The girl blushed, but not with shame. She was rather pleased. Her brother was indignant: She must have succeeded in being truly attractive. And “that color”—pink—must be one he found particularly pleasant for him to raise such a fuss about it. Pleasure always made him uncomfortable. He was so unused to the sensation.
Abd ar-Rahman recited some part of the sermon to his sister, advised her to take heed and sent her back into the hollow in giggles, It was only then that I recognized her dress. It was Gul Ruh who had taken the spill that had seriously stained the right arm, not the Mufti’s daughter. It was Gul Ruh who had worn her best pink dress that day. The Mufti’s girl had been in green when we left Constantinople. For some reason of girlish vanity I could not fathom (for Gul Ruh looked too sallow for my taste when she wore green), the two had exchanged outer dresses. I had better keep a closer eye on the pair from now on.
Abd ar-Rahman lowered his voice and spoke a few more polite words to his mother and his older sisters, then took formal leave of them, making his way back down through the trees to his companions. His friends must have known where he’d gone-—the picnic had not appeared out of the clear blue, of course. But they were a polite and very religious bunch, so they made no more comment than if he had just gone off to answer a basic call of nature. Their thoughts were not driven from the discussion of Holy Law as presented by the sermon for a moment. And Abd ar-Rahman was very glad to escape back into that niche where he felt most at ease.
Suddenly, however, Abd ar-Rahman’s Friday afternoon ease was shattered. So was that of everyone else in the park. At first I pretended to ignore the commotion. A chorus of high, shrill voices was shouting and crying, but I assumed it must be a band of rowdy boys. If it was women, as another moment convinced me it must be, it must be a congress offish mongers’ wives fighting over slippers. Surely such hysteria could not be from our women in such a public place. But just another moment told me that indeed it was.
A copse of trees and a hillock blocked my view of what was happening. It centered on the fast moving stream. And before I had time to get to my feet, the chaos’ focus had drifted past the protection of the hollow and into the open. I thought at first a bough of pink Judas blossom caught my eve. But the splash of color occasionally defied the pull of the water and displayed a mind of its own. And the pink was turning such a dark purple as Judas blossom will take on only after a day of wilt.
My heart suddenly pumped aching fear to every limb—as fine satin will the minute it touches water and begins to soak up deadly weight.
LVI
The entire hillside of eunuchs and women was now running like rainwater down to the lowest level. Abd ar-Rahman, too, was drawn on by that color he recognized from his recent interview with his sister. He reached the water first.
A pair of eunuchs quickly formed a solid chain to the bank lest Abd ar-Rahman, like the log burned light and white with study that he was—be likewise caught in the current. But it was the young man himself who made the rescue. Though he staggered a moment under the unaccustomed physical load, with the strong eunuchs’ arms to right him, he insisted on carrying the burden to the safety of the copse. He wanted the personal pleasure of scolding his wanton sister himself.
But it was not his sister. I had suspected the rereversal in clothing all the way down the hill. And as I ran up to the excited rabble that clustered around, hardly giving the drowned soul a taste of precious air, my worst fears were confirmed. She who had become an object of such display was my young lady. That she had nearly drowned was the least of my worries: She’d be better off dead than seen by a hundred men in Friday-after-sermon righteousness.
The same instant I knew the truth, Abd ar-Rahman did, too. Any woman not his close kin was like a jinni to him, something supernatural and as scalding as sparks from heaven. He dropped her none too gently and fled without a word.
Gul Ruh had recovered somewhat, at least enough to recognize her rescuer, likewise a dangerous, awful creature. She was thankful to be dropped, and although part of her stagger was from weakness, it was compounded by a struggle to hide her face.
Gul Ruh’s stumble to the ground was padded by many concerned arms and laps, but even if they had not been there, cutting off air, her recovery would have been slowed by her hands. Her cap and veil had been lost in the water. Finding her skirt too water sodden to lift, she covered her face with simple palms instead. And as soon as there was air in her lungs to carry out a sob, the hands became a handkerchief for her grief.
Gul Ruh shook like a leaf. The ice-cold water had aggravated the usual pearly smoothness and pallor of her skin. The veins were visible beneath, a stark blue as they tried to carry normal pulse again. So had Abd ar-Rahman seen her—a fragile thing so in need of comfort and protection. But few of us thought of what the effect of the sight might have had on him. He had seen her, that made our hearts heavy enough.
Now the Mufti’s daughter, once more in her o\mi green dress, made her way through the crowd with a warm brew of orchid root. She knelt before Gul Ruh
