Love's Sacrifice (2 page)

‘
Stop, you’re putting me off.’

He takes my hand gently. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

The fire crackles. I move back and gaze at the hawk-like noses of the cameleers gathered around another fire a few yards away, to listen to an old man with a narrow, deeply wrinkled face tell stories. His voice is a hoarse whisper. The long sleeves of his gray tunic rise in a sweeping dramatic movement to point at some boulders in the distance. I wonder what tale he is weaving for them.

He strokes his beard, his eyes shining in the light, and the circle of men, squatting on their heels, lean forward eagerly, thrusting their heads out like lizards. I turn toward Blake. In the firelight he is watching me.

‘
Why?’ I ask.

‘‘
When I saw you standing at the edge of the dance floor in your ruined dress, looking so lost and fragile, I felt like someone had stabbed me right in the heart. And yet you were more dignified and beautiful in your disgrace than any well-bred, stiff upper lip royalty.’

I shake my head; the memory is fresh and hurtful. ‘No, I wasn’t brave at all. I wanted to run away. I was so embarrassed. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. All those people gawking at me, some secretly pleased, others pitying. I honestly thought our wedding was totally ruined.’

I press my fingers to his lips. ‘But then you came and caught me up in your eyes and swept me into that dance. And suddenly, it was as if I was in a beautiful dream. I forgot everyone else—no one and nothing mattered, except you and me and our love for each other.’

‘
Because no one and nothing matters except you and me and Sorab.’

‘
And Billie and Jack,’ I add impishly.

He remains serious. ‘And all our other children when they come along.’

I take his serious tone. ‘What’s going to happen to her?’

He looks away from me, and stares unseeing into the leaping fire close to us. ‘After you left with Billie I went to see her. I was so furious I wanted to kill her. I had to clench my hands into hard fists and hold them tight against my sides when I saw her, but almost instantly, I realized that something was very wrong with her. I had become an obsession. She was mad in a way I had never suspected. She didn’t need to be punched, she needed psychiatric help. So I called her father and he agreed to commit her to an asylum.’ He turns back to face me and looks deeply into my eyes. His voice is strong and edged with some deep emotion. ‘She will never bother you again.’

‘
What about when she comes out?’

‘
She won’t come out until she is diagnosed as well again. The tests she will have to pass are very rigorous and mean continuous observation over a long period. It will be impossible for her or anyone to fool the panel of psychiatrists. And I will be kept abreast of all her development.’

‘
That’s good to know.’ I pause. ‘Blake, how safe is Sorab?’

He frowns. ‘From her?’

‘
No, not from her. Just generally.’

‘
He is
very
safe. Why do you ask?’

‘
Even the president of America is not so safe that he can’t be assassinated.’

‘
The president of America is assassinated if and when his controllers decide he is no longer a good puppet for them. Otherwise, he is impossible to assassinate.’

‘
My mother once told me a king is always killed by his courtiers.’

‘
That’s true, too. Only they know the weakest spot to strike.’

‘
Who are your courtiers?’

‘
Why are you so afraid?’

‘
Because you are.’

He jerks his head in surprise, but I carry on.

‘
I feel your fear all the time. I feel it in the constant surveillance we are subjected to, in your voice, in your body. Who are we being protected from, Blake?’

‘
No one. I’m just a very thorough and cautious man. I don’t trust anyone and I would rather be safe than sorry. Now tell me.’ He smiles. ‘Is this the kind of conversation a girl has with her husband on her honeymoon?’

I laugh. It’s a nervous twitter, but it seems enough for him.

‘
What happened to the panties with the lacy bits and the new techniques from London, you little minx?’

I stand. ‘Come into my tent in five minutes and I’ll show you.’ Then I turn and walk away, purposely swaying my hips in an exaggerated manner, so the robes swing tantalizingly around my body. At the tent entrance I turn to look at him. He is a silhouette, watching. And, for some reason, tense.

Slightly confused, I enter the tent, and stand for a moment behind the tent flap. I love Blake with all my heart, but his secrets are like a chasm between us. I get that he is trying to protect Sorab and me, but it pains me terribly to know that I have been deemed unsuitable to share his burdens.

