Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (23 page)

"Will I do?" she asked, standing in front of him.
 

"I think that Tangier might start beating that path to your door this very afternoon," Orient said.
 

"And you?" Raga’s face was very close to his and Orient could smell the sweet jasmine scent of her perfume. "And I’ll probably be at the head of the line," Orient admitted, almost to himself. They took a walk through the small city, beginning with the cosmopolitan avenue of the European section high above the bay, and following the street down to where it met the large central market and split into half a dozen narrow paths that led farther down to the native quarter. Everything seemed exotic to their Western eyes. The Moroccan men dressed in hooded robes and sandals, or gray suits, fezzes, and pointed yellow slippers. The women wore long caftans, embroidered veils over their faces, and plastic high-heeled shoes. Others wore odd combinations of Western and oriental styles; there were little boys in tweed jackets and ballooning Berber pants, girls in slacks and sweaters and traditionally veiled faces, bearded old men in robes and sneakers.
 

All of the stores, from the emporiums of the modern sector to the crude sidewalk stalls of the marketplace, were crammed with bangled, beaded, bestudded, and bejeweled artifacts that seemed to have just been unloaded from some overdue pirate’s galleon that had taken three hundred years to reach port.
 

The streets were flowing with activity and all the sidewalk cafes were filled with dark, robed men who sipped their glasses of tea impassively as the spectacle on the street unfolded before them.
 

Orient and Raga alternated between moments of confusion and delight as they wandered through the throng, exploring the dusty shops and admiring the glittering array of goods. Every few steps they would be besieged by children offering their services as guides, asking for coins, or inquiring whether they were interested in any of a dozen illegal products from hashish to prostitutes of either sex.
 

Finally, they took one of the paths through the gates of the native quarter and made their way through the twisting narrow alleys that led to the legendary Casbah. They stopped at a large outdoor cafe and drank hot, sweet, mint tea and watched the garish parade of costumes and types that lived and worked behind the ancient walls of the old sector.
 

"Owen, it’s just marvelous," Raga exclaimed. "It’s like the thousand and one nights."
 

"With a modern touch." Orient pointed to a shop across from the cafe, painted in psychedelic splotches and improbably named Mustafa’s Go Go Bazaar.
 

"Hey, man," said a voice at Orient’s ear. "You wan mareewanna?"
 

Orient turned. A small boy of ten or twelve was standing next to him. "First-class grass, man," the boy continued. Orient smiled and shook his head, "No thanks," he said in Arabic. The boy blinked. He looked from Orient to Raga. "You Moroccan man?" he demanded.
 

"No," Orient said, "but I studied your language." The boy held up six fingers. "I know five languages. Arabic, French, Italian, English, and German."
 

"Very good," Orient congratulated in French. "Your family must be proud." The boy nodded. "Of course. I study, go to Paris someday. But right now I must go to the cinema."
 

"Well, have a good time," Orient said.
 

The boy stood there waiting.
 

"Well?" Orient said.
 

"Need money for cinema."
 

"Ah yes, of course." Orient gave the boy a coin.
 

The boy put the coin in his pocket and looked at Raga. "She your wife?" he asked.
 

Raga smiled. "Yes, this is my man," she said in French. "Now shoo. Go to the cinema." The boy looked at Orient. "Your wife very beautiful, man," he said before he turned and started trotting up the street.
 

As Orient watched him go, he was aware of a new feeling that had been aroused by Raga’s words. A dim, unwarranted, but nevertheless pleasant glow of pride.
 

That night they had dinner at Raga’s suite.
 

The table was set indoors because of a chill wind that was blowing in across the bay, driving the temperature down near the freezing point. They ate by candlelight and, as Orient looked across the table at Raga, he thought that he had never seen her look so lovely. She had changed into a crimson negligee that heightened the translucent luster of her flawless skin, and the candle flames set off swirling pinpoints of reflections in her yellow eyes.
 

