The women let the gauze drop down, cutting them off from the main room, but when Francis glanced at the doorway, he was still able to see its occupants, partial silhouettes behind the gauze.
“Archie, come,” Hasim said, seating himself on the cushions. “They will bring for us.”
Francis didn’t hesitate to join Hasim, sitting beside him and leaning back against the cushions. It was comfortable,luxurious.
Hasim smiled at him.
Francis realised how happy he was in this moment, and smiled back.
Soon they were joined by attendants, four women all in the gold coin and silk costumes, as a fifth held open the curtain for them to enter.
The women brought in a hookah pipe, placing it on the special dais, and attached two arms, and onto those attached metal mouth pieces.
Francis examined it best he could in the light. Not unlike a pipe in design, he supposed. Just bigger, and with long bits.
He watched the women load up the base of the hookah then light a part inside the vase shape.
“Hasim, what is in it?” Francis asked. “Not tobacco?”
“Some tobacco,” Hasim said, making a pinching motion with his fingers. “And then the plant. The herb.”
When the hookah was ready, he took the first puff, showing Francis how to suck on the pipe and when to exhale the smoke.
Francis had never been one for smoking, but he found this was quite pleasant.
As they smoked the hookah together, the women filtered out of the room, new attendants filtering in carrying silver trays of chai and sweet refreshments.
One of these attendants was a young man, wearing the same silk and gold coin costume as the women, but with a bare chest instead of a brazier.
His tan skin was dusted with gold leaf, and his brown nipples had gold rings pierced through them. Each ring carried two gold coins, crashing gently together when he moved.
Francis was so transfixed, he didn’t realise he had been staring until the young man noticed and grinned at him. He hada gold ring in his left earlobe, and from that several delicate gold chains swung freely.
Hasim leaned forward and said something to the young man in Turkish.
The young man turned his smile now to Hasim and replied, having a quick discussion. Their words, though Francis didn’t know their meaning, sounded playful and flirty.
The attendants withdrew, sweeping out of the room. Francis thought they would be left alone, but was delighted when the young man and two of the women returned, this time with little gold cymbals held between their fingers.
The three began to dance, the man in the centre. They sashayed their hips to the music, jiggling the coins on their belts, and made a steady percussion from the cymbals on their fingers. They were able to roll their bellies in such a way that was mesmerising and move their arms and shoulders with such a fluidity as to marvel at their skill.
Their dance was enchanting. Francis couldn’t look away. Only in paintings had he seen people dressed in such revealing clothing, dancing with abandon. They made him think of the classical nymphs and muses of Bacchanalia.
Something natural, carnal, and seductive.
As the dance went on, it became more erotic, limb brushing against limb, arms snaking together, faces coming in close with looks of unbridled yearning and lust. It was like watching young lovers come together and left enough room in the imagination as to stir the lust within.
Coupled with the aftereffects of the smoke, Francis felt hot under the collar, and increasingly aroused.
He pushed the turban from his head, fumbling with the scarf. He was hot.
Hasim’s hand found his, a soft but reassuring touch. His skin was even hotter than Francis felt.
Francis turned and looked at him; he was a grounding presence and Francis desired to be closer to him.
As if they were one mind, they relaxed back onto the cushions together. Francis searched Hasim’s deep brown eyes and saw nothing but adoration there.
Hasim reached out tentatively, fingers brushing Francis’s lips. He murmured something, an endearment perhaps, that Francis didn’t know but he understood its meaning.
