He watched Aislyne Butler walk into the tearoom from behind the wide rhododendron leaves woven through the wooden lattice that surrounded his small quiet patch of privacy. It was sheer chance…or perhaps his native policeman's instinct…that his eyes had strayed off his book and he caught a glimpse of her face as she followed the much shorter Madam Rocquette. Kahn's sense of caution kept him utterly still and silent as the mademoiselle pointed to and entered the salon beside his. Dropping his face to appear thoroughly engrossed in his book, he remained thus until the crown of her well-coiffed head had sailed past along the top of the leafy partition. Once she was seated, her request for tea and pastry taken, the waiter moved off to the kitchen, though stopping briefly to check on Kahn. Kahn quickly waved him off without a word, hoping the mademoiselle had not noticed the silent exchange.
All that separated him from Aislyne Butler was a flimsy screen of wood lathe and the leaves of the rhododendron and bougainvillea woven through both sides of their common wall.
He watched as Butler put her hands in her lap and clasped them, face averted, as if in prayer. She appeared upset, an impression reinforced by the unhappy tilt to her mouth and trembling of her hands and lips; this was a woman who just seconds ago was utterly composed while in the company of the hostess. At their first meeting, Kahn knew she was not one who would wear her heart…or any other emotional organ…on her sleeve. He had always admired the stoic pragmaticism of the British; just the ticket for a alal-damāg barnāsālike Erik. (hot-headed or short-tempered young man)
He wondered if she had come down alone for the sake of collecting herself, or if she was expecting company.
If Erik…or rather Bouchard…was expected to meet with her here, it would be ideal. Such circumstance might give him opportunity to see what state of mind Erik was in these days, given his incarceration and sudden change of fortune.
Positioning his chair to best see the mademoiselle, Kahn unabashedly watched as the mademoiselle collected herself, erasing the effects of her little moment of catharsis carefully with her handkerchief. For several moments she sipped at her tea, fingers drumming upon the table, in what could be considered a sign that company imminent. She then pulled one of the tiny pastries apart with a fork, dividing each piece into smaller and smaller pieces…never actually taking a bite. Nadir nearly clucked his tongue aloud in reproof.
Disgusted finally with the dismembered pastry, the woman pushed the tableware away, and adjusted her chair so as to be turned aside the windows. She then sat back, and slowly released tension in her shoulders and arms in a very distinct, visible way, her left hand lying palm up on the right. The Mademoiselle's chin rose slowly as the movement behind her lids stilled. With growing amazement Kahn watched as Aislyne Butler's breathing slowed, and she slipped into a meditative state, her body relaxed yet upright.
After a quarter hour had passed, Kahn felt confident Aislyne Butler was not expecting company. Twice he discouraged the young waiter from disturbing the Mademoiselle.
After a half-hour he quietly joined her in her salon, feeling foolish to do so, but worried about her all the same. She was visibly…if slowly…breathing; as soon as he eased himself into the chair across from her, her eyelids began to flutter, and her nose quite distinctly flared. A smile flashed across her face; when her eyes opened, she showed no surprise to find him in the chair across the table.
****************
Of course, I knew somebody was near...it was the distinctive aroma of fennel and juniper… the scent I remembered well from our last meeting on the pier…that brought Nadir Kahn immediately to mind. I could not help but smile when I opened my eyes to find the man sitting directly opposite, his hands tucked characteristically within his coat front.
Nadir Kahn stood and bowed deeply. "Mademoiselle Butler, I did not wish to disturb you in your meditation. I waited as quietly as possible. I apologize…"
I quickly assured him, "No, no...Mr. Kahn, you did nothing to hasten conclusion to my...nap. When I realized I was no longer alone…" I stood and stretched my legs and back as modestly as I could, although Mr. Kahn watched with keen interest.
"Mademoiselle, did you indeed know I was here?"
"Oh! Well, just in a general way, I knew when you came in and sat down. I naturally cannot … It sounds a bit...farfetched..." I waved my hand, flustered and thoroughly irritated I had said anything at all. My little 'catnaps' and the odd awareness I had of others anywhere around me were subjects I did not discuss with anyone. It used to infuriate my brothers they could not 'surprise' me when dashing to the outhouse. Fortunately, the 'naps' were a personal discovery many years later.