For a moment, I close my eyes and give myself a talking to.
This is your honeymoon, Lana Barrington. Are you going to spoil it?
No, I’m not. I’m going to remember tonight as one of the best times of my life
.
I open my eyes and look anew at the magic that surrounds me. It is as if we have gone back in time. I note the wood stove, the cheap artificial carpets, the oil burning brass lamps, the antique wind-up gramophone, and the low bed, its orange silk sheets strewn with rose petals: our marriage bed. The smiling boy, Abdul, has done this.

It is a sweet touch.

The illusion is so perfect it is almost impossible to think that another world with Internet access, and automobiles, and TVs, and all manner of modern conveniences, exists. Strange, but I almost prefer this, this uncivilized existence. Meager and brutal, but real and honest.

Perhaps, in an odd sort of way, I have already nearly exhausted the trappings of wealth. I no longer care if my handbag has a Chanel logo on it. In fact, by a strange reversal I see the fake Chanel bag as the intelligent choice. The owners of the fake bags are the smart ones. They have understood a logic that the rest of us have been blinded to by clever marketing. Why pay seven thousand pounds for a bag you can get for twenty-five at the market? Especially since some of the fakes are so good the difference cannot be seen by the naked eye. A great con indeed.

My eyes return to the gramophone and my lips widen with pleasure. Blake remembered. I told him my grandfather had had one similar to this. I walk towards it. It is made of wood and it smells of lemon oil. I stroke the lovingly polished wood. I know exactly how to work it. Beside it there are new needles in a plastic bag. I take one out, and, carefully unscrewing the thumbscrew, insert the flat end of the needle into the hole. Cautiously, I screw it back on, as my grandfather stands over my left shoulder, saying in his gravelly voice, ‘Be very, very careful, Azizam, the thumbscrew can be anywhere from sixty to a hundred years old.’

There is no one to call me
Azizam
, my dear, anymore.

With the new needle installed, I go through the selection of records beside the machine. Old Persian music. How thoughtful my husband is. I take a record out of its sleeve, dust it with the tip of my sleeve, and place it on the turntable. With a smile of anticipation—this is always the best bit—I turn the crank on the side of the machine until I feel resistance. With the main spring wound, I release the brake lever, and the turntable starts spinning. I lower the soundbox onto the smooth outer rim, gently push it, and watch it slide into the playing groove.

Crackling Persian music fills the tent.

My grandfather smiles as I sink down on some cushions. The air around me shimmers with memories. My mother is still alive. It is Norouz and all the children in the neighborhood are jumping over the fire for good luck. Old Behrouz, the sweet seller, brings sweets in a cloth bag. From his wrinkled mouth flow stories of heroic warriors from times gone by. There are all kinds of delicacies to eat and money to be had from the elders. But the memories are old and faded around the edges. They don’t remain.

I stand, remove my long, thick robes and toss them on the carpet. They land, heavy, weighted with sweat and fine golden sand. I remove the expensive bits of underwear that I came to the desert with, and finding the long transparent blue veil I bought in the covered market, wrap it around my body and tie it over my breasts like a sarong.

There is only a small hand mirror with a carved silver back. I pull it down my body to see what I look like. My flesh looks pale, my nipples are twin peaks, and my belly button is a dark, round shape. I hear a rustle outside and moving to the middle pole drape myself around it.

The tent flap opens.

A cold gust of wind redolent with the smell of spit-roasted mutton scatters goose bumps on my naked flesh and makes the open flames dance. Blake stands stooped at the entrance. His gaze, smoky with alcohol, ignites, and his breath comes out in a hiss. He had not expected such a gift.

Whatever tension had lurked in his eyes while we were out there is no longer. Now they shine like gems in the yellow light cast by the lamps and candles. He doesn’t say anything. Simply comes to within a foot of me, and stares: a hot, slow gaze. He seems different. He seems almost astonished… Maybe I am different too. His eyes meet mine, enchanting me with their magic, filling me with desert lust.

