Part 24 (1/2)

Pulling himself up off the couch, he started unsteadily across the hard flat tile of the roof. Immediately a servant was beside him, producing a heavy silk wrap and swathing it around his shoulders and waist. Then the man bowed again and spoke in accented Turki.

”May Allah prosper you today, Sahib. May your fortunes answer the prayers of the poor.” The man's expression softened to match his own compliment. ”Should it please the Sahib, his morning bath is waiting.”

Without thinking, without even hearing the words, he allowed himself to be led through the doorway into the second-floor apartment. There, in the center of the room, was his chest, its lock intact. He examined it with a quick glance, then followed the servants down a set of stone stairs to the ground-floor veranda--where a steaming marble tub waited.

Good Jesus, not again! How can I make them understand? Bathing weakens a man.

He started to turn, but suddenly two eunuchs appeared out of nowhere and were guiding him up the two marble steps to a stone platform, where they seated him on a filigreed wooden stool. Silently the servants stripped away his light wrap and began to knead his body and his hair with a fragrant powder, a blend of wood bark and some astringent fruit.

The scent was mild, pleasant, and as their hands traveled over him he felt the pores of his skin open to divulge their residual rankness.

This is better, he thought. Cleaning without water. With only some sort of powder. I feel refreshed already.

His muscles loosened as the men vigorously worked the mixture into his skin and then carefully cleansed it away with bulky cotton towels. Next they turned to his hair, combing and ma.s.saging more of the powder through it strand by strand. At last they signaled for him to rise and enter the tub. Its surface glistened with a perfumed oil, and the rising steam smelled faintly of clove. Before he could protest, the eunuchs guided him down the marble steps.

As he settled into the steam again he was surrounded by waiting servants, who sprinkled more oil over the water and ma.s.saged the emulsion into his hair and skin.

I'm being bathed in oil, he smiled, marveling. It's absurd, yet here it seems perfectly right.

The men worked devotedly, as though he were an inanimate utensil whose purity was their lifelong obligation. His body now glistened with a reddish tint of the oil, matching the early glow of the sun that penetrated the half- shuttered windows. As they motioned for him to leave the bath, he discovered to his amazement that he would have been perfectly content to stay. Forever. But again hands were there, guiding him, this time toward a low wooden bench covered with thick woven tapestries.

What now? What else can they do? I'm cleaner than the day I was born.

What more . . .

He was prostrate on the couch. A rough haircloth worked against his legs and torso, sending the blood surging. At the same time, a piece of porous sandstone in the practiced hands of another servant stripped away the loosened calluses and scales from his boot-roughened feet. A third man ma.s.saged still more perfumed oil, hinting of aloe and orange, into his back and along his sides and shoulders. His body had become an invigorated, pliant reed.

They motioned for him to sit up and, as he watched, one of the men produced a mirror and razor. Next he opened a bottle of fragrant liquid and began to apply it to Hawksworth's beard and chest. And then also to his legs and crotch.

”What's the purpose of that razor?”

”We have orders to shave you, Sahib, in our manner.” The turbaned man who had greeted him that morning bowed slightly as he signaled the barber to begin. ”You are to be shaved completely, as is our custom.”

”Trim my beard if you like. But no more. d.a.m.n you if you'll shave me like some catamite.” Hawksworth started to rise from his stool, but the barber was already over him, the blade flying across his face with a menacing deftness.

”It has been ordered, Sahib.” The turbaned man bowed again, and without pausing for a reply produced a short, curved metal device and began to probe Hawksworth's ears, his face intent in concentration as he carefully extracted an enormous ball of gray mud and encrusted sea salt. He sc.r.a.ped the other ear with the same deft twist. Then he flipped the same instrument and began to trim Hawksworth's ragged fingernails.

Hawksworth turned to the mirror to discover that his beard had already disappeared, leaving him clean-faced.

At least I'll be in fas.h.i.+on back home, he thought, if I ever get back.

Beards are pa.s.sing from style.

But what's he doing now? By heaven, no . . .

The razor swept cleanly across Hawksworth's chest, leaving a swath of soft skin in its wake. It came down again, barely missing a nipple as he moved to rise.

”You must be still, Sahib. You will harm yourself.”

”I told you I'll not have it.” Hawksworth pushed the razor away.

”But it is our custom.” The man seemed to plead. ”Khan Sahib ordered that you be groomed as an honored guest.”