CHAPTER THREE

 

 

THE VAPUR to Kara-Koy was departing from the bridge and was almost empty; not many people were using it, a Kara-Koy was a wealthy area and the rich had their own boats and cars. And the rich of Istanbul were very wealthy.

Jason looked around, but didn't see anything suspicious: an old woman, holding a cat in her arms—not Turkish, Jason thought; a few soldiers heading for their homes; three Americans, perhaps on a free day without their wives. The boat was painted in shades of ochre and green, and smelled of tuna and sardines. It took fifteen minutes to reach the harbor closest to Kara-Koy, and as soon as he debarked, Jason looked for a taxi. He scrutinized the driver of the cab that slid to the curb— young, smiling, clean-shaven—and, reassured, Jason hopped in and gave the address in Kara-Koy.

Ten minutes later the cab stopped in front of a small, attractive white house on a hill overlooking the incredible bay ringed with blue minarets and the ruins of the ancient Greco-Roman temples that had existed throughout the city's amazing history.

Jason got out and paid the driver. He walked to the white-painted iron gate, pushed through, and went up the four black-and-white marble steps to the floor, on which was an untarnished brass plaque that read TAYLOR PHILLIPS, and nothing more. He tugged the chain on the shiny brass bell. He waited. He pulled it again. As he ambled away, wondering what he might do next, a throaty feminine voice said, "Yes?"

A woman stood in the doorway, a beautiful, smallish woman with sun-streaked hair, blue-violet eyes, and tanned skin. She held a book in her hand, her index finger keeping her place. She was wearing white cotton slacks and a white silk shirt; no bra he noted approvingly.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Mrs. Phillips?" Jason asked.

How old was she? Twenty-eight?

She didn't answer.

"Mrs. Phillips?" he asked again.

She nodded slightly.

He noticed that the book she was reading was Palladio, by Roop.

“I’d like to speak to your husband."

“So would I," she said. "Any ideas?"

Oh, Lord, thought Jason, here we go again.

She saw his distress and said, “I’m sorry I haven’t seen him for two years and he owes me some child support; Who are you?”

"I'm just someone who wants to talk to your husband for about five minutes. You're American?"

She nodded.

"I need to talk to him. I met him as the American vice-consul in Ephesus two days ago, and—"

She laughed—a wonderful, throaty laugh.

"You're kidding! John? A vice-consul? Ephesus? He's a polo-playing, backgammon-playing, woman-playing, stock-market-playing nice guy in Montecito, California, and nothing more. If you want his address, I can give it to you."

Numbly, Jason said, "John?" And found himself repeating it. "John?"

"John Jefferson Phillips the Third," she answered. Then she hesitated before going on, "Look, this is Istanbul, and I don't mean to be rude, but before I give you his address, I'd like to see some identification."       

Jason handed her his passport. She scanned it briefly and handed it back.

"I've heard of you," she said as she opened the door wider. "Come on in and I'll give you some coffee and his phone number. He won't accept my calls, but he'd talk to you, I'm sure. While you're at it, tell him he forgot our son's eighth birthday last week." Her face clouded a moment. "Seriously, if you do talk to him, tell him the boy's not been too happy lately. A call from his dad might do wonders."

Jason heard himself saying, "And you? Who exactly are you?"

“Taylor Phillips, ex-vice-consul of the United States, for merely at Barcelona, at Ankara, at Izmir—at your service, sir."  

"You?" He stepped through the door. This was Taylor Phillips? But now where was Phillips Taylor?

She showed him into a sunlit living room, octagonal in shape, very white, everything white except for the red tile floor and the terra-cotta niche at the far end, which contained a four-foot-high marble statue of Herakles, minus arms and part of a leg. There was a white flokati rug, a white sofa, and above it, dominating the room, a wide-nostriled horse's head of marble, which looked as though it had come from the Parthenon. In the center of the room was a worktable ten feet long, made of, a slab of marble from a sarcophagus. On it were piles of drawings and steel engravings of ancient Palladian buildings, as well as manuscripts, books stacked on books, a laptop, and two projectors—one opaque and one slide.

