The Forgiven Read Online Free PDF Page A

his phone and waited. It rang, but no one answered. He left a message.
    “Wondering where you are. Call me. We’re eating at eleven. Drive safely.”
    He shrugged and looked the American in the eye. There was something insolent about him.
    “Who’s that?”
    “Two English friends. The man’s an alcoholic, so I shouldn’t have let them drive.”
    They walked into the games room and then into a gallery of small mirhabs painted black and white. Long windows showed the ghorfas lit up orange, and fruit trees in cherry red boxes. Richard talked into his phone again.
    “Fatima? Are the quails ready? The Santenay should be on ice. Oui, sur glace .”
    “You have an impressive house,” Day said. “I can’t believe you don’t live here.”
    “We will live here. One has to get a little older before moving to the desert. One has to give up cities. Dally’s not ready yet. I am, I must say. I’m staying on for a few weeks. The fourth tower has to be dealt with.”
    “Do people ever get lost driving here?”
    “All the time. We say it’s part of the charm. The Moroccans leave them alone.”
    “That’s nice to know.”
    “Shall we get some honey? The honey here is the best in the world. Dally and I eat it raw for breakfast with cannabis. It makes your day.”
    “In that case, can I have it in bed tomorrow?”
    “I’ll see to it personally. With strong black coffee.”
    “Insha’Allah.”
    “I’m glad you’re game, Tom. Some people aren’t. We don’t invite them back.”
    THE HOST LOOKED GLOWING AND LEAN AS THEY WALKED out into the heat and the amber light of braziers. It was studiously retro, the whole thing, so that one couldn’t quite relax. The swimsuited ones were now reborn in their long dresses and the punch was half finished. Moths danced around the stunned white faces and the lightly tanned limbs that moved near each other like particles swirling in water. The Gnawa were playing again. The players closed their eyes and swayed. At first it was grating, even annoying, and then eventually, throughsheer dogged repetition, it got into the blood, into the nerves, and Day found himself swaying internally to it. One might as well give in.
    Soon he was lost in it. He found a surly French girl and chatted her up as they stood not far from the gate, looking down from time to time at the white dust of the road crossed by tire tracks. Her eyes were completely black, like a puppy’s.
    “I can’t believe you’re a friend of these idiots,” she said. “I’m only here because of Mohammed Tarki. Do you know Mohammed? He’s the coolest. He’s only here to fund his film. He’s making a film about nomads.”
    “At least it isn’t gypsies. Or mimes.”
    “The nomads are going to save us,” she said gravely. “They have the right environmental ideas.”
    “Do they? Where is Mohammed?” he asked.
    “He’s over there. The beautiful boy.” She became coquettish. “He says I look like a nomad, too. Pure.”
    AT FIVE TO ELEVEN, THE BELLS WERE SOUNDED AND THE guests were asked to seat themselves according to the name cards posted around the table. Tall Berber lamps of painted animal skin were lit around it and the sprays of lilies gave up an unctuous golden pollen that people tasted on their tongues; a pink-white glow bathed the tablecloth and the walls turned gold.
    Castored ice bowls held the bottles of Santenay and Tempier rosé, and they were rolled around the room by the boys. The doors were closed against the heat, because the desert wind had risen and it tasted like an iron foundry. A man came in and began playing on an oud , bent over it as if these listeners did not exist.
    This quiet, thoughtful music went unsavored, Day thought, and it made him think of the paths that led out of Ubud, among rice paddies and terraces planted with palms so tall that only small children could climb them. A music like moving water because it was improvised,but also a music of great stillness and tenderness. People