Richard and Isabel-the Lost Fragment

[Steven Hunley]

Richard and Isabel-the Lost Fragment



She slid up on noiseless feet. A veil covering the bottom of her face, that is to say her mouth and chin, ran just under her eyes and was fastened behind her shell-like ears. Her kohl-darkened eyes were all she needed for her craft. She clasped his hand in hers and led him to the viands. Trailing after her scent, his nose first noticed the exquisite patchouli fragrance heated by the warmth of her body, it couldn’t be ignored, and after that, the aroma of savory food.

“Either one will satisfy my appetite,” thought Richard. “It’s only a matter of which will come first. I suppose I’ll have surprise to contend with.”

He helped Isabel kneel down on a cushion and noticed the soles and toes of her small pretty feet. She wore a gold anklet whose charm was chased with the figure of an elephant with lapis eyes. On three toes were turquoise rings.

“Isabel, these things aren’t all mine. Where did you get them?”

“On the same cobble-stone street in town where I get your Darjeeling. The Indian woman with the two lovely daughters is always so kind. Did you know they’re from Calcutta? They all pitched in and made suggestions. I have wonderful things from all over. But first, let’s eat, shall we?”

Richard considered the state of his stomach. What was he hungry for?

Then his eyes admired the billowing gossamer pants emphasizing her round hips and how they narrowed, revealing each delicate inch of her slim waist. Isabel tied a knot between the corners of her silk blouse under her cleavage, urging her breasts skyward until her magnificent twin peaks poked heaven with undisguised ardor, like sacred sky-scraping minarets topped with gold moons. Seeing at first hand a supreme example of flesh ascending to spirit brought out the scholar in Richard. Among other things, the man knew his history. He mused,

“That knot is in no way impossible. It isn’t the Gordian knot. It’s something I can handle.”

But still, almost more than he could take. East was east and west was west, especially when it concerned Isabel. He was forced to swallow and clear his throat. It is said Alexander performed the same action before a bold slice of his sword made him ruler of Asia. In contrast, all Burton had to do was eat a simple meal by coaxing tender lamb kabobs off a bamboo skewer with a flick of his wrist. Fencing was one of the gentleman’s fortes…therefore,

“Yes, Darling, I’m starving,” Richard answered gamely, and whipped out his Damascus steel knife, a Saracen blade reliable as any in Ptolemy’s Geography.

How it glimmered and shown in his desert-sunned hand.

It was time for exploration and to seek hidden treasures. Richard was always game for that, because he'd found the perfect mate.



©Steven Hunley 2015




https://youtu.be/r1JYZmT2uPQ The Holy Shrines

[108 fountains]

This little piece is one of your finest, Steve. Probably not many people will recognize the two characters as Richard Burton and Isabel Arundell. I presume the title and the references to fragrance and aroma in the first paragraph are allusions to Lady Burton's burning of the revised manuscript of The Perfumed Garden - really a very nice, lovely touch.

And I also enjoyed how you imitated the style of Burton's writing - the alliteration, like "...whose charm was chased..." and "...sacred sky-scraping minarets..." And of course, the admixture of exotic with erotic, which was Burton's specialty:
"Isabel tied a knot between the corners of her silk blouse under her cleavage, urging her breasts skyward until her magnificent twin peaks poked heaven with undisguised ardor, like sacred sky-scraping minarets topped with gold moons." I think Sir Richard himself would have enjoyed that.

Your piece is the kind of writing I aspire to, and while there is no shortage of young writers on this Forum who show glimmers of talent, we could all learn something about writing by reading a short piece like this.

[Steven Hunley]

I read a bio on Burton and was struck with his relationship with his wife. Isabel and Richard were quite close and she stuck by him despite the long absences and the controversy over his writings. I find myself lucky at this point in my life to have found someone as important to me as she was to him. Barbara is my muse and my help-mate, my consultant and editor, the love of my life. Like Richard with Isabel, I couldn't do without her.

[aassdd2016]

thank you

[Steven Hunley]

Your comments and thank-yous have bought you a prize. I appreciate how many of you read this little bit. But there are more bits, and here is another. Thank you all.