Nadir Kahn's expression remained most deferential despite my modesty, and when I moved to return to my chair, he swiftly stepped behind to hold it. After a glance and a nod of the head to the waitstaff, he sat again in the chair across from mine. "I took the liberty of advising the waiter to leave you undisturbed until I signaled otherwise."
The waiter who had seated me earlier arrived and whisked the untouched food and cold teapot away. Mr. Kahn requested a pot of coffee and two cups, cream and honey. I did not tell him I did not drink coffee...
"Miss Butler, I apologize. I have not introduced myself to you properly, nor had I any right to approach you when it is obvious the last thing you wished was company."
I did not bother to disagree. However, despite his pretty apology, Mr. Kahn made no move to leave. He instead pulled a long, flat leather wallet from an inner pocket, and laid it upon the table at my fingertips, flipping it open to display it's contents.
"Miss Butler, allow me to introduce myself to you. My name is Nadir Reza Kahn, and am…as you can see by the shield and identification…a member of the renseignements généraux (general intelligence), working directly for Minister of Defense, Jean Thibaudin. I am a special investigator, dealing mostly in espionage between France and our… ah…neighbors."
"Meaning…Britain, Mr. Kahn?" I smiled to take the accusation out of the words.
He nodded vigorously, saying, "Why, of course, Miss Butler. As well as Germany, Spain, Italy, and..." waving his arm as if to implicate the entire of Europe and Asia.
"I see." I looked closely at the contents of the wallet: a long card embossed with the seal of the Prefecture Île-de-France, as well as that of Sûreté Nationale, bearing a calotype photograph of Kahn with his military rank listed as 'Officier Investigateur. Opposite this was a heavy gold and blue-enameled badge bearing the Great Seal of France, and Kahn's name and badge number. I was impressed, if only by the photographic identity card. "You are a citizen of France then? Your accent…I assumed you were from…elsewhere."
At that moment Madame Rocquette appeared, with the waiter in tow. She spoke swiftly in French, asking if I was comfortable, expressing pleasure I had met a such a lovely 'friend' and apologizing for the inedibility of the pastries sent with my tea. I opened my mouth several times to respond, only to be interrupted before I could so much as squeak.
The waiter set out a squat carafe, a pitcher of cream, and large tray of fresh and dried fruit, with a small bowls of flavored whipped creams and honey. Whilst Madame waxed volubly upon the miserable weather, Mr. Kahn and the waiter discussed the coffee, carefully poured into large Mason stoneware mugs.
Quite abruptly, Madame Rocquette snapped her fingers, sending the waiter out of the salon, wished both Mr. Kahn and me a lovely visit, and disappeared about the ivy'ed wall. Unconsciously I sighed in relief. Mr. Kahn's expression became one of frank sympathy. "Should I leave you to your thoughts, Miss Butler? I fear I have been…"
"No…no. Please… It is the French language…it seems it must be spoken rapidly and at length…as if one must learn to draw breath through one's ears. I think I am comprehending, keeping up fairly well…in my mind, anyway, and suddenly I am listening to… gibberish! I do not believe I will ever actually speak the language." I became flushed with embarrassment, realizing I doubtless sounded hysterically strident.
Mr. Kahn chuckled, saying, "I, too, found the language a trial to learn. However, there are those who do so easily…and those such as ourselves who must struggle. If it is of any consolation, I have never found anyone who could not, eventually, speak it well enough to be understood."
"I may well be a 'first' for you, Mr. Kahn."
"I doubt it. You will learn it despite your misgivings. Give it time and have faith in yourself." Mr. Kahn then addressed his attention to the large cups of steaming coffee, pouring a generous dollop of the thick crème, and a teaspoon of honey into both cups, and stirring them each 'round twice.
Placing one cup before me, he commanded, "Drink, and know God."
"You have great faith in your coffee, sir." I held the cup to my nose and sniffed at the caramel-colored brew; if nothing else it smelled wonderful.
"Indeed I do. There are mornings when it is the only reason I leave my bed."
The coffee tasted far stronger than even the darkest tea but without the resulting bitterness. The cream and sugar gave it substance, nearly as if it were hot chocolate. After another sip, I smiled. "Very smooth. But what does it taste like without the cream and honey?"