She gestured toward the terrace, which overlooked a small garden, and he went out and sat down on a chair at a table under a big striped umbrella.   

She soon joined him, bringing the coffee she had promised. Sitting across from him, she tipped her head to one side slightly and asked, "So why does a famous writer want to talk to my ex-husband, who never read a book, except maybe Black Beauty?"

At one point in his life, a great many people had known Jason's name; now, not so many did. He was inordinately pleased that this beautiful woman was one of the few.

"I don't want to talk to him," he said. God, she was so good-looking! "I thought I needed to talk to you. Now it appears I don't. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

He stood up to go.

"Wait a minute," she said. "You've got me terribly confused. First you want to speak to my husband, then you think you need to talk to me. What on earth is this all about?"

Jason shook his head and said with a wry smile, "I'm afraid I’m just as confused as you are. This whole thing seems so ridiculous to me now."

"What whole thing?" She pushed the coffee cup toward him and said, "Please sit down. You haven't touched your coffee. Why don't you tell me while you drink it? After all you've interrupted my work, which is fine because I've reached a snag and welcome the interruption. But at least entertain me for a moment by telling me about this. I suspect that it must be intriguing. The author of Clay for the Kiln would not be interested in something dull."

 She'd struck a chord. "I didn't think anyone except my mother had ever read that slim little loser," he said.

  "It was a bit naive and clumsy here and there. My God, you must have been so young! But overall it was powerful. It knocked me for a loop when I was in college. I also liked your novel, The Kindness of Strangers, a lot. So can you tell me a little something of what this is all about?"

Over the dark Turkish brew, thick as delta silt, Jason found himself telling her the whole story, leaving out no details. She listened intently, leaning forward in her chair, her violet eyes wide.

When he'd finished recounting Nestor Lascaris's story of the virgin birth, she breathed, "Jesus." Then, realizing what she had said, she gave an embarrassed laugh.

After a long moment, Jason asked, "Do you believe the story?"

She stood up, arms folded. "Do you really want to know what I think?"

“Of course.”

“I think it's an absolutely contemptible premise.”

"The old man seems to believe it," Jason said defensively.

"And I used to believe in the tooth fairy."

"But... do you think the story could be true?"

"I think it's quite possibly the most ridiculous and tacky thing I've ever heard. If I were a better Christian, I suppose I would be offended, even outraged. As it is, I'm just amused. Like a mackerel in the moonlight, it shines and it stinks."

"Not even curious?"

"Not in the slightest. I mean, Mr. Van Cleve—"

"Jason, please."

"Jason. Common sense tells me this cannot be. We do know that Jesus lived—actually lived! Nobody denies that. Sure, the facts are sparse, I’ll admit. But he did live around two thousand 'years ago, and he influenced a great many people, and he was crucified; that we know, if for no other reason than that the Romans left a few records. So who's this girl? Why have we never heard of her before? I'm sorry, this computer rejects the input."

"I don't know."

"You don't know, yet you believe—"

"I didn't say I believe. I just feel something in my gut."

"I've got some antacid," she deadpanned, sitting down.

"Thanks a lot. But someone is going to great lengths to suppress this story, I'll admit it's ridiculous— But why does it mean so much that someone would risk getting caught stealing the tapes and the film? Why was I being followed? Why was old Lascaris afraid? Why didn't he come back? There are just too damned many unanswered questions here for me to write I this off. I can't help thinking there is something very important going on here, no matter how ridiculous the story sounds."

She nodded pensively and they sat in silence for a moment, then she said, "I wish I could have seen those photographs you took of the scrolls. There may have been some clues—physical evidence, something to indicate their authenticity." She gestured toward her worktable. "Before I quit the Foreign Service to write what I pray will be the definitive book on Palladian architecture, I was an amateur archaeologist. My marriage was cracking up and I needed something to divert my mind from my problems, so I began to study and do a lot of research in Izmir. I even learned Aramaic. I assume the scrolls are in Aramaic?"

Jason shrugged. "I really don't know. The writing looked like a handful of primitive fishhooks to me."

