Saffron Nights (13 page)

W
hat was she sleeping in? She felt soft and cloudlike. Her skin felt cool and smooth. She lifted her eyelids and saw shimmering, flowing fabric blowing. Red and deep purple fabrics wrapped her body, surrounding her on the bed, pillows; there were curtains around her bed. She smelled patchouli and heard distant sounds of a drum. A cool wind blew over her, as she lay quietly trying to put together the pieces—just where was she and how did she get there?

She sat up and saw her clothes neatly folded on a chair next to the bed. She saw a robe flung across the bottom of it. She grabbed the robe. Was she missing the ritual? Oh, damn. She could hear drums and music. She followed the sound down a hallway.

“It is true, then,” a voice came from behind her. She turned to see a tall, slightly potbellied, older, bearded man.

“Excuse me?”

“A beautiful young American woman is coming to our sacred festivals,” he said, sizing her up in a knowing, salacious glance. “Please,” he said stepping aside, “Come into my room. I am Sami.”

She was completely naked under her robe and tightened her belt. “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

“Please, I will have some food for you, and we will go to the feast together, yes? Let us relax.”

Where was Jackson? Sanj? She sat on a pillow next to a low table, piled high with food: sliced peaches and mangos and durian. Sami sat down and lit a long pipe, after suggesting she should help herself to the wine and the food, which she did, realizing how famished she was. She filled up—on everything but the durian.

“You don’t like our fruit?” he said with a spark in his eye.

“Oh, I like it,” she said. “I am just full and want to get to the ritual.”

He looked at her and seemed to drink her in. There was something charismatic and beckoning about this man. “Passion is not found in any fruit,” he said to her. “It is only helped along by it. I don’t care for it. I have mastered tantra for many years and have no need of the durian.”

“What do you mean?”

This impromptu interview might be better than attending the ritual.

“Tantra is just part of one of the yogic traditions,” he told her. “Men are encouraged not to orgasm for at least thirty-seven minutes to reach the sacred level. Women, on the other hand, can as often as they like.”

“How does that happen?” she said, sliding a mango slice between her lips, the best mango she had ever tasted.

“We train ourselves. It takes years. And we believe it is a holy act,” he said, matter-of-factly. “We don’t give ourselves to just anybody. We are careful of who we share our energy with.”

“Yet the other Hindus I have known don’t seem to hold this practice in high regard,” she said.

“Huh. What do they know? We are even different from the mainstream tantric groups. We tend the sacred plant. If it’s one thing we know, my dear, it is sex,” he said, once again, looking at her with a dark, intense longing.

His eyes caressed her—she could almost feel his touch through his gaze.

Her robe kept slipping from her shoulder. It was way too big for her, she suddenly realized.

“Let me help you,” he said, touching her naked shoulder, then pulling her toward him. His eyes were now smoldering. Thirty-seven minutes? She had him pegged for three seconds. She was enjoying his attention—it was as if his eyes begged for her. She slowly reached for her sash and untied it, letting her breasts fall out of the folds.

He drew back.

“You are too much for this old man,” he said. “I can feel your energy; I could feel it from the time they laid you down in the bedroom next to mine.”

She looked him. “You are not old,” she told him. “Even I can see that.”

The scent of patchouli wafted in the air. Flames from oil lamps and candles flickered. His dark skin almost glowed as he looked her over again. He furtively reached for her breast and caressed it. A sigh escaped from him. He tenderly played with her nipple, swirling it between his dark fingers, and then reached back for a rose, which he ran along her breasts, giving rise to a million little goose bumps on her skin; next the rose fell on the pillow.

Maeve tingled. He was beautiful, she could see that now. Shining and light. Her body was laid on silk pillows and this lean, chiseled, gray-haired man was licking her breasts with such attention she was already moist with desire.

The rhythms of ritual music played in the distance, far off, but she was focused on this man.

“Now, you feel the power,” he whispered. “Here,” he put his hand on her lower stomach, which is right where she felt a sinking, plunging feeling, the same one that rose in orgasm. “Think of it as a sleeping snake.”

Snake, yes, coiled. It was just the right image.

“We believe you can control this serpent. And when you orgasm, think of something you want from the universe, send the thought outward. You will receive it.”

How did Sami get naked? He was so brown and hard, and Maeve, transfixed, opened herself to him, feeling a sinking release. She watched him slide into her with such smooth, gentle precision. His brown self into her pink self—mmmm. She was inflamed and bucking—but he slowed her down.

“Savor . . .”

