But her eyes on me were like coals of fire!

I could not catch my breath.

She reached out with a fast gesture and snatched at the cura irizva.

She clutched it to her.

She struck a chord.

Her eyes were hot—riveted upon me!

In a throbbing, passion-congested voice she sang:

The nightingale lay trembling

In his brutal hand,

Its throat that pulsed

With fear, Was strangled in a moment of coarse passion,

Dear—

Remember me when I am gone, If you would kill for love!

It was too much! I screamed at her, "No! No! Oh, Gods, I would never kill you!"

That did it.

Too loud!

She cowered back. She raced to the door, crying out in fear, opened it and was gone!

I raced after her.

I was too late.

Her room door was steel-barred from within.

I sat in the patio, aching with passion unfulfilled, drowned in remorse.

I sat there until dawn, watching that door.

She did not come out.

Throughout the following day, I was in a daze. I could only think of Utanc. But I couldn't think very clearly. Numerous ideas of how I might attract her attention and make amends for frightening her were all discarded.

The fence of her private garden had a small hole in it and in the afternoon I crouched there, longing for a glimpse of her.

In late afternoon, when it had become cool, she came out of her garden door. She was wearing an embroidered cloak. She was unveiled, unaware of scrutiny. Her face was so beautiful that I could not breathe. Her walk, so easy, so poised, was poetry itself.

She went back in her room.

That night I sat in vain in the salon. No boy came to inform me. She did not come.

I sat there all night, alert to the tiniest sounds.

In exhaustion, I fell into a sleep knifed with nightmares that she had only been a dream.

Around noon of the next day I woke. I took hardly any breakfast. I paced in the yard. I went in and tried to interest myself in something else. It was impossible.

About three, I went outside again.

Voices!

They were coming from her garden!

I quickly scrambled to the small hole in her fence and peered through.

There she sat!

She was unveiled. She was gorgeous. She was dressed in another cloak but it was fallen carelessly open. It revealed a brassiere and tight, short pants. Her legs and stomach were bare.

So magnetized were my eyes to her that at first I did not even notice the two small boys. They were sitting at her feet in the grass. They were wearing little embroidered jackets and pants. They were scrubbed and clean. Each was holding a little silver cup on his knee.

She said something I did not get and they both laughed. Smiling, she leaned back indolently, exposing more stomach and the inside of her thigh. She was reaching. It was toward a silver teapot and another silver cup on a silver tray.

With grace, she picked up the cup in one delicate hand and the teapot in another. She poured from the pot to the cup. Then she leaned over and poured into the cup each had on his knee.

A little tea party! How charming!

She raised her cup, the two small boys raised theirs. "Serefe!" she said, meaning "Here's to you" in Turkish. They all drank.

The tea must have been awfully hot and strong. The two small boys drank theirs and gasped and coughed. But they smiled and watched as she sipped hers.

"Now," said Utanc, in her low, husky voice, "we will get on with the next story."

The two small boys wriggled with delight and hitched themselves closer, fixing their eyes on her adoringly. How utterly charming she was—telling them fairy stories.

Utanc spread her arms along the top of the garden seat. "The name of this story is 'Goldilocks and the Three Commissars.'" She settled herself comfortably. "Once upon a time there was this beautiful little girl named Goldilocks. That means she had gold-colored hair. And she was ramming around in the woods getting into things. Nosy. So she came to this cottage and picked the lock and trespassed with illegal entry.

"Now this Goldilocks had a horrible appetite because she came from capitalistic parents and, as usual, she thought she was starved. And there on the table sat three bowls of porridge. So she decided it was a worker's cottage and she better exploit it.

"She sat herself down in the biggest chair and had at that porridge. But it was too hot. So she went to the next-sized chair and tried to wolf that porridge. But it was too cold. So she sat down in the smallest chair and, wow, that porridge was great. So her capitalist tendencies got the better of her and she ATE IT ALL UP. Left absolutely nothing.

"Now, actually, this cottage belonged to three commissars and they had been out to a party meeting to help the workers and it was an awful joke on this Goldilocks pig that they weren't workers at all but real rough, tough, friends-of-the-people, no-nonsense commissars. A real bad break for this kid Goldilocks, but the little pig should have known better. So she split.

"So the biggest commissar put his whip down on the table and suddenly looked at his porridge and he said, 'Who the hell has been at this porridge?' And the medium-sized commissar put his brass knuckles down on the table and said, 'Hey, what (bleepard) has been at my porridge?' And the smallest commissar had just hung up his handgun when he saw his own plate and it was EMPTY!"

The two small boys strained forward to get every word. Utanc leaned toward them. She continued, "So they spotted footprints in the snow and they got out their dogs and they trailed Goldilocks! They trailed her across mountains and ice packs on rivers and through forests. Wow! What a chase! And they finally got Goldilocks up a tree."

Utanc sat back. She took another sip from the silver cup. She didn't seem to be going to go on. The two small boys strained forward. "Yes?" "Yes?"

Utanc smiled dreamily. Then she said, "So they caught her and (bleeped) her and everybody had a lot of fun."

The two small boys began to laugh. They laughed and laughed and so did Utanc. The little boys got to laughing so hard they were rolling around on the grass, holding their stomachs.

Finally it calmed down. Utanc smiled at them prettily. She got the silver pot again. "Have some more tea," she said.

It was such a charming scene! Of course, Utanc had been subjected to the Russian propaganda machine. And naturally she would not be timid talking to little boys. But it was so sweet of her to be taking her time to educate these two little Turkish brats. It showed a kind, indulgent heart.

It was as she reached out with the pot that I caught sight of her naked armpit. I had not realized anything could affect me so much. I suddenly couldn't breathe.

And then that excrement named Karagoz came around the end of the inner garden wall and coughed. I got up and pretended I had lost something and walked off.

The husky, low sound of her voice haunted my ears. For the rest of that afternoon I couldn't think of anything else.

Imagine the thrill when, at eight o'clock that night, one of the small boys came to me.

"Utanc says to take a bath and get on your turban and go sit in the salon."

And believe me, I was into the turban and caftan like a shot and into that lounge zip. I sat on the cushions and waited.

The yellow-orange flame light painted the room. She slipped quietly through the door. Like a shadow she flowed to her pillows. She sat cross-legged in the center of the room. She put down a large, silver, mirror-shiny tray, her cura irizva and tambourine. She wore baggy pantaloons of gray, a silver-embroidered short jacket that hid her breasts but exposed her stomach and arms. She had a silver band around her hair. She was veiled.