by Joshua Cohen
Eastern females: there’s something to be said of them definitively and I’ll try for it, allowing the fauxgrammers to get done with dessert, allowing Kor and myself our postprandial brandies—Cognac, Armagnac, liqueurs of French cantons extant only in the cartographies of marketing—to refuse coffee for tea, in homage to our waitstaff.
Chai, chaichick—what among the Arabs has to be cultivated, among the female Slavs grows wild: when young they steep the testicular bag in their tight sugared mouths, when old they turn bitter, sour, take on the silhouettes of rusty samovars, and wrinkle from smoking—as if they stubbed out their cigs on their foreheads—as if, whenever they weren’t drinking their tea, they set their glasses atop their chins to leave behind tepid impressions.
I knew some women like this, knew how to resist them especially, women who with the fall of communism, went west—they were Aaron’s obsession. He had a girl from Brighton, a girl from Forest Hills—give him one each from Staten Island and the Bronx, if just to preserve a sense of socialist equity among the boroughs. Long drives to Long Island, detours into metro NJ, compulsive, he was always ferrying them to Whitehall, ferrying them back to their parents’ apartments slummed so far out in the city that their transit stops were the train muster yards and the bus maintenance lots, returning them nervous, flustered because just fucked, in the Saab convertible fucked, to do mealtime with the folks. Immigrant families, emigrant families, codependent, claustral—Jewish girls unable to make it through dates without their mothers calling, or without expecting Aar to father their children.
They’d invite him up: for bruisey melon and disemboweling kvass, to sit on the sectional en familie and peruse the photoalbums scattered (this is Odessa, this is Kiev, the future mother inlaw, the future father inlaw, as kids), to give a word in Yiddish to the grandparents farting the stripes off their tracksuits in the corner, farschimmelt—Aar always halfway between the parents and grandparents in age—he’d oblige but never return.
The Slav slaves strutting around this aerie harem, this high houri lounge, were different. At the least the one on my lap was. Olya. It’s not just that she wasn’t Semitic, it’s that she wasn’t even Slav, or not fully. She had that Asiatic horde hybridity, that Tatar sauce Mongolic mix. Kazakh, Uzbek. Or from one of the randomer stans where feminine training included not just cooking and cleaning but how to put on a condom with the mouth. Olya, though that was just a conjecture: taut, tensile, cold in her bones, tempered ice, her back blades so severe they sliced against my face, shaving off what stubble I’d grown since—last I’d shaved? today or yesterday?—her ass like a heel crushing my crotch, as two men entered the tent, like they owned the place, or were about to burn it down.
Spend enough time with the überrich and spotting the bodyguard species becomes a cinch—they’re almost physically inhuman: the legs of a police thoroughbred, the torso of a firetruck, the arms of a steroidal ape, steeringwheel heads set on no appreciable necks—noctivagant, and foul of mood.
There are two ways these specimens dress for the wild: one is to differentiate themselves from the party they’re supposed to protect, while the other’s to blend with him or her, choosing camouflage similar or same. Designer pelts. Couture pelage. Pistols by Glock.
The latter’s the classier adaptation—Jesus and Feel, a floor below, dressed down because Principal dressed down, presenting a uniform exterior of exclusive brandwear.
But these two had opted for the former. They were gangstafied as turf enemies, one cripped in blue doorag, blue puffy over blue beater and blue jeans slung to show the blue briefs between, the other blooded in red flatbrim, red puffy over red soccer jersey and matching shorts as long as pants, all for a counterfeit team—the San Francisco 94ers.
Nothing made less sense than the duffelsized puffies—nothing made more, when the crip punched a console and the blood kicked a vent, activating the AC.
The tent whirred, Olya’s areolas poked.
The gangbangers had bags from the dutyfree, tokens to distribute. They hulked around the table, handing each fauxgrammer a filigreed manacle of a watch in the souk dreck style, oudh in a glass spritzer blown into the borders of the UAE, both labeled “un souvenir pour votre femme/ein Souvenir für Ihre Frau.” Also a trackpad. In the style of a Bedouin rug replete with nonslip rubber backing.
As they went dexter, another man made the rounds sinister—the bodyguards’ body, their charge.
I hadn’t noticed his entrance, and not because I was so taken with my—what was it? an electrophoretic shatterproof Sinai tablet?
The olive beret, plumped as if to give him height, just made him even slighter, twee. A bad narco’s crinkled white linen suit became, in the climatized bluster, inappropriately lightweight. Sockless. In little tiny loafers.
