Free 30 Pieces of a Novel by Stephen Dixon Page A

I’ll do what you say.”
    She shares the cabin with a Danish woman who’s out gambling with the ship’s officers, she says, and won’t return till late if at all; “I think she’s a hired slut.” They sit on her bunk, she says, “Turn around and shut your eyes closed and never open them till I command,” and he does, thinking she’s going to strip for him, since she gets up and he hears clothes rustling; then, after saying several times, “Keep your eyes closed, they must keep closed or I won’t open what I have for you,” she sits beside him and says, “All right, now!” and she’s still dressed and holding a box in her lap. It looks old, is made of carved painted wood, and is shaped like a steamer trunk the size of a shoebox. She leans over and opens it with a miniature trunk key on a chain around her neck, and it’s filled with what seems like a lot of cheap costume jewelry. She searches inside and pulls out a yellow and blue translucent necklace that looks like glass and sparkles when she holds it up. “This one King Farouk presented to me by hand after I danced for him. And I want you to know it was only for my dancing, not for my making love. Bellydancers in the Middle East are different from those kind of girls, like the Danish slut in the bed I sleep beside. You know who Farouk is?” and he says, “A great man, of course, maybe three hundred blubbery pounds of greatness,” and she says, “You’re too sarcastic and, I think, confusing him with the Aga Khan. Farouk was cultured and loved the art of belly dancing—and it is an art; only an imbecile could say it isn’t without knowing more—and he didn’t sit on scales and weigh himself in jewels. That one I never danced for, since it perhaps wasn’t anything he was interested in.” “Farouk was a fat hideous monster who was also a self-serving pawn of the English till his people dumped him, though for something better I’m not sure,” and she says, “This shows you know nothing, a hundred percent proof. He had rare paintings, loved music, and would pay my plane fare back and forth from Austria and reside me in the top Cairo hotel, just to have me dance one evening for him and his court. He said I was the best—to me, to my face, the very best—and ancient men in his court agreed with him, ones who had seen the art of belly dancing before I was born,” and he says, “Sure they agreed; how could they not?” and she says, “What does that mean? More sarcasm?” and he says, “No, I’m saying they were very old, so they knew.” “I also danced for the great sheikhs and leaders of Arabia and many of the smaller sheikhdoms there. That was when I lived in Alexandria and Greece and learned to perfect my dancing and received most of this”—dropping the necklace into the box and sifting through the jewelry again. “It’s all very beautiful and no doubt valuable; you should keep it with the purser,” and she says, “They all steal. Here, only you and I know I have it, so if it’s stolen we know who did it.” “Me? Never. But show me a step or two, if it’s possible in this cramped space. I want to learn more about it,” and she says, “Maybe I will, but only if you prove you’re not just an ignorant immature boy.” “How do I prove it?” and she says, “For one, by not asking me how.” “That seems like something you picked up in your dancing: clever sayings that put something off,” and she says, “You’re clever yourself at times and bordering on handsome, a combination I could easily adore,” and she kisses her middle finger and puts it to his lips. “This for now,” she says, and he moves his face nearer to hers; if she kissed him hard once she’ll do it again, he thinks, and it seems he’ll have