"Your next cup shall be black. It will stain your teeth, however, if you habitually drink it so. In my country coffee is frequently served black and very strong...much stronger than this. You can easily tell those who drink it by the discoloration of their teeth."
"I will do my best not to become overly fond of it then. Although Chanson and Bouchard without fail drink two cups each, and are generally very jealous of their due portions."
We both lapsed into a comfortable silence, sipping at our coffee for several minutes, and watching the battered landscape out the large windows. I admitted, "I could grow to like coffee very well. It has a…comforting effect that tea has not. Now I know why it is so popular in London."
Mr. Kahn smiled widely, displaying patently normal teeth. "It is a energizing drink, so do not drink it after sunset unless you wish to be awake half the night."
"I'll keep that in mind."
He next spent a moment selecting and slicing an apricot, and I watched, intrigued, as he then swirled the slice of fruit in honey and whipped cream. Seeing my interest, he gestured towards the tray. "Mademoiselle, you must try this. It is far better for you than the baked concoctions of white sugar, fat and flour that are French pastries."
I selected a sliced date, and anointed it as he directed. It was heavenly.
Sitting back in his chair, Mr. Kahn laid one strangely scarred hand upon the breast of his waistcoat. "Mademoiselle, I am flattered you remember me. Our meetings to this point have been…complicated by the urgency of Monsieur Bouchard's situation."
"I admit I have often wondered who you represented in the meeting at Nettles, Mr. Kahn. You never indicated how…or for whom…you were involved. Now I am to understand you represent the French government in this 'arrangement' for Monsieur Bouchard?"
"No no no. I represent only Mr. Bouchard. I am not acting in an 'official' capacity, Miss Butler. These days I am considered retired from service, although I do take the occasional assignment if the travel is to somewhere warm. This," Kahn patted his breast pocket, "simply keeps me available to Minister Thibaudin should he need my services."
I sipped at my coffee, and considered the man across from me. "It relieves my mind to know Bouchard has had an advocate throughout this...ordeal. You certainly hid that fact at our first meeting, sir. I thought my patient was but the hapless pawn of several powerful and mysterious men."
Mr. Kahn nodded, his expression solemn. "I did not wish to annoy de'Chagny further by openly declaring my allegiance at our first meeting with you, Mademoiselle. He knew, of course, and was most unhelpful in sharing information concerning Bouchard's health and welfare throughout Bouchard's imprisonment. Surely you could see the Vicomte's open hostility for me?"
I rolled my eyes, saying, "The Vicomte's hostility encompassed the whole of creation by the time we reached Paris, Mr. Kahn. Although, yes, he was most particular in his uncharitable behavior toward you. I did not care for it at all." Suddenly, I realized of whom I spoke, and pressed one hand across my lips, shamefaced to realize I was engaged in what some might consider 'gossip' about my employer. Besides which, I reminded myself, I did not wish to put myself in the middle of any dispute between these men. As far as I was concerned, my allegiance was solely to my patient...Jerrod Bouchard.
My companion seemed to oblivious of my ill manners. "In answer to your question...yes, I attended the meeting at Nettles to represent Erik...I'm sorry...to represent Bouchard." Mr. Kahn grimaced and produced a handkerchief to rub at his eyes. Then, smiling weakly, he said, "I apologize for misspeaking, Mademoiselle. I am tired today, having traveled too far and too fast in the past week."
I murmured reassuringly, my only thought the man probably needed to return to his room and rest. Nadir Kahn was not a young man. I was assuming he was staying here, in Le Corbusier, of course.
Mr. Kahn, however, merely picked up where he had paused, saying, "I continue to act for Jerrod's best interests."
"And does Bouchard know of your involvement on his behalf?"
Mr. Kahn sighed heavily, and he folded his hands upon the table. Leaning the slightest bit forward he said, "No, dear lady, he does not. And I would much prefer he never know."
"Oh?" Naturally I would need a reason.
