The Moghul

same with making love."
    "What do you mean?"
    She reached and touched his thigh. "When we're very young, lovemaking is mostly just desire. We may think it's more, but it isn't really. Then gradually we learn more of its ways, how to give and receive. But even then we still don't fully understand its deeper significance. We're like a novice who has learned the techniques of the sitar, the way to strike and pull a string to make one note blend into another, but who still doesn't comprehend the spiritual depth of a raga. Its power to move our heart. We still don't understand that its meaning and feeling can only come from within. And love, like a raga, is an expression of reverence and of wonder. Wonder at what we are and can be. So even after all the techniques are mastered, we still must learn to experience this wonder, this sense of our spirit becoming one with the other. Otherwise it's somehow still empty. Like perfect music that has no feeling, no life."
    He was silent for a moment, trying to comprehend what she was saying. "If you look at it like that, I suppose you could be right."
    "With music, we first have to learn its language, then learn to open our spirit. Lovemaking is just the same."
    She nestled her head against his chest, sending her warmth through him. As he held her, he noticed lying alongside the pool the garland of flowers she had worn the night before. He reached and took it and slipped it over her head. Then he kissed her gently, finding he was indeed filled with wonder at the feeling he had for her.
    He held her silently for a time, looking at the paintings on the walls of the palace around them. Then he noticed a large straw basket at the entryway.
    "What is that?" He pointed.
    She rose and looked. "I think it's something Samad had left for us."
    She lifted herself out of the water and, holding her wrap against her, brought the basket. It was filled with fruits and melons.
    "They're not from Samarkand or Kabul, like you've probably grown accustomed to at the palace in Agra. But I think you'll like them anyway." She squinted across the square, in the direction of the mosque. "I love Samad dearly. He did all of this for me. But he refuses to listen to anything I say." She handed him an apple, then reached and took some grapes. "You know, I think he secretly wants to die a martyr. Like a lover eager to die for his or her beloved. He wants to die for his wild freedom, for what he thinks is beautiful. Perhaps to be remembered as one who never bowed to anyone. I wish I had his strength."
    "Where's he now?"
    "You won't see him any more. But he's still here. He'll have food sent to us. He loves me like a daughter, and he's happy when I am. And he knows now you make me happy. But you mustn't see him here again, even know that he's here. It would be too dangerous for you. Perhaps someday, if we're all still alive."
    He took her face in his hands and held it up to him. "You have as much strength as anyone, including Samad. And I want to get you away from here before your strength makes you do something foolish. I love you more than my own life."
    "And I love you. Like I've never loved anyone."
    "Not even the Great Moghul? When you were in his zenana ?"
    She laughed. "You know that was very different. I was scarcely more than a girl then. I didn't know anything."
    "You learned a few things somewhere." He remembered the night past, still astonished. The way she had . . .
    "In the zenana you learn everything about lovemaking. But nothing about love." She rose and took his hand. Together they walked to the open portico of the palace. Around them the red pavilions were empty in the early sunshine. The morning was still, save for the cries of the green parrots who scurried across eaves and peered down impassively from weathered red railings and banisters. His gaze followed the wide arches, then turned to her dark shining hair. He reached out and stroked it.
    "Tell me more about it. How did you learn Turki?"
    "In the zenana . We had to learn it, even though Arangbar speaks perfect Persian." She turned to him. "And how did you learn to understand it?"
    "In a Turkish prison." He laughed. "It seems about the same to me. I had to learn it too."
    "Will you tell me about it? Why were you in prison?"
    "Like you, I had no choice. The Turks took a ship I was commanding, in the Mediterranean."
    "Tell me what happened."
    He stopped and looked at her. "All right. We'll trade. You tell me all about you and I'll tell you