Alexandra Singer Read Online Free PDF Page A

just on time.”
    “For what?” asked Maia.
    “For more mint tea, of course!”
    As if on cue, a waiter brought a pot of mint tea, which he poured into three small, clear glasses.
    “ Salut! ” he almost shouted at her, holding up his glass.
    “This is mint tea?” asked Maia.
    “Mint tea, of course! I drink it with everything. This even has a tiny drop of vodka in it. You don’t mind, do you? Of course you don’t! I drink it with everything.
Everything!” He took a huge gulp, and his throat moved as he swallowed. “Washes it all down!” He leaned conspiratorially towards her so that she assumed he was about to tell her
something important. He lowered his voice. “The Grand Tazi serves the best mint tea. The best. The very best! No-one else makes tea like it.”
    “I see,” said Maia, not really seeing at all. Rather disconcerted by the man, she asked, “To what are we toasting?” She held up her glass, and the Historian silently held
up his own glass.
    “To you, and of course to Mihai for taking on a new assistant. The last one... ” He made a snorting sound. The Historian looked on at him with a bemused silence. “Well, the
last one… oh, don’t be perturbed,” he said, noticing Maia’s startled expression. “It was insignificant... I do hear she was intolerable to work with. Not very
compliant.”
    “Did you meet her?” Maia wondered what he meant. Compliant was a strange word to choose.
    “Of course! Well, only briefly.” He slapped the Historian’s thigh with undisguised affection. Maia looked at the man. He seemed pleasant enough, but upon closer inspection, she
thought that his eyes revealed something harsh.
    Maia drank, and shuddered at the drink’s strength. “I’m glad you told me about the vodka.”
    “Ha ha! I thought you would appreciate it!” he said, laughing heartily. Maia stared, at him, confused.
    “This girl you have here, she has good sense of humour, no? Dry. I like it, I like it.”
    “Hello Maia, please meet Mahmoud,” said the Historian, finally opening his mouth to speak. The languidness of his manner suggested that by speaking he was bestowing an honour upon
them. “He owns the Grand Tazi.”
    He gestured extravagantly with his hands as if to indicate a vast expanse, but his movements were slow. Maia had no idea how old the Historian was, but the age spots littered his white hands,
with fingers abnormally long and graceful. As Maia looked around, and reading the sceptical expression upon her face, the Historian softly admonished her, “There is much you have not seen.
Moroccans are very discrete,” he said quietly, but his face was wreathed in smiles. He was cordial enough, thought Maia, but a reflective man. His friend was openly welcoming; she assumed
that this reticence was the Historian’s nature.
    “Welcome, my friend, many welcomes,” bawled Mahmoud, vigorously shaking her small hand. Maia felt that her first impression of him had been correct. The man was jovial enough on the
surface, but something about the way in which the flesh folded over his small black eyes repelled her.
    The Historian gazed at her reflectively. His eyes were a pale green, and they made her afraid to look into them for too long. His pupils were small, like two block dots keeping themselves afloat
in the centre of a cold sea.
    “Call me Mihai,” said the Historian, and stretched out his hand, his mouth forming a smile that did not match his eyes. “I really am so pleased to finally meet you.” Maia
returned his smile, but she felt that calling him by his first name would be too familiar. He was detached, well known for his tendency to reclusiveness, and she sensed that he liked to keep others
at a distance. She felt the detachment between them undefined, yet there all the same. In contrast to the bulbous Mahmoud, the Historian was tall and aged, still remarkably handsome, with clear
white skin and grey eyebrows that formed a unifying frown across his