“To Mansa Suleiyman, King of Mali and Songhay,” Prince Itzcoatl said.
“Mansa Suleiyman, yes.”
“Mansa Suleiyman!”
“What splendid stuff,” said Sir Anthony. He held forth his glass, and the Russian attaché filled it yet again. “There are other and perhaps more deserving monarchs to toast. To His Majesty King Richard the Fifth!”
“King Richard, yes!”
“And His Imperial Majesty Vladimir the Ninth!”
“Czar Vladimir! Czar Vladimir!”
“Let us not overlook His Highness Moctezuma the Twelfth!”
“King Moctezuma! King Moctezuma!”
“Shall we drink to cooler weather and happier days, gentlemen?”
“Cooler weather! Happier days!—And the Emir of Songhay, may he soon rest in peace at last!”
“And to his eldest son, the prince of the realm. May he also soon be at rest,” said Prince Itzcoatl.
Selima said, “I hear you have vampires here, and djinns. I want to know all about them.”
Little Father was aghast. She would say anything, anything at all.
“Who’s been feeding you nonsense like that? There aren’t any vampires. There aren’t any djinns either. Those things are purely mythical.”
“There’s a tree south of the city where vampires hold meetings at midnight to choose their victims. Isn’t that so? The tree is half white and half red. When you first become a vampire you have to bring one of your male cousins to the meeting for the others to feast on.”
“Some of the common people may believe such stuff. But do you think I do? Do you think we’re all a bunch of ignorant savages here, girl?”
“There’s a charm that can be worn to keep vampires from creeping into your bedroom at night and sucking your blood. I want you to get me one.”
“I tell you, there aren’t any vamp—”
“Or there’s a special prayer you can say. And while you say it you spit in four directions, and that traps the vampire in your house so he can be arrested. Tell me what it is. And the charm for making the vampire give back the blood he’s drunk. I want to know that too.”
They were on the private upstairs porch of Little Father’s palace. The night was bright with moonlight, and the air was as hot as wet velvet. Selima was wearing a long silken robe, very sheer. He could see the shadow of her breasts through it when she turned at an angle to the moon.
“Are you always like this?” he asked, beginning to feel a little irritable. “Or are you just trying to torment me?”
“What’s the point of traveling if you don’t bother to learn anything about local customs?”
“You do think we’re savages.”
“Maybe I do. Africa is the dark continent. Black skins, black souls.”
“My skin isn’t black. It’s practically as light as yours. But even if it were—”
“You’re black inside. Your blood is African blood, and Africa is the strangest place in the world. The fierce animals you have, gorillas and hippos running around everywhere, giraffes, tigers—the masks, the nightmare carvings—the witchcraft, the drums, the chanting of the high priests—”
“Please,” Little Father said. “You’re starting to drive me crazy. I’m not responsible for what goes on in the jungles of the tropics. This is Songhay. Do we seem uncivilized to you? We were a great empire when you Ottomans were still herding goats on the steppes. The only giraffe you’ll see in this city is the stuffed one in my father’s throne room. There aren’t any gorillas in Songhay, and tigers come from Asia, and if you see a hippo running, here or anywhere, please tell the newspaper right away.” Then he began to laugh. “Look, Selima, this is a modern country. We have motorcars here. We have a stock exchange. There’s a famous university in Timbuctoo, six hundred years old. I don’t bow down to tribal idols. We are an Islamic people, you know.”
It was lunacy to have let her force him onto the defensive like this. But she wouldn’t stop her attack.
“Djinns are Islamic. The Koran talks about them. The Arabs believe in djinns.”
Little Father struggled for patience.
“Perhaps they did five hundred years ago, but what’s that to us? In any case we aren’t Arabs.”
“But there are djinns here, plenty of them. My head porter told me. A djinn will appear as a small black spot on the ground and will grow until he’s as big as a house. He might change into a sheep or a dog or a cat, and then he’ll disappear. The porter said that one time he was at the edge of town in Kabara, and he was surrounded by giants in white turbans that made a weird sucking noise at him.”
