Mr. Oud holds his pen like one holds a cigarette.
Curling wisps of his namesake fragrance encircle the air around him, his words written like some prayer against the darkening spell of centuries.
Mr. Oud gestures with the hands of a ballet dancer.
The calloused hands of a gardener.
The delicate hands of an effete.
The rough and veiny hands of a man embarking on the latter half of his life.
The hands carefully tying a scarf around the neck of a man in a mirror… as a dance of scarves begins.