I watched Mr. Kahn's face as he silently examined and discarded possible explanations for the implied request for my silence. He finally gave a very Gallic shrug, saying, "There was a time when…Jerrod and I were friends, although perhaps 'comrades in arms' would better describe our relationship. I was young man with a family; Er…Bouchard was 20…21…or perhaps a year or two younger, but he was in many ways still a boy, very naïve and impulsive. He was far from home, near Moscow, in fact, competing in a summer-long tournament of master magicians hosted by Tsar Alexander II on the grounds of his new summer palace. Erik was doing very well, winning contests against renowned masters, and word of the masked magician's prowess was flying across Europe and Asia. So it was that Nasser al-Din, Shah of Persia heard of him from a camel driver from Astrakhan, who waxed effusively about the 'Son of Ahriman' and the wizardry of his magic. Immediately al-Din demanded he be brought back to perform for his court."
Mr. Kahn paused for a moment to sip his coffee. I sat riveted in the chair, my mind whirling with what I had just learned of Jerrod Bouchard. A magician, competing in Moscow… Russia! Called to the Shah of Persia's court! I paid absolutely no attention to the fact Nadir Kahn was calling Jerrod "Erik". The name meant nothing to me…
Kahn's expression waxed thoughtful, no doubt recalling another time and place... I sat as quietly as he, attempting to appear calmly attentive, instead of nearly spinning with impatience for him to continue… After a few moments I shifted just a bit, worried about his silence. Nadir's eyes snapped up to my face, and he grinned teasingly. "I would talk all day if it meant the polite company of as lovely woman as yourself. I wonder that you are just being kind in allowing an old man to talk of the past, Mademoiselle Butler."
"No! I am quite sure I am not being kind, for you are, as you said, ill-rested and no doubt wishing to go to your room." I gave him a very level look, saying, "I am quite transfixed, Mr. Kahn, and pray you will continue! But only if you wish, naturally!" I dropped my eyes, afraid of seeming a bit too forceful.
"Well…I do wish to tell you why I am interested in…Bouchard's welfare, very much so. And perhaps giving you a bit of insight into…ah…Jerrod's life cannot but help you in your future dealings with him, yes?"
"Of course, yes. And this part of the man's life is singularly interesting, Mr. Kahn. Again, if you are of a mind, I am certainly, as they say, 'all ears."
"Of course, you are now aware that I am not French-born, but of Persia. I have taken France to be my sovereign country, having realized even the weakest democracy is far preferable to any tyrant."
"Nicely put, sir"
Kahn's expression turned serious, and placing his hand upon his chest, he said, "I am not proud of what I now confess. But this is why I felt I must protect Bouchard's interests at a time when he could not…and still cannot do so for himself. You see, I did him a great disservice."
"I was sent to Russia to invite 'Son of Ahriman' to perform at the summer Court of Shah Nasser al-Din, and his mother, the Sultana Khanum. Erik was not interested in the invitation, and quite dismissive of the lure of rich living and rewards. When all my hollow promises failed, I became…determined to take him to Persia. And, dear lady, it is now I offer my only defense: to return home without him would have meant my death, and that of my wife and son, an outcome I would not allow!
"For this reason I tricked Erik, quite unkindly, by requesting his help in finding another comparable magician who would accept my offer. After several days of attending scores of magical performances, with him as critic and guide, he became quite relaxed, believing I was no longer interested in him. One night after his performance, I had especially spicy food delivered to his tent, along with two bottles of the local 'horilka' (vodka). I visited him in time to help him eat the excellent meal, and taught him how to cut the horilka with the bitter brown beer I brought with me. We drank together as good friends…or so the young fool thought. The food was fine, so was the horilka. The beer…or at least that which he was drinking…was drugged heavily with a narcotic elixir. He could not taste it as the heavily spiced food, and bitterness of the beer had numbed his ability to do so.
"Once he was rendered unable to protest, I had my men tie him over a well-padded pack mule, and we departed Moscow in the darkest hours."
Mr. Kahn looked up from careful inspection of his hands, as if to judge his next words by what he might see in my face. I admit I was surprised…perhaps shocked. It was hard to believe this quiet man, with his gentle humor and placid manner, could have done something so…despicable. To befriend and then take such cruel advantage of a young man…'a child', as he said!
And then I felt as guilty as Mr. Kahn looked, for was I not enjoying the story…and wished most earnestly for him to continue? Quite irrespective of the hardship it had meant for the young man who had been Jerrod Bouchard!
