Well Met in Cyprus

Abbey)

Chapter 1

Section 1

I met her in Almaty in the season of turning when the birches had begun to squander their golden coinage with a shocking prodigality and the rains of autumn started coming down the Tien Shan Mountains that loomed behind the city and washed away the fallen leaves and made the streets gleam like black steel mirrors. I met her at a time when I had reached the middle years of my life, that grim and sere autumnal phase so crowded with regrets and memories. I had come to this place to teach some ill-conceived courses on American laws and society at a university. But beyond hitting the high notes of Abraham Lincoln and Huckleberry Finn, I doubt that I even managed to carry a tune.

It took me a while to learn the rhythms of the city because I had never been here before and everyone spoke Russian. Since I had no Russian at my command, my circle was limited to those who spoke English at the university and I tended to stay within the orbit of their social activities. Thus it came about that I happened to be at a party given by an instructor who taught in the English department. It was at this gathering that I met Anara.

Aa – naa – raa. Three syllables. Three lyrical sounds that pour out as you open your mouth and the throat resonates. The tongue taps N on the upper palate and then produces the trill of the final R against the alveolar ridge. Her name sounded like a song to my ears. Aa – naa – raa. Pomegranate blossom in the Kazakh language.

At this time I was enduring a type of unwanted celibacy that divorced men of a certain age get to know very intimately. So when a colleague pointed her out and said she was the Dean’s secretary, I meandered over to where she stood drinking orange juice and managed to get introduced.

This is Robert, the teacher from Chicago.

Hello, she said shyly, giving me a small-boned hand, my English not good.

My Russian zero, I said, making a circle with my thumb and forefinger.

I gazed at her with open admiration. She was small and slender and young – too young, I thought, probably half my age. Her glossy raven black hair fell straight down her back and her bangs got tangled in her eyelashes. Every once in a while she would toss her head to shake them out of her eyes so she could see more clearly. She had high cheekbones and oblique oriental eyes that seemed half awake. For a while we just stood there looking at each other. Making small talk in such circumstances can be murder.

You like my country? she said, finally. Very much. Very beautiful. I like America. Hollywood. Fantastic! Yes, yes, certainly. Fantastic! Everybody likes Hollywood and I was only too glad to tell her that I was the direct, lineal descendent of Mickey Mouse and knew all about the latest movies, hottest stars and best directors.

This amused her and she started to laugh. She had a low, warm voice and the way English purred past the filter of her Russian accent was pleasant to the ears. An aura of simple elegance surrounded her.

She wore tight-fitting black pants flared slightly at the ankles and a snug white top. She was pale – pale as can be – pale as magnolia petals or peeled almonds and her pallor contrasted vividly with her dark hair. At first it didn’t look as though we had any kind of future together simply because we had so little in common. But slowly we did manage to bridge the canyons of culture and language.

How long are you here? she asked, using that odd contracted syntax that Russian speakers use when they switch to English.

For a year, I said. That is good, no? She smiled, revealing pearl-perfect teeth. She reminded me of actresses I had seen in old black and white films with her jet black crescent eyebrows, satiny skin and full mouth emphasized by black cherry lipstick. All evening our glances kept clashing. I seemed to have aroused her curiosity. When someone pulled me away to talk to some other people, I noticed her firing coy looks my way. But I did not speak to her again that evening. Nor did she approach me, out of shyness perhaps or because she felt limited by her lack of fluency in English. Then on a cold but sunny day in late November, I met her in the Green Bazaar where I shopped every Saturday for groceries. We were in a milling crowd of babushkas pinching and prodding the produce and harassing the vendors. She remembered me.

Where have you been? I asked, I haven’t seen you in quite a while.

She said she had quit the job at the university and now worked at the Astana Palace Hotel as a receptionist. She looked a little older, more mature, in the bright sunlight and underneath her V-neck sweater I noticed the superb swell of full, round breasts.

