Post by yewtree on Oct 15, 2005 15:52:01 GMT
The streets of the old city were closed and blank. The houses faced inward on their courtyards, presenting a single doorway to the outside world. The setting sun illuminated the sandstone walls, and cast long shadows where it penetrated the maze of lanes. I had a long walk ahead of me, as I had been to the site of the new housing complex on the western side of the city, and my house was on the eastern side. Now that the archaeologists had completed their rescue dig, the construction work could begin. One of the archaeologists had shown me a diagram of the building whose remains were underneath the site chosen for the housing complex; apparently the original Terran colonists had built it.
I recalled the old poet’s lament for Earth, though he had called it Zamin, as he was of Farsi descent. He used to sit under the tamarisk tree in the centre of Kerenje’s courtyard, accompanying himself on the kamanche, and ornamenting his paean with a kind of yodelling, which he called tahrir. I hummed the tune as I walked along the street.
As the sun disappeared over the horizon and only a dim glow was left in the western sky, people began to light the braziers in their courtyards, and a flickering orange luminescence rose from each house. I turned into the via Giove, and saw a hooded and cloaked figure hurrying towards me. From her stature, I judged that it was a woman. As she brushed past me I caught a scent like the aroma of an exotic flower, with fresh citrus overtones floating above a mysterious smoky odour, like incense made from the bark of an ancient desert tree. It made something stir at the base of my spine − a primal awareness of which I had no conscious knowledge.
All the way home I tried to figure out what the scent reminded me of. I thought I had smelt it before, but where? Normally I have an excellent memory for smells, but this eluded me.
That night I dreamt of a huge lavender-coloured moon, softly illuminating a seascape of small islands and lagoons, which I somehow knew were purple. I was sure this was significant.
The next day I looked out for the woman again, but there was no sign of her. I did not mention the encounter to anyone, though I could not put it out of my mind. The conversation at the construction site was the usual banter − who was sleeping with whom, who could drink the most raki, plus the usual grumbling about wages and conditions.
The day was unusually stressful, so I decided that I needed a bit of relaxation. I would go to the hot sulphur springs after work. It was not far from my house.
The water came to the surface halfway up the hill to the east of the city, and the mineral deposits formed a chain of pools. These had been dug out to make a series of bathing holes, which varied in temperature from scalding to tepid. Sulphurous mists hung over the place, and the sound of laughter and chatter greeted me as I climbed the hill. The path wound among fragrant woody shrubs, which gave off the scent of juniper as I brushed against them.
When I reached my favourite bathing pool, I saw that it was already occupied by the mysterious woman, still veiled and wearing a long and shapeless shift which billowed around her in the water. I hesitated, not sure what to do. She looked up.
“It’s alright, there’s plenty of room,” she said.
“If you’re sure,” I replied. She nodded, and I scrambled down the bank. Now there was the problem of what to do with my clothes, since she was not naked.
“Do you mind if I skinny-dip?” I asked.
“Go ahead,” she answered.
The scent she had given off the previous evening was much less pronounced, being overlaid with the scent of the sulphur-laden water vapour and the aromatic bushes, but it was still noticeable.
“I passed you yesterday in the via Giove,” she remarked as I undressed.
“Yes, that’s right. Your perfume is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
I eased myself into the water, and there was silence for a while as I performed the customary ritual of scooping three handfuls of water over my head, then leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the tensions of the day drain away.
After a while I opened my eyes and looked at the woman. Her face was dimly visible through the veil, and I thought she might be of African descent. She seemed distracted, focussed on some inner dialogue. I tried to think of something else to say, but every possible opening remark seemed too banal.
I recalled the old poet’s lament for Earth, though he had called it Zamin, as he was of Farsi descent. He used to sit under the tamarisk tree in the centre of Kerenje’s courtyard, accompanying himself on the kamanche, and ornamenting his paean with a kind of yodelling, which he called tahrir. I hummed the tune as I walked along the street.
As the sun disappeared over the horizon and only a dim glow was left in the western sky, people began to light the braziers in their courtyards, and a flickering orange luminescence rose from each house. I turned into the via Giove, and saw a hooded and cloaked figure hurrying towards me. From her stature, I judged that it was a woman. As she brushed past me I caught a scent like the aroma of an exotic flower, with fresh citrus overtones floating above a mysterious smoky odour, like incense made from the bark of an ancient desert tree. It made something stir at the base of my spine − a primal awareness of which I had no conscious knowledge.
All the way home I tried to figure out what the scent reminded me of. I thought I had smelt it before, but where? Normally I have an excellent memory for smells, but this eluded me.
That night I dreamt of a huge lavender-coloured moon, softly illuminating a seascape of small islands and lagoons, which I somehow knew were purple. I was sure this was significant.
The next day I looked out for the woman again, but there was no sign of her. I did not mention the encounter to anyone, though I could not put it out of my mind. The conversation at the construction site was the usual banter − who was sleeping with whom, who could drink the most raki, plus the usual grumbling about wages and conditions.
The day was unusually stressful, so I decided that I needed a bit of relaxation. I would go to the hot sulphur springs after work. It was not far from my house.
The water came to the surface halfway up the hill to the east of the city, and the mineral deposits formed a chain of pools. These had been dug out to make a series of bathing holes, which varied in temperature from scalding to tepid. Sulphurous mists hung over the place, and the sound of laughter and chatter greeted me as I climbed the hill. The path wound among fragrant woody shrubs, which gave off the scent of juniper as I brushed against them.
When I reached my favourite bathing pool, I saw that it was already occupied by the mysterious woman, still veiled and wearing a long and shapeless shift which billowed around her in the water. I hesitated, not sure what to do. She looked up.
“It’s alright, there’s plenty of room,” she said.
“If you’re sure,” I replied. She nodded, and I scrambled down the bank. Now there was the problem of what to do with my clothes, since she was not naked.
“Do you mind if I skinny-dip?” I asked.
“Go ahead,” she answered.
The scent she had given off the previous evening was much less pronounced, being overlaid with the scent of the sulphur-laden water vapour and the aromatic bushes, but it was still noticeable.
“I passed you yesterday in the via Giove,” she remarked as I undressed.
“Yes, that’s right. Your perfume is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
I eased myself into the water, and there was silence for a while as I performed the customary ritual of scooping three handfuls of water over my head, then leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the tensions of the day drain away.
After a while I opened my eyes and looked at the woman. Her face was dimly visible through the veil, and I thought she might be of African descent. She seemed distracted, focussed on some inner dialogue. I tried to think of something else to say, but every possible opening remark seemed too banal.