George Mills Part 43

"The guards, Kislar Agha?" Bufesqueu said.

"Chief Eunuch. We won't mince words. Call me Chief Eunuch. At the gate, the guards at the gate. I pulled the tongues out of their necks personally. I broke their bones in my torture chambers. I tore their equipment off with my hands."

Mills flinched.

"Why do you pale? They were bad guards. You'd never have gotten past good ones."

"Torture chambers, Chief Eunuch?" Bufesqueu said.

"This is the best-equipped seraglio in the world," he said. "We have fourteen mosques on the grounds. We have two hospitals and an a.r.s.enal with the latest weapons. We've kitchens and bakeries and the finest schools. We've sports fields and stables, conference rooms and hospitality suites. We're centrally located and close to a major body of water. Why shouldn't we have torture chambers too?" He sat up abruptly, effortlessly, showing none of the strain heavy people reveal when they move in furniture. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "The torture chambers bother you? Relax please. You think I'd send two incompetent guards to a torture chamber? Of course not. That's for the big fish." He held out his right hand. "This," he said, and extended the left, "and this. this. These are my torture chambers." These are my torture chambers."

Bufesqueu nodded and Mills stared. The Chief Eunuch laughed merrily. "No," he said, "you don't understand. You think I'm trying to intimidate you, to threaten obliquely like some fat Mex bandit with silver teeth. I didn't call you here to threaten you. I called you here to comfort comfort you. That about the guards should have taken a load off. They'd have talked. Your whereabouts would have gotten back to the Sultan. Oh, Lawd, dis n.i.g.g.e.r be misunderstood sho 'nuff. you. That about the guards should have taken a load off. They'd have talked. Your whereabouts would have gotten back to the Sultan. Oh, Lawd, dis n.i.g.g.e.r be misunderstood sho 'nuff.

"Because I'll tell you why you're here and it's got nothing to do with sanctuary.

"I was fourteen years old when the slavers captured me. Fourteen! Do you know what that means? Do you?"

Mills shook his head.

"You don't? What were you like when you you were fourteen? Did you have a girl? A crush on the teacher?" were fourteen? Did you have a girl? A crush on the teacher?"

Mills shook his head.

"No? Then I bet you wrung it out. What about it? Did you wring it out?"

Mills blushed.

"Sure you did. You you did. You still still wring it out." wring it out."

Mills shook his head fiercely.

"No? Why'd G.o.d give you hands? Why'd G.o.d give you hands you don't wring it out?"

"I wring it out," Mills said shyly.

"I never never wrung it out," the Chief Eunuch said. "I was fourteen. In my tribe, among my people-the beasts in the jungles, the parasites in the t.u.r.ds, the great apes and lions, the slavers and mortality tables-you were a man when you were eleven. I never wrung it out because I already had a wife. The real thing, you know? The genuine article. Absolute p.u.s.s.y. wrung it out," the Chief Eunuch said. "I was fourteen. In my tribe, among my people-the beasts in the jungles, the parasites in the t.u.r.ds, the great apes and lions, the slavers and mortality tables-you were a man when you were eleven. I never wrung it out because I already had a wife. The real thing, you know? The genuine article. Absolute p.u.s.s.y.

"So I already had a wife when the slavers got me. Listen, am I breaking your heart? You think this is some love story I'm feeding you? That I pine for lost love, our burr-headed kid? Or maybe you think you're way ahead of me. That they took her too, that she's here now perhaps, the Sultan's favorite with her jackknife f.u.c.ks. Why would I tell you? Why would I tell white boys? You Christers! What, you're going to deny your faith? Jesus, you Christers! It's all a little barbaric, ain't it? The idea of a harem. Or maybe you don't think it's barbaric, only wasteful. You Christers. To tell you the truth, if you want the opinion of one fatted, sufflated, darky gelding, it isn't. It isn't barbaric. If you're the Sultan himself it ain't even wasteful.