"If they were in Hebrew or in Greek—if they weren't in Aramaic—then, ipso facto, they were phony. And, just incidentally—this will fuel your heretical fires—the ancient Hebrew word for Holy Spirit is ranch."      

"And?" he asked, perplexed.

"I shouldn't encourage your preposterous idea—but ranch is a noun of the feminine gender."

"Well, I don't know about Hebrew, but we can rule out Greek. The old man was Greek, so he would not have needed a translator for that." Wait a minute. I think he said, 'I do not read Aramaic well'!" Jason looked at her, shook his head, and sighed. "You must think me a total fool. But if you'd only been there and heard that old man! It is inconceivable to me that anyone his age, sick and about to die, would try to pull off o hoax

"Maybe it wasn't his idea to begin with."

"But it was!" cried Jason. "He was the one who found the scrolls in the first place."        

"He says he found them!" Taylor countered.

"If he says he found them and didn't, we're going back to the hoax theory. And once again I ask why a hoax, at his age? He stated at the beginning that he wanted no money.

Taylor stood up and paced for a moment, frowning.

"Look, Mr. Van Cleve—Jason—this is ridiculous. We're going round and round, and since I didn't see the scrolls or the man, I have nothing to base my arguments on. Except that I too have a gut feeling. And that is that you have somehow been singled out as the patsy in an elaborate and perhaps even dangerous con game. Look—why, if these scrolls are real, why hasn't someone heard of them until now?"

'The Dead Sea Scrolls—which have been authenticated—, have been in existence for two thousand years: How come we just heard of them a few years ago? Isn't that the job of you archaeologists, to dig up all this stuff ? And another thing. Supposing they are an ancient hoax, perpetrated centuries ago. Wouldn't that still give them some value to scholars?"

She stopped pacing.

"All right, touché. I have an idea. I know someone who might be able to convince you a little better than I can."

She went to the telephone and spoke into it in rapid Turkish. Then, to Jason, while she waited for her call to go through, she said, "I'm placing a call to Rome, to an old friend. He helps look after my son, who's staying with my sister in Rome, going to school there. This man's very close to the bigwigs in 'the Catholic Church. He'll know if anyone does..."

And then the operator came back on the line and Taylor was speaking in Italian, "Carissimo Padre mio... qui sua arnica Taylor." Then she went on in English. After ten minutes she hung up.

"How the hell many languages do you speak?" he asked.

"Eight," she said with a shrug. "But then, so does every headwaiter."

"Eight languages!"

"Don't be impressed. I was an army brat, and my father  was transferred to a new country about every other year."

"And what did your Italian friend tell you just now?"

"Actually, he's an American-born Italian." Then she relayed the substance of the conversation: Father Bartolomeo, who had been in and around the Vatican for fifteen years, had never heard of the scrolls. He had heard of other heretical writings over the years, of course. There was little, if nothing, having to do with religion that escaped the Vatican's watchful eye. Something like this would have caused a sensation, even if scoffed at. He said he would investigate further, but...

"And exactly what is his job... his position in the Church?"

'"He's a cardinal deacon."

Jason looked at her questioningly.

"There are three orders of cardinals," she explained, as though to a Sunday school class. "The most prestigious are the cardinal bishops; they're all members of the Curia and are titular bishops of the six dioceses of Rome. Next in rank are the cardinal priests, you know, like the archbishops of San Francisco or Paris or New York.' Then come the cardinal deacons who—“

So Father Bartolomeo is pretty far down in the pecking order and may not be privy to something as controversial as this.”

"He's a very important person," Taylor said defensively "and a fine man."

"Is he a scroll expert?"

"He's a very learned man."     

“Look, I'm not knocking your friend. I’m just saying that maybe only a very few people know about these damned things and they want to keep it a mighty small fraternity. Maybe even to the extent of bumping off any potential initiates to the club.

"At this point I rather wish I'd never gotten involved with this in any way."

Jason was idly studying a group of photographs on the white baby grand piano. There were pictures of a young boy, of an elderly couple who were probably this woman's parents, of Taylor herself as a young girl on a horse of Taylor and the young boy on a camel, with the pyramids in the background of the boy in front of the Parthenon, and others. Suddenly one photo caught his eye. It was a group picture of about a dozen people, in an eight-by-ten standard frame. And one face looked familiar... or did it?         

