Read A World I Never Made for Free Online

small hotel on the same block, the Sultana, that you would like very much, I think.”
     
    Megan thought this offer over, seeing, dispassionately, all the phases of the relationship unfold before her mind’s eye. So sure of himself, this rich Saudi.
     
    “I leave for Zagora tomorrow,” she answered.
     
    “Zagora? In the mountains? What brings you to Morocco, Ms. Nolan, may I ask?”
     
    “I’m a writer. I’m researching a story.”
     
    “What kind of story?”
     
    “There is a blind family living outside of Zagora, in the foothills. Husband, wife, six children, five of them blind. I am going to interview them:”
     
    “And how did you hear about this family?”
     
    “A friend of mine was in the Peace Corps there. He told me about them:”
     
    “And what will you write about them? That they are blind and poor?”
     
    “Yes, the usual bullshit:”
     
    After she said this, Megan casually put her cigarette out in the dirt at her feet, turning away from Lahani for a second. When she turned back, her features composed, even tranquil, she looked for but saw no trace of a shadow in the businessman’s dark, deep-set eyes. Indeed, he smiled and barked out a short laugh, throwing his head quickly back as he did.
     
    “Such cynicism,” he said. “And who will buy such a story?”
     
    “If I understate it enough, The New Yorker, or Harper’s.”
     
    “No drama:”
     
    “God forbid:”
     
    “God forbid. Do you believe in God, Ms. Nolan?”
     
    “No, but it’s faith that matters, not belief.”
     
    “A fine distinction:”
     
    “Not so fine. And you? Are you a believer?”
     
    “I am Muslim. For me there is Allah and no other.”
     
    “You’re not a terrorist, are you?” Megan asked. “A Wahabi madman?”
     
    “Such direct questions,” said Lahani, “are not asked in the Arab world.” Megan watched his eyes as he spoke. She had meant to insult him and his culture. But again he seemed amused, not in the least angry or put off. Her intention was not to get a glimpse of what the real Abdel al-Lahani might look like beneath the highly civilized mask he wore, although that glimpse might be interesting, and useful. It was to set the pattern of their relationship early. But either he was very clever, very much in control, or the mask was real. Each of these alternatives intrigued her, as did the way his dark eyes flashed brightly when he smiled and laughed. He was handsome, she had to admit, and there was an intriguing hint of cruelty in his finely sculpted lips and mouth.
     
    “Are they answered?” she said.
     
    “Your question is a statement, is it not, Ms. Nolan? I am in charge, you are saying. I am not afraid. Statements do not require answers:”
     
    “I already know the answer.”
     
    “Are you sure?”
     
    “Yes, you either are or you aren’t.” It was Megan’s turn to smile. As she did, her face, which had shown no emotion throughout the conversation except perhaps mild curiosity, was suddenly transformed. Her austere beauty no longer a barrier, her smile became an invitation: to innocence and corruption, joy and pain. As smiles went it was pretty breathtaking, and she could see from Lahani’s reaction, watching as he drank in his first taste of the most dangerous drink he would ever take, that he thought so, too.
     
    “Good, then we can have dinner tonight:”
     
    “It will have to be late. I have to sleep, and make some calls:”
     
    “By all means. Say the lobby of the Sultana at ten?”
     

    The Sultana was indeed an exquisite hotel—some twenty well-appointed rooms surrounding a hushed and verdant courtyard with a splashing fountain and reflecting pool at its center. While her tub was filling with hot water, Megan stood on her balcony looking down on the courtyard. The fountain was in the form of a lion’s head spewing water from its flared nostrils. She watched the reds and yellows of the pool’s tiled floor shimmer as the water moved in concentric waves