"I was fourteen years old. I'm talking about full-blown p.u.b.erty. I'm talking about interest and appet.i.te and l.u.s.t and prurience, all the successive s.e.xual steps like the diatonic scale. Because there ain't any blade long enough or keen enough either to cut that that out of a man. They buried me up to my chest in the sand for three days to let my wounds heal. But desire don't flag. It swarms like the hair on the out of a man. They buried me up to my chest in the sand for three days to let my wounds heal. But desire don't flag. It swarms like the hair on the kopf kopf of a corpse. And I of a corpse. And I still still want to wave it around like an amputated hand, or lean my weight on it like a missing leg. So I walk around with this hard-on of the head. Alib Hakali," Alib Hakali said. "Alib Hakali, the spayed spade. want to wave it around like an amputated hand, or lean my weight on it like a missing leg. So I walk around with this hard-on of the head. Alib Hakali," Alib Hakali said. "Alib Hakali, the spayed spade.

"All right. You can go now. Watch your step."

"What was that all about then?" Mills asked his reality master when they were alone.

"I'm not sure," Bufesqueu said. "I think he was trying to tell us that he understands."

"I don't know."

"Those guys at the gate," Bufesqueu said, shuddering.

"I know."

"I mean why'd he have to do that? He must want us around."

"Why?"

Bufesqueu shrugged. "You know," he said speculatively, "all the rest of those freemartins, they must be the same way he is."

"h.o.r.n.y? You think?"

"Why not? If those slavers picked them after they was already ripe. Why not? If he's telling the truth. If he ain't one in a million like some bloke in a textbook. That'd be awful."

"Hey," George said, "I bet that was was what he was trying to tell us." what he was trying to tell us."

"There must be some way," Bufesqueu said. "There must be some way Nature has of getting to a eunuch."

"He was warning us," Mills said.

"Warning us, h.e.l.l. He was teasing us."

This was the table of organization: At the bottom of the chain were the female slaves, women like Fatima who served not only the harem women but their eunuch overseers as well. Above them were the novices, females new to the seraglio who may or may not have slept with the Sultan. Above these were the officially decreed favored ladies, and above the favored ladies were women who had already mothered one or more of the Sultan's children, called royal prince or princess but of no more real rank than the female slaves. At the top of the chain was the Valide Sultan, the Sultan's mother, a figurehead who maintained a residence in the seraglio, which she rarely visited except for those two or three times a year when she presided as hostess at teas. Officially she was also headmistress of the harem schools, but in actuality had even less to do with these-they were for the royal princes, and the curriculum dealt entirely with court protocol and was administered by women who had never been presented there: the female slaves, the novices-than she had with any of the other functions of the seraglio.

It was the Chief Eunuch's show. With his private army-the guards had been part of it-he ran the seraglio like a small country, supervising everything from deciding the menu to choosing which woman would be sent that night to the Sultan, and for all that they had a table of organization, for all that they were centrally located and had schools and riding stables-by tradition the Chief Eunuch was awarded three hundred or so horses for his personal use, one for each woman in the harem proper-there was little for any of them-the women, the eunuchs and slave girls-to do. Mills would learn this.

One day a woman came into the laundry where Mills was folding sheets. His arms raised, extended, he held a piece of sheet in his teeth, leveraging it with his upraised chin to fold down the middle. He was arched backward to keep the bottom of the sheet from touching the floor. He was watching the sheet's edges, trying to align them, when she spoke.

"My," she said, "it's grand you're so tall, that you've such long arms and strong jaws. It must be ever so sublime to have such balance."

"It's b.l.o.o.d.y marvelous," Mills said, still not looking at her. "If I wasn't so lovely endowed, the G.o.dd.a.m.n sheet could go all untidy from dragging along the ground and some bimbo might get bedsores from calf to a.s.s. Bufesqueu's on break. He's in back watching the laundresses."

"What a manly voice," she said. "If I had such a voice I'd boom out work songs while I toiled. Would you know any sheet-folding work songs you could sing for me?"

Mills turned to look at her and thought she was smiling at him behind her veil. She was a large woman, older than the slaves he had seen, and it occurred to him that she might be one of the women from the harem. Not a novice certainly, since novices were usually in their teens and, to judge from her looks, what was visible to him above the veil that covered the lower half of her face, probably not one of the favored ladies. It was possible she was the mother of some royal prince or princess. "Was there something I could help you with, ma'am?" he asked, looking over her shoulder for the eunuch who would be sure to accompany her.