"Excuse me," Jason said as he picked up the picture and held it in front of Taylor. "Who's this?”

"Who's who?"

"I think this is my man!" Jason said, pointing to one person in the back row.        

"Phillips Taylor," she exclaimed. "I'd forgotten him completely. He was a minor clerk at the consulate in Izmir, fired I think, for shady dealings in passports and such. This was taken at a little office party for me, just before I left. I remember he and I talked about the similarity of our names but someone later told me that wasn't his real name."

"Lanky, sweaty, with darkish hair and sort of basset-hound eyes?" Jason asked.

“Exactly.”

“Do you think he still lives in Izmir?”

'Very unlikely. Since he deals in stolen passports, he's probably right here in Istanbul. Thousands of American passports are lost or stolen in Europe, and most of them find their way to the Persian Divan in the Bey Oglou district, a junction in the railroad of several criminal transportation systems. A man like Phillips Taylor wouldn't get much action in Izmir. He could operate more effectively in Istanbul."

"So, how do I find him?"

"Well, if you could talk to Ali Reza...he's the master, they say, of all such dealers. With the bait of some real American dollars—not the ones they print in Tarlabassi—their grapevine can be most effective."

"Fine," Jason said. "I'll go there."

She flashed her charming smile. "You speak Turkish?"

"Fluently. Almost as well as pig Latin."

"Then perhaps you'd like me to come with you?"

"Is it safe?" Jason asked, surprised by her suggestion, but aware of the advantage it offered.

"Safer with me than without me," she replied. "I know the crummy area and have a few friends in low places. And I'm afraid that, as a tourist, you may end up haying your own passport stolen."

Jason said, "You could have something there, what with all these feelings I've had of being followed. How is it that you know this Mr. Reza, if he's so shady?"

Taylor laughed. "You mean, 'What is a nice girl like you...?’ Oh, dear. Well, in order to do any excavating, or even trespassing in areas where there are known to be artifacts, one must have permits galore. Once, when I was applying for a permit, there was a terrible ruckus going on down the hall, and I asked what was happening. The young man with whom I had gone through this same red tape before told me that the famous—or infamous—All Reza had been brought in and he was highly indignant. I guess I looked a bit stupid, because he said I must surely have heard of Ali Reza, and then he told me about him. Apparently the reason Reza was so upset was that he thought he had the police department in his pocket but they now had a new captain who hadn't been briefed on the advisability of cooperating with him."

Taylor gave another little laugh and went on, "Then, of all things, as they brought him down the hall and past me he smiled at me and nodded in a very gentlemanly manner. I said to the clerk 'He seems quite nice’ and the clerk replied, sarcastically, I suppose ‘0h, yes, everybody likes Ali Reza!’ And would you believe it? Later I was introduced to him at a very respectable cocktail party and he remembered me. He said I had done him a favor, though what it was I don't know."

"And obviously you remembered him," Jason remarked.

"Wait till you see him. He is quite unforgettable, and delightful talk to, if you like hearing shady dealings made to sound amusing. He told me that 'on the occasion of our initial encounter as he put it, he'd been arrested for smuggling fifty cell phones and was most fearful of having to wait in jail for perhaps two years before going to court. But he also told me the new captain had a change of hear when he was given six of the phones for his family and friends.

There seems to be a liberal attitude toward bribery in this part of the world," Jason observed.

"I think being friends with Ali Reza would be far mote valuable than being friends with the police captain. In this part of the world, you survive only if you invest in connections." She stood up. "Excuse me while I go freshen up."

Taylor emerged shortly, looking cool, dressed all in white silky and feminine. And with the addition of a bra, he noticed.

"If you don't mind," Jason said. "I should first explain to the captain that I won't be able to finish the cruise as planned. Would you mind taking me there first?"

