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“Eat, eat,” he said with the usual generous Egyptian hospitality.
I took him up on the offer. A young vamp who looked a lot like Lantern Boy but wasn’t kept my glass filled with the local version of lemonade. It was called limoon and didn’t have any alcohol, but went really well with the spicy food.
And some of the offerings needed something to cut the heat, although not the ones on my tray. But they were only half the story, because Hassani kept urging me to also try this hors d’oeuvre and that drink from a seemingly endless stream of passing waiters. Mezze is the Egyptian version of tapas, enjoyed at cafes and dining tables all across Egypt. And Hassani’s chefs had done him proud.
So, in addition to everything on my plate, I ended up consuming pieces of fennel-marinated-feta with olives on skewers; baba ghanoush—the spicy roasted eggplant dish—with flatbread; huge dates stuffed with nuts and honey; dukka—a roasted leek spread—on tiny potato pancakes; salata baladi, a salad made from chopped tomatoes, cucumber, onion, pepper and spicy rocket; lamb and chicken kebobs with the crunchy burnt bits perfectly paired with a lime yogurt sauce; and roast pigeon stuffed with onions, tomatoes and rice.
The result was a captive audience for whatever the hell Hassani wanted to talk about, because I honestly didn’t think I could move. Like ever again. Seriously, if anyone wanted to restrain a person without the needs for cuffs, this would do it.
He eyed up my massive pile of small, empty plates with apparent approval, but then summoned a boy with coffee, served Turkish style in tiny cups that were rich and dark and syrupy sweet. I drank one anyway, because it smelled divine, and made no apologies. I was basically in a food coma by that point, and not responsible fo
r my actions. I reclined and watched the latest group of dancers through rheumy eyes full of spice-induced tears.
They’d been there a while, shimmying and shaking and managing some pretty impressive feats of acrobatics while I ate, but I hadn’t really given them my full attention. I still didn’t, being too busy feeling grateful that I’d worn what was essentially a muumuu, rather than one of Radu’s skin tight numbers, or I’d have split the seams by now sure as hell. And then I almost did anyway, although for a different reason.
Because Louis-Cesare was one of the dancers.
I did a double take, but it was definitely him. He’d lost the top half of the tux, including the shirt, had acquired a tasseled vest, and was strutting with the locals. I looked down at my cup in concern, wondering what the hell they’d put in there. And then I was pulled up to join the festivities, which no, no, no, not right now!
Luckily, Hassani intervened, shooing off the boys and allowing me to retake my seat and just watch while they and my husband put on a show.
And a damned show it was. I don’t know if it was my appreciation of the other dancer that had prompted it, or if everyone’s joy was infectious, but Louis-Cesare was cutting a rug. He was watching the others, who had slowed down their gyrations to something approaching human speeds, and copied their steps pretty well.
Or their shimmy, I guess I should say. Because male belly dancers seemed to have many of the same moves as the women. Meaning that there was a lot of hip gyrating and undulating going on, along with something that looked a lot like twerking to my uneducated eyes.
They moved freely around the big open space, turning and twisting and shaking that ass, at least Louis-Cesare did. He wasn’t so great at some of the more complex movements, but he had this sinuous quiver down pat that was, uh, memorable. It was the fencing, I thought, staring at my husband’s shapely form more than was probably diplomatic.
But . . . dat ass.
He finally decided that I’d had enough time to digest, which was highly debatable in my opinion, but Hassani was talking to some courtier on his other side and wasn’t available to rescue me. So, I ended up dancing, too. Or something that vaguely passed for it, and I didn’t even have alcohol to blame it on.
It was probably going to end up on the local version of a jumbotron, I thought in horror, just any minute now.
Fortunately, I had a reprieve when a group of plate spinners showed up for the next act. I’d glimpsed them on one of the rooftops as we sped past, but hadn’t had a chance to stop and check them out. And now I didn’t have to. Hassani didn’t travel to the performances, they travelled to him, so we had a front row seat.
If it hadn’t come with more mezze, it would have been perfect.
I let Louis-Cesare take the hit this time, who worked his way through a dinner he didn’t technically need but seemed to enjoy, while the plate spinners did their thing. They were followed by some sword dancers, which was impressive until you considered that they were vamps; some fire jugglers that were impressive because they were vamps; and a woman oud player, with an instrument that looked like a lute and sounded like a Greek guitar, who sang some hauntingly beautiful songs whose words I didn’t understand.
Or maybe part of me did.
Louis-Cesare had reclined behind me and his body was a line of heat up my spine, countering the chill in the air. The night sky was beautiful, with Hassani’s amazing shields able to bring the Milky Way startlingly close and clear. And the torches surrounding our little bier were started to burn low, giving everything a dreamy, dim, golden glow that wrapped me in the same sense of warmth as Louis-Cesare’s arms.
I’d remember today, I thought. Not the pain; I rarely remembered that kind of thing, having had so much of it through the years that it was meaningless, just the background noise of my life. But days like this one . . . yeah. This was burned into my brain.
And then Hassani ensured it.
“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, leaning over, and keeping his voice low so as not to interrupt the singer’s performance.
“Very much.” I hoped I didn’t sound as sleepy as I felt.
“That is good. I wanted to talk to you earlier, but were told that you were indisposed.”
“I don’t heal as fast as a vamp,” I said. “Not even with help.”
“Really?” A dark eyebrow went up. “That makes your actions over the last few days even more commendable.”
I didn’t know what to do with that, especially coming from him. “Thank you.”