He reaches out a hand towards the veil, but I swirl away, nimble and light as an air sprite, and stretching my hands high over my head, I dance. The pulsating drums move my bare feet as I snake my body around the wailing music. I drag my hands up my thighs, my hips, up to my waist, and higher still, until they reach my breasts. Impulsively I pinch my nipples.

His eyes flare. Heat flushes in my belly. My nipples feel raw and my sex is swollen so thick I feel the lips rub sinuously against each other: maddening me. I look at him sensuously, with half-closed, come-hither eyes.

He responds to my silent call. He moves fast and is suddenly so close by, his deep voice vibrates inside my head. ‘Who owns this glorious creature?’

‘
The one who dares…’ I suggest, my voice trailing away wickedly. Like the honey you leave as a trap for the unwary.

‘
I dare,’ he whispers.

I pull the veil over my face so only my eyes are visible and, turning from the neck, look up at him. ‘Are you sure?’ I ask saucily.

An intrigued eyebrow lifts. ‘You should come with a warning, a bit like the cigarette manufacturers are forced to have on their packaging: Beware, scintillating to the point of incendiary.’

For some seconds I look at him. Outside miles of nothing, here, let there be swollen heat. I spread my legs and plunge my fingers into my wet folds. The action is primitive, perhaps even obscene, but here we are different animals. I thrust my fingers in and out, my breath becoming more ragged.

He takes off his thick robes and flings them to the floor, his eyes never leaving me. I see the smooth golden skin where his collar falls open. How beautiful is my lover. He pulls at the white shirt-dress. It joins the robe. Naked to the hips he comes forward, sexual energy rising off his glistening muscles like a heat haze. I gaze at his body. So familiar and so dear, and still the air zaps with my desire for it.

He catches my hand in his and brings it to his mouth. A smile curves my lips. I lean forward, my bare breasts brushing his torso as I sway with the music. It is like rubbing a magic lamp. It awakens a genie of dark excitement deep within his body. I see the fever-thirst come into his eyes. I stop smiling.

He spreads his fingers on my hips. They are like flames on my skin. I turn and let my shoulders rub against his chest, and my buttocks brush the hard flesh between his legs. His reaction is intoxicating—he reels me in suddenly so the base of my side is pressed into the rod of hot flesh. My limbs tremble in anticipation. He moves his body against me: long thighs, muscles, sinew, tendon and bones, all melds with me.

In response, I move my buttocks away from his body and slide my hand between us. I palm his hardness and curl my hand possessively around the hard shaft. It responds by twitching and growing harder still.

‘
Impressive,’ I whisper.

He chuckles, a dark, possessive sound. ‘The better to fuck you with.’

His hands roam my body, from my belly up to my breasts and down between my legs.

‘
Oh yes,’ I gasp, gently stroking the bulge, wanting the brutal force of his thrusts and the agonized sound of my name on his lips as he floods me with hot cum. He bends his head and his mouth scorches mine, hot and hungry, the taste of salt and tequila, a sparkling shock. My eyelids flutter closed. We are ravenous creatures in the desert. He lifts his head, breath coming fast and shallow.

‘
If you don’t get inside me soon I’m going to melt.’

As if on cue the music changes. The air fills with drums.

He wraps his thick and sinewy arms around me and, sweeping me off my feet, swirls me around so fast I am a dizzy blue mist landing on the orange silk bed. My weight crushes the flower petals. In dying they gasp out their sweetest scents. They mix with the oily scent of the candles.

He kneels down. His scent is different: he is as fragrant as the hot sand. He catches my eyes, smiles faintly and, parting my trembling thighs, sinks his fingers into me. My flesh flowers around the heat of his fingers. Grasping his hand, I hold his fingers deep inside me. I close my eyes and savor the delicious sensation of my muscles jerking and quivering around him, as they anticipate release.

My hands fall away as his fingers curl inside me and begin to stroke slowly. He knows exactly where to rub to make me explode.

‘
God! I’m so crazy about you,’ he rasps, as his mouth descends on a nipple. Hot and rough. It burns me. He sucks the other deep in his mouth. Pleasure shoots straight into my sex, making more blood rush to it, swelling it further, until it…hurts. I whimper.