A World I Never Made Read Online Free PDF Page B

But she made no concessions to any culture. Neither her faded jeans nor her pale green silk blouse were form-fitting, but it was obvious that she was shapely.
     
    The other passengers, all men, about a dozen in all, paced the platform or talked to one another in staccato Arabic or Berber. The handsome Arab went off toward a vendor who doubled as a taxi driver and who seemed to have arrived at the siding out of nowhere, which was what pretty much surrounded them in all directions. When he completed his transaction—talking and smiling as the vendor filled a paper cone with dates—the man turned and began walking toward Megan. The other passengers, in the frenetic style of the Muslim world, had accosted the conductor as soon as he stepped onto the platform. They stopped pestering him for a second to stare at the shockingly outré and discomfiting Megan and the totally Westernized and equally discomfiting Arab who was about to join her on the signal stand. Megan, who had seen the handsome Arab sitting in a private compartment aloofly reading the Herald Tribune as she made her way through the initially crowded train looking for a seat, was not certain that he would approach her. This was not, after all, a bar in a fancy hotel in Casablanca. This was in country so to speak, where there were no hotels or bars, and where the local Muslims took their code of conduct seriously, a code that abhorred fraternization with Western women in public or otherwise. But the man did approach, casting a casual glance at his fellow male Muslims and a quick sly smile in Megan’s direction as he crossed the platform.
     
    He sat a few feet from Megan, crossing his long legs, smoothing his trousers, and then clasping his manicured hands on his lap before speaking. “Is this your first trip to Marrakech?”
     
    “No.”
     
    “Where are you staying?”
     
    “I don’t know yet:”
     
    “May I suggest a place? I am there often:”
     
    “Of course. Where do you stay?”
     
    “I have my own place. But I know several hotels where Westerners are welcome. If you give them my name it will help:”
     
    “And your name is?”
     
    “Lahani. Abdel al-Lahani. My Western friends call me Del. And yours?”
     
    “Megan Nolan.”
     
    “You are American.” This was a statement, not a question. It was obvious that she was American and therefore it was not a very insightful statement. But something about the way he said it gave Megan pause. Could it actually be condescension? Or better yet, contempt? The tone of superiority in his deep and confident voice was barely detectable, but nevertheless there, and it sent a mild thrill through her heart. A thrill that stirred the demon anticipation that had been sleeping there for quite some time.
     
    “American,” she answered, her voice neutral, her eyes flat. She could tell by her new friend’s New York or Parisian-cut suit and impeccable grooming that he had money and decent taste. These were two of her three prerequisites in a man she might take to bed. The third was harder to define. She often thought of it as unconscious superiority, the kind so obvious in royalty or celebrity or the bored children of the nouveau riche. Whatever it was, she knew it when she saw it, and if the Arab sitting next to her had it in the abundance she thought he did, then the dance might be on.
     
    “And you?” she asked.
     
    “I am Saudi Arabian:”
     
    “I see. A prince of the blood?”
     
    “No, nothing of the sort. I am a businessman. That is all:”
     
    “What kind of business?”
     
    “I sell influence:”
     
    “What kind of influence:”
     
    “The kind that gets people large government contracts—to explore for oil, to build factories, to rape the land:”
     
    “How is it that you have this influence to sell?”
     
    “Such a good question, but one that would take time to answer. Perhaps we can have dinner in Marrakech. I will be there for five days. My home is in the medina. There is a