nonexistence, bent and whispered something in Lahani’s ear. He nodded and the woman left.
“I have to take a phone call;” Lahani said, rising and placing his linen napkin on the table. “It may be a while. The library is through the arcade just behind you. There are some paintings and sculptures there that may interest you.“ Before turning to go inside, he stepped toward Megan and, reaching quietly to her, stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, which he then ran through her hair, sifting strands of it through his fingers like the spun gold it was. “Where did you get this hair?” he asked.
“From my mother,” Megan said.
“Is she beautiful like you?”
“She was. She died giving birth to me in a jungle hospital. I am a citizen of Uruguay as well as the United States:”
“And your father?”
“He lived and raised me in Connecticut:”
“You must tell me about all this:”
“I will.”
When Lahani disappeared into his house, Megan rose and wandered the courtyard for a moment, remembering the touch of his hand on her face, feeling the slight pressure of it as if it were still there. The sun was low, setting behind the house. Birds were beginning their evening singing in the lemon trees. Standing behind a stand of these trees, searching for a sight of the singing birds, Megan heard a noise and turned to see the serving woman clearing away the last of the dinner dishes. A man was helping her, and Megan was surprised to see that it was the same man who had driven her to Zagora and translated for her there and in the tiny unnamed kasbah a few miles away, where the blind family lived. The man—his name was Mohammed—was perhaps fifty and taciturn to the point of rudeness. But his English was good, as was his driving, and he had acquitted himself well, finding her clean and comfortable lodging, good meals, and putting the skittish natives at ease whenever they approached. Over two full days he had compliantly put Megan’s questions concerning the blind family’s sighted son to numerous people, until she grew tired of their uniform shoulder shrug and decided to head back to Marrakech. Stepping out from behind the trees, Megan waved to Mohammed, who, seeing her, stood motionless for a second before nodding solemnly in her direction. Then, lifting a tray of coffee and dessert plates, he turned and went into the house, followed by the woman.
Megan was good at withholding information and telling lies, big and small. She knew the protective value of secretiveness, of pretending to be surprised, or not surprised, upon hearing certain things. Mohammed knew that the focus of her visit to Zagora was not the blind family but their sighted son. Had he told Lahani? If he had then Lahani’s reaction when she told him earlier of the true reason for her trip south was not candid. This thought did not bother Megan. She had lied to Lahani, after all, and she had no interest in having a moralist or a fool for a lover. Soon she would be in a position to ask Lahani why he had spied on her—if he had—and to use his answer, whatever it turned out to be, to gain an advantage in the game of hide-and-seek they had started playing almost the moment they met. Until then it would pay to be more careful, more observant.
This is what she was thinking when Lahani surprised her from behind, putting his hands gently on her hips and pulling her to him. She caught the scent of him—a blend of citrus and smoke and what she imagined was the coolness of the desert at night—as he lifted her hair and brushed her right ear with his lips. Megan stiffened at first, but then relaxed, welcoming his embrace and light kiss.
“You surprised me,” she murmured.
“Something not so easy to do, I fear.”
“I am more innocent than you think:”
“And less, but a man wants both:”
Megan turned and placed her hands palm down on Lahani’s chest, feeling for his
“I have to take a phone call;” Lahani said, rising and placing his linen napkin on the table. “It may be a while. The library is through the arcade just behind you. There are some paintings and sculptures there that may interest you.“ Before turning to go inside, he stepped toward Megan and, reaching quietly to her, stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, which he then ran through her hair, sifting strands of it through his fingers like the spun gold it was. “Where did you get this hair?” he asked.
“From my mother,” Megan said.
“Is she beautiful like you?”
“She was. She died giving birth to me in a jungle hospital. I am a citizen of Uruguay as well as the United States:”
“And your father?”
“He lived and raised me in Connecticut:”
“You must tell me about all this:”
“I will.”
When Lahani disappeared into his house, Megan rose and wandered the courtyard for a moment, remembering the touch of his hand on her face, feeling the slight pressure of it as if it were still there. The sun was low, setting behind the house. Birds were beginning their evening singing in the lemon trees. Standing behind a stand of these trees, searching for a sight of the singing birds, Megan heard a noise and turned to see the serving woman clearing away the last of the dinner dishes. A man was helping her, and Megan was surprised to see that it was the same man who had driven her to Zagora and translated for her there and in the tiny unnamed kasbah a few miles away, where the blind family lived. The man—his name was Mohammed—was perhaps fifty and taciturn to the point of rudeness. But his English was good, as was his driving, and he had acquitted himself well, finding her clean and comfortable lodging, good meals, and putting the skittish natives at ease whenever they approached. Over two full days he had compliantly put Megan’s questions concerning the blind family’s sighted son to numerous people, until she grew tired of their uniform shoulder shrug and decided to head back to Marrakech. Stepping out from behind the trees, Megan waved to Mohammed, who, seeing her, stood motionless for a second before nodding solemnly in her direction. Then, lifting a tray of coffee and dessert plates, he turned and went into the house, followed by the woman.
Megan was good at withholding information and telling lies, big and small. She knew the protective value of secretiveness, of pretending to be surprised, or not surprised, upon hearing certain things. Mohammed knew that the focus of her visit to Zagora was not the blind family but their sighted son. Had he told Lahani? If he had then Lahani’s reaction when she told him earlier of the true reason for her trip south was not candid. This thought did not bother Megan. She had lied to Lahani, after all, and she had no interest in having a moralist or a fool for a lover. Soon she would be in a position to ask Lahani why he had spied on her—if he had—and to use his answer, whatever it turned out to be, to gain an advantage in the game of hide-and-seek they had started playing almost the moment they met. Until then it would pay to be more careful, more observant.
This is what she was thinking when Lahani surprised her from behind, putting his hands gently on her hips and pulling her to him. She caught the scent of him—a blend of citrus and smoke and what she imagined was the coolness of the desert at night—as he lifted her hair and brushed her right ear with his lips. Megan stiffened at first, but then relaxed, welcoming his embrace and light kiss.
“You surprised me,” she murmured.
“Something not so easy to do, I fear.”
“I am more innocent than you think:”
“And less, but a man wants both:”
Megan turned and placed her hands palm down on Lahani’s chest, feeling for his
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