Ruefully, I covered my eyes and shook my head. "I know he survived the experience, Mr. Kahn. I will take comfort in that…"
Kahn nodded slowly, but whispered softly, "Yes, but at a greater cost than you know…"
Looking up at his words, I waited, but he did not continue with the thought, saying instead, "I quickly became unsure if he would allow me to survive it, Mademoiselle. We traveled hard and very fast until we came to the river port of Saratov, upon the Volga, by which time Erik was in full possession of his wits. He earned his name 'Son of the Devil' in the time it took five of us to pull him off the mule and load him, fighting like a crazed wolf, inside a large, heavy wood crate. He was forcibly drugged again…" Kahn grimaced, "…and it was God's own mercy we did not kill him while doing it." Silently I agreed, remembering Abrigaun's thought of giving Bouchard extra Laudanum to insure he slept longer. And did not Bouchard tell me soon thereafter he had an aversion to the stuff?
"Within the hour I had hired our passage on a small, fast Russian steamer to take us all the way to the Mazandaran Gate on the southern-most bank of the Caspian Sea. You need not wonder of your poor Erik, Mademoiselle. Upon boarding, he was set free of his crate, but cuffed by one leg to a solid steel pipe, with a 10-foot chain. It was a vast relief to lock our magician into a small port-windowed cabin where he could curse and pry at his shackle with a teaspoon for the first two days without harming himself or anyone else. He calmed down once I had again promised he would be royally paid for his trouble. He also realized there would be no emptying of his slops bucket, nor fresh water, nor food until he allowed us safe entry…and exit of his cabin.
"Within a week or so, he was allowed to walk the deck of the steamer…with two of my men as company. He talked to no one…but this was nothing new. Even in the midst of our week as 'friends' while camped on the Tsar's vast lawn, Erik was never greatly talkative. He was shy…painfully so…when out among the crowds who flocked to watch the exhibitions. He usually sat in the shadows and watched, his hat and mask in place. If approached by an admirer, he was rude, ignoring them, or saying something insulting if they persisted. I do believe it was his deft displays of accuracy and affinity with knives in his exhibitions of magic that kept him from receiving a saif shoved through his liver."
Kahn gave a soft laugh, for a moment recalling something he apparently was not going to share with me. He snapped his eyes to mine, and assumed a sober mien, adding, "Naturally, aboard the steamer he went nowhere without his mask in place, and seemed to prefer the evenings, keeping to the shadows. He seldom spoke to anyone unless goaded into doing so, and then went out of his way to annoy, insult, and humiliate them."
"I had four of my best Zafaranlu with me…warriors who feared nothing, hardened men of the desert clans. By the time we had traveled down the the Volga to the Caspian Sea, none of them wanted to be anywhere close to our 'Demon'. He frightened them with the simplest of magics, making food and coins disappear from their pockets, 'sending' vermin and such unpleasantries onto their persons from a distance, making objects 'talk' without moving his own lips. He frequently handed them their own jambiya (dagger) before it was noticed as missing from it's sheath.
Erik convinced one of the men…the youngest, Cemal…who was a formidable warrior and lightening fast…that he could disarm him without touching him. The young fool took Erik up on the wager…and Erik had the man's knife to his throat before he could protest. Naturally, Erik immediately handed it back, but insisted upon immediate payment on the wager, which was impossible…until Erik then returned young Hamid's purse."
"Erik had laughed for hours after this trick, angering Malik Akbar, the elder brother of he who had been made the fool by Erik's tricks. Malik threatened to gut Erik if he did not stop, wherein I found I had to put myself between Erik and the elder's sword..."
Mr. Kahn sighed then laughed quietly. "I have been several times in situations where I needed every advantage to keep Erik alive. Many times…"
"Erik did not impress these men with his tricks and sleight of hand. He was arrogant and dismissive, calling them 'sand monkeys' and worse. He did not endear himself to me, either, although it was no more than I deserved. I had, after all, stolen from him any chance of being what he had set out to become…a magician renowned across Europe, a man who could demand respect, despite his face…"
"After four weeks of hard travel we arrived in Mazandaran to find the court in disarray. The Sultana Khanum was threatening to return to Tehran taking her court and nearly all of her son's favorite consorts with her, thus enraging the Shah. Slaves were already dismantling many of the silk pavilions that surrounded the summer palace, and the streets about the Royal block were filled with locals, attempting to sell or steal anything that would tide them through the long months until the court and prosperity again returned to the Rosy Palace."