In one smooth movement, he turned her over, filling her completely from behind. Stopping. His hands moving over her ass, pushing her into him.

“Feel it?”

“What?” She could barely speak.

“The coiled snake . . . I want to make you come. Your lesson. This time, think of something you want. Send it outward.” He plowed himself into her and placed his fingers on her clit. She writhed. It would be only a few minutes. She could feel the “coiled snake”—it unraveled quickly as she erupted.

Still, he had not finished.

“Oh no,” he said and spanked her lightly. The vibration of his spanking traveled to her G-spot. “You have not learned your lesson. Do not waste your sacred energy. Do not give it away.”

He was deep inside and still hard as a rock. She let him guide her into lying down, spooning—he never left inside of her. He kissed her back and neck and rode her, reaching down for her mound, wet, still throbbing.

“A jewel,” he said, sitting her up. Now she was on top, riding him, backward, and could feel another angle of him inside her.

“You will orgasm again. Remember . . .” he said to her.

This time the orgasm exploded into the universe with one thought—Jackson. Again.

No. Not Jackson.

 

Was she losing her mind? Jackson would tear into her heart and leave her, just like Michael had, just like Jackson himself did with countless women. What had she done allowing him to get this close to her? It would be a public debacle. Public humiliation.

But still. When she asked herself what she wanted the only thing she could think of was Jackson.

Jackson.

 

When she woke up the next day in her own room, she wondered what happened to Sami. She started to sit up, and she heard a voice.

“Oh you are awake.” It was Sanj. “Oh thank the gods,” he said. “We need to get you off this mountain.”

“Sanj. Why? What’s going on?”

“You had some kind of an allergic reaction—we think to the durian. We’ve taken blood samples, but they aren’t ready yet,” he pointed to her bandaged arm, still sore. “But the doctors here are certain.”

“You’ve been out of it for days,” Jackson said, coming into her view.

“What?”

“Three days,” he said.

“I’ve been sleeping for three days?”

“Yes.”

“What about Sami?”

“Who?”

Just then a young woman walked in with a plate of food and a pitcher of water.

“Can you please bring clean sheets?” Sanj asked the woman.

Maeve’s eyes feasted on the plate of food in front of her. Rice and yogurt. Mangos and figs, dipped in coconut. She reached for the mangos, slid a piece between her lips. “Mmm, I am so hungry.”

“We will have to go soon before the wind picks up again.”

“Mmm,” she said again, eating the basmati rice. Nutty, sweet, perfectly spiced.

“Do you think you are strong enough to walk down the mountain?”

She shrugged. “Sure,” she said setting her plate aside and then reaching for the water.

“The winds are a problem. They were too high when we came, the pollen is blowing everywhere. You breathed it in and have been nearly comatose,” Sanj said.

“Not really,” she said. “I was with Sami last night.”
Or was it the night before?

“Who is Sami?”

“Don’t you know him?”

He shook his head. “No,” he looked bewildered. “Believe me, you haven’t gotten out of bed in three days. We’ve been here by your side for the most part. Jackson has been getting some photos.”

“Sanj, I was in his room.”

“You must have been dreaming. The durian . . .”

She considered the possibility. “Whatever,” she said, shrugging, mainly because she could see Sanj was incredulous. “I’d like to get a shower. Can I?”

He cocked his head around. “No, there are no showers here, but you may wash up,” he said, moving over to the side of her bed to get out of her way as she attempted to get up. Then she saw the painting.

“That’s him,” she said, pointing at it.

“Him, who?” He said, absentmindedly, his dark hands on her elbows, helping to steady her.

“That is Sami,” she said and pointed to the painting. “Sami.”

“Oh,” he said, as if he had finally understood. “You must have dreamed about him. He’s been dead for 150 years.”

She gasped. Dead? “Oh no, Sanj. He was very real. We . . . I had . . . we . . . he taught me . . .”

“Why don’t you go and wash?” he said. “I will send someone to talk to you about your dream. And about this man? He was my ancestor.”

As she washed at the marble basin in her room, Maeve had to admit—she felt weak. It was hard for her to admit any weakness, but it felt like her body was swimming through drifts of air. It was not easy to move. How strange she had this vivid dream about a man she didn’t know. She supposed she could have seen the portrait in her allergic stupor. She slipped a robe on and began to look for her clothes.

“Namaste,” said a tiny woman, entering her room.

“Namaste,” Maeve said.

“You practice yoga, yes?”

“Oh, I try,” she said, thinking it had been way too long since she kept up with her regular practice and she missed it. “I am Maeve,” she said and handed the lady her hand.