Richard pried off the kabobs using skillful parries and disengagements. He sliced flat bread in pieces suitably-sized to fit a proper gentlewoman’s hand while she dipped them into hummus. Richard pushed rice rolled in grape-leaves across a lustrous turquoise blue Kashan plate towards Isabel. He glimpsed her pearl-like teeth and pretty pink tongue as it curled cautiously around the glistening cylinders so swollen at the ends they seemed ready to burst. Isabel looked down demurely, then gestured towards the desserts.

" I purchased these from Mr. Tagore, the baker. He has the greatest hand-written bills of fare. You should see them. They’re almost like stories. But these might wait. If you like we can do something else.”

“The desserts? Of course they can wait. My Bell, you’ve always known I’m a man who can push away his dessert.”

Isabel smiled slyly just at the ends of her mouth. He was bold-faced and lying. Richard couldn’t push her away an inch, not an inch. He never could.

“Then I’d like you to try what I found at Dr. Dhanvantari’s, the apothecary. It’s there in the hookah. Is that what’s it’s called?”

“Well, I suppose it could be called a nargile or a hubble-bubble, or a hookah, any one of a dozen other names; you know how it is with languages, the nuances are the devil to explain.”

Richard drew closer to the circle of cushions and examined the pipe. It was from the Sindh, most likely Kandhkot. Rather reminded him of old home week. Isabel trailed behind Richard silently and sat down on a plump tomato-shaped cushion.

“The hemp is in the silver cloisonné box, My Darling”

Burton smelled its contents. Ah, yes. Strong and sweet and without a doubt…savory, like the woman who sat at his feet.

“Can I try some?” innocently said, her eyes trained at the canvas ceiling rippling in night’s gentle breeze.

“But, Precious-”

“Richard?”

“Just this once,” sternly said in response, his eyes locked tenderly on her face. “Be cautious,” he warned, and crumbled some into the bowl. He lit a match.

The tent grew quiet with the exception of bubbles reverberating through the liquid. For a second, the plume of smoke blossomed up in the air and then, like a grey Cobra after a performance, pulled back into the bowl. Isabel suddenly started coughing and handed the pipe stem back just as quickly as she’d taken it up.

“Oh, my!” she sputtered and opened her eyes wide.

Sir Richard inhaled slowly when it was his turn and mixed in air through the corners of his mouth. His breath seemed inexhaustible, but in the end he coughed too, only not so violently.

“We should stop now. It’s harsher than I thought.”

Lady Burton was only too happy to accede to his wishes. She quickly regained her composure, and to soothe her throat, poured a green syrupy liquid into a glass and drank deeply. It was from the apothecary too, though she only remembered that later. So many things with strange names had been gathered from too many unfamiliar places. This didn’t seem the time to sort them out.

“Dr. Dhanvantari said smoking would be good for our appetites. I should have said something before we ate.”

“I appreciate the thought, but it’s not worth hurting your throat for. I doubt if such a small amount will have much effect.Did I ever mention the word assassin and how it’s related to the word hashish?”

“No, Richard.”

“Sit close while I watch you, and I’ll tell you the story.”


©Steven Hunley 2012

https://youtu.be/gWCFfvCFlDI Sir Richard Francis Burton

[108 fountains]

Thanks for the bit, Steve. Fun reading. You were almost shocking in that first paragraph!
I'm curious about the green liquid - are we supposed to know what that is?
It looks like you set the stage for another bit to follow. This could turn into something rather lengthy. I for one would like to see much more of this.

[Steven Hunley]

At first I only meant to post the fragment. In order to continue with that, I would be good to provide the earlier part too. So here's the start and point up to, "she slid up on noiseless feet."




Memories and Manuscripts

by
Steven Hunley

On the turn of the stairs Isabel hesitated near the foot of his portrait. There was no way on God’s earth she dare walk by without gazing, without worshiping, the image of her late husband. She gathered her warm robe together and sat on the steps. The lace of her flannel nightgown touched the carpet and her naked heels- the brass rod. It was cold, nothing at all like his eyes. She eagerly searched the frame from bottom to top, from the darkened lacquer that shadowed his cloak, to the strong square jaw. From there her glance raced upward to his Stevenson-drooping mustache, then the scar on his cheek, saving his eyes for last. Even on canvas they were worth savoring. In life his hungry eyes were downright magnificent.