We went directly to the Shah's audience, still covered with the dirt of the road. My men had Erik in leg chains when we marched into the Shah's presence; Erik was, as always, wearing his full-face mask as he had been quite convincing throughout our travel that to remove it was to lose one's last meal. Just the sight of the side of his scalp was enough to turn one's stomach. He had obviously not faired well in Moscow despite his prowess as a magician; he was painfully skinny and an infection was raging unchecked across his face and scalp. Traveling without enough rest, food, or personal care had taken a horrible toll on our magician's physical condition. Several times I had treated him with goat urine, pouring it directly over his head. Erik, of course, was not cooperative in my endeavors to treat his malaise."
"I realized we needed to find him competent medical care or the magician might not live long enough to put on more than one or two performances."
Mr. Kahn put his cup down upon the table and sat back in his chair, his eyes shadowed. "The Shah summoned us forward to before the dais where he and his mother, the Sultana Khanum relaxed upon their golden silk couches, surrounded by fanning slaves. We immediately fell to our knees, as was expected; the Akbars jerked a recalcitrant Erik off his feet and shoved him face down, flat upon the floor. I then began to tell Shah al-Din of the magician, our travel, and beseeching him for the mercy of his approval. He instead cursed me, enraged at the time it had taken to fetch "his magician". He berated me for our obvious lack of respect in coming in his presence 'looking like filthy swine.' He demanded his whip be brought so he might scourge me before the dais, and then decided I should prostrate myself before him instead to beg his mercy. As I, as well as the other members of my party, were already upon knees and foreheads before the dais, I was feeling a trifle ill-used…"
I murmured approvingly, 'Spoken like a true Frenchman!", earning a faint smile for my efforts. "Exactly. It was then Nasser al-Din turned his attention to Erik, demanding he rise to his knees and remove his mask. I was astonished that Erik understood the Shah at all; Erik rose from the floor, and naturally refused to remove his silk face cover, but doing so in such fashion that I honestly believed he had gone mad from the strain of travel, and was desiring a quick death! The fool stood, shook both fists at al-Din, and screamed…in Farsi…several things of a scatologically vulgar nature. I realized he had been listening far too closely to my men when they played dice or 'As Nas' during the late evening watches.
"The Shah turned several shades of purple, and dropping the whip with which he had been prepared to abuse me, screamed for his guards to seize the infidel and remove his mask. Immediately several of the Shah's men grabbed Erik, beating my men away, and…to the disgust of the entire court…quite roughly jerked the mask from Erik's face."
I actually felt the horror of the moment, so caught up in Kahn's story was I. Although I had no reference other than the stylized color pictures of Oriental palaces found in travel books and encyclopedias, I could nonetheless imagine the scene. The hard, angular faces of the men crowding the audience chamber, dressed in flowing robes and turbans. The silks and rich colors of the couple on the dais, attended by ebon-skinned slaves.
Nadir's men would be in black, the warrior's color, with chainmail and leather singlets beneath their long black robes, kneeling about their master, clutching the pommels of their saifs in alarm. And Jerrod Bouchard, the Magician 'Son of Ahriman' standing in his shackles and dirty rags, fists raised in defiance, his face torn and bleeding from the abrupt removal of the silk mask that hid his shame…
Unaccountably I sought my handkerchief…feeling my eyes well in sympathy for the young Bouchard, for his pain and humiliation, albeit happened so very long ago…
Kahn snorted, saying, "You may feel sympathy for him now. At the time I was terrified he would cost us all our heads!"
Self-conscious of my reaction, I snapped archly, "He was a very young man, Mr. Kahn. Everything he had suffered at your hands, and then to have his dignity stripped from him along with that mask! It…it is distressing…"
"Dear lady, I apologize…I tend to forget…" He patted the air, requesting my patience…and my forbearance. Composing myself, I abandoned my few remaining scruples, eager to listen to Mr. Kahn's tale.
