A strong vinegar smell floated from the houses of the wine makers who worked late, safe from the frequent raids of the Jew beaters. The only house with oil burners hanging on pegs on both sides of its door was the merchant’s at the end of an ancient maze of alleys; the one Rebekah often spoke of. He recognized another house, buried under bougainvilleas as if surrounded by a holy fire. He rushed past it. Veiled by darkness, he feared the lingering presence of the Ancient Zoroastrian whom Rebekah revered.

He had left his horse in the palace courtyard, afraid the clatter of hooves would wake the populace. As he passed the garbage pit, he thanked Allah, sure that the stink would have sent the horse into a canter. Loosening a flap off his turban, he covered his face to protect it from poisonous mosquitoes.

Rebekah’s street was muddy from the overflowing gutters. He stared at his red kid boots. The ermine hem of his cloak soaked up soiled water. Chewing on mastic to sweeten his breath, he descended five steps to her door and knocked. The slush in the landing rose to his ankles, drenching his pants; worms crawled up the silk.

Rebekah appeared naked at the threshold. Mint leaves peeped from behind one ear. He had never seen her stripped of her layers of lace. She had confided in him that when alone with her memories, she walked around naked because she couldn’t bear the heat of the past.

Bathed by the halo of an oil burner that hung from the ceiling, she sang, “Why, sweetlove, you’ve come in the dark. To what do I owe this honor?” When he did not answer, she reached out. “Are you coming in, or spending the night by the pit?”

In a daze, he stepped in. He didn’t know whether to stare at the blinking flame of the oil burner or at Rebekah.

“Look what you did! How will I wash this off?” she cried at the slush that flooded her carpet. “At least brush off the worms!”

He stared at the mark between her breasts.

“What’s wrong?” she cooed. “Haven’t you seen a naked woman? Ah!” She touched her chest. “The gift of the Devil. It gives me powers beyond your imagination.”

The mark glowed like a throbbing heart.

“What powers?” he mumbled to himself, fearing her reply would toss him back to the ranks of apprenticeship in magic.

“Let me bathe you,” she said, leading him into the backyard and unclasping his ermine cloak.

No, he thought, the mark resembles the smiling lips of a newborn child.

By a pool of dark water, she removed his scimitar and uncoiled the sash, as she stepped on the white worms that fell to the ground. She untied the jar of brine from his waist and placed it next to him on the skirting of the pool, then folded his pants neatly, laying them by the jar.