The Dream Maker by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Alison Anderson Page A

the protection of high walls; burning sun with cool shadow; silence with the murmuring of birds; drought and thirst with the purity of cool springs flowing in myriad fountains.
    In Damascus we discovered many other refinements—in particular, the steam bath. I took one almost every day and experienced an unknown pleasure. Never, until then, had I allowed myself to think that one’s body could, in and of itself, be an object of pleasure. Since childhood we had been accustomed to keeping our bodies covered and hidden. The use of water was a painful obligation in a climate like ours, because most often it was cold, and our baths were rare. Contact between the sexes always took place in the obscurity of canopied beds. Mirrors reflected only the finery covering clothed bodies. In Damascus, however, I discovered nudity—letting oneself go to the heat of air and water, to the pleasure of time devoted solely to doing oneself good. Since I had only one life, it might as well be filled with happiness and sensual delight. I realized, as I sat sweating in the bath of perfumed steam, how new this idea was to me.
    This was perhaps the most astonishing particularity of Damascus, and it rounded out my understanding of the Levant: this city was the center of the world, but it used this position to increase not only the power of those who lived there but also their pleasure. The purpose of these caravans converging on the city was trade, to be sure. Goods were imported, exported, and exchanged, and they brought profit. But the city took its share of anything of value and this was for one purpose alone: to serve its well-being. Houses were adorned with precious carpets. People dined on rare porcelain. The sweet odors of myrrh and incense drifted everywhere; food was chosen carefully, and chefs employed their art to compose their meals with expertise. Scholars and men of letters studied in freedom and in their libraries could consult books from every land.
    This concept of pleasure as the ultimate goal of life was a revelation to me. And still I was aware that I had not taken the full measure of it, because as a Christian I was not allowed contact with those individuals who were both the supreme beneficiaries and the givers of these pleasures: women. We were closely watched in this respect, and any attempt at an intrigue with a Muslim woman would be grounds for beheading. We did, however, catch glimpses of them. We saw them in the street, we met their gaze through their veils or the latticework of their windows, we could make out their shapes, smell their perfume. Although they were reclusive, they seemed to us to be freer then our women in the West, more devoted to sensuality, promising a pleasure that our unclothed bodies in the hammam gave us the audacity to imagine. We sensed that the intensity of such pleasure could fuel violent passion. Strangers shared bloody tales of jealousy leading to murder and sometimes massacre. Far from inciting revulsion, such excess only fuelled desire. Several merchants had paid with their lives for their inability to resist temptation.
    When I found myself alone I was inhabited by the memory of my only woman; she who was the frequent object of my thoughts. I imagined her sharing these delights with me, and I promised myself I would carry home with me the instruments of pleasure. I bought perfume, carpets, and bolts of bocasin, a cloth similar to silk which the local craftsmen wove with cotton.
    A month went by in this way, and we were about to leave again when we had an astonishing encounter. We were lying on leather cushions, tasting sweet cakes of every flavor, when our guide, a Moor who had been with us since Beirut, announced the visit of two Turks. He uttered these words with a laugh, and we did not immediately understand the reason for his irony. The mystery dissolved the moment the Turks in question appeared. They were two tall men with unkempt hair, their faces covered with neglected beards.