He had a temperature problem, obviously. There was a seethe in his greetings he didn’t intend. He sweated, dousing each obeisance. One kiss to one cheek in America, one to each cheek in Europe, whereas in the Emirates, or just to him, it was a threepeat, with a return to the cheek of origin.
Or four, with a kiss to Olya’s scalp—he was leaning so close to me it would count as a hug in any culture.
Everyone was standing but me—Olya was standing, preventing me—everyone had bowed.
Kor, minister of whores—man with tricks up his portfolio—sunk so low his gut scraped crumbs off the table.
“Salam alaykum.”
“Wa alaykum salam.”
A director’s sling was produced, hinged out for the sitting—it was the highest chair around, and the fauxgrammers lumped around as he spastically scaled it.
“What do you say, Prince?” Kor asked. “How’s my Arabic?”
“It’s like we grew up together, quite,” the prince said. “Oxbridge? Le Rosey?”
Kor laughed.
“And my IT Emiris,” the prince went on, “how progresses their English pronouncement?”
I chewed a cohiba. “Quite.”
The prince frowned and Kor to the rescue, “If you’re just as generous at hosting servers as you are at hosting us, we might have ourselves a deal.”
“I am chuffed to be considered. To conduct this facility—this cluster.” Then he Arabized and the Emiris blushed into full cups. Zam-Zam colas, Mountain Dews.
What I knew at the time: there was a king, and the king had sons, and so there was a line, but not like of foaming techies camped outside select retailers just to overpay for an undertested Tetheld 4. Rather a line that stretched for eternities, for grudges—throneward.
I took this prince and his presence at this function to communicate the succession: the son at the head of the pipeline would handle the oil, the next son would handle the gas, the son after that the shipping, and only the next after that would get online—and if that’s who he was, he could afford, perhaps, to act princely—depraved.
His protection placed before him a heavy cutcrystal decanter, poured him a tumbler he gulped clear down—either a louchey anisette or a malarial water. I prayed for water.
Emirati royalty, what could I know: his father was the sheikh, or one of the sheikh’s brothers, whether the crown prince or another. He himself might’ve been the son crowned with a PhD, administering the free trade zones in Fujairah and Sharjah, or the son with a MEcon, or MEng, developing a transhub in Ajman. Or he’d been the prodigal abroad, who’d tried to stick it to every busted ugly daughter of the 20th Earl of Diddlesex, before being recalled and betrothed to a Qatari sheikha who’d never had a wax. Or the son accused of a homicide that became a suicide only when the bank transfer went through. Or the cerebrally defective son still favored over his sisters, who were mere baubles like their mothers. Like all their mothers, who, if not sisters to one another, were otherwise related.
He might’ve been any of them, or none. He had some of that sheikhy jumbotron to him—some of that lizard snout, but then lizards are all snout—darting, sensing.
He said, “I trust my Burj you find sufficient i
n terms of modcons, nothing dodgy.”
I almost expected a tongueflick, a forked tongue flick, when his protection served his dinner.
Goblet refilled and drained again.
I said, “To be honest, Prince, I’ve been having trouble accessing certain sites.”
“Which?”
“American sites, mostly. Politics, mostly.”
“Only such?”
“Only.”
“Cheeky,” the prince said and then Arabized and the fauxgrammers chuckled.
Kor tried to join them but just showed teeth.
The prince asked, “So what politics have you been craving? I will do everything I can to accommodate requests.”
“Nothing in particular—just the sense that I’m not blocked, is all.”
“You are saying you are blocked—at the Burj? Or in all the Emirates?”
“Forget it.”
“I will not. This is unacceptable. What is it you lack? Certainly not cunt?”
“What?”
“Cunt—or do you prefer to pleasure yourself alone?”
“I don’t follow, Prince.”
“Bollocks. You have the real right here—right now—but all you crave is fake?”
“I don’t, Prince.”
“You Americans always think you have such progress—you think that you are libertized and the Emirates are not? That the Emirates censor and you do not? Wankers. What you have to search for online in your country, in my country is already found.”
Kor said, “He’s sorry,” and then he said to me, “Apologize.”
“For what?”
The prince Arabized to Olya, who genuflected and leched away from me, to lift his dinner’s cloche.
What was exposed: two rawly moist strips of bacon as skimpy as the two elastic strips that gripped her, and as she reached French tips out to grab one