a robe on if you come downstairs,” he says absently.
“Yes, Karim-salah,” I say. “The girl has a toothache.”
“Wassyla?” he says.
I don’t know her name. “The harni, “ I say.
“Holy One,” Karim mutters. “Now a dentist bill. Can she still work?”
“I believe so,” I say.
He gets up and I follow him down the hall, watching his heels lick at the hem of his robe as he walks. He comes upstairs. A rare enough thing. There is a flutter among the human girls. Ebuyeth sits with her hands in her lap. The girl and the boy gaze up mutely.
“Your tooth hurts?” he asks.
“Yes, Karim-salah,” she says. I’ve rarely heard her voice. It’s sweet and high.
“Open your mouth,” he says, and takes her face in his hand to tilt her head back. “Which one?”
“One the left side,” she says, “on the bottom.”
“Her cheek is swollen,” the boy says. I’ve heard his voice even less than the girl’s. It might almost be hers, dropped an octave but still sweet.
She winces slightly when Karim touches her cheek.
“All right,” Karim says, “enough for tonight. You go in back and go to sleep.”
“Karim-salah,” she says, “may I stay out here?”
He has already started to walk away and he turns around in a swirl of striped robe. He looks suspicious.
“I’ll work, if you want,” she says.
He frowns.
“She doesn’t want to be alone,” I say. “She’s a harni, Karim-salah.”
He looks at me, then at her, then at all of us, frowning. “All right,” he says finally, and turns on his heel and goes downstairs. The girl stays with us all night, but no one has a ribbon for her, and when we aren’t working, we stay touching her until finally, when the night is over, Tabi brings her an analgesic patch. There is the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol when she peels it open. I can still smell it over the cinnamon skin smell when we all curl up together to sleep for a few hours.
Hariba is ready for her hashish when I get home, and after I’ve gotten her to eat some sweet rice.
I think about ways to make things better, but I can’t think of anything. I wouldn’t give up being with the harni, and I can’t leave Hariba alone and sick. Hariba brought me here, and I won’t forget that, not even for the pleasure of harni company.
I watch her sleep on the bed. Her skin is dry. I’ll get some of Tabi’s oil and oil Hariba’s skin until it’s soft and supple and warm. I sleep and dream of men’s bodies and the things that I can do that excite them, like a puzzle of organs and openings. It isn’t a bad dream, just tiring.
* * *
“Akhmim?”
I’m walking near the Moussin of the White Falcon, looking for a shop that Mouse told me about where I can buy a water pipe to replace the little clay pipe I got from Mouse and some hashish. The hashish, he promises, is decently priced and I’ll be glad to have made the trip.
“Akhmim?” It’s the widow, Myryam, who bought Hariba’s canna lily wreath.
“Hello! Hello!” I say, and her face melts with relief.
“I waited for you twice,” she says and shakes a finger at me.
“Oh, pardon!” I say. “I found a job in the evenings and I haven’t been able to wait there for you!”
She’s pleased to have the excuse to forgive me. She asks me about my wife.
I lift my hands in a little helpless gesture.
“Ah,” she says, “poor thing. Listen, then, I’ve found you a job. Not a real job at first” -she makes vague motions with her hands-“but there is a man that my brother knows, he needs someone to take care of visitors, show them places for a few hours.”
I start to say that I’ve a job, but the hashish for Hariba is expensive. “Every day?” I say.
“No, not at first,” she says. “Just once or twice a week. But you’re such a decent young man, I’m certain there’ll be more and more opportunities.”
I think about it. The sun’s hot and the air is so dry it makes your nose bleed. A few hours, maybe it would
“Yes, Karim-salah,” I say. “The girl has a toothache.”
“Wassyla?” he says.
I don’t know her name. “The harni, “ I say.
“Holy One,” Karim mutters. “Now a dentist bill. Can she still work?”
“I believe so,” I say.
He gets up and I follow him down the hall, watching his heels lick at the hem of his robe as he walks. He comes upstairs. A rare enough thing. There is a flutter among the human girls. Ebuyeth sits with her hands in her lap. The girl and the boy gaze up mutely.
“Your tooth hurts?” he asks.
“Yes, Karim-salah,” she says. I’ve rarely heard her voice. It’s sweet and high.
“Open your mouth,” he says, and takes her face in his hand to tilt her head back. “Which one?”
“One the left side,” she says, “on the bottom.”
“Her cheek is swollen,” the boy says. I’ve heard his voice even less than the girl’s. It might almost be hers, dropped an octave but still sweet.
She winces slightly when Karim touches her cheek.
“All right,” Karim says, “enough for tonight. You go in back and go to sleep.”
“Karim-salah,” she says, “may I stay out here?”
He has already started to walk away and he turns around in a swirl of striped robe. He looks suspicious.
“I’ll work, if you want,” she says.
He frowns.
“She doesn’t want to be alone,” I say. “She’s a harni, Karim-salah.”
He looks at me, then at her, then at all of us, frowning. “All right,” he says finally, and turns on his heel and goes downstairs. The girl stays with us all night, but no one has a ribbon for her, and when we aren’t working, we stay touching her until finally, when the night is over, Tabi brings her an analgesic patch. There is the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol when she peels it open. I can still smell it over the cinnamon skin smell when we all curl up together to sleep for a few hours.
Hariba is ready for her hashish when I get home, and after I’ve gotten her to eat some sweet rice.
I think about ways to make things better, but I can’t think of anything. I wouldn’t give up being with the harni, and I can’t leave Hariba alone and sick. Hariba brought me here, and I won’t forget that, not even for the pleasure of harni company.
I watch her sleep on the bed. Her skin is dry. I’ll get some of Tabi’s oil and oil Hariba’s skin until it’s soft and supple and warm. I sleep and dream of men’s bodies and the things that I can do that excite them, like a puzzle of organs and openings. It isn’t a bad dream, just tiring.
* * *
“Akhmim?”
I’m walking near the Moussin of the White Falcon, looking for a shop that Mouse told me about where I can buy a water pipe to replace the little clay pipe I got from Mouse and some hashish. The hashish, he promises, is decently priced and I’ll be glad to have made the trip.
“Akhmim?” It’s the widow, Myryam, who bought Hariba’s canna lily wreath.
“Hello! Hello!” I say, and her face melts with relief.
“I waited for you twice,” she says and shakes a finger at me.
“Oh, pardon!” I say. “I found a job in the evenings and I haven’t been able to wait there for you!”
She’s pleased to have the excuse to forgive me. She asks me about my wife.
I lift my hands in a little helpless gesture.
“Ah,” she says, “poor thing. Listen, then, I’ve found you a job. Not a real job at first” -she makes vague motions with her hands-“but there is a man that my brother knows, he needs someone to take care of visitors, show them places for a few hours.”
I start to say that I’ve a job, but the hashish for Hariba is expensive. “Every day?” I say.
“No, not at first,” she says. “Just once or twice a week. But you’re such a decent young man, I’m certain there’ll be more and more opportunities.”
I think about it. The sun’s hot and the air is so dry it makes your nose bleed. A few hours, maybe it would
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