We must get together, I said, getting bolder. Yes, she said. I give mobile number. Call me. Then, one Saturday afternoon, she did come to my apartment. It was an awkward, rather tense meeting. She seemed nervous, distant, as if she was wondering, calculating the odds of the game. I offered her some wine. No, she said. Beer? No. vodka? No. She didn’t drink alcohol. Nor did she smoke. So I did the drinking and the smoking for the two of us while we talked about inconsequential matters. But I was desperate for something more than chitchat and tried to make her understand my needs. I explained that I had no desire to repeat the lengthy courtship rituals of my teen years. I understood and appreciated her cautiousness, of course, but an urgent, predatory passion gripped me and I was eager to fast-forward our relationship. We spoke to each other in polite, roundabout terms. We were like boxers in a ring, going round in wary circles, watching, throwing out the odd exploratory jab, feinting, bobbing, ducking. It was an odd verbal match – she struggling to put her thoughts into imperfect English while I countered with arguments that had to strike a delicate balance between frankness and courtesy. Ultimately, I suppose it all came down to the cards we held. She had a strong hand. Youth and beauty. I could not match those cards. But I had others. My strong cards were my status as a foreign visitor – an educated foreign visitor – and my Americanness. This combination endowed me with a powerful, perhaps even aphrodisiac, appeal.

She whispered something about a boyfriend in Moscow whom she hadn’t seen in two years. Had they been close? I asked. Yes, very close. This was good news because it meant that she had enjoyed the pleasures of the bed and probably missed them. She mentioned her mother with whom she lived and who kept watch over her activities. But as the afternoon faded into evening and tangerine colored rays of the setting sun streamed into the room, I could see her defenses crumbling. Slowly, ever so carefully, she lowered her left and then her right. I could almost see the machinery inside her head working. Breaking an old link is difficult. On the other hand, establishing a new one has its own attractions. I represented something alien, someone from another world, another planet almost. I may not have been a dream vision out of a Hollywood fantasy but what I offered was real, tangible, enticing.

A few days later I went to see her at the Astana Palace, a five-star establishment that sat across from a park and had rows of wrought- iron balconies fronting every room. She was not at the reception desk and when I asked about her I was told to wait. When she came, a harried moroseness seemed to have dimmed her glow.

They have given me another job, she said. What job? Housekeeping, she said in dejected tones. Now I understood why her spirits were low. I just stopped by to say Hello, I said.

I can’t talk now, she said. I have to work. I understand. I’ll call you later. As I left, I could feel the hostile dagger gaze of the hotel staff piercing my shoulder blades. Later that evening, I called her. Could she come? How about the weekend? No, she said. She worked on Saturdays and Sundays. But Thursdays were free. I said Thursday evening was fine. We can go to a restaurant. She agreed.

That evening I took her to a place called Baltika where they served Russian food. The small dining room paneled with honey-colored wood exuded a cedary aroma and candle-lit tables covered with crimson tablecloths and glittering china and silverware created a perfect setting. But Anara seemed overwhelmed by a consuming melancholy and neither the ambience nor the food raised her spirits. In the amber gloom of the restaurant she looked more desirable than ever. Her smooth forearms, round and bare, had the sheen of antique ivory and her dark dreaming eyes glittered liquid and hot like black pearls behind her glossy bangs. And that silken head that I so wanted to stroke the way one would stroke the sleek mane of a racehorse, was bent in utter humility.

How is your job? I asked, trying to make conversation. She made a face. Not good, she said. They said I work in reception. But now they make me clean rooms. That’s terrible. I said. I sensed that she needed cheering up but I didn’t know what to say to ease her distress. I had my own needs and urges that demanded attention. I wanted her with a keen intensity the way a starved man wants food. I made up my mind to be frank, plead my case. If I failed to play the game with skill and daring all would be lost. I ordered a vodka martini and downed it quickly to stiffen my nerves.

I want you, Anara. You understand? I need you.

She lowered her gaze, her dark hair tumbling down on either side of her face like a black waterfall, the tips almost touching the tabletop. I took her left hand in mine and squeezed it hard as if to punctuate my words with a physical gesture. Her fingers were long and thin and soft. She didn’t say much. Nor did she eat with any relish.