"I haven’t had such fun in ages," Raga said softly. "I feel—I don’t know—
renewed.
"
 

"You look beautiful."
 

Raga smiled as if Orient had just given her a ruby. "Wouldn’t it be wonderful to stay here for months and months, just wandering through these fabulous streets," she mused.
 

Orient nodded. "Like a magic carpet."
 

"Yes. Exactly. Just the two of us, flying through a fairy tale."
 

"I wonder when Alistar will contact you," Orient said deliberately.
 

The fact that Raga was Doctor Six’s wife was beginning to weigh on his thoughts.
 

"Please, Owen," she said quietly. A frown passed over her face, then disappeared into her small smile. "Let’s not talk about any of that. I’d like these days to be for us. And only for us."
 

"All right, Raga," Orient said slowly. "If that’s what you want."
 

"It’s all I want, Owen." She looked at him steadily. "It’s all I want in the world."
 

Orient reached out and touched her hand and, as her long cool fingers grasped his, he knew that more than anything, he wanted Raga to be happy.
 

After dinner they stood at the glass terrace doors looking down at the winking lights that dotted the harbor. The faint strains of music drifted down from the nightclub restaurant on the roof of the hotel and they began to dance in the flickering shadows, holding each other very close.
 

Then his lips were on her, and her warm, searching tongue darted inside his mouth. Her hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and slipped inside, cool and velvet-soft against his chest. She shrugged and, as her negligee fell away from her shoulders, she eased her back onto the rug, pulling him down beside her.
 

He made love to her again and again, there on the floor near the terrace doors. Drinking in the slippery lushness of her shivering body like a thirsty man who had found a clear spring of water after a decade of parched wandering.
 

For the next ten days Orient was with Raga constantly. During the afternoon they investigated the side streets of the Casbah, bargained at the stalls for outlandish souvenirs, and frequented the sun-drenched cafes and outdoor restaurants in the small city. Every corner they turned was filled with new discoveries and each day brought a new variation of their relationship.
 

Sometimes they were like giggling children let loose in a toy store. Other moments were calm and profoundly silent as they walked side by side along the sea cliffs. Still other fragments of their time were lyric and casual as they enthusiastically explored each new alleyway. But always they shared and maintained an electric awareness of each other; whether they were strolling, ordering a meal, sitting in a cafe, or making love.
 

Orient was fascinated and compelled by the ever-changing facets of Raga. The way her flowing femaleness shifted direction abruptly into moods of glossy sophistication, shy simplicity, or cunning boldness. The way their nights together alternated between slow, soothing periods of deep tenderness, and wanton, frantic hours of abandoned experimentation. The way her delicate face could assume the pristine delicacy of porcelain, or the reckless glaze of chromed steel.
 

And the way he had fallen, completely and utterly, in love with this elusive woman.
 

The outward manifestations of his feeling for Raga were subtle; he was perhaps a shade quicker to laugh, a bit more impetuous, a trifle less self-conscious with strangers. Internally the effects were conspicuous. His entire consciousness was saturated with nuances of Raga.
 

His thoughts filtered through a spectrum of brilliant colors that reflected the energy they radiated together. He was happy. He was complete.
 

One day, as they lay side by side on the sand, looking at the red splotch of a sail on the green water, Orient tried to do something about his feelings.
 

"There must be a way," he said quietly, "to make this magic carpet a nonstop flight."
 

"Ummm," Raga stirred on the beach mattress next to him, "you’re a mind reader. That’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past hour."
 

"No telepathy," Orient smiled. "I’m just trying to figure out some way to make this all last longer."
 

Raga looked at him. "It may be possible. But not right away."
 

"Why not?"
 

"Alistar isn’t particularly concerned with what I choose to do. But he can be very stubborn. My only hope is that he finds Pia."
 

Orient’s brow furrowed. "How does that help?"
 

