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apartment, though it had never crossed her mind, seemed natural and appropriate to what she suddenly. realized had been her interest all along. She had wanted, for more than a year, to be expertly seduced by a man. When she'd first laid eyes on Rehid Bey, she'd thought him entirely suitable for the task–his charm, his ease, his radiance were all she'd ever imagined her first lover would possess.
    "Yes," she heard herself say, "to lunch with you upstairs would be very nice."
    The landings were decorated with elegantly proportioned mirrors in gilded frames. Cherubs crafted out of malachite supported balusters which supported a railing of burnished bronze. As her eyes swept the mirrors, she was struck by her youthful appearance–her short cropped hair, her innocence among all these glittering refinements and in the company of so sophisticated a young man. She paused before one of them and then, to her amazement, spoke of her own unease.
    "I overheard your secretary saying that I look very young. And she was right. Just look at me. I'm a child of seventeen. Whatever am I doing here with you?"
    Rehid Bey laughed. "Isabelle," he said, "you are not a child at all. You are a stunning young woman who at this moment just happens to be dressed like a boy."
    "But this is how I always dress."
    "I know, I know," he said. "What I mean is that it seems to me you can be anything you want."
    He led her to a lavishly bordered set of doors, opened them and showed her in. She was delighted with the apartment which had once been, he explained, the private chapel of the house. The living room was a miniature nave arched by a series of groined vaults. There was a fireplace where the altar had been, ablaze with crackling logs. Before the fire a table was set, and beside the table there stood a silver bucket, glistening with moisture, icing a bottle of champagne. Rehid Bey called out a name, a servant appeared in pantaloons and fez, and a few words of Turkish were rapidly exchanged.
    While they waited for lunch he showed her his library which was filled with religious and poetic texts. The books were in all languages, but the ones that fascinated her were written in Arabic, a language which interested her enormously and in which she was quite well-versed. She had read the Koran with Trophimovsky, because, Vava had explained, despite its "superstitious nonsense," it was a great work of literature which every educated person should know. Rehid Bey owned a large collection of ancient Korans, some of them enclosed in leather boxes and locked by jeweled clasps. He took one of these out, and they sat side by side to study the elegance of the Arabic script.
    Isabelle became so enraptured by the interweaving of the border designs that she tried to trace a line around a page but soon became hopelessly lost. Rehid Bey then placed his index finger back at the beginning of the design, placed the same finger of her hand on top of his own, told her to ride him "piggyback," and carried her through the border without a fault. She was delighted, suggested they do it again. He turned the page, and this time her little finger rode his thumb. They were so amused that they did it on the next page, and on the next, until they drew so close on the velvet divan that Rehid Bey had no choice but to pull his head around and press down his lips.
    The kiss was long. Their fingers slid off the book and began to interlace. The precious Koran started to slide to the floor, and would have landed there if the Turkish servant hadn't accidentally jarred one of the crystal glasses with a fork. At the sound they both snapped around and Isabelle caught the book just in time.
    As soon as lunch was finished (partridge "en chartreuse," floating island), their embraces began again. And again they used their fingers to trace, but this time upon each other's flesh. An hour went by (though both, by then, had lost all track of time), and Isabelle, heated by his tender kisses and tickling