After dinner, we walked back to my apartment and I curved my right arm around her waist tightly. The night sky was clear and stars glittered like ice crystals in an endless black sky. Our hips bumped together as we walked along a dark road lit by street lamps that threw down yellow cones of light. An occasional car went by. Yielding to a sudden impulse, I stopped in the shadowed lee of a building, pulled her close and kissed her. She responded with eagerness, her tongue seeking mine as if she wanted to communicate something to me directly, tongue to tongue, bypassing words and sound. I figured she had made up her mind. And, sure enough, that night the dance began. At first, I sensed an awkwardness that turned her limbs into hindrances. Her shyness and timidity made her seem hesitant. But gradually she opened herself the way a flower opens, helplessly vulnerable, ready for the aggressive burrowing of a bee. And soon we were caught up in the same rhythm, the heavy drumbeat of blood. Not too long after this encounter she quit her job and was spending most of her time with me. In another week she brought over her toothbrush, pajamas, make-up kit and a few clothes. And then over the next nine months we were a pair, seen together everywhere. A couple. Anara became my guide, my guest, my companion.

All I’ve said so far is clear enough and comprehensible but the question I am trying to answer is: when did Anara and I create that special bond, that invisible link that transformed our relationship into something deep and deeply significant? Did it happen suddenly? Or slowly? What were the signs that convinced us that our affair wasn’t something casual, something transitory? These are difficult questions. As the seasons changed, as fall turned to winter and winter turned to spring, we got closer and closer. No public ceremonies or rituals marked the stages as we moved towards each other. There were no exchanges of symbolic tokens. No rings or bracelets. If there were any signs, they were all barely visible, small gestures, words spoken almost casually, acts of courtesy and tenderness that gradually formed the links of the chain that connected us, that stretched from her to me. There were moments when I literally felt my heart skip a beat or two, keenly aware that something magical, something important had just happened.

Consider, for example, how something so simple as holding hands acquired significance. It sounds silly now to even mention this, except that it symbolized something special. Anara always held my hand when we were out walking. Whether we were going to the supermarket or just to the corner kiosk for cigarettes and beer or walking in the park, she would take my hand and hang on to it like a trusting child. But the gesture also had a possessive aspect. It was as though she wanted everyone to know that I belonged to her. Unused to this, I felt a bit uncomfortable at first. No one had held my hand since I had been a little boy in short pants. In fact, this holding of hands did bring back memories of childhood, of the sense of security that you felt when a grown-up held your hand. This gesture made a deep impression on me. I began to enjoy the sensation and I would reach out and grasp her hand as soon as we were outside the apartment.

As the seasons changed our intimacy acquired a deep maturity. We were comfortable with each other, enjoyed each other and were satisfied with each other. When the snow came down in soft, feathery flakes outside the window, covering the city in a white coverlet, we spent the long winter nights nestled naked and snug against each other.

In early spring, the snow finally melted and we went walking in Panfilov Park. The silver birches had started to put out tiny, pale yellow-green leaves once again. It had rained all through the night but now the storm had rolled away and the firs and pines and oaks were dripping and streaming and steaming as we walked along the paved paths. Whole armies of tiny snails were out creeping along on the sidewalks and you had to be careful to not step on them. I said something to Anara about the snails being hermaphrodites and I explained how that worked.

I wonder what they say to each other, I said. They don’t say anything, she responded. They prefer silence. The way she said that in her overly formal English made me chuckle. Dozens of reddish-brown squirrels with fluffy tails were hopping about on the branches of the big oak trees. They looked like the ones you see in children’s books with their bushy tails, big, shiny eyes and small paws.

They are beautiful, aren’t they, I said.

She laughed. I have walked through this park many times before, but I never realized until this moment how beautiful it was.

And she put her arm through mine and held me close and we walked hip touching hip – almost clinging to each other like two old people. She always clung to me like this, when we rode in the mini- buses and the tram-trolleys. She would hook her arm through mine, not to steady herself, but to protect me and to make sure no one came between us. Perhaps she had been deprived of affection as a child. Conversely, she may have been taught how to be affectionate and this was her way of showing how she felt. Whatever the case, it became clear to me gradually that our personalities were compatible. It also became clear that leaving Almaty would be painful. It would hurt like hell, in fact.

Anara never talked much about her family, or her past. And when I questioned her, she became evasive, unwilling to go into details.

Tell me about your father, I asked her one day as we were sitting down to dinner in my apartment. I lowered the volume on the TV, hoping to draw her out.

He left my mother when I was ten or eleven, she said. Did you like him? Did you miss him? She nodded, her face blank, totally empty of any emotion. Do you see him now?

Not very often. He lives in another city, quite far away. Where? Astana. He has another wife now and children. I stopped my questioning. It seemed indecent to probe further. Nor would she tell me much about her mother.

