what?â
âOf my anti-Soviet activities.â
His face reverted to its ghostly appearance. His eyesânow iron grayâscrutinized me openly. The air grew heavy, thick as molasses. Every breath sounded like a cello sawing away against the bouncing-bow contrabasses of my heartbeat.
Aladdin took the cigarette out of his mouth, rubbed it against the sole of his sandal, and aimed for the sink. Missed. His hands flew up in resignation. âOh well. At least today itâs pretty close. Donât they say a good guest brings good luck with him? With her .â His mouth curled into what could pass for a smirk. âWould you like some tea, Leila? Then we can sit and talk in detail about my anti-Soviet scheme.â
His offer made my throat dry. The room spun around me, the slow ceyrani dance picking up speed. Why did he reveal himself? Why?
Unless he was planning to recruit me for his spy operation. Should I play along, win his trust, and then expose the plot?
âIâd love some tea,â I said. âJust not too strong.â
âIâll make it to your liking.â
Aladdin bolted to a small, dilapidated stove plunked in the corner of the room. He struggled to light a fire, striking one match after another, failing to turn the gas on in time. His movements seemed awkward, his motor coordination disorderly. What kind of spy was this?
âDo you have many customers?â I asked.
âNot really. I might even say you are my first one. With Allahâs help, others will follow.â
âWith what you just said and with the rumors going around town, I donât think even Allah can help you.â
âThis town brews gossip as much as it brews tea. Which rumor have you heard? The one that I am an American spy? Or the one that Iâm a villain straight from Jafarâs cave, selling venomous music?â
I giggled before I could fight it off.
âWhatâs so funny?â
âNothing really. Itâs justâ¦âvenomous musicâ sounds like a flock of poisonous frogs singing in the swamp, all at the same time.â
âPoisonous frogs, you said.â He tilted his head, gaping sideways, as if visualizing the image, then grinned, displaying a mouthful of teeth. âNice. I should write that down somewhere. Now letâs make that tea happen.â
He struck another match, managing to turn the gas on in time. Next he placed an iron pot on the fire that danced happily on top of the stove. Then, retrieving two armuds , pear-shaped glasses, from the shelf, he set them on a small tray with sugar and mint. The air of hostility melted away. The magic lamp returned to Aladdinâs hands.
A barely dressed woman in a bowler hat smiled devilishly at me from the wall, her black bodice and satin shorts, fishnet stockings and shiny boots obviously aimed at exposing rather than concealing her voluptuous body.
Pornography? Did I break a law by looking at this indignity?
âDo you know who this lady is?â Aladdin asked.
âNo.â
âBut you think she is fascinating, donât you?â
I shrugged.
âItâs a poster for a movie titled Cabaret , in which she acts and sings. Her name is Liza Minnelli. I have a few of her songs. Would you like to hear?â
If you listen to his recordings, your skin will turn into fish scales.
âNo, I really have to get going.â
Aladdin swept to the alcove, drew an album, and placed it on the turntable.
A lazy clarinet zigzagged a melody, its timbre trailing raspy echoes as if a performer had chosen a worn-out reed or accidentally dropped one inside the instrumentâs bore. Then a pause, followed by the sound of a strenuous breath. A brazen, haunting female voice poured out of the gramophone. A voice of dark velvet. A voice like no other, carrying nostalgia from some mysterious, fantastic world. A world I had known before. Somewhere. A long time ago. Maybe in a different life? Or a dream?
I