The Iron Man [Serial]

The Sitar Player

I descended the stairs of Molly's House alone, Molly herself having left before me to attend to other guests. I was immediately aware of music playing, which I thought Spanish, until I heard the distinctive reverberation of a sitar's sympathetic strings. I played no instrument myself, but I enjoyed this music the way I enjoyed curried rice. It was a vital element of my adopted culture. As one who had grown up in a former colony that had failed in revolution and suffered severed relations, I envied so much of India's history and its prominent influence on European culture.

I found the entrance to the large parlor and walked inside. There were others here now. The so-called strays now sat-- one dressed in a formal gown and the other manual regs --seated side-by-side at a table as they read the Review. Two girls in boyish clothes danced; I knew them not well enough to know if they preferred masculine terms for themselves, or merely enjoyed the feeling or freedom of going uncorseted and in trousers.

I did not see Murphy until I moved further into the room and looked through the sets of arches. There was a raised platform lined with an oriental rug, a mahal from the floral pattern. Murphy was seated on the carpet, Sitar propped at his side, one leg folded in front of the other. He was again in a kilt and riding boots so that a scandalous bit of knee was bared.

Beside him Molly played a guitar. This and the particular timing of the music may have been what suggested the Spanish sound. She glanced up, smiling toward me, before returning her gaze to her left hand upon the neck of her instrument. Murphy's eyes appeared to be closed.

I sat in a cafe chair, watching and listening to the hum and twang of the sitar. Murphy's fingers shifted rapidly over the strings and frets, and I was convinced he was a highly skilled and experienced player.

His face seemed to me like that of a saint, like ecstatic illustrations on small prayer cards a dobby might find searching Christian pockets at the counter. Not a god, for their statues often seemed fierce or distant to me. But, if a god, then perhaps an eternally bemused Hindu deity dancing foot to foot through cyclical ages.

It occurred to me then that this was the realest version of Murphy, whatever his name, and whatever else he might be. He was a musician who merely happened to be a secret agent or an officer of the Egyptian Navy.

It was common across castes to take up an instrument as a hobby and to play at home to entertain family or guests in the evening, but professional jobs for musicians were rare. I had never had occasion to consider the matter, but I now perceived our collective society as highly visual. In contrast, my childhood had seen little but equal amounts of visual and performing arts. Our days had been so focused on survival-level chores and our nights in rest. One day each week we had reserved for worship and gatherings. There would have been fiddles and flutes and sometimes skin drums.

Under the Pax Fashionista we had no war. Everyone had work. There was little to provoke passion or offense. We had visual media and stories that offered escape. We had our choice of gods to offer solace for our necessary struggles as cogs in the great industry of peace.

We surrendered our personal dreams and expression for a greater good.

I did not even have a dream, but at the moment, I found a desire to allow others their dreams if I proved able.

When the music stopped, Murphy came to me. I stood to greet him and he smiled sleepily. "Shall I turn down your bed, Sir?"

"Julien." Murphy yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and then rested his palm on my shoulder. "You do know you are not in fact my valet. Do not act the part when we are alone."

"I gather you actually like me defiant and scolding your familiar manner, but as I've yet to witness you do one domestic thing and you're tired and...." I was uncertain how to continue, though I had a thought in mind.

"You've no idea," he said under his breath, but I paid the statement little mind as I struggled to compose my own thought.

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I suddenly had no chores."

Murphy blinked a few times, brow furrowed. Gradually, his expression shifted back to a smile, as his arm slipped over my shoulders. I did not scold him for his familiarity this time, as the gesture seemed companionable and weary. "In that case, I would very much appreciate you helping me to bed."

I backhanded his chest, because that last bit had sounded too suggestive.

"And don't let me lie-in too long in the morning. We need to send a wirefax and check the morning Review."

"Yes, Sir." I walked him to the stairs.

"And if we're to be confidants and partners-in-crime, you must never stop scolding me when I deserve it. You must say truth for me and put your hands to me if it seems called for."

"I will promise, if you promise to play your sitar as often as you are able."

We reached the top of the stairs and he turned his head to look down at me. "Oh, Jules. You do realize I must love you at least a little for saying that?"

I tsked my tongue at him. "You barely know me." And then, before he could answer, I added, "Not a word!" Even I had heard enough sermons in my youth to understand the rakehell use of a word like know.