"Who knows? The horse bazaar is full of men who would kill for ten rupees." She pointed toward the wall. "Do you see that piece of cloth? There on the old spike. I think it's a piece of his dhoti. Would you get it for me?"
After Hawksworth had retrieved the shred of cotton loincloth, brown from a hundred washings in the river, she had taken it from him without a word.
"What will you do with it?"
"Don't." She touched a finger to his lips. "These are things it's best not to ask." Then she tucked the brown scrap into the silken sash at her waist and moved toward the door. "And it would be better if you forgot about today."
Hawksworth watched her for a second, then seized her arm and turned her facing him. "I may not know what's going on. But, by Jesus, I'll know before you leave. And you can start by telling me why you come here."
She stared back at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. There was something in them he had never seen before, almost admiration. Then she caught herself and drew back, dropping into a chair. "Very well. Perhaps you do deserve to know." She slipped the translucent scarf from her hair and tossed it across the table. "Why don't you open the wine you brought? I'll not tell you everything, because you shouldn't want me to, but I'll tell you what's important for you."
Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, his hand still trembling.
"Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip.
"I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufi rascal."
"Is that what he said? Good. That only confirms once again what I think of His Excellency." She laughed with contempt. "Samad is a great poet. He's perhaps the last great Persian writer, in the tradition of Omar Khayyam. He has favored me by allowing me to be one of his disciples."