Black and piercing they were, capable of taking any man’s measure. Warm and doe-like they could be, with her, only her and no other. Brooding, searching, protective eyes sheltered by brows hung like dark-shingled slate roofs.

“I have the key now, Richard, and I’m ready to do your bidding. See here?”

She pulled a bright brass key from her pocket.

“But first I need coffee and must get dressed.”

She kissed her first two fingers and placed them gently on the canvas mouth, replaced the key in her pocket, and ran back upstairs like a girl of seventeen.

Opening her wardrobe revealed several black mourning gowns. She pushed them all to one side. On the left, neglected, shown two more dresses of a different cut. One was blue and white stripped taffeta with a white silk sash, something for tea with portly matrons, whose husbands slaved at publishers’ offices on Fleet Street. The other was red and black velvet, worn off both shoulders, quite revealing, not too tight, but just tight enough to be a dress fit for a ball.

She stripped the blue and white creation from the hanger and held it up to her figure.
The image seemed pudgy and grey-haired and clumsy. The eyes were tired and narrow with sleep. But the young woman she perceived was tall and lithe, with a straight nose, and eyes that resembled Champagne.

A damaged soul, after endless days of mourning, after uncountable nights of tepid tear-stained pillows, was born anew, a woman in love.
Her face beamed with inexhaustible faith, and all because of a dream.

Inside their bedroom, across from the French windows, sat her coffee on a small table in a dainty Delft cup painted with the figure of a blue kitten. Delicate swirling spirals of steam rose in air wet with dew. She turned her chair towards the window and gazed out over the garden, admiring the roses they gathered in Spain and the tulips they’d paid dearly for in Holland. The coffee was from Sumatra. It was good being a diplomat’s wife. Adventurer, explorer, linguist, swordsman too? Well, that never curtailed her affections. She never held being a fantastic lover against him either. The things the man knew! The things they knew about each other.

Closer to the house the gardener, leaning on his rake, busied himself burning a pile of leaves. Curling smoke lit by luminous shafts of sunlight filtered between tall stately willows. A meadowlark sung wildly just as the gardener threw orange twisting leaves into red leaping flames that crackled like Japanese paper.

The coffee was finished. The key was in her pocket and there was work to be done.

The double doors of the library opened with an audible click. Isabel stood at their juncture and arms apart, pushed them open like a Victorian Sampson. Everything was just as she left it. Tall rows of books with leather bindings and gold-embossed titles, the bookcase ladder with its brass fittings, massive shuttered windows, and his three cluttered desks. A coat rack stood near the door.
Reaching an apron to spare her dress caused an alpaca scarf to fall to the floor. She picked it up and brushed it against her face, soft and comforting, and smelled of Richard. Isabel remembered what he told her the day his heart gave out. She understood what was going to happen, and was crying without end. He drew up and whispered in what voice he had left.

“I returned from the war, from Mecca and Medina, and the timeless Nile, all those places where lesser men never come back. Heaven is just another place to me.”

She twisted the corner of his bed sheet and sobbed,

“But I’ll be alone, Richard. I…”

“By the beard of the Prophet, Isabel, what makes you think I won’t come back when you need me? You of all people…after twenty-nine years…”

And then he went dead.

***

The first desk was a mess. A map was unrolled and two empty whiskey glasses with heavy bottoms held it in place. Watercolor brushes matted with dried pigment and nearby pen nubs were clotted with ink. Richard had been re-drawing the contours of Lake Tanganyika and plotting the rivers that fed it.

“How I waited for that one to end! After three years my nerves were shot. I never had patience for waiting, even for him... at first. The man most certainly taught me patience.”

And the scar, his “dangerous souvenir”. It upset him at first. She bravely suggested nursing him. Eventually, one summer night after dinner they were strolling under the palms he’d planted and beneath a sliver of what he called his, “Mohammedan Moon.” She stood on her toes and kissed the spear mark. Richard turned it into a game.

“Make each kiss, every inch, worth a thousand miles of tortuous river,” he suggested slyly, then sat back on a bench and pulled her after him until she landed on his lap.

