in a costume of sequined black silks and scarves. Her hands moved, twirling, framing her beautifully exotic face, her dark hair trailing down her back. As she danced forward, her hips moved, shimmering and shaking. Jewels and sequins flashed.

  Ramose gaped, horrified.

  Tamara struggled to hide her laughter, but her shoulders shook with the effort. As though sensing her trouble, he turned to her, then he gave her a sheepish grin, and she let the laughter roll from her chest.

  Darius bowed, leaving the room to the couple and the entertainer without another word.

  Ramose whispered to Tamara, “I’m going to get even with him for this someday.”

  “Oh, come on!” She laughed. “This could be fun.”

  The dancer’s hips began to move in a sensuous sway in a dance as old as an ancient world, her arms teasing and calling for her phantom lover.

  “Did you know,” Ramose whispered into her ear, “Raks Sharki is the oldest form of dance?”

  “Raks Sharki?”

  “I believe in your culture you call it ‘belly dancing.’ The Egyptian form is called Raks Sharki.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Tamara whispered. She was so mesmerized she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman as she moved. Each graceful drape of an arm, each rise and drop of her hips designed to entice. “The dance is beautiful. Why is she dressed in black? I thought most dancers wore bright colors?”

  “Because she performs the beladi, one of the more traditional Egyptian styles. Even her costume is traditional. A little flair has been added, but not much.”

  “Just beautiful,” breathed Tamara. The woman tipped backwards, each movement as graceful as a serpent hypnotizing its prey. “It’s slower than I thought belly dancing would be. I like that. It makes it more erotic, I think.”

  Tamara settled back to enjoy the dance, her questions answered. The earthy beat of the music vibrated deep within her, worming its way into her soul. The performance drew her in, mesmerizing her. Before long, her body swayed to the beat of the drums.

  * * * *

  Maybe he should stop this. But when he glanced at Tamara, her body swayed uninhibited to the sound of the music. Her lids were heavy, her eyes veiled by her long lashes as she peered through them. The memory of her wearing the fiery costume standing before him all those eons ago flashed in his mind.

  Darius had prepared the woman well, ensuring he hired a woman trained in the older styles of beladi, and not the newer dances. The erotic tones to the music vibrated inside him, heightening his already rampant hunger for the woman who sat beside him.

  The hired dancer must have sensed Tamara’s total absorption and held out a hand to her. As though in a daze, his Kha-Ib placed her hand in the woman’s and was pulled to her feet. Jolting from her hypnotic trance, she jerked her eyes toward Ramose.

  He gave her a reassuring smile. Gods, he wanted to see her dance. Would he find it as erotic in real life as he had all those centuries ago? “She wants you to learn to dance for me.” Ramose translated the young dancer’s unspoken request. This time, it was Ramose’s turn to laugh at the horrified look on Tamara’s face.

  “No, I couldn’t!” She tried pulling back to her seat. The woman motioned again and spoke in rapid Arabic.

  “I don’t think she’s going to take no for an answer, Kha-Ib.” He leaned close as he whispered, “Dance for me.”

  He grinned when she swallowed and nodded. A soft blush crept up her cheeks, her eyes sparkling, the flecks of gold reaching out to him. Her lips were soft and still full from when he’d kissed her, heated by the stew they’d had for dinner. He wanted to taste her, to lean forward, and press his lips against them to feel her heat one more time.

  For now, he would wait. Long ago, he’d learned the value of patience, and, tonight, he would earn his reward. He settled back in his chair as she turned her back to him, moving into the small space in the room. The entertainer changed the music so only slow drums played the beladi rhythm.

  Stepping behind Tamara, the woman placed her hands on his Kha-Ib’s belly, and guided her through the basic moves of the dance. He watched her master the sensual side-to-side sway of the upper body, of how she struggled with the belly roll from which the belly dance derived its name. Tamara was a natural, just as he knew she’d be. His blood burned as the drumbeat increased, and she learned the shimmy, and faster and faster her legs worked, swishing her skirt from side to side as her hips vibrated.

  * * * *

  Tamara’s breath came in short gasps as she danced to the music. This wasn’t as hard as she’d thought. She wasn’t about to admit to Ramose she’d wandered on the Internet before coming to Egypt and learned a little about the beladi. Not with the way his eyes burned. She’d much rather he just sat back and enjoyed. She owed him that much after freaking out yesterday.

  The hired dancer changed the music. An extra slow number came on. She encouraged Tamara and then stepped back. Tamara gave an internal shrug. Oh, what the hell. She closed her eyes and let her shoulders move to the music, just as she had when seated. The music did its job, as music always did when it came to Tamara. It weaved its way into her soul, and her body soon followed. It was why she’d always surrounded herself with music for work. When she opened her eyes, Ramose’s heated gaze burned every inch of her flesh.

  Dark hunger reached for her, urging her to continue. She flexed her knees into a slow shimmy while she rotated her body, the lower skirt of her dress swishing about her thighs. With each move of her body, her own desire built. She danced toward Ramose, and he turned his chair to face her. The act was one of giving, asking her to take. And she wanted to. But in private. She glanced behind her, surprised to see the dancer now gone.

  With a slow, steady progress, she moved closer, and, when she reached out with one hand, Ramose took it. This time, there was no shiver of cold to his first touch. All she felt was heat. Pure, sensual, sizzling heat. He pulled her into his lap, and, when his lips found hers, Tamara knew she’d entered paradise.

  There was no doubting his response this time. His kiss was wild and
passionate, his hands gripping her hair in his fists. Oh, yes. Such sweet, blissful pleasure. He devoured her, and she let him. Hell, she begged him, with every moan and every move she made.

  She pulled back, breathless. “I guess we should leave?”

  “In a minute, Kha-Ib.”

  He pulled her close, resting his cheek against forehead.

  The sensation of being in his arms was like nothing she’d ever experienced. They were safety and need all in one. Comforting and arousing. Her breath came hard, and she struggled for control. “What does that mean?”

  He pulled back, his smooth brow marred with a light furrow. “What?”

  “Kha-Ib?”

  He shrugged. “It is a pet name. Like you would say sweet, or dear.”

  But the way he called her Kha-Ib, she wasn’t sure she believed him. She knew what Kha was, and Ib, but how they went together she was unsure. The direct translation, from what she managed to glean, was spirit heart. “I wondered, because since the first time you called me by that name, I haven’t been able to see your aura like I used to. What are you doing different?”

  “Nothing,” he said, against her hair, adjusting her body so she pressed close against him then shrugged. “Perhaps it is for the best. I am not sure I wish you to know everything I am thinking.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “Maybe. I’m so used to relying on the colors of people’s energies, I forget most people can’t see them anyway.”

  “Ramose!” The maître d’ rushed into the room, his eyes wide. The man lapsed into a bout of Arabic. His voice pitched upward then dropped as he whispered, his eyes darting from side to side, refusing to meet her gaze. Something was wrong. She climbed from Ramose’s lap and straightened her dress. The green fabric had a mind all its own, and it kept sliding over to expose the edges of her bra, and that would not do. She could start an international incident at this rate.

  Ramose grabbed Tamara’s hand as his old friend talked. Lapsing into English, he took a step forward. “What happened? Tell me.”

  “It is Uthman. He is dead.”