Does your mom work? I asked her. Yes. Where? In a factory.

What kind of factory? I don’t know.

I did not really believe her. But I sensed that she did not want to reveal too much about the sort of work her mother did. I decided to stop asking questions. I didn’t want to embarrass her.

But then quite by accident, many months later, I discovered that she had a child. Early one morning, not long after she had moved in with me, her mobile phone rang. She was sitting right next to me on the couch and I could easily hear the voice of the person on the line. The speaker sounded like a small girl. I heard her say mama several times. The two spoke in Russian but the frequent repetition of mama made it plain that the voice belonged to her daughter.

When she hung up, I asked, Who was that? Oh my sister, she said and turned her face away. Rather stunned, I did not challenge her or call her a liar to her

face. I figured she did not want me to know that she had a daughter, at least not just yet. Several days later, her mobile rang again and she spoke for a while. Then she said, My sister not feeling well. I go home for a few hours.

Fine, I said. That’s okay. You should go and see her.

She left quickly and did not come back for two days but she did call me.

My sister not feeling good. But getting better. I will come back tomorrow.

Fine, I said. We’ll go to Faiza, that Uzbeg restaurant that you like.

I knew for certain that she had gone home to see her child. She had her own reasons, no doubt, to hide this side of her life and I, for my part, did not feel that I had any right to pry into her past life or her private concerns. I hadn’t told her much about my past, partly because she had been gracious enough not to probe and partly because I didn’t think it had any bearing on how we related to each other. When she came back, I took her to Faiza. I knew she liked the place.

They served simple, inexpensive food and the restaurant had a friendly, informal atmosphere. People brought their own bottles of beer and vodka because the restaurant did not have a liquor license. I carried in a tall bottle of Kazakh beer.

How is your sister? I asked her. Is she feeling better? What was it? Flu or a cold?

She stared down at her plate intently and then she looked at me with her luminous, candid eyes from across the table. I didn’t go to see my sister. I went to see my daughter.

Your daughter? I feigned surprise. I didn’t know you had a daughter. Why didn’t you tell me?

She stared down at the table, unable to come up with a response. But you said you weren’t married, I said. I’m not, she said, shaking her head from side to side. Where is the father, then?

He went to Vladivostok, to the diamond mines. He may still be there. I’m not sure.

Does he know he has a child? Anara, shook her head. I haven’t heard from him in five years. I reached across the table and took her hand in mine. I had thought

a great deal about how I would respond when she finally volunteered this information. I had rehearsed every word I would say many times over.

Look, this won’t have any effect on our relationship, I said. I’m delighted to hear that you have a child. Do you realize how lucky you are? I bet she is as sweet and lovely as you are. But someday she will ask you about her father. Who was he? Where is he? Or he might show up. And if he does, you will have to tell him that the child is his. It is only fair. As far as we are concerned, I would love to meet her. Will you bring her?

Anara looked away, deep in thought. She did not know what to say. My response was a total surprise.

I didn’t think you would like this news, she said.

Come, sweetie. I’m not a teenager. That’s the one advantage of having lived for nearly half a century. You learn a thing or two. Whether you want to or not. Life isn’t a fairy tale or a Hollywood movie. It’s much more complicated. In my opinion motherhood has been good for you. It’s made you more feminine, more tender, more caring. I felt this as soon as I met you. That is why I liked you so much. It’s this generous gentleness that drew me to you.

When we got back from the restaurant, we sat up late into the night talking. I poured a jigger of vodka for myself and decided to open the musty volumes of my dreary past: the two marriages, the two divorces, the two kids (a boy and a girl whom I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade) the overly-possessive mother, the domiciles established and disestablished, the suburbs that got obscured in the car exhaust as I pulled away. Anara may have found this sorry saga interesting, but to anyone familiar with the pattern of middle-class American lives as they unraveled in the seventies and eighties, it would be trite, predictable. This is why I have no desire to present the dull details in this narrative. Let us assume that all concerned learned a few lessons. On the other hand, I may have learned nothing. The illusions one clings to when young are replaced by illusions of middle age. Perhaps it is these illusions that sustain us. Many of us would gladly accept a handful of sleeping pills, the bullet in the brain-pan, the noose around the neck or the leap off a tall building were it not for the illusions that keep us going.