“Richard, if I didn’t know better,” she giggled. “I’d say you’re in the mood for a sensuous safari.”

He pulled a stand of her hair from her cheek, then said in her shell-like ear,

“We’re together for the long run, through uncharted regions of the heart. I need you, My Darling, my sweet Isabel. You’re indispensable. You’re my compass. Without you…I’m lost. It’s as simple as that.”

Isabel kissed all the way from Alexandria to Lake Victoria, then retraced her steps and boldly skipped overland searching for his mouth. Never tiring, in her labor of love. After that night he wore the scar like a badge and it marked him. The Nile, the languages, the adventure and challenge, his woman, her sex, marked him...forever.

She inspected the stacks of paper that surrounded the map and gathered a few. Rolling the map up she proceeded to the second desk that sat in the center of two shuttered windows which she opened wide and adjusted the blinds. Gold bars of early morning sunlight illuminated the walls on the opposite side of the room. The painting of Richard dressed as an Arab dominated the white walls. When the unbeliever made the pilgrimage to Mecca it was long before they met, but that didn’t stop her questions. Neither did it quell her curiosity. They were both piqued the day she found clothes in a trunk and saw they matched the painting.

“Richard, are these the ones in the painting?”

Burton was absorbed in a copy of the Tanqueray Express and had it out in his lap. He was busy smoking a pipe while a dog slept curled at his feet.

“Yes, Darling, those are the ones I wore to Mecca.”

“They look comfortable. Exotic! Oh, Richard, you been so many places, seen so many things. How I envy you. Is it romantic?

Burton rustled the paper.

“What? Is what romantic?”

“That silly newspaper. Is it romantic? Bet it isn’t. What I mean to say is, is your translation of the Thousand and One Nights or the Kama Sutra as romantic as the original language?”

Burton surrendered the paper to the nearest table and gave up his pipe.

“Dearest, the original language is always better. But of course it’s just as romantic if not more so. Isabel, what’s on your mind? Something is brewing.”

“I’m bored,” she pouted. “I’m tired of tea-parties and whist. I want to do something different, something for just us two. Richard, I know what I want. I’d like a Perfumed Garden sort of night.”

“A what?”

“A night in the desert in an abandoned oasis. We’ll use the garden. We can wear Arab clothes and eat Arab food and sleep in a tent on silk pillows. We can pretend I was with you during the hajj. You can hide me in a jar of oil like Ali Baba’s thieves, or I could be your princess Scheherazade!”

Richard loosened his tie and accidently stepped on the dog’s tail, then poured himself a whiskey and soda since the maid had gone to bed.

“Well, Isabel, I don’t know…”

“Richard. I’ll be your slave girl if you like. We can use black silk ropes. Silk never chafes.”

Isabel glanced down at her pale slender wrists. Then she looked fondly at him. Her gaze spoke volumes.

“But, Isabel…”

“Don’t worry, Richard. Leave it all up to me. I’ll take care of the details.”

Burton poured himself another whiskey while thinking,

“And I imagined the Nile was tough going.”


The next night when Richard arrived home no one was there. He searched the house until he noticed a glow from the garden and went out to investigate. From a tent set up on the gravel, brass lamps cast paisley light and shadow patterns on its canvas walls. A lovely barefoot harem girl appeared. Her dark wavy hair streamed down over her shoulders. Her gold necklaces, belt of coins, and arm bangles glittering under pale moonlight could in no way compete with sparkle in her eyes. She stood on ballet toes and kissed him on his savage-scarred cheek.

“There’s your clothes, Richard, now change.”

A transparent veil hung over the entrance and on a cushion laid his outfit. More cushions dotted the floor, and in one corner food in silver chaffing dishes rested on a low table with ivory inlay, and in another corner with even more cushions surrounding it, stood a tall green glass water pipe. Next to that was a scarlet divan and at its foot, sensuous black rope lay coiled like an Indian cobra. Saffron perfumed the night’s languorous air, in sensuous spirals of smoke.

“Are you ready?” came the voice of not just any harem girl, not to his way of thinking.

Burton tucked his turban smartly and answered,

“In a moment, Princess Scheherazade, Your wish is my command.”

