In the Belly of the Sphinx by Grant Buday

Author:Grant Buday
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchwood Editions
Published: 2023-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Florence and Gloster Sat in the Tipperary Tea Room which was decorated in Himalayan motif. Photographs included mountain vistas and of course the famed tea estates, with close views of tea plants and pickers, handsome, healthy, smiling, dark-skinned alpine women with baskets full of leaves on their backs, held by a tumpline across their brows. Even the china followed this theme.

Gloster was describing the ride up in the toy steam train, so-called due to the narrow gauge of the rails, the change in the air as one rose higher into the hills, and the enormous rhododendrons that reached the size of fully grown maples.

He wore a beige wool suit with brass buttons, his fringe of dark brown hair and beard with hints of grey newly trimmed. It was so impressively thick, his beard, that the term pelt came to Florence’s mind. He wore a red carnation in his lapel, which matched his tie. His eyes were grey and his ears small and his nails neat. He looked comfortable if not quite handsome, though where these two qualities met or diverged, she was not quite certain. His temples were damp with perspiration, for despite the chill overcast November afternoon it was hot indoors. She imagined him in Africa and India under blazing suns and monsoon rains. He was in a hearty mood, and appeared to be enjoying his tea immensely, having had three cups with plenty of milk and lots of sugar. After all, they were celebrating.

Earlier, they had walked on Beacon Hill beneath the Garry oaks. He had proceeded with his hands clasped behind his back, though when he judged that the path grew treacherous he offered his support by touching Florence’s elbow. He knew the Latin names of a great many plants. She found this endearing and for some reason reassuring. At one point they passed a wild rose bush, its flowers long gone but the rosehips bright and fat and he described the herb markets of Isfahan where, depending upon their complaint, Persians sit before select shrubs breathing in their curative properties.

“And is it effective?”

“Well, yes, I think it helps.” He smiled and admitted that at any rate it was a pleasant way to pass a half hour.

“Isfahan,” said Florence. “Such an elegant name.”

“It is an elegant city. I should like to take you there.”

Florence focused on her breathing in order to calm herself. Long breath in, long breath out. She thought of the ambiguity of the word take. She said, “The sun must be very bright in Persia. Radiant.”

“Marry me.”

There were others on the paths on the hill but none within earshot. Tears started to Florence’s eyes and one escaped to explore its solitary path down her lower lid and onto her cheek, then travelled in toward her nose, then alongside her nostril. She looked off and covertly gave it a wipe with the tip of her forefinger.

“I’ve upset you.”

“Not at all.”

They walked in silence. The path was not muddy but hard in the stiff air.

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