“What is this man’s name? He has no right filling your head with this trash. I’ll have him fed to the lions.”
“Really?” Her eyes were sparkling. “Would you? What lions? Where?”
“My father keeps them as pets, in a pit. No one is looking after them these days. They must be getting very hungry.”
“Oh, you are a savage! You are!”
Little Father grinned lopsidedly. He was regaining some of the advantage, he felt. “Lions need to be fed now and then. There’s nothing savage about that. Not feeding them, that would be savage.”
“But to feed a servant to them—?”
“If he speaks idiotic nonsense to a visitor, yes. Especially when the visitor is an impressionable young girl.”
Her eyes flashed quick lightning, sudden pique. “You think I’m impressionable? You think I’m silly?”
“I think you are young.”
“And I think you’re a savage underneath it all. Even savages can start a stock exchange. But they’re still savages.”
“Very well,” Little Father said, putting an ominous throb into his tone. “I admit it. I am the child of darkness. I am the pagan prince.” He pointed to the moon, full and swollen, hanging just above them like a plummeting polished shield. “You think that is a dead planet up there? It is alive, it is a land of djinns. And it must be nourished. So when it is full like this, the king of this land must appear beneath its face and make offerings of energy to it.”
“Energy?”
“Sexual energy,” he said portentously. “Atop the great phallic altar, beneath which we keep the dried umbilicus of each of our dead kings. First there is a procession, the phallic figures carried through the streets. And then—”
“The sacrifice of a virgin?” Selima asked.
“What’s wrong with you? We are good Moslems here. We don’t countenance murder.”
“But you countenance phallic rites at the full moon?”
He couldn’t tell whether she was taking him seriously or not.
“We maintain certain pre-Islamic customs,” he said. “It is folly to cut oneself off from one’s origins.”
“Absolutely. Tell me what you do on the night the moon is full.”
“First, the king coats his entire body in rancid butter—”
“I don’t think I like that!”
“Then the chosen bride of the moon is led forth—”
“The fair-skinned bride.”
“Fair-skinned?” he said. She saw it was a game, he realized. She was getting into it. “Why fair-skinned?”
“Because she’d be more like the moon than a black woman would. Her energy would rise into the sky more easily. So each month a white woman is stolen and brought to the king to take part in the rite.”
Little Father gave her a curious stare. “What a ferocious child you are!”
“I’m not a child. You do prefer white women, don’t you? One thing you regret is that I’m not white enough for you.”
“You seem very white to me,” said Little Father. She was at the edge of the porch now, looking outward over the sleeping city. Idly he watched her shoulderblades moving beneath her sheer gown. Then suddenly the garment began to slide downward, and he realized she had unfastened it at the throat and cast it off. She had worn nothing underneath it. Her waist was very narrow, her hips broad, her buttocks smooth and full, w
ith a pair of deep dimples at the place where they curved outward from her back. His lips were beginning to feel very dry, and he licked them thoughtfully.
She said, “What you really want is an Englishwoman, with skin like milk, and pink nipples, and golden hair down below.”
Damn Ali Pasha! Was he out of his mind, telling such stuff to her? He’d go to the lions first thing tomorrow!
Amazed, he cried, “What are you talking about? What sort of madness is this?”
“That is what you want, isn’t it? A nice juicy golden-haired one. All of you Africans secretly want one. Some of you not so secretly. I know all about it.”
No, it was inconceivable. Ali Pasha was tricky, but he wasn’t insane. This was mere coincidence.
“Have you ever had an Englishwoman, prince? A true pink-and-gold one?”
Little father let out a sigh of relief. It was only another of her games, then. The girl was all mischief, and it came bubbling out randomly, spontaneously. Truly she would say anything to anyone. Anything.