Sir Richard heard a soft hiss, and looked for a viper. Burton the explorer knew danger when he heard it. When it sounded again, he recognized the hiss of a perfume bottle squirting, a clear sign the Princess outside was readying her arsenal.

“Some women like to write their own happy endings. Perfume is merely their ink.”

He buckled his belt and thrust his curved dagger with the rhinoceros horn handle into its scabbard with gusto. On the table lay a set of knives, forks, and spoons. He took up a spoon, and saw himself reflected.

“We won’t need these. We’ll have to use our fingers instead. It’s a tradition Isabel will enjoy. I’ll have something to teach her.”

He gathered the silverware and hid it under a brocaded pillow. Next, he twisted and smoothed the ends of his licorice moustache and adjusted his costume. Sir Richard knew exactly what Lady Burton wanted, make no mistake.

“The play’s the thing.”

The curtain lifted. From the darkness appeared an exotic elegant creature, a princess, a siren determined to put The Brave Ulysses to shame with her song. Who would be teacher and who would be student had yet to be written.

And somehow the siren resembled his wife.

[Steven Hunley]

“It is a common myth that the word assassin comes from the Arabic word haschishin for hashish user and is possibly due to the popularity of Marco Polo.

As she listened to Richard Isabel’s eyes dilated, and seemed more liquid than usual.

“The story is told that al-Hassan ibn-al-Sabbah used hashish to enlist young men into his private army, and a well-known version comes from Marco Polo himself. I memorized it when I was serving the Agha Khan for two years. He was a Persian prince who had fled his country.”

She folded her hands and placed them over his knee where she rested her head. Her pupils were darker than he’d ever seen them.

“In the early eleventh century, al-Hassan was head of the Persian Ismailians. In Ten-ninety his men stormed Alamut castle in the mountains near the Caspian Sea and took up residence. Named “The Old Man of the Mountains” by the Crusaders, Hassan threatened the entire Mohammaden world with terror. Marco Polo recounted:

"The Old Man kept at his court boys of twelve years old that seemed to him destined to become courageous men. When the Old Man sent them into the garden in groups of four, ten or twenty, he gave them hashish to drink. They slept for three days, then they were carried sleeping into the garden where he had them awakened.”

Isabel started stroking his calf with soft delicate caresses, as if her sense of touch was heightened. Richard took note and continued.

"When these young men woke, and found themselves in the garden with all these marvelous things, they truly believed themselves to be in paradise. And these damsels were always with them in songs and great entertainments; they received everything they asked for, so that they would never have left that garden of their own will."

An irrepressible smile formed on her lips and she whispered enthusiastically, “I can sing and dance and give you anything you ask for, and I’ll never leave of my own free will.”

Her mouth was dry so she took another sip of her precious green liquid and felt soothed as it ran down her throat to her tummy. Something about that made her smile even more.

“And when the Old Man wished to kill someone, he would take him and say: 'Go and do this thing. I do this because I want to make you return to paradise. And the assassins go and perform the deed willingly."

Polo wrote that during his travels to Alamut in 1273.”

By now Richard knew she wasn’t paying attention, because Isabel started laughing. At first it was under her control but within minutes it was uncontrollable, and the only coherent thing she said was,

“Oh, I’ll have delightful entertainment for you, my captain!"

Richard noticed that her eyes were caught by the paisley patterns cast on the walls by the brass lanterns. Each inch they swayed caused patterns to dance on the canvas. It was if she’d never seen anything like them before. She was transfixed by their beauty and movement. Isabel was as loving and pretty and irresistible as usual, but was not her normal self. Something was amiss. He’d never seen her in such a state, and so out of character. She was playful at times, but had a serious side he treasured. Now she was acting just plain silly.

“I can’t understand it,” He looked into her eyes and saw her pupils were exceedingly black. “We both had only one puff, and the cannabis wasn’t first rate."

“I feel different, indescribably different, Richard. The hookah smoke was so strong I nearly choked!”

“It wasn’t that strong. It was harsh. There’s a difference.”

Isabel reached for her glass and began to take another sip when he caught her. After smelling the liquid and tasting a sip, he recognized the drink. It was bhang. He held her hands and put the glass out of reach.

“That innocent drink, not the smoke of Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil, is the reason you feel the way you do.”

