But I myself will prepare coffee. One moment, please."
The aura of unbounded misery and corroding despair remained, lingering after the portieres had hidden bin Ayyub from sight. Not even the clanging of the brazen pestle wherewith he pulverized the freshly roasted coffee could infuse a trace of life into the somber magnificence of that rich salon. The order of nature had been upset: this was the house of one whose spirit had died a thousand deaths without having deprived the body of life. Not even the return of the throne-rug had aroused a sparkle of the vital, predatory spirit of that fierce Kurd whose eyes had but two weeks ago flamed exultantly as he told of the enemy who had unwisely walked by moonlight.
Bin Ayyub's entry with a tray interrupted my reflections.
One of the tiny eggshell cups was white, the other, deep blue.
"No, effendi, blue is the color of mourning; take the white one."
A light began to dawn on me. The color of mourning . . . he had taken this tactful way of letting me know that my presence was an intrusion on his sorrow. But, if there had been a death in the family, why that flash of abysmal despair when a few moments ago I had suggested that since he once more had the throne-rug, he need not bother to hunt whoever it was that had tricked Djénane Hanoum?
"Bismillahi!" murmured bin Ayyub, then tasted his coffee. After a moment's silence, he continued, "I bear you no ill will for what has happened. Naturally you would speak to your friends of the Isphahan I gave you, and of the throne-rug. It was my fault; I should have told her."
Worse and worse! That rug again. Hadn't I returned it? Wasn't he sitting on it even as he spoke? Well then. . . .
That the Sun moves north as men travel south, until finally it shines continuously in the north.
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