"It may be that I was responsible for much of the young man's present hardship, Mademoiselle, but I was working very hard to keep us all alive. Young Bouchard, however, had discovered his voice and taken blind refuge in loudly expressed arrogance. His Farsi may have been impure, but it was certainly well understood by all in the chamber. We were within seconds of being liberally perforated by al-Din's personal guard when salvation was delivered from a most unlikely quarter."
"The Sultana Khanum stood and demanded al-Din's men step away from us. No…she jumped from her couch and SCREAMED it! The Shah's guards scattered, like mice before the hungry cat, unwilling to be thought disrespectfully slow in response to her command."
"Erik, I and my men were immediately standing alone in the middle of the chamber, every other occupant pressed to the walls. As an additional blessing, Erik was rendered speechless!"
Nadir Kahn stopped, and looking into his twice-emptied coffee mug, and then lightly wiggling the heavy carafe', he said, "Perhaps it is time to request another pot."
I covered my face with my hands, just for a moment, then dropped them in my lap. "I confess, I have never been a patient reader, Mr. Kahn. Sometimes it seems I must devour books, instead of reading them. My…my Da used to say I needed to eat more and read less… And so it seems with listening to this wonderful story…"
"A pleasant change from those who read not at all, yet eat constantly, Mademoiselle." He reached across the small table to pat my hand, then lay his atop mine in a characteristically comforting gesture. It was the first time I could recall feeling the whole of his hand, or seeing the top so clearly.
"You are wondering about my hands." He said it as a statement.
I felt my face flame in embarrassment. "I…I cannot help but notice the scars…" Shamefaced, I met his eyes, a chorus of scolding voices having already begun within at my tactless behavior. "I am, perhaps, also afraid you are changing the subject, Mr. Kahn."
"No, dear lady. These hands…they are part of the story. You see, it is because of these scars that Erik will never kill me. And believe me, he has often felt he had right and reason enough to do so." As he spoke, Kahn turned over both of his hands, laying them palms up on the crisp tablecloth before me.
I sucked my breath in shock; the palms looked as if they had been chopped with an axe a dozen times each, rendering both into a crisscrossed patchwork of lumpy pads. I lightly investigated one palm with my fingers…receiving wordless encouragement from Nadir to do so. His palms were hard, each lumpy pad callused and rough. I turned both of his hands over, and found the scars on the top did not match the palms, but were obviously of additional injuries inflicted directly to that surface. I am no expert, but it looked as if a limber steel rod was laid with great force across the top of each hand many, many times, cutting the skin like a knife, in straight lines from wrist to knuckles. I could not stop my fingers from instinctively locating and following the bones within, finding the nodules and disarticulations that spoke of the horrendous damage done. I gently pushed and rolled the tissues, easing around the heavier scars, my hands remembering the rote of tissue massage, whilst I wondered "How was Bouchard involved in this?"
Looking up at Nadir Kahn I saw the man wore a most delighted smile, his eyes closed. Eventually he murmured, "No one has every thought to do that…to ease my pain in such fashion, much less to voluntarily touch my hands. Mademoiselle, you are indeed an angel of healing…you have delivered heaven."
I had to seek my handkerchief as tears escaped to trickle down beside my nose, which in turn threatened to retaliate in unladylike fashion. I kept my free hand upon his opposite as I stuffed my hanky back under my sleeve, wishing the warmth I sent into his cool skin could heal as well. Self-consciously I explained, "I used to massage the…the places where Lucinda Abrigaun's skin was flayed from her body during her beatings. The damage went down to the bone…the ribs and spine, the very joints in her hips and shoulders. The bones would adhere unnaturally to the tissues, restricting movement where it should have slid about easily. And…I could massage them free, a tiny bit at a time, until she could move more naturally."
Mr. Kahn sighed deeply when I pulled the other hand toward me, and gently began again the search for knotted muscles and congested tissues on the backs of his hands, pressing and rolling to increase internal circulation of fluids.
"You will remember, Mademoiselle that we…Erik, my four men and I…had just been given our lives by the Sultana Khanum. Shall I now continue?"
I could not hide my pleasure to be rejoining the story again. I confined my response to an enthusiastic nod, however, ducking my head to hide my smile, and continued working at his hands. Again, I paid no attention to the fact Mr. Kahn seemed to be confused regarding Bouchard's name. I knew of whom he spoke, after all.