***
Isabel smiled and squeezed his hands back. They felt so warm and commanding.

“Dr. Dhanvantari is from Varanasi, the land of Lord Shiva. It’s time there now for Shivrati, a Hindu Festival. The doctor is a very traditional fellow. He pays more attention to aruvedic medicine and religion than he does to recreation. That’s why the smoke was weak but the drink was strong. Bhang Thandai is a drink popular in many parts of India and it’s made by mixing bhang with thandai, a cold drink made with almonds and black pepper and milk and sugar.”

Richard dipped the end of his finger in the liquid and sampled it again.

“In this instance, too much sugar for my taste. Old men treasure their sugar like children.”

Isabel knit her brows, like a home-spun woman, “I thought he was a doctor and an apothecary.”

“He is, of aruvedic medicine.”

Leading Isabel to the red velvet divan he nearly tripped on the cobra-like ropes coiled next to the legs. He helped her sit down and then lifted her legs onto a cushion and fluffed up a damasked pillow under her head. As she fell in an attitude of repose her coal-dark hair streamed down the sides of the pillow and spilled onto a red velvet field. Funny the details he noticed.

Long curving lashes like dark scimitars contrasting against her Chinese porcelain cheeks labored in vain to suppress the phenomena of her eyes glistening in the paisley-patterned lantern light, even when they were only half-open. Even at half-power Isabel’s eyes commanded authority…and in doing so…obtained whatever she wanted. He marveled at how firmly her hands held his, her sensitive artistic fingers strengthening to say “I’ll never let go,” transmitted feelings so corporal they transcended mere language. How singular and charming are women’s intimate details when closely observed. Isabel’s touch was a movable feast of meanings, and her eyes, her eyes transmitted illuminated volumes of poetic verse.

“But Richard,” she protested weakly, “What about the ropes? What about the Perfumed Garden and Way the Tenth?

“What’s that? You mean…?”

“Yes, Darling, Way the Tenth. If I remember correctly when I was reading your notes, Way the Tenth was my personal favorite, and Putting on the Sock was yours.”

Isabel gazed at Richard fondly.

“My Sweet, you’re in no condition…”

“But, Richard, what about Way the Fifteenth? By no means can leave out Way the Fifteenth,” she replied in a voice that was then only a whisper, “A personal favorite for both of us…”

Isabel was on her own and lost in a dream. There was no Way the Fifteenth, thank the Lord and praise be to Allah.

Burton would never take a woman who wasn’t herself or in an impaired state. It was against a gentleman’s code. It just wasn’t done. Her eyes were almost closed now; she was listening to what he was saying, but not responding. Drifting from one thing to another, head in the clouds, listening, dreaming, listening again, but no more than that.

When her breathing grew quiet and regular he pulled a shawl from the foot of the divan and placed it over her form. She turned, and he scooted to make more room. Then Sir Richard gave ground, and moved to the floor, put his head on a pillow and rested his feet on the black silk ropes, now laying in a tangle on the Persian carpet, and eventually fell asleep, but only lightly, like a desert lion guarding its precious cubs.

Outside on the cold-shadowed hillside, after observing a full yellow moon, a restless old dog howled plaintively for its mate. Sleeping inside the comfortable Arabian tent at the foot of his princess, Sir Richard had no such feelings whatsoever. He’d found his place and adored it.


to be continued...

©Steven Hunley 2012

https://youtu.be/r1JYZmT2uPQ The Holy Shrines

Seems like, when I examine the facts, that Burton is my personal super-hero. Well-read- a linguist- adventurer- spy for the East India Company- diplomat and explorer. Studied religions religiously, had a loving devoted wife and lasting marriage. I don't need modern synthetic heroes that fly around in metal suits. Too 21st Century for me. Give me a real man's man any time.

[Danik 2016]

I like the vividness of the decriptions and the dialogues flow easily in the text.
This novel on Richard Burton might be of interest:
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/jun/28/saturdayreviewsfeatres.guardianreview30

[Danik 2016]

I like the vividness of the decriptions and the dialogues flow easily in the text.
This novel on Richard Burton might be of interest:
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/jun/28/saturdayreviewsfeatres.guardianreview30

[New Secret]

I got the real sense that this girl in your story is a small town gypsy girl that hangs out at back street cafes. Kinda hippyish, au natural sort of female. I knew girls like this.

