Lips of Pomegranate.

Auckland Star, Volume XLII, Issue 209, 2 September 1911, Page 16

Lips of Pomegranate.

(By JOHN FOSTER FKASEKO

It was Ali Mohammed's sister. Lips of] Pomegranate, wno attracted. Ali Mohammed was a young Oriental who put on airs amongst his fellows la Algeria, ■because he had been to France. He | was enthusiastic a-bout Europe and its i ways, and openly paraded his views that the Arab was out of date. That was -because he was green in years. He will change as he gets older. He was frankly envious of my roving Hfe. He sighed and said that some day he would travel. If I -would visit his house, visit his sister and himself, an honour would be done his miserable abode which couid never be forgotten, lie loved Europeans. He had told his sister about me. She, though strict amongst Moslems and always veiled when in the bazaars, had never met Europeans. except two frowsy women, who said they were sorry for her. Ali Mohammed said 1 was his friend, and would I watch the death of the day on the desert from his housetop ? This is how I came to know Lips of Pomegranate. Only the aroma of remembrance remains of that lurid, palpitating afternoon -when Ali Mohammed, tall and slim, with the tiniest moustache, -with eyes that were brown and liquid and almost feminine —a young Arab gentleman In purple burnous and with a sprig of jasmine over his ear—■ walked with me through tie white streets. A big black smudge in a white wall and a square oaken dioor. He knocked. A crumpled old fellow, with crarked. leathern skin and rheumy eyes and grizzled beard, opened the door. A dark cool passage, and an Arabic courtyard bathed in sunlight. Though the sun was falling, the air was sultry and heavy with languor. But there was the sweet music of swiftly dripping water. A boy, as brown as a nut, and clad in nothing more than -what at Home would have becu known as a white cotton nightshirt, came forward with a long-spouted silver urn and poured scented water orer our hands and made them cool and fragrant. We patted the water on our lips to get refreshment. And the little kerchiefs handed were of saffron ellk. Ali Mohammed cried aloud, and from somewhere came a girl's answering treble, soft like a whisper in the dark. Ali smiled and showed his teeth, ffo very white and so very regular. There were dark alcoTes cushioned with mats and hung with scrolls carrying golden axioms from the Koran. Heavy curtains hung before arched doors. Would I go upon the roof?

My <>yes blinked when again I emerged iu.t.o the sunlight. The sky threw dowr tie reflectioi of lot brass. The flat white roof and the law white parapet were dazzling. In a corner were cushions, and on them sat a bundle of white. Aa old bag, wizened, bow-legged, and in scant green trousers, shuffled in yellow heelless slippers. Alt muttered something, and the hag showed iher old teeth, grunted, ai*d disappeared.

We went to tie bundle of white which remained motionless. All laughed, and exclaimed he had brought the Koumi. The bundle half turned. The overhood of white was thrown back.

I saw two large eyes, light brown like those of a young gazelle, looking at me orer the top of a Teil. A long, thin hand, delicately brown, with henna on the nails, and gold ornaments on the wrist, was stretched forth. I took the proffered hand, and the palm was warm and caressing.

Ali Mohammed was excited. Would I not sit down?

•Here on a. little tafcle, no higher than a footstool, were sweet Arab cakes, dishes of honey, fruits, amoor-hued dates, mint tea. and water chilled in porous flagons. He was so sorry Lips of Pomegranate spoke no language but Arabic, and she was sorry: hut she was honoured I had come to her brother's house. Never before in her life had she met a Hourai. She -was shy. She did not know the ways of the Roumls. Roumis and their ladies unveiled met and talked and walked, and were friends—so different from the ways of the Moslem world. She did not understand. He was no conventional Arab. 1 was a European gentleman. He loved the life of Europe. But Lips of Pomegranate was a woman. I would forgive. They were both honoured. I smiled at Lips of Pomegranate, and though the veil hid all but her eyes I know there was n smile ia reply. Mysterious those unblinking eyes, with the black arched eyebj-ows made blacker with kohl and a little streak of kohl joining the arches. Deep and unfathomable eyes, steady in their gaze, that sent a pleasurable shiver through an impressionable man.

She offered cakes, and Ali and I ate. But Lips of Pomegranate was silent and ate not. So I protested. Aid said something. Lips of Pomegranate hung her head. All spoke again. Then she raised her delicate hands, and with a little movement loosed her veil which fell upon her lap. She blushed. The hot blood showed through the soft olive skin.

Yrs. she was beautiful. I felt A-li's gaze upon me, and I knew instinctively he was wondering I, the Roumi, wai thinking his sister was beautiful. It was beauty with something of the exotic loveliness of the orchid about it •She was young and fragile. The face was oval, the narrow nose was Semitic; the lips were small and full and pouting and red and maddening. It was the face of a woman which a man's imagination conjures when it roams after reading Haflz and Sadi and Omar Khayyam. Hesitatingly she raised her head until those soft eyes looked, with what I fondly thought was a lingering, searching looklooked straight at me as though in her little Oriental brain was the fever to fathom what was passing in the mind oi the stranger—this hig, awkward-limbed man from a far land.

Was the coquettishncss of the woman triumphing ever the shyness of the harem girl, and was idle endeavouring to cast the spell of her Eastern fascination over mc? Maybe she interjTeted the hot colour -which ■came to my cheek. She dropped her eyes Euddenly.

Turning to Ali I said that if Lips of Pomegranate was the sister of an English friend I would have do hesitation in congratulating him. Lips of Pomegranate, intuitively, instinctively, knowing I -was talking a-bout her. questioned her brother, lie told her -what I said, for a deep glow suffused countenance and ceclL

A lovely creature. I looked upon her and my senses became as soaked in opium. I was filled with, ecstasy.

The sun began to dip. I realised that, and I murmured I had come to see the view. I jumped to my feet. Ali Mohammed rose and then offered cigarettes.

Lips of Pomegranate rose. How tall she tall as I myself. I asked if she would care for a Russian cigarette, one! I produced my case. She bent as site took the thin cardboard tube between her lips whilst I held a mutch. She smiled her thanks. It was a ravishing, provoking smile, strained with jenaofimaaess. and the ■ailas tarty It.

She lost her shyness. She threw aaUa hex white cloak, which had umbrella'di from the sun. Her dress waa Mack an* green eased •with cold, a J~? jacket, and tie filmy gauze dM nothlnTZ hide the cadenced pulsation* «t Ha teeW No corsets stiffened her watot supple. Her frock clasped clow ao £!! when she -walked the eway of the slendhips was seen. As she m« T ed across til roof to the parapet, with eXo, ato ~* snake-like, undulations, her wanton V«£ told of the lazy lasclrtownew of r* nature. w

She knew. She was no woman If she Hi not know her charms. Har glance was pares*. Those eyes, so tbaM *t tot. .«! capable of the reckless rafltarc of lev? She was a sylph.

The sun sank in glory bq« the gold™ desert, and penslveness dreamed over th world. The air was thick with the oiZ of the gardens. The muezzin sounded from the minaret Spice-hauntM dusk <JI quickly.

I have often thought of Lips 0 f p granate. Ali Mohammed has written an* told me he has married her to a kalfl Wn lives in the far south lands. "