Read Online The Terrorists of Irustan by Louise Marley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Marley
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Water Supply. The car swept ponderously up the drive to join a short line of other, similar cars. The driver jumped out to hold the door for Zahra, inclining his head to her once again. Ishi fairly leaped out of the car and trotted up the walk to the front door where several other small veiled figures bobbed impatiently, touching each other, squeaking with the effort of keeping silent until they were indoors. Zahra and Lili waited for Asa to retrieve his cane and follow them. Again Lili sighed with the heat as they walked between the car and the door. Zahra didn’t mind it. She suppressed a mad impulse to toss off her veil and feel the brilliance of the star directly on her face.
But, like the other visitors, she walked sedately into Director IhMullah’s house, ushered in by a man of his household who then immediately hurried away to the Doma for prayers. Once he was gone, the only men left in the house were Asa and a houseboy. They went to the kitchen to while away the time, while the women, with their daughters and sons too young for the Doma, hastened to the dayroom, chattering gaily.
The room was beautiful, with a pale tiled floor and white walls. Several large pieces of lacquered pottery adorned one end of Kalen’s dayroom, forming a backdrop for the circle of chairs already set for her friends. A small piece, a shining bowl with the elongated petals of mock roses floating in it, rested on a little inlaid table in the center of the circle.
In the doorway, Zahra unbuttoned her rill and stood for a moment to savor the scene. The women gathered here had been her closest friends since her girlhood, and their daughters, pastel veils floating, fluttered together like patapats through the met-olive groves.
“Zahra, come in, come in!” Idora called. She was plump, cheerful, and talkative. Safe from the eyes of any men, Idora had already unbuttoned both rill and verge, and they dangled beside her round cheeks. “And Ishi, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you. You’ve gained some weight, it looks wonderful on you!” Idora embraced Ishi and kissed her cheek, then hugged Zahra.
Zahra unfastened her own verge to smile down at her old friend. Already seated, Camilla called her name and waved. Ishi dashed off with the other girls to the far side of the room, where bowls of olives and plates of small sandwiches and sweet cakes were arranged on a narrow whitewood table. Games and toys were laid out near a pile of floor cushions. The children squealed and laughed together, and the women breathed sighs of release. The anahs gathered at the other side of the room, whispering together. Soon all the friends—Zahra, Idora, Camilla, and petite Laila—were seated in their customary circle. Zahra lifted an eyebrow to Kalen, who had not spoken. Kalen, strands of unruly red hair curling as always out of her cap, only shook her head as she served coffee, and Zahra forebore to ask.
Idora was less tactful. “What’s wrong, Kalen? You’ve got your funeral face on.”
Kalen frowned, her pale eyebrows making a reddish furrow across her brow. “I can’t talk about it, Idora—not now.” She glanced significantly over her shoulder at the cluster of girls.
Camilla was always quiet, neat, not a strand of brown hair showing. Her gray eyes were mild and intelligent. She touched Kalen’s hand as Kalen served her coffee, and her eyes darkened.
Both Kalen and Camilla had married much older men, far older than Idora’s Aidar, or Laila’s Samir. Gadil IhMullah, in fact, was now sixty-seven years old. When Kalen, a thin, frightened girl of sixteen, had been ceded, Gadil had been forty-nine. Kalen’s father had been director of Water Supply. Gadil now held that post.
Camilla’s husband, dour Leman, had been forty-six at their marriage. She clucked her tongue, and whispered, “They’re so old now. Sometimes they’re more demanding than the children. They’ve forgotten what it is to be young.”
Kalen put the coffeepot on the side
But, like the other visitors, she walked sedately into Director IhMullah’s house, ushered in by a man of his household who then immediately hurried away to the Doma for prayers. Once he was gone, the only men left in the house were Asa and a houseboy. They went to the kitchen to while away the time, while the women, with their daughters and sons too young for the Doma, hastened to the dayroom, chattering gaily.
The room was beautiful, with a pale tiled floor and white walls. Several large pieces of lacquered pottery adorned one end of Kalen’s dayroom, forming a backdrop for the circle of chairs already set for her friends. A small piece, a shining bowl with the elongated petals of mock roses floating in it, rested on a little inlaid table in the center of the circle.
In the doorway, Zahra unbuttoned her rill and stood for a moment to savor the scene. The women gathered here had been her closest friends since her girlhood, and their daughters, pastel veils floating, fluttered together like patapats through the met-olive groves.
“Zahra, come in, come in!” Idora called. She was plump, cheerful, and talkative. Safe from the eyes of any men, Idora had already unbuttoned both rill and verge, and they dangled beside her round cheeks. “And Ishi, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you. You’ve gained some weight, it looks wonderful on you!” Idora embraced Ishi and kissed her cheek, then hugged Zahra.
Zahra unfastened her own verge to smile down at her old friend. Already seated, Camilla called her name and waved. Ishi dashed off with the other girls to the far side of the room, where bowls of olives and plates of small sandwiches and sweet cakes were arranged on a narrow whitewood table. Games and toys were laid out near a pile of floor cushions. The children squealed and laughed together, and the women breathed sighs of release. The anahs gathered at the other side of the room, whispering together. Soon all the friends—Zahra, Idora, Camilla, and petite Laila—were seated in their customary circle. Zahra lifted an eyebrow to Kalen, who had not spoken. Kalen, strands of unruly red hair curling as always out of her cap, only shook her head as she served coffee, and Zahra forebore to ask.
Idora was less tactful. “What’s wrong, Kalen? You’ve got your funeral face on.”
Kalen frowned, her pale eyebrows making a reddish furrow across her brow. “I can’t talk about it, Idora—not now.” She glanced significantly over her shoulder at the cluster of girls.
Camilla was always quiet, neat, not a strand of brown hair showing. Her gray eyes were mild and intelligent. She touched Kalen’s hand as Kalen served her coffee, and her eyes darkened.
Both Kalen and Camilla had married much older men, far older than Idora’s Aidar, or Laila’s Samir. Gadil IhMullah, in fact, was now sixty-seven years old. When Kalen, a thin, frightened girl of sixteen, had been ceded, Gadil had been forty-nine. Kalen’s father had been director of Water Supply. Gadil now held that post.
Camilla’s husband, dour Leman, had been forty-six at their marriage. She clucked her tongue, and whispered, “They’re so old now. Sometimes they’re more demanding than the children. They’ve forgotten what it is to be young.”
Kalen put the coffeepot on the side
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