Jason suddenly realized what he had done. The words had seemed to come out by themselves, as though he had given no previous thought to them. When had he made that unconscious decision to leave the ship, and why? Sure, Lascaris's tale was a pretty good one, and he'd always loved a good story; no matter how implausible this one might be, it was far more exciting than life aboard a cruise ship, And Taylor was far more alluring than Vera. That he admitted to himself, was a big part of it. Mrs. Taylor Phillips was a stunning woman as well as an enigmatic and intelligent one. A bit chilly and intellectual and formal on the outside, but on the inside... who could tell? .  

"You're leaving the cruise?"

"Yes."

"For the scrolls and this biblical Wonder Woman?"

"Partly."

"What are you planning—a book called She, Jesus, soon to be made into a major motion picture starring Charlese Theron?

"Low blow."

"I semi-apologize."

"I semi-accept."

As they got into her black Citroen, she reached across him to put a scarf into the glove compartment. In the brief instant the compartment was open, he saw a pistol.

She saw him looking at it.

"This is Istanbul," she said matter-of-factly. "I suggest you get one if you're going to be here any length of time."

It was dusk when they reached the ship. Jason went aboard to talk to the captain and remove his baggage. The captain accompanied him to the ramp to wish him well, and gave Jason a bit of a conspiratorial leer when he saw Taylor waiting for him by the car. Jason put his luggage in the trunk, Taylor, double-locked it, and they drove away from the dock.

Istanbul was dazzling in the evening light. The sun, setting behind the seven hills on which the city was perched, set the tops of the minarets ablaze. The spectacular Golden Horn bisected by the Bosporus, the squat mosques fraternizing with cathedrals and ruins of temples—all of it was exotically unreal. "Beautiful, isn't it?" murmured Taylor. "I always think of Kanik's poem:

              ‘I listen to Istanbul with my eyes closed

              First a light breeze blows

              And sets to swaying slowly

              Leaves on trees;

              From far away comes  

                 The ceaseless tinkle of water-sellers' bells

                 I listen to Istanbul with my eyes closed.’

"It's a little tough to hear the tinkling bells over the car horns," Jason said.

"You have to listen with your heart."

"You really like it here, don't you?"

"A very old part of the world, and I find it fascinating."

Jason looked around at the crowded streets, noting the variety of costumes, from western jeans and business suits to flowing robes, interspersed with military uniforms of various countries. "It is that, all right," he agreed. "Also mighty dirty."

"I should have called Ali Reza. There's a cafe up here," said Taylor as she pulled the car to the curb.

The place had no name, but there was a large sign with a rooster painted on it hanging over the two open doors. It was a humble bar and cafe, but decent enough for this part of town.

They went in; "A clean, well-lighted place," Jason commented

A mustached young man towed to them from behind the bar. Taylor pointed to the phone, and the man handed it to her.

She spoke briefly in Turkish on the phone, then hung up, looking disappointed. "Not until tomorrow afternoon. I should have called earlier, from home."

"So, let me buy you dinner."

"It is about that time, isn't it? I'm so sorry, I should have thought to call before we left. But it probably wouldn't have made any difference." She tipped her head up toward him and smiled. "Yes, you may buy my dinner, on one condition."

"Agreed."

"But you don't know what it is yet”

"Any condition," he smiled.”

"Thai we do not mention those Ephesus you-know-what even obliquely."

"Anything else?"

"Hmmm. Yes! That neither of us talks about ex-spouses or ex-spice or the past in general."

"What makes you think I have an ex-spouse?"

"What else is an unattached, attractive man doing on a Mediterranean cruise, except recovering from a divorce?"

"There are such things as widowers."

Her face went serious. "Oh, I am sorry! Do you...do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "We've agreed not to talk about the past. What the doctor ordered is a night on the town. We can start here and work our way up the social ladder."

"Agreed," she said. "Now, what to drink? Turkish wine is terrible. Their vodka, however, is the best. But I hesitate to tell you the name."

"Why?"

"It'll start you thinking about those damned scrolls again."

"I promise."

"All right, then. Bartender, two Izmiras."

"Izmiras?" Jason echoed.       

"Izmiras," she reaffirmed.

They sat at the bar talking, sipping the smooth vodka, and they soon forgot about the "conditions." They talked at length about each other's pasts, and Jason wondered why he'd thought this woman was anything but warm and feminine. She was as lonely as he was, just as desirous of companionship, but wary, like himself.

