Michael leaned forward.

He said: “Watch her left hand.”

He meant the left hand of the girl playing the drum. The drum was called a drabouka. It was a small hand drum. I watched her left hand. I could see that the fingers of her left hand were performing some deft and intricate accompaniments to the stringed instrument which was played by an old man. It had no frets. It was called a blind lute. I now knew the name of the drum and what a blind lute was. The musicians wore white shirts. They were like the tablecloths: not especially white. One of the girls, in a severe black dress, black-haired, rose, put out her cigarette, stepped to the floor, the spotlight centered on her, she sang. She wasn’t young. She didn’t look exotic. She looked like somebody’s rather severe aunt. With an ineffectual husband. She was, astonishingly enough, later, the featured belly-dancer. Soraya of Istanbul.

She posed in the amber spotlight. She wore blue veils now. Her hair was unbound. It hung, a cloudy mass, about her shoulders. A jewel gleamed in her navel. A jeweled brassiere lifted her breasts. Her arms were up-raised. Four brass castanets were looped to her fingers. Her insolent face was turned, chin down, toward her left shoulder, her lidded eyes waited. The old man struck the blind lute. The drum beat. Soraya of Istanbul, transfigured aunt, severe sister glittering with imitation jewels, began to dance.

For us. Munching our olives. Emptying the brandy. The paid admission. With the slight vascular concern. With the gold inlay in the third molar. Down for the weekend. In from the Coast. With the evening’s date or the partner’s wife. Faithful or adulterous. In a party of four or standing alone at the bar.

She circles the floor. The floor is covered with a cheap linoleum. The drum intensifies. The wailing mounts. She discards the blue gauze. She stands, legs spread, the weight of her in her buttocks and thighs. She sweats. She looks insolently into the glare of the spotlight. She thrust her thumbs into the jeweled band about her hips, insinuates it lower. Her arms raise. The brass castanets thrud. She leans back. Her hair streams. The belly writhes. The pelvis grinds. Her armpits are a shaven blue. Coins clink and dollar bills flutter into the amber light. She looks down at the seated men. She ignores the women. The pale blonde. The partner’s wife. The men shuffle, smile. But their eyes are hot. Or heat. Their collars are tight. Or tighten. She sweats. She stands again closer to me on the linoleum of the dance floor.

Again she plants herself. She digs in. She grips the floor. The brass castanets thrud softly. Increase their tempo. Her fingers are like the veins in a throat. Again she leans backward and her hair streams.

I encounter her eyes, which show their distended whites.

Her mouth gapes.

A beat. Held. In some steamy interchange. Slowly, she rises. I haven’t looked at Michael. Or the girl. Soraya of Istanbul, in the smoky light, moves from table to table. The eyes of the women have imperceptibly hardened.