“Once,” he said, a little vindictively. “She was writing a book on the African empires and she came here to do some research at our university. Our simple barbaric university. One night she interviewed me, on this very porch, a night almost as warm as this one. Her name was—ah—Elizabeth. Elizabeth, yes.” Little Father’s gaze continued to rest on Selima’s bare back. She seemed much more frail above the waist than below. Below the waist she was solid, splendidly fleshly, a commanding woman, no girl at all. Languidly he said, “Skin like milk, indeed. And rosy nipples. I had never even imagined that nipples could be like that. And her hair—”
Selina turned to face him. “My nipples are dark.”
“Yes, of course. You’re a Turk. But Elizabeth—”
“I don’t want to hear any more about Elizabeth. Kiss me.”
Her nipples were dark, yes, and very small, almost like a boy’s, tiny dusky targets on the roundness of her breasts. Her thighs were surprisingly full. She looked far more voluptuous naked than when she was clothed. He hadn’t expected that. The heavy thatch at the base of her belly was jet black.
He said, “We don’t care for kissing in Songhay. It’s one of our quaint tribal taboos. The mouth is for eating, not for making love.”
“Every part of the body is for making love. Kiss me.”
“You Europeans!”
“I’m not European. I’m a Turk. You do it in some peculiar way here, don’t you? Side by side. Back to back.”
“No,” he said. “Not back to back. Never like that, not even when we feel like reverting to tribal barbarism.”
Her perfume drifted toward him, falling over him like a veil. Little Father went to her and she rose up out of the night to him, and they laughed. He kissed her. It was a lie, the thing he had told her, that Songhayans did not like to kiss. Songhayans liked to do everything: at least this Songhayan did. She slipped downward to the swirl of silken pillows on the floor, and he joined her there and covered her body with his own. As he embraced her he felt the moonlight on his back like the touch of a goddess’s fingertips, cool, delicate, terrifying.
On the horizon a sharp dawn-line of pale lavender appeared, cutting between the curving grayness above and the flat grayness below. It was like a preliminary announcement by the oboes or the French horns, soon to be transformed into the full overwhelming trumpetblast of morning. Michael, who had been wandering through Old Timbuctoo all night, stared eastward uneasily as if he expected the sky to burst into flame when the sun came into view.
Sleep had been impossible. Only his face and hands were actually sunburned, but his whole body throbbed with discomfort, as though the African sun had reached him even through his clothing. He felt the glow of it behind his knees, in the small of his back, on the soles of his feet.
Nor was there any way to escape the heat, even when the terrible glaring sun had left the sky. The nights were as warm as the days. The motionless air lay on you like burning fur. When you drew a breath you could trace its path all the way down, past your nostrils, past your throat, a trickle of molten lead descending the forking paths into your lungs and spreading out to weigh upon every individual air-sac inside you. Now and then came a breeze, but it only made things worse: it gave you no more comfort than a shower of hot ashes might have afforded. So Michael had risen after a few hours of tossing and turning and gone out unnoticed to wander under the weird and cheerless brilliance of the overhanging moon, down from the posh Embassy district into the Old Town somehow, and then from street to street, from quarter to quarter, no destination in mind, no purpose, seeking only to obliterate the gloom and misery of the night.
He was lost, of course—the Old Town was complex enough to negotiate in daylight, impossible in the dark—but that didn’t matter. He was somewhere on the western side of town, that was all he knew. The moon was long gone from the sky, as if it had been devoured, though he had not noticed it setting. Before him the ancient metropolis of mud walls and low square flat-roofed buildings lay humped in the thinning darkness, a gigantic weary beast slowly beginning to stir. The thing was to keep on walking, through the night and into the dawn, distracting himself from the physical discomfort and the other, deeper agony that had wrapped itself like some voracious starfish around his soul.