He found himself opening up to her as he hadn't with anyone for a long time. After he told her about the auto accident in which his wife was killed, he added, "You're probably wondering why I'm chasing after some crazy scrolls instead of the guys who caused the 'accident.' By the time I narrowed the actual perpetrators down to two men in the union, one was in prison and a rival 'family' had taken care of the other. That was lucky, because I think I'd have killed them myself."

"And did you write about what they'd done?" He shook his head. "No hard evidence against them, the editor said. Take a little trip, he said. Write us some nice, tame travel articles."

"A cover up ?”

"No...just didn't want to stir up the mud with conjecture."

"What you're on to now is sure going to stir up some mud." He shrugged. "That's my hobby." When they finished the drinks, they left the cafe and went up the crowded, smelly, cobbled street and stopped in front of a garishly painted nightclub. Outside stood a porcine Nubian, preening, naked to the waist and dressed in pantaloons, curved-toe shoes, a scimitar, and an Ali Baba headdress.

"Step right een, gentleman and lady," he chanted. "You jus' een time for beeg belly dancer contest!"

Jason and Taylor looked at each other. "Why not?"

They went into the place, a noisy, dark emporium full of sailors of various languages, uniforms, races, and odors.

They sat at the bar, and Jason ordered more Izmira. On a ramp at the end of the bar, a half-naked belly dancer was bumping and grinding.

When the vodka was placed on the bar in front of them, Taylor said, "Another? I can already feel the other."

"You are a poet," said Jason. "Have always said so. Sure, they're strong... but the night is long."

"Gosh, mister, you really are a writer!"

When she smiled, her cheeks got all round and made her eyes almost close. He liked that. He smiled back at her, and they clinked their glasses.

"You look like a dog I used to own," he said.

"Thanks," she said, nodding and repeating matter-of-factly,

"I look like a dog."

He couldn't help but grin. "Sorry. But he was a beautiful dog. And when he sang—"

"He—he sang?"

"My mother would have these musicales on Sundays—she was a music teacher—and Duggan—that was his name-would smile. Actually smile. And sing along while she played, his eyes closed all the while. You know—wooooo."

"Baritone?" 

"More of a tenor, I'd say. And he was great, but if any of us laughed, Duggan would stop and glare around the group and walk stiff-legged out of the room, never to sing again that day."

"And"—she peeled the label off the bottle—"I look like Duggan."        

"Well," he said lamely, "only that you close your eyes when you smile and – you are beautiful”

"Like Duggan."

"Like Duggan," he said.

She gave a little laugh and put her hand on his. "You are crazy, aren't you?"

He smiled, enjoying the feeling of her hand on his. At that moment another belly dancer came on with a crash of cymbals, trying to outdo her predecessor in the athletic, sensuous movements. The next one, however, was their favorite. She looked like Mickey Rooney and didn't seem to take gyrating her belly in sinuous convulsions very seriously. But the sailors booed her. They liked the following one enormously, a hook-nosed woman whose machine-gun hips worked like an air hammer breaking up an asphalt street.

   "Bet I could do that," said Taylor. "Gonna try it when I get home."

She was a little high and very relaxed and happy. Jason paid the bill and they went out into the street and walked, only a little unsteadily, back to where the car was parked. Jason put his arm around her shoulders and she put her arm around his waist and they laughed. How wonderfully young and happy Jason felt. That such a simple, innocent gesture as having a woman put her arm around his waist could delight his senses seemed nothing less than a miracle to him. How long, how terribly long ago had it been since he'd felt this way?        

When they reached the car, Jason turned Taylor slowly toward him. She raised her face for the kiss, first sweet and soft, then hungry and hard. A lurching sailor bumped into them, almost knocking them over.

Silently, Taylor unlocked the car and they got in, and Jason reached over and pulled her to him wordlessly. They kissed and Jason slipped his hand up to her breast. She was wearing a bra, but he could feel her nipple harden as he slipped his hand into it. She put her hand on top of his, not to remove it, but as though to reinforce the gesture. Then she pulled away, suddenly shy, and with a little laugh she murmured mockingly, "'And then he cupped her breast'... aren't they always cupping someone's breast in those sexy novels you people write?"

