—14—
New sights, new sounds, new experiences. Whenever Garth scraped up a few extra credits, he tried an unusual restaurant with brand new flavors and spices. Inspiration.
He’d sold one of his paintings today, a watercolor rendering of clouds drifting over the building-tops. He had struck up a conversation with a middle-aged woman—actually an old matron who’d swapped bodies with her fortyish daughter for the day—and the lonely woman had talked with Garth for an hour, chatting about odds and ends in her life while he continued to sketch. Afterward, she’d bought a painting and taken it home with her groceries.
Garth decided to spend his unexpected windfall on a lavish dinner in a tantalizing and exotic Moroccan restaurant. Eduard was still in the hospital, recovering from his voluntary surgery-swap, but Garth wished he could afford to bring Teresa with him, at least. Instead, he had to enjoy the experience alone.
When he passed through the keyhole archway, the smells of mysterious spices wafted toward him, saffron, cumin, preserved lemons, cinnamon and honey. With an artist’s eye, he studied the tile mosaic work embedded like a stone rug in the entryway.
A leathery-faced man with short dark hair tucked under a crimson fez greeted him. He wore a billowy brown-and-cream striped jalaba, the pointed hood dangling between his shoulders. The man bowed and ushered him inside.
Strange, unmelodic music played from automatic synthesizers. The dining room was dim and voluminous, with cloth draped tentlike from the ceiling. Stuffed leather hassocks snuggled against tables barely high enough for Garth to fit his knees under them. A dozen other customers sat engrossed in their meals.
The waiter handed him a menu covered with Arabic scribbles and high prices. Garth couldn’t understand a word of it, until he found a touch-spot on the corner, and the letters toggled from Arabic to French, English, German, Japanese, then around again. The waiter returned with a basin and an urn of warm water, which he sprinkled over Garth’s hands to cleanse them. Garth wiped his fingers on a plush towel, which he draped over his lap.
On his small sketchpad, he began to record labyrinthine calligraphy from the walls, stylized verses from the Koran, intricate geometries, marvelous mazes and curlicues. Garth wanted to incorporate them into his work.
The waiter offered Garth freshly baked flat bread, which he dipped into a small bowl of spicy lentil soup. At first he looked around for utensils, but the waiter explained that he must eat with his hands (most definitely not the way Soft Stone had taught him manners!).
Garth chose a sampler of chicken with onions and lemon, lamb with honey and almonds, and a piquant Moroccan stew. The lamb and chicken were delicious, seasoned unlike anything he had tasted before. When he used the bread to scoop out a mouthful of the Moroccan stew, the spices nearly set his mouth on fire. He gasped, his eyes watering as he gulped his water then sucked on a lemon wedge.
Seeing his reaction, the waiter smiled at him. “But does it taste good, sir?”
Once the storm in his mouth died down, Garth paid attention to the flavors. “Yes. I am intensely surprised and satisfied with everything.”
When he finished his meal, the music from the wall speakers grew louder. Licking lemon and honey from his fingers, Garth leaned against the cushion to observe.
With a surge of sound, a beautiful woman glided through the dangling beads as if she were emerging from a waterfall. She was clad in bangles and artificial silks, her eyes heavy with makeup, her fingers clashing tiny cymbals. She then began to dance with the most lissome, flowing movement he had ever witnessed.
The dancer twirled, her hips oscillating; her mane of dark hair swung wildly, caught up in scarves. She began to remove the scarves one by one, holding them in her hands like peacock feathers. Her eyes sparkled, her scarlet lips parting as she gasped quick energetic breaths.
The belly dancer eased closer to the tables, stretching out her hands, beckoning for volunteers. The other patrons continued their own conversations. Garth’s heart jolted. Although his initial reaction was to shy away, he had come here to experience. The dancer spun like an exotic ballerina, tapping her heel to her opposite shin, catching the enthusiasm in Garth’s eye. She reached out to take his fingers and drew him to his feet. The other customers looked relieved that she had chosen a different victim.
Garth glided onto the floor, fascinated. Her skin was warm to the touch as she put her hands on his hips and demonstrated how to move. He watched her muscles, noted the sweat on her forehead and neck. She lived within the dance, her mind and body focused on whirling, following the music, swept along. He tried to dance the way she did, but his spine just wouldn’t bend like that, and his hips didn’t have the flexibility.
“Let me hopscotch with you,” Garth said, leaning closer. “I want to feel it as you do. I want to dance like you.”
She looked at him skeptically, as if doubting his sincerity. But he needed to know what she was like, needed to experience it. In his mind he estimated the cost of his meal, subtracted it from the amount he’d received from selling his painting, then offered her every penny of the remainder. “For fifteen minutes, that’s all.”
She smiled at him, still surprised. “All right, mister.” She arched her eyebrows. “But just because you take my body doesn’t mean you’ll know how to dance.”
She looked at his eyes, reached up to ruffle his blond hair. He touched hers, twining his fingers into the raven locks where only a single green scarf remained. Their eyes met, separated by inches. His thoughts flowed outward,. drifted, detached … and suddenly he was behind her eyes, inside her mind.
And her body felt wonderful!
His arms were like violin strings, his legs and hips simmered with energy, skin moist with sweat, hot with strength and balance. He swayed … but he looked down to see the abdomen moving awkwardly, the waist not bowing to the rhythm of the music the way his imagination guided it.
Standing in his own muscular physique, the dancer laughed at Garth. “A lot of it’s in your mind, mister. Your mind has to learn to direct your body. You can’t just swap with me and become an expert belly dancer.” Her eyes flashed. “But you have the potential now. The body remembers. It knows how to respond, if you know how to tell it what to do.”
The other customers watched Garth’s blond body dressed in casual clothes now dancing with a slender grace. Most of them quickly figured out what must have occurred, and they looked at the belly dancer, amused at Garth’s attempts to make the same moves in an unaccustomed body.
“Relax, mister.” She placed her male hands on Garth’s female hips and showed him how to dance. “Forget your inhibitions.” This time the body moved more freely. He spun around but only grew dizzy. One of the other customers chuckled, but he didn’t care.
The music reached a crescendo. Both of their bodies shook and swirled, and Garth rapidly improved. This female body did know what to do. Her reflexes responded the way he pictured them, without the encumbrances of his own untrained musculature.
The fifteen minutes flew by. As he lived inside the dancer’s body, there wasn’t time to absorb all the astonishing details. Rarely had he seen and done so many memorable things in a single evening.
Filled with enthusiasm, Garth wanted to hurry back to his studio where he could capture everything in his mind. He nearly ran out of the restaurant—until the dancer called after him in his own voice, reminding him that he had to hopscotch back with her, and pay for her and the meal, before he could go home.