By the faint light he saw that he had reached a sort of large pond. Its water looked to be a flat metallic green. Around its perimeter crouched a shadowy horde of water-carriers, crouching to scoop the green water into goatskin bags, spooning it in with gourds. Then they straightened, with the full bags—they must have weighed a hundred pounds—balanced on their heads, and went jogging off into the dawn to deliver their merchandise at the homes of the wealthy. Little ragged girls were there too, seven or eight years old, filling jugs and tins to bring to their mothers. Some of them waded right into the pool to get what they wanted. A glowering black man in the uniform of the Emirate sat to one side, jotting down notations on a sheet of yellow paper. So this was probably the Old Town’s municipal reservoir. Michael shuddered and turned away, back into the city proper. Into the labyrinth once more.
A gray, sandy light was in the sky now. It showed him narrow dusty thoroughfares, blind walls, curving alleyways leading into dark cul-de-sacs. Entire rows of houses seemed to be crumbling away, though they were obviously still inhabited. Underfoot everything was sand, making a treacherous footing. In places the entrances to buildings were half choked by the drifts. Camels, donkeys, horses wandered about on their own. The city’s mixed population—veiled Tuaregs, black Sudanese, aloof and lofty Moors, heavy-bearded Syrian traders, the whole West African racial goulash—was coming forth into the day. Who were all these people? Tailors, moneylenders, scribes, camel-breeders, masons, bakers, charm-sellers, weavers, bakers—necromancers, sages, warlocks, perhaps a few vampires on their way home from their night’s toil—Michael looked around, bewildered, trapped within his skull by the barriers of language and his own disordered mental state. He felt as though he were moving about under the surface of the sea, in a medium where he did not belong and could neither breathe nor think.
“Selima?” he said suddenly, blinking in astonishment.
His voice was voiceless. His lips moved, but no sound had come forth.
Apparition? Hallucination? No, no, she was really there. Selima glowed just across the way like a second sun suddenly rising over the city.
Michael shrank back against an immense buttress of mud brick. She had stepped out of a doorway in a smooth gray wall that surrounded what appeared to be one of the palaces of the nobility. The building, partly visible above the wall, was coated in orange clay and had elaborate Moorish windows of dark wood. He trembled. The girl wore only a flimsy white gown, so thin that he could make out the dark-tipped spheres of her breasts moving beneath it, and the dark triangle at her thighs. He wanted to cry. Had she no shame? No. No. She was indifferent to the display, and to everything around her; she would have walked completely naked through this little
plaza just as casually as she strode through in this one thin garment.
“Selima, where have you spent this night? Whose palace is this?”
His words were air. No one heard them. She moved serenely onward. A motorcar appeared from somewhere, one of the five or six that Michael had seen so far in this city. A black plume of smoke rose from the vent of its coal-burning engine, and its two huge rear wheels slipped and slid about on the sandy track. Selima jumped up onto the open seat behind the driver, and with great booming exhalations the vehicle made its way through an arched passageway and disappeared into the maze of the town.
An embassy car, no doubt. Waiting here for her all night?
His soul ached. He had never felt so young, so foolish, so vulnerable, so wounded.
“Effendi?” a voice asked. “You wish a camel, effendi?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Nice hotel? Bath? Woman to massage you? Boy to massage you?”
“Please. No.”
“Some charms, maybe? Good grigri. Souvenir of Timbuctoo.”
Michael groaned. He turned away and looked back at the house of infamy from which Selima had emerged.
“That building—what is it?”
“That? Is palace of Little Father. And look, look there, effendi—Little Father himself coming out for a walk.”
The prince himself, yes. Of course. Who else would she have spent the night with, here in the Old Town? Michael was engulfed by loathing and despair. Instantly a swarm of eager citizens had surrounded the prince, clustering about him to beg favors the moment he showed himself. But he seemed to move through them with the sort of divine indifference that Selima, in her all-but-nakedness, had displayed. He appeared to be enclosed in an impenetrable bubble of self-concern. He was frowning, he looked troubled, not at all like a man who had just known the favors of the most desirable woman in five hundred miles. His lean sharp-angled face, which had been so animated at the official reception, now had a curiously stunned, immobile look about it, as though he had been struck on the head from behind a short while before and the impact was gradually sinking in.
The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Seven: We Are for the Dark Page 38