Then her voice went serious as she said, “Dear, dear Jason... if you only knew how long it's been since I've engaged in such shenanigans!"

Jason straightened up. "We still haven't lined up a hotel for me tonight."

"Home...home," Taylor murmured. "I've Jonny's room to offer you, 'He's in Rome, going to school, staying with my sister. Bu then again, I told you already". Then she said with a little shrug, "Would you prefer to stay at a hotel? Maybe you'd prefer—"

"You were right the first time," Jason said. "Home."

Once they were back at Taylor's house, she switched on the living room lights and looked around as though momentarily distracted. Then, with the poise and distance he had noted before, she asked, "Want something?"

"You," Jason said. "I want you.'

"No more Izmira," she concluded quite definitely, and left the room.

He heard a loud pop, and looked toward the kitchen in time to see her emerge with two glasses and an open bottle of champagne on a tray.

“Taylor,” Jason started  “Tell me more about him.” He was pointing toward the group photo of the embassy crew.

“Ah-ah!" she chided. "None of that. You promised.”

Jason smiled sheepishly and took the proffered glass and sat beside her on the sofa.

"Okay, okay, you win," he said. "Hey, know what—we never did have dinner. And know what else? Who needs it?"

“And this is good champagne. French. Left over from my previous husband's splendid—"

"Ah-ah!" Jason cautioned. "We must, by all means remember the conditions!" He raised his glass. 'To the conditions!"

"To the conditions," agreed Taylor. "Certainly we can forget him. I already have."

“Forget? Who... whom? Oh, yes, your ex-husband. True, I’ve already forgotten him too. In fact, I don't believe I ever knew him!"

Taylor laughed and sat down at the far end of the sofa. "Y' know, I'll bet I could do it," she mused

“Do what?” he asked.

“It,” she said.

“It? Almost anyone can. Bees do it... up in Boston even…

“Not what I mean!" She bent over with her arms crossed, took the hem of her dress in her hands, and, straightening up, pulled the garment up and over her head, exposing her lovely body in one graceful motion. She picked up two silver ashtrays and, dressed only in her bra and panties, began to gyrate her hips slowly, her eyes downcast sensuously, her lower lip thrust out in the belly dancer's exaggerated pout. She hummed and made little singsong noises that resembled Turkish music. Her hips gyrated faster and faster, and from time to time she banged the ashtrays over her head like small cymbals.

Jason cried out, "Ole! Or whatever one's supposed to say!"

He went over to the piano, and without taking his eyes off her, he expertly picked up her rhythm and played Duke Ellington's "Caravan," the exotic chords jibing perfectly with her movements as her hips snapped first to the right and then to the left, with a bump in between.

"Love that rack-and-pinion steering!" Jason sang.

Then she began to laugh at herself, and finally she staggered to the sofa and tossed away the ashtrays, and hugged herself with laughter.

"Not bad for an ex-vice-consul!" she managed to gasp.  " Jason was laughing too. Snatching up a vase, he held it up and declared, "La Boobalena... ze indisputable winner of ze belly dance!"

He stepped forward to present the brass vase to her, and she flung her arms around his waist and he stumbled backwards and they both tripped and slammed onto the sofa, which then tipped over and catapulted them onto the floor.

They lay sprawled there in the long white hair of the flokati rug, arms and legs entwined, bodies shaking with helpless laughter. And then suddenly they weren't laughing so hard, and then they were no longer laughing at all, and Jason was kissing her and she was kissing him back. "Jason..."

"Tay, darling..."

"How did this happen? This isn't like me."

He slipped her bra strap off her shoulder. His mouth went to her breast and then his lips moved lower, down to the satiny smoothness of her stomach, and then his fingers were sliding her underpants down over her hips.

And they made love there oh the rug—wonderful, gentle, cautious love. Afterwards they lay for a while running their hands over each other's bodies and sharing small kisses, and then Jason lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom and they made love again, but this time less cautiously, less gently; and it had never been so good for either of them.