"And so gallant!" she exclaimed.

"There are some extra sheets and pillowcases in the back. If I asked someone I'm sure I could ..."

"Blankets!" she said. "A dozen of those special thick woolly blankets."

"A dozen," George said. It was high summer.

"I'll wait," she said.

"I could only find one," he said when he returned. "The rest are in storage."

"Aren't you kind to take all that trouble," she said. "You know," she said, "I could could use some sheets. Eight might just do it. And some pillowslips too. Sometimes it gets so warm of an evening I'll wake in my bed and it's soaked so with perspiration it's just impossible to fall back to sleep. If I had extra linens ..." use some sheets. Eight might just do it. And some pillowslips too. Sometimes it gets so warm of an evening I'll wake in my bed and it's soaked so with perspiration it's just impossible to fall back to sleep. If I had extra linens ..."

"Oh sure," George said. "Sheets is no problem."

"Lovely," she said.

"Eight sheets," George said, taking them from a pile he'd already folded. "And eight pillowcases."

"Super," she said. "There is is just one problem." just one problem."

"There is?"

"This pile. It's so heavy. I don't think I could carry it back by myself." Mills had seen slave girls half the size of this woman lift baskets of wet wash that had to weigh over a hundred pounds. "Your eunuch?" he suggested.

"I'm a daughter of the harem," she said.

"A daughter ..."

"One of the Sultan's daughters," she said shyly.

A royal princess, Mills thought, adding to his list.

"I have no status," she said. "Eunuchs don't even bother to guard us." She actually closed an eye and winked at him. Mills thought of Bufesqueu's country of the blind.

"Well," he said, "I have no status either. I can't leave my post."

"I meant with the others," she said. "I'm certain I have status over you. you."

"Oh me," Mills said, picking up the blanket and pillowslips, picking up the sheets. "Me," he said, "sure."

She led him across soft lawns, she led him across paths of crushed pine cones. Eunuchs saw her and waved familiarly. They went by a schoolhouse where the royal princes were learning their lessons in court protocol. The windows were open and Mills could hear one of the younger children reciting, "One may walk in the palace with his head covered if my father, the Sultan, is away on state business." George glanced into the open windows over the stack of laundry he carried. Nine royal princes, he thought. "Evrevour?" the teacher said. Evrevour rose to stand beside his desk. "One has no right to chew his food after my father, the Sultan, has already swallowed," Evrevour was saying as they walked on.

It was odd. He had a sense of shortcut, a feeling not that he had been here before (though quite possibly he'd viewed the same buildings and grounds when he'd driven through the seraglio in the Overland; he and Bufesqueu had never felt comfortable enough in their surroundings to stroll through them freely and, except for the laundry and tiny apartment near it in the eunuchs' dormitory where they ate and slept, they had not yet established landmarks), but that he'd had this experience. Then he remembered. It must have been the way George Mills and Guillalume had felt when, leaving it to the horses, they had ambled, drifting toward Poland. Mills had no more reserves. It wasn't adventure anymore since adventure depended upon the adventurer's sense of goals, some s.p.u.n.ky checklist of arrangements and priorities--some "There, that's done" notion of progress. Mills had nothing left. When the woman reminded him that he had no status there, he had acknowledged the truth of the statement and come along. He knew she was up to something. He didn't much care. And the sense of shortcut he felt was as much a sense of falling downhill as it was of greasing distance. He had a fate and was rus.h.i.+ng toward it. It was just that he was so indifferent to what it might be.

So indifferent that when the woman said, "In here will be fine. Watch yourself, there are steps. Oh good, wasn't it clever of you not to trip," he already knew where she had taken him-to the harem-and might almost have said what was about to happen. It made no difference anymore. When she said, "Oh, just leave those there. Llwanda will bring them up later," he put the blanket and sheets and pillowcases down on the table she indicated and straightened up to listen to what she would say next.