"If Alistar is preoccupied with Pia, he’s more likely to want to be free of me." She paused and studied his face. "It is too beautiful together not to think of the future, isn’t it?"
 

"There’s the possibility that we can just go somewhere and lose ourselves for a few years."
 

Raga smiled and closed her eyes. "It would be so easy," she said softly, "and so delicious. I’ve gotten quite used to us being inseparable."
 

"Perhaps we could go back to the States. You could file divorce proceedings while I set up a research lab."
 

Raga opened her eyes and slowly shook her head. "Alistar can be very vindictive, Owen. He’s egotistical and vicious. If he feels I’ve rejected him for you, he’ll stop at nothing to discredit you. And he has some important friends."
 

"I’m not worried about that."
 

Raga ran her fingers through the sand. "Maybe it’s possible," she said, almost to herself. "You’ve come to mean everything to me, Owen."
 

Orient reached out and touched her shoulder. It was soft and still pale despite days on the beach. The sun didn’t burn or tan Raga’s body; it merely gave her white skin a smooth rosy tint.
 

As she rolled over and rose to a kneeling position on the mattress, she tossed her head and shook out her sunshot silver hair, every movement like the figure of a dance. Her body was like a dancer’s: long-legged and flat-bellied with firm, rounded hips and taut breasts that were set off, rather than covered up, by her wispy blue bikini.
 

The memory of her soft, creamy thighs wrapped tight around his body caught fire and a sudden lick of desire seared his senses. He was just reaching out to pull her close to him when he saw the bellboy from Raga’s hotel running toward them.
 

The boy was running barefoot through the sand, holding his shoes in one hand and a yellow envelope in the other.
 

"Telegram for madame," the boy said breathlessly when he reached the mattresses. He handed the envelope to Raga, then put his hands behind his back and stood at a kind of panting parade rest, smiling broadly at Orient.
 

"It’s from Alistar," Raga murmured as she looked at the envelope. "Thank you," she said to the boy, "there won’t be any answer."
 

Orient automatically gave the boy a few coins. His attention distracted by the message in Raga’s hand, he was barely aware of the boy’s thanks and departure.
 

Raga read the telegram. When she was finished, her hand dropped to her side and she looked at Orient. "Alistar found Pia in Marrakesh. They’re arriving by train tomorrow afternoon and Alistar wants me to be ready to leave for Italy immediately."
 

Orient took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his silver case and waited. He loved Raga but he wouldn’t push her into making a decision she might regret. Not only was he unsure that she was ready to share his fife, but he was also acutely aware of the instability of that life. He had no way to take care of her. Nothing to offer.
 

"I have to go with him, Owen," Raga said finally. "I have to see if I can convince him to let me go." Orient struck a match and fit his cigarette. "Convince him of what, Raga?" he said evenly.
 

Raga’s yellow eyes met his. "You don’t know Alistar like I do. He can be very unpleasant if he’s crossed. And I want to tell him openly. I don’t want us to run and hide." Her face came close to his. "It’s for us, Owen. We deserve to do this the best way."
 

Orient looked down at the glowing tip of his cigarette. "Perhaps I should talk to him."
 

Raga lifted his chin with her fingertips and kissed him gently. "I love you, Owen," she whispered. "If I want us to wait, it’s only because of that love."
 

As Orient flicked the cigarette away and put his arms around her, he felt a curious pang of longing, as if Raga had already departed from him.
 

While she had been waiting for her husband, Orient had spent every night with her. But that night he went back to his hotel alone after dining with her.
 

The evening had been hushed somehow. They had spent hours talking in low, muted tones about what they would do. The news of Alistar Six’s return had changed Orient’s elation of the previous days to a furtive gnaw of frustration. Throughout the evening he constantly reverted to the idea of telling Six outright. He didn’t like intrigues. In the end Raga had tentatively agreed. But Orient could see that she was still wavering. She seemed to have an irrational fear of her husband. There was a thinly concealed apprehension under her serious calm.