“Hello Maeve,” she smiled, grabbing her hand with both of her hands and looked deep into her eyes, reminding her of the way Sami looked at her. “I am Shanti, high priestess of the durian grove temple.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, yes, my dear. Let’s sit.”

Once again silver plates, with mounds of food—coconut slices, little cakes and cookies, fruit filled, cream filled—were brought to her table.

“So,” she said. “Your friend Sanji is troubled by your dream.”

“He is?” Maeve said biting into a chocolate truffle—so rich it almost hurt her tongue. “Mmmm.”

“You like?”

“Yessss . . .”

“Those are my nipples.”

Maeve almost choked on it and reached for her water.

The old lady laughed uproariously—her whole little person shook with delight. “The baker here created them just for me,” she explained. “I love chocolate, you see. And they look like large nipples, don’t they? So, they are called Shanti’s Nipples, here, though they are called Venus’s Nipples elsewhere.”

“Oh,” was the only thing Maeve could say, thinking Shanti and Gladys should get together—two older women who were open about sexuality. It was inspiring and unsettling at the same time.

“Now about Sami . . . he is dead, you see, has been for generations, but he tends to visit us in our dreams.” She became very quiet and pronounced each word very succinctly, almost whispering. “Many of us pray and meditate for nighttime visits from him.”

“But it was so real . . . I felt him touch me . . .”

“He touched you? Oh dear . . .” she looked off into the distance. “His touch is like velvet. A Holy Man. Very well studied. Disciplined. What happened?”

Maeve told her the whole story.

“I see why Sanj is concerned,” she told Maeve. “You are on a new path. Are you ready for it, my dear? You are very fortunate, very fortunate indeed. He will guide you. Look for him.”

“I am not on a spiritual quest. I am here to research the durian for a book I’m writing.”

“Everything that matters is spirit—do not deny yourself the worldly delights—but when you get to be as old as I am, you see flesh is a joke. It’s a trap,” she said. “Love is the biggest aphrodisiac.”

I
t wasn’t until Maeve was halfway down the mountain and riding in the air-conditioned car that she began to look like herself. A few times over the past few days, she’d looked, well, dead. White. Still. It freaked Jackson out. He stayed by her side as much as he possibly could. He needed to get photos—and he did—but he kept running back to check on her.

“My head feels like it’s starting to clear,” she said. “I’ve never had allergies. I’m bummed that I missed the ritual.”

“Ah, well, it was pretty boring, actually,” Sanj said.

“Boring? I thought there’d be sex.”

He laughed. “You Americans. Do you think we have sex in ritual? It’s a very sensual ritual and we dance, and, well, it’s all very symbolic of the act. But that goes on later, behind closed doors.” He laughed again. “Jeez.” He rolled his eyes.

Sanj thought the rituals were boring? Jackson didn’t. So much color. So much food. Beautiful women. Language. He, too, was sorry Maeve missed it—but that would become a part of the story, he supposed, her allergy to the durian—if that’s what it was.

Almost immediately when they entered Sanj’s palatial home, complete with white spiraling turrets, the telephone was ringing. It was Jennifer.

“She is here. She is okay. Do you want to talk to her?” Sanj said.

Maeve took the phone in the next room.

Jackson watched her walk away and felt his old friend staring him down, with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Christ. What happened to the great Jackson Dodds?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean up on Ramsha, how many women could you have had?”

“Dude, I was worried about my partner,” Jackson said. “Can I get something to eat? I’m starving.”

“In a minute,” Sanj said and hit the buzzer. “It’s almost teatime. But I want to know the truth.”

Jackson sat down on the tiny sofa. “The truth is, well, I am crazy about her. But, well, it’s complicated.”

“What’s so complicated?”

“We are partners, working on a project about aphrodisiacs, you know?”

“So? You are also adults. Can’t you come to some kind of agreement?”

Jackson laughed. “You’re assuming she wants me, too. And she’s different. Not like the others.”

“Oh yes, I can see that. You don’t know what to make of a woman who’s not falling all over you. But I remember when they didn’t—or at least not at the level they are now.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of crazy. I’m just not as interested in them, anymore. And Maeve . . . well . . . that’s some scary shit.”

“Scary?”

“She’s smart. Experienced. Not really after a commitment.”

Sanj laughed. “You might be the great Jackson Dodds to the world. But to me, for all the experience with women you’ve had, you’re pretty daft.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, yeah, your Maeve is all that . . . but at her essence she is simply a woman. Don’t let her scare you,” he said and laughed again.