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stringed instrument and the rhythmic beat of drums. Izak paused and waited for his group to gather around him. Then he held back the hanging beads of the entrance to guide them into the small café.
    In the dimness, the café at first seemed empty till finally Lilly lowered her eyes and saw that a few guests were seated cross-legged at round tables only inches from the floor. The heat from candles flickering on the tables made dreamy undulations upon the features of those listening raptly to the musicians. Two men on a small stage, one thrumming on a stringed oud and one playing a drum, seemed in a trance-like state. As Lilly walked in front of the drummer, his eyes stared at her without awareness. He was looking inward, hearing only the music. Izak led his troupe to two empty tables and they all took places on the soft pillows that lay about on the floor.
    While the others ordered exotic drinks from the menu, Lilly ordered a glass of red wine. She knew it was backward of her, like the seersucker suit, but at times she had to have control over her circumstances in this foreign country. She could better tolerate the unfamiliar if a few simple things, like her drink, were without surprises.
    Behind Lilly was a roughly plastered wall; she rested her head against it and looked upward, where great billowing loops of red brocade hung down from the ceiling. The beat of the drums, the cries of the oud—these all gave Lilly a sense that she was floating in a dream. Who she was, where she was, was no longer clear to her. Could that small white-haired woman, sharing a drink with Lance from a silvery glass, really be her mother? Was her father, that strapping, hearty man, really dead and silent in his grave? Was she, Lilly, really in this dark café in the heart of Turkey, the country of fable and fairy-tale?
    She sought out the figure of Izak, who was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed as the music took on a wilder, more frenetic tone. She felt the pressure of the drums in her head, a sensation that suggested the walls of the room would burst outward at any moment.
    Suddenly Morat was at Lilly’s side, whispering to her. “Come, you dance,” he said, holding out two hands to draw her up. “You are here, in Turkey, you have your chance.” She let him pull her to her feet.
    She kept her eyes nearly closed, recalling the familiar rhythms of the belly dance from the class she had taken long ago. She began to move her body, slowly at first, since the musicians had now reverted to the slow, seductive Tcheftetelli rhythm, in which the dancer is free to play with her veil and move her body slowly, making figure-eights with her hips and allowing her arms to snake up and down the sides of her body. How amazing that she remembered how to do this! Her fingertips grazed her hip, moved up her side toward her ribcage, then along the edge of her shoulder and upward through her hair. Her own fingertips lifting her hair from her neck gave her the strangest thrill, as if someone else were caressing her. She turned her head slowly to locate the figure of Izak, still against the wall, leaning languorously against it, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes watching Lilly.
    She gave herself back to the music Now the musicians were playing the Beledi rhythm—to which she did the hip-lift, moving in a slow, sensual semi-circle, snaking between the tables till she stood directly in front of the musicians. The drummer took her presence as an invitation to play a solo for her and she let her hips move to the drum, slowly at first, then faster and faster till she was lost in a wild shimmy of music and colors and the blurred swirling faces of those sitting before her.
    When the beats slowed, finally, Morat came out of the shadows and handed Lilly a silken red veil. “Take it—” he said, insisting, “Do dance with veil.” His face was shining with approval as the Taxim rhythm began again. She took the veil and wound it about her, raised it up by