I always liked your writing. This one contained some words I didn't know and needed to look them up. "Viands" and "Darjeeling". Now I know, and knowing is half the bundle.

[Steven Hunley]

The last desk held the papers Isabel sought. These were the key to her dream. They made quite a pile, these annotations and manuscripts to the Perfumed Garden. They were absolutely wonderful and they were a pain in the neck. But now she had her instructions and knew what to do with them. Richard had seen to that. The orders weren’t written down; they’d been transmitted last night in person so there would be no mistakes. A gentleman honors his word.

Isabel intended to do the same.

For days she’d been mourning, despondent, without hope. Publishers kept making bids, offering vast sums to a widow hard-pressed, cajoling, tempting, and in the end, demanding a deal. Losing sleep and exhausted, like a wick allowed to burn too brightly she grew short and sharp and out of sorts. She went to bed in a doleful mood, expecting nothing but disturbed sleep, and in the morning, another hectic day filled with the same nasty rot.

Then, without warning or fanfare, Richard appeared. Isabel was asleep, yet recounting it later; she never referred to it as a dream. It was too clear and logical. It was an encounter without parallel, a meeting desperately needed, a midnight rendezvous arranged by benevolent cosmic forces to satisfy her needs and thirst.

When the clock on the mantel announced the witching hour Isabel woke with a start.

“Richard! I never expected to see you again!”

Richard looked fit and in his prime. He was wearing his safari jacket with cartridge loops above the pockets, sweat-stained under the arms, and his trousers torn with Acacia thorn snags were frayed at the cuff where they met his comfortable Spanish leather boots. Richard was in his element. He had been out and about…exploring.

"Isabel, Darling...I promised I’d return...just as I promised all those other times when I was there with you. So tell me, My Precious, what is it that distresses you so much you despair?"

“It’s the publishers, Richard. They’re maddening with their offers, and after I read your papers and annotations I’m at my wit’s end. I’m afraid, what with the contents, that they’ll value the sensational nature of the work, and end up selling it on Grubb Street or street corners and tout it as the latest pornography.”

“It’s true they’ll do anything to make a pretty penny. Publishers are ruffians. Like American outlaw barons, unscrupulous publishers will try to sell anything to make money, even lists of dirty laundry. I refuse to soil my hands with most of them.”

Richard looked pensively into the fire place that had been warm and alive when Isabel turned down the covers, but now was only a few glowing ashes. He considered.

“And I’m not there to defend my work.”

“They know your work is worth more, now that…” her eyes cast downward in anguish.

“Now that I’m gone?”

“Yes.”

Richard looked again and was illuminated by what he saw.

“The solution is burn them. Gather them up and set them ablaze. My journals, our personal letters, anything that might be misunderstood. But keep The Sentiment of the Sword, and Wanderings on Three Continents, and The Jew, the Gypsy and El Islam. Make money from those instead.”

“Whatever you say, My Darling.”

“The key to the library door is under the baby palm in the brown Sudanese pot.

And as quickly as he appeared he turned to go.

“But, Richard, when will I see you again?”

“Isabel, Dear One…” Richard related sadly. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

And then he was gone.

***
last part to follow!

©Steven Hunley 2016

[Danik 2016]

I enjoyed specially the irony of the story.
This may interest you. It is about a novel on the same Richard Burton.
https://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/jun/28/saturdayreviewsfeatres.guardianreview30

[Steven Hunley]

That night led to the present. Isabel found the key, gathered the papers, tied them together with hemp twine using a bow one used for Christmas, and sat them on her dresser.

Searching and examining the papers minutely seemed endless and took all day. The clock on the mantel struck seven. Isabel was late. She got up and rushed to her jewel box and found a gold chain hung with its charm, a Bloodstone heart Richard gave her when he left to find the source of the Nile. Next she hurried to the closet and found the black and red velvet ball gown she wore the night they first met. Isabel put on the dress and checked in the mirror. Then on went her stockings and slippers. Shadows were growing longer with each passing minute.