"That was hard work," she said, "you must be all overheated from carrying such a load. If you'll just step through those doors, Mally will fetch you cold water."

"Sure," Mills said.

Though his eyes weren't shut he felt like asking if he could open them when he entered the room. Except that he didn't really feel anything. Then he did.

They were in a sort of lounge. Though he'd never seen any-he'd been excluded, Bufesqueu had told him, by the traffickers themselves-the room corresponded to some notion of p.o.r.nography lining his head like bone. Behind the room's appearance, governing its design and appurtenances, dictating its appointments and vaguely tiered arrangements, was the manifestation of some blue will, some peephole, parlor car resolution. If earlier he'd had a sense of shortcut, now he had a conviction of threshholds forever sealed behind him, of borders crossed and compromised. He was like an accidental traveler in dream and had just exactly that mixture of dread and joy the dreamer sometimes feels, fearful of discovery, but pleased he has been lured where he is.

The room was s.p.a.cious, its size incremented by treillage and light, the openwork lattice of a wall through which he could see blue water lavished by swans and geese like a pond flower garden. There were gorgeous, opulent couches, their plush backs and arms curved as alphabet. There were frames of unfinished embroidery and fat pillows on the marble floor like a soft sausage of lion and leopard. Here and there folding screens were covered with starkly realistic paintings that made a sort of intimate, high-minded doc.u.mentary--lone figures of women soaping themselves, pinning their hair, stepping tentatively into water, holding fans and examining themselves in mirrors. Mills had the feeling sperm might be boiling in the lamps that glittered in the wall sconces.

What added to his sense that he had stepped into a brothel, and contributed to his idea of some carefully controlled s.e.xual climate, was the presence in the lounge of so many women of different races. Orientals were there and Negresses, white women and women pink as pork. And a feel of laze, of timeless tea party.

He was the only man there, and, though he was certain he was expected, no one spoke to him or even looked at him directly. Indeed, they seemed deliberately to ignore him and even the woman who had brought him dropped the pretext of getting him water. Briefly it occurred to him that he was as much on display as the women, and though he had not been with so many females (if ever) in more than a year, and though there were no eunuchs about, he knew these were the Sultan's women and were as reluctant to stare at him as he was at them.

He knew Bufesqueu would chide him if he learned he'd entered the harem and never even looked at the girls, so despite his restraint he glanced at them nervously, quickly registering an impression of bulk, of clothing too tight, of arms dripping with weight.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat and making ready to leave, the word vaguely aimed at the Royal Princess.

"See?" a familiar voice said. "Did I lie? Did I exaggerate?" It was the slave woman, Fatima, and she stepped from behind a screen. "Now you must give Fatima what you promised, my mistresses."

"Oh no, not yet," one of the pork pink women said. "Eunuchs speak. Mine pipes like a magpie on all manner of subjects. Sometimes I have to kiss him on the lips just to get him to stop." The rest of the women giggled and Mills flushed thickly.

"In a voice deep as this one's?" Fatima challenged. "Why there's no comparison."

"He was singing work songs when I found him in the laundry," the Royal Princess said. "I heard his deep ba.s.s voice. Go on, Mills, show them." They were playing him, George knew. He was going to be seduced. Seduced and killed. When the eunuchs found his body he would already be dead. The Royal Princess would testify against him as blithely as she had lied about his singing. She would say that he had charged into the harem and attacked them. They'd never dare not to accept her version of the proceedings and, despite himself, a part of Mills was outraged on behalf of the deceived Sultan.

But then he thought how to save himself. The eunuchs! he thought. They would have to be about. And began, even as they coaxed and teased him, to sing in a voice loud and deep as he could muster, crazed, desperately improvising:

"Fold the sheet, fold the sheet.

See how neat I fold the sheet!"

He looked about to see which of the eunuchs would respond to his cries. Perhaps he'd be familiar, one of the fellows from his dorm. The women stared at him.

"Fold the sheet, fold the sheet.

I want to eat, I fold the sheet!"

"What did I tell you," Fatima asked triumphantly, "would you find a voice like that that on a eunuch?" on a eunuch?"

"Can't find nothin' on no eunuch," a hefty black woman said.