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maintained certain hidey-holes in various parts of the house to which they could escape in the event of
orthodox visitors.
These provisions made life a bit difficult for Fatima and Ama, not to mention the Spanish maids. But
the two Islamic women consoled themselves with the knowledge that though they were married to a
convert, the very inconvenience they were put to proved that they themselves were still persons of
quality.
Djoura (though possessing proprieties of an entirely different nature), put the closets into similar use.
She would retire to them and pretend she was not there, especially when she heard Ama's piping,
querulous call. There was one retreat at the end of one of the inside walls of the house which she
preferred, for it had a rough, dimpled window through which she could see everything within the walls,
from the bondsmen's barrack (very small) to the stable which housed Rashiid's one horse: an
immaculately kept Egyptian gray which he never rode. Between these two outposts lay the garden itself,
where the orange trees bloomed and perfumed vines twined around the fish pond. This little body of
water was perfectly round and sat like a pockmark in the dusty skin of the garden. It had no natural
source and had to be topped off daily with water brought in on donkeys (never mules).
It was there that Djoura's eyes were bent, as her chin rested on the thumb side of her fist, which
pressed in turn on the clay windowsill. The coins above her forehead rustled like leaves in the day's airs.
The white muslin costume which had become Djoura so well had somehow disappeared from the wash,
and she was back to wearing her traditional fusty black. With stony, set face she watched Raphael
dandle his little mistress on his lap.
Anna was an irritation: a spoiled little fluttering thing and a stumbling block toward certain long-range
goals. It was part Djoura's intention to gain a reputation for trust and biddability, .and to that end she
acted her role before Rashiid very effectively.
Her very contempt for the man pompous, damp, and fleshy as he was lent her zest for the part,
and the knowledge that he desired her lent her confidence. Yet Rashiid's lust was a danger, too, which
Djoura did not underestimate. He was in all ways disgusting.
Ama curious and willful as she was could not be dismissed with the same sniff and a sneer. The
little woman was ubiquitous, and enough like the black Berber in mind that she could not be readily
cozened. Djoura could not feel contempt for Ama. But she could hate her. And she could be jealous.
Look at the little chicken, bouncing on Pinkie's knee bold as a child on an aged donkey. Wouldn't
she get a big surprise if she could see the fellow without his trousers. If she kept behaving so shamelessly,
she might get a surprise some day: every man had his limits.
Even Pinkie. Djoura bit her lip, for Pinkie worried her more than Ama did: more than anything else
did in this place of rich food and sloth. Ever since she realized that the fellow was no more a half-wit than
a eunuch, her concern for him had grown heavier and heavier.
More and more she doubted he was a Berber at all, despite his knowledge of both tongue and music.
He sang other songs besides the desert chants, with what seemed to Djoura equal facility: songs in
Spanish and songs in languages of which the woman knew not even the name. And the placidity with
which he had sunk into this life of captivity was dreadful. What Berber could seem so content wearing the
iron collar?
Djoura had never asked Pinkie directly where he had been born or who his people were; first,
because it was rare she found the time and privacy for such conversation, and secondly, because she
didn't like such questions herself. When the woman closed her eyes at night she would still often see her
fathers mare scrabbling up the mountain trail toward camp, dragging his headless body by one stirrup.
Behind the horse had come the riders of the Bedouin Arif Yusuf following the bloody trace through the
sand.
And then Djoura would be visited by an image of her mother, with veil thrown back, swinging a grass
scythe in deadly circles around her head, wearing an arrow through her cheek like an ornament.
A man born a slave had shame in his past. A man enslaved had defeat. It was never good to ask. Yet
as Djoura watched Fatima (fat, harmless Fatima, whom even Djoura could not dislike) come puffing out
of the middle door of the main house, gesticulating and babbling to Ama in Spanish, she knew she would
have to make more certain of Pinkie since they were going to escape together.
Evidently the first wife didn't like Ama's antics any more than Djoura did, for the two of them were at
it now, their shrill, staccato words falling like a shower of stones on the garden.
And here was Pinkie, sent off to the house with a flea in his ear. Now was both time and opportunity.
"Hsst! Pinkie!" she called out the window.
He approached, his odd, narrow-featured (to Djoura) face looking as mild as if no one had ever
raised her voice to him in his life. "Get in here," she hissed, backing from the rough clay opening.
"Through the window?" the blond asked, and in reply Djoura snatched his hand and pulled him over
the sill. He rose from the floor, looking only slightly surprised.
"I didn't want anyone to see us together," she explained. "Enough talk goes on already, you can
believe!"
Then her voice roughened and she pointed her index finger at him. "You listen to me, Pinkie, when I
tell you to leave that nasty little thing alone, if you value your future."
His eyebrows (and even Djoura had to admit that Pinkie had fine eyebrows) shot up. "Ama? Do you
mean& "
"I mean the baby girl who calls herself my mistress, Pinkie. If Rashiid (Allah shrivel his big belly) finds
out there's nothing but a pair of cotton trousers between his favorite wife and a man's& whatever&
you'll soon be no more than you claim to be!"
His blue eyes shifted uncertainly. "Djoura, what do you mean by what I 'claim to be'?"
Djoura struck her palm against her forehead. "I think you're simple after all, Pinkie. A boy, is what
you seem to be!"
"A boy?" he echoed, looking down at his long legs and well knit body.
"A permanent boy. A eunuch," Djoura hissed with feroc ity.
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