Outside, still visible from the French windows, the sun was a fiery golden disc flattening on the horizon. Its slanting rays illuminated a thin line of smoke rising from what was left of the gardener’s pile of leaves. Lifting the stack of papers, she dashed down the stairs and out into the garden, and like Cinderella, one of her slippers slipped off and was lost among the roses that bordered the staircase.

She found the gardener’s rake and stirred the remains of the fire. Sparks flew and flames were reborn among the ashes. Isabel took a moment and threw in the private letters.

Ashes twisted into heart-shapes and teardrops rose into the twilight. The willow’s small leaves started trembling at the gentle caress of a breeze. English roses dipped their glorious heads in shame. The queen of flowers showed no empathy.

She took several handfuls of journal entries and tossed them in next. Small branches began to writhe in the wind. The fire burned brightly when red flames licked the air. White puffy clouds on the rim of the world turned black and the sun gilded their edges on its endless dive into the horizon. Isabel took a deep breath and picked up the annotations to the Scented Garden, Richard’s new version of the Perfumed Garden. It was a heavy burden in more ways than one.

She held the manuscript between her breasts with both hands, like a lover. Then she threw it in the flames as if it were trash. Some pages caught fire and burned at the edges first, and were carried skyward in swirling updrafts of heat.

There went Way the Tenth.

Others started burning in the center and flames crept towards the edges, and these too spiraled upward so that black ragged ashes rained down on the garden and the wall and beyond to the trees and dark somber fields lying nearby. Each page took time to consume as if the fire wanted nothing to do with the business. Isabel, however, remained steadfast at her task. When it was finished she stirred the ashes, propped the rake near the door to the lathe house, and after retrieving her slipper, returned to the house never saying a word, and climbed the stairway to her room with its four-poster bed, tired and exhausted, yet trembling in anticipation. Her pale fingers grasped the heart-shaped stone hanging between her breasts. And although it was stone it was warm.

There was silence, pure unadulterated silence, enveloping the house like a fog.

Isabel approached the dresser. Instead of the nightgown she wore last night she chose another. More like a shift, it had small straps for her round shoulders, and tiny buttons and ties on the bodice, and ties alone on the split in the middle over her heart. She pushed her hair to one side and slipped it over her head, and watched in the mirror as she pulled it down over her figure. It was shear and the finest Egyptian cotton. She’d made it to fit after Richard returned with a bolt of cloth wrapped up in a camel-skin bag. It flattered her in the same way a courtier flatters a queen, which is to say, with sincerity and reverence. Then she brushed her long flowing hair, but instead of tying it up, she arranged the curls just so, and let it hang naturally wherever it fell.

She noticed the small buttons and ties on her bodice and laughed.

“The finest swordsman on the continent always had trouble with these! I’d swear the old campaigner was a bundle of nerves like a raw recruit!”

She unbuttoned the first three…or so. She untied ties in intimate strategic places.

Then she drew closer to the mirror and checked her champagne eyes. They had just the right sparkle, like Chateaux Lafitte Rothschild ‘76. Then she pinched her cheeks until they blushed like a bold ripe peach.

Slipping down between the Egyptian sheets, she nestled her head on her pillow and arranged her dark hair in the most seductive patterns possible. The clock ticked on the mantel, and every tick marked a moment closer to her lord.

Hovering on the threshold of awareness, Isabel quoted Shakespeare, a line from Hamlet that Richard wrote once in a love note. At the time it seemed theatrical and silly. Now it was her mantra, and the last thing she said as she fell where she wanted.

“… and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream...”

As the slumbering woman waited, the doors overlooking the garden sparkled and glittered. Winds of Time stirred up the fire, reflected in the diamond-shaped panes of the tall French windows. A dog and a cat fought a duel over a scrap of meat. Both young men and old spoke of the horrors of war. An elderly stick-man flew a kite in the moonlight, and dew drops infested the lawn like fireflies on parade…and lovers? Lovers once separated by circumstance now lay secure in each other’s arms. The reason was simple. Sleeping with your mate is the only patented remedy guaranteed to cure longing.

And all is right in Trieste.

©Steven Hunley 2012

[Cling Up]

I read this one last night. Kudos. You should be a professional author instead of hanging out on message boards.