There is of course no such thing as a karwansarai anywhere in the Dasht-e-Kavir, but on two occasions in the month or more that it took us to cross it, we had the blessedly good fortune to come upon an oasis. This is a spring which wells up from underground, only God or Allah knows why. Its waters are fresh, not salt, and around it has sprung up an area of vegetation, several zonte in extent. I never could discover anything edible growing there, but the very greenness of the scrub trees and stunted bushes and sparse grass was a refreshment as welcome as fresh fruit or vegetables. On both those occasions, we were pleased to halt our journey for a while before moving on. During that time, we dipped up water from the spring to bathe our dust-coated and salt-encrusted and dung-smoke-smelling bodies, and water to fill the camels’ bowel tanks, and water to be boiled—and sieved through the charcoal my father always carried—to flush out and refill our water bags. Those labors done, we just lay about to enjoy the novel sensation of resting in a green shade.

I noticed, at the first oasis halt, how we all soon separated and drew apart and found separate shade trees under which to loll, and later put up our individual tents at a considerable distance from each other. None of us had recently quarreled, and we had no definable reason for shunning each other’s company—except that for so long we had been in each other’s company, and now it was pleasant to have some privacy for a change. I might have kept Aziz protectively close to me, but the slave Nostril was at that time all too plainly preoccupied with his shameful private affliction, and I deemed him incapable of molesting the little boy. So I let Aziz also go off to be by himself.

Or so I thought. But, after we had been luxuriating in the oasis for a day and a night, I took a notion on the succeeding night to go for a stroll through the surrounding grove. I pretended that I was in a less constricted garden, perhaps the environs of the Baghdad palace, where I had walked so often with the Princess Moth. It was easy enough to pretend, for that night had brought the dry fog, making it impossible for me to see anything but the trees closest about me. Even sounds were muffled by that fog, so I must have been almost stepping on Aziz when I heard him laugh his musical laugh and say:

“Harm? But that is no harm to me. Or to anybody. Let us do it.”

A deeper voice responded, but in a murmur, so its words were indistinguishable. I was about to shout in outrage, and seize Nostril and drag him off the boy, but Aziz spoke again, and in a voice of marveling:

“I never saw one like that before. With a sheath of skin that encloses it …”

I stood where I was, unmoving, stupefied.

“ … Or can be pulled back at will.” Aziz still sounded awed. “Why, it is like having your own private mihrab always tenderly enveloping your zab.”

Nostril possessed no such apparatus. He was a Muslim, and circumcised, like the boy. I began to back away from that place, being careful to make no noise.

“It must make for a blissful sensation, even without a partner,” the little bird voice went on, “when you move the sheath back and forth like that. May I do it for you …?”

The fog closed around his voice, as I got farther away. But I was waiting, awake and watchful outside his tent, when he eventually returned to it. He came like a stray moonbeam out of the darkness, radiant, for he was entirely naked and carrying his clothes.

“Look at you!” I said sternly, but keeping my voice low. “I swore a binding oath that no harm would come to you—”

“None has, Mirza Marco,” he said, blinking, all innocence.

“And you swore on the Prophet’s beard not to tempt any of us—”

“I have not, Mirza Marco,” he said, looking hurt. “I was fully dressed when he and I chanced to meet in the grove yonder.”

“And to be totally chaste!”

“And I have been, Mirza Marco, all the way from Kashan. No one has penetrated me, and I no one. All we did was kiss.” He came close and sweetly kissed me. “And this …” He demonstrated, and after a moment insinuated his little self into my hand, and breathed, “To each other we did it …”

“Enough!” I said hoarsely. I let go of him and put his hand away from me. “Go to sleep now, Aziz. We ride again at sunrise.”

I myself did not get to sleep that night until I acknowledged the excitement Aziz had raised in me, and manually relieved myself of it. But my sleeplessness was also partly on account of my new view of my uncle, and the disillusionment it caused me, and the tinge of disdain that now colored my feelings toward him. It was no trivial disappointment, to have learned that Uncle Mafìo’s bold, bluff, black-bearded and hearty aspect was a mask he wore, and that behind it he was only a simpering and sly and despicable Sodomite.

I knew I was no saint, and I tried hard not to be a hypocrite. I could frankly admit that I, too, was susceptible to the charms of the boy Aziz. But that was because he was here, near at hand, and no woman was, and he was as comely and seductive as a woman, and he was freely amenable to being used as a substitute for a woman. But Uncle Mafio, I now realized, must see him differently; he must see Aziz as an available and beautiful and beddable boy.

I recalled previous events involving other males: hammam rubbers, for instance—and previous words spoken: that furtive exchange between my father and the Widow Esther, for instance. The inference was unavoidable: Uncle Mafio was a lover of persons of his own sex. A man of that bent was no curiosity here in the Muslim lands, where almost every male seemed similarly warped. But I knew very well that, in our more civilized West, his kind was laughed at and sneered at and cursed at. I suspected that the same situation must obtain in the totally uncivilized nations farther east. At any rate, it appeared that somewhere my uncle’s depravity had caused problems in the past. I gathered that my father had already had reason to try breaking his brother of his perversion, and Mafio himself had apparently made some attempt to suppress the urges. If that was so, I reflected, then he was not entirely detestable, and perhaps there was hope for him.

Very well. I would lend my own best efforts to help his reformation and redemption. When we rode on, I would not ride reproachfully far apart from him, or avoid his eye, or refuse to speak to him. I would say nothing of what had occurred. I would give no hint that I was privy to his shameful secret. What I would do was resume keeping a close watch on Aziz, and not again let the child run at liberty under cover of night. Especially would I be paternally careful and strict if we should come upon another green oasis. In such a place, there was a tendency to let discipline lapse, and self-restraints, just as we let our weary muscles relax. If we again found ourselves in that ambience of comparative ease and abandon, my uncle might find the temptation irresistible: to enjoy more of Aziz than he had already sampled.

The next day, as we proceeded once more northeastward into the ungreen wasteland, I was as affable as usual to all in the party, Uncle Mafio included, and I think no one could have discerned my inner feelings. Nevertheless, I was glad that the burden of conversation that day was taken by the slave Nostril. Possibly to get his own mind off his own problems, he began expatiating on one subject, then veered onto others, and I, at least, was content to ride silent and listen and let him ramble.

What started him off was that, during our loading of the camels, he had found a small snake coiled asleep in one of our pack hampers. He had let out a screech at first, but then he said, “We must have brought the poor thing all the way from Kashan,” and, instead of killing the thing, he had tipped it out onto the sand and let it slither away. As we rode, he told us why.