My son – from my first marriage – now in college, rarely communicated with me. His mother, who raised him, drilled into him the fixed belief that I epitomized selfishness. The girl, (from my second wife) still in High School, appeared to be making the same mistakes that many girls of her generation were making. Fifteen, she had started dating, started hanging out at the Convenience Mart. Very soon I expected to hear that a pregnancy had made her leave school, that she had left home, that she had gotten a job at a Beauty Parlor. I will not have been able to influence her destiny or alter it in any way. Even if I were living in the same house with her and her mother, I don’t think I could prevent her from going down the path that her social environment will push her along.

Anara wanted to know why my marriages had ended. Divorces are common in the United States, aren’t they? she said. I had to agree. Why? Why is that? Well, I’m no social scientist, but there is something about our society, some sort of force that destroys marriages. Of course, the husbands blame the wives and the wives blame the husbands. The problem is much deeper. I think it is rooted in our system – the way we live, the way we work. It is hard to explain.

That’s okay, she said. Don’t worry. I don’t understand why my relationship failed either.

People used to swear ‘Till Death do us part,’ I said. People still say the words, but no one really believes that. Not anymore. We seem to lack tolerance. I got married the first time because that’s what everyone did. There was all this sexual pressure and this confused us, blinded us. Debbie and I never realized that we were not right for each other. And the second marriage ended because Rachel came to the conclusion that I would never be the man she wanted me to be, the rich and famous lawyer of her dreams. ‘You’re a failure,’ she told me bluntly. ‘I don’t want to be married to a failure.’

Anara nodded sympathetically. She never probed, or second- guessed or contradicted what I told her. I don’t know where she had acquired such large-minded tolerance, this vast, patient acceptance of the way-things-are. Nor did she pronounce judgment, or assign blame or guilt. And I refrained from launching into a full-scale analysis of my marriages. What good would it have done? At best I would have managed to establish the time and cause of death. Nothing more.

We talked quietly, lying side by side in the dark. A warm spring breeze heavy with the scent of lilacs stirred the nylon curtains, catching and releasing them in languid embraces. Every once in a while, I got up and poured a little vodka into a glass and sat and sipped and smoked a cigarette. She listened with her eyes closed and may even have fallen into short phases of sleep. But occasionally, I heard a murmured Yes, honey. I understand. Finally, I too became sleepy and lay down beside her, kissed her soft breasts one last time and closed my eyes.

Now summer was upon us and the date of my departure loomed – a sentence that could not be lifted, a judgment that could not be repealed. And the closer that day came the more we clung to each other. And as if to cancel the pain of impending separation we decided to distract ourselves by playing the role of tourists. We started going on little excursions to places I’d never seen. A trip to Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan and to a resort near Lake Issyk Kul. But beneath the gaiety of sightseeing lurked the keen awareness that our days together were few, and getting fewer. The last hot, dusty month arrived, then the last few days and then the last hours. I packed my suitcase grimly, trying my best to remain calm and unemotional. I remember clearly the agony of the long, wordless ride to the airport late at night. The headlamps of the taxi pushed back the blackness that surged around us. The lights of lonely farmhouses glimmered in the distance. We didn’t dare look at each other. Words had become deadly scorpions, ready to sting the tongue. She didn’t even reach out to hold my hand.

In the vast departure hall of Almaty airport amidst garbled echoes, I promised her we would be together again. I have a good chance of getting a teaching job in north Cyprus, the Turkish enclave, I told her. I had been corresponding and negotiating with a university. The Head of the Law department had looked at my resume and written encouraging emails, assuring me they needed me. I felt confident they would be hiring me but there was still the matter of the contract. Until I had the contract in hand, signed and sealed, I hovered in a region of uncertainty. I did my best to reassure Anara. The moment they hired me, I would fly to Cyprus and send for her. She wept silently, the bright tears clogging her long eyelashes. I am sure she had doubts. I certainly had mine. The future was obscure, a question mark, and there was no certainty that we would ever meet again. I left her standing by the candy vending machine, a frail figure, her head bowed in grief, the very image of despair. That was certainly the most horrible day of my life.

#

Section 2

But then, amazingly, my luck held. It was as if we were fated to be together again. The stars and planets aligned themselves in the most propitious orbits, trans-oceanic winds held their breaths, tides took turns fashioning favorable currents. Dame Fortune nodded and I got the job. Call it Kismet, call it Destiny, call it what you will, for once in my life I felt as though Lady Luck was smiling on me, holding the door open, leading me by the hand, protecting and guiding me.

Then on a cool September morning, I was walking down Ecevit street towards the old harbor of Kyrenia in north Cyprus. The sky was a deep delphinium blue misted over lightly like frosted glass but the keen, direct sunlight held promise of more heat later in the afternoon. I could smell pungent aromas riding the air currents, possibly those of eucalyptus and crushed fennel. I felt giddy, light, buoyant and floated along filled to bursting with the helium of happiness. I had accomplished what I had promised. I had made it to north Cyprus not as a tourist or a visitor but for a long-term stay with a teaching contract in hand. At the end of each month a paycheck would slide silently into my bank account. I grinned inwardly like a smug Cheshire cat and felt like celebrating but there was much to do, many tasks required my attention. I had to contact Anara and tell her that I had reached Cyprus and make arrangements for her plane ticket. I had to contact my chief at the university and check in with the personnel office to complete necessary paperwork. I had to get some sort of transportation. I had to find a suitable house or apartment to rent, a process I dreaded since one can rarely afford the type of place one wants. But luckily I met Cardiff and his help and advice eased my difficulties.

Cardiff was a transplanted Englishman and had been in north Cyprus for several years, teaching Law in the same department I was in. With thinning, light brown hair, big, nicotine-blotched Stonehenge teeth, neckties imprinted with soup-maps and an ever- wrinkled white linen suit, he could be recognized from afar as he strode across the campus. Cardiff loved to drink almost as much as I did. He used alcohol the way other people use vitamins – to improve the quality of life. This may have been one reason why we started spending a lot of time together. When he had finished teaching his classes, he could be found in some local bar. He never cooked. Nor did I ever see him eat. And he smoked nonstop. I think he even smoked as he slept. It was Cardiff who introduced me to Pegasus – the bar/restaurant where Brit expats spent long hours drinking. Cardiff spent most of his leisure hours here. It was located on the coast road very near the campus and had a vine-shaded terrace outside where one could sit on hot days under dappled green shadows and drink beer. The men wore sandals, shorts and open collar, half-sleeve shirts. They looked like mummies: dry brown skin stretched over bones. Inside, around a D shaped bar, half a dozen or so could be found at all hours, clinging to life and leisure. They sat there and wrangled over old soccer matches, cricket scores and the Royal brats, in accents that varied from Ox-Bridge to cockney, talking about topics I had no interest in. Later, when the cold weather set in, everyone gathered around a huge, circular fire-pit filled with fragrant olive wood embers glowing red-hot.

On many an afternoon, I’d see Cardiff’s lean, concave shape perched on a barstool as he peered through thick lenses at a TV screen tuned to a British channel. I don’t think he could see anything very clearly. I don’t think he cared. He had given up caring for things that happened in England. Once or twice he mentioned a wife he’d left back there – divorced, of course. And a son, who visited him once in a while. The family happened to Cardiff the way accidents happen to people. He made a quick recovery and a fast getaway. He left behind the Barrister- at-Law life of London town. The striped black suits and sober neckties. He left the daily commute on the Tube to legal routines and judicial boredom. He left the wife, the decade old marriage and the small son. And came to Cyprus to start a different sort of life. He bought an apartment and got a teaching job to pay for the booze and cigarettes. Beyond that, he needed little else. All he wanted was freedom – a sunny beach, some cold beer and an occasional sexual encounter. Most expats – male and female – came to Cyprus in pursuit of the same dream.

I liked Cardiff. He drank steadily but carefully and he said less and less as he got more and more drunk. The legal training kicked in, I suppose. Because anything you say can be held against you in a Court- of-Law. When sober, Cardiff spoke fluently in a mildly impeccable, uppity Brit-twit accent. He had a deep, burly voice that seemed to have been strained through lashings of liquor and smoke. When he spoke he sounded very calm and convincing. It didn’t matter what he said. You believed him instantly. He could say: The moon is made of mashed potatoes, and you would believe him. As a snake-oil salesman, he would have made millions. With a little training, he could have sung opera. But on the Island-of-love, he used his dark-brown, treacle tones to hypnotize nervous young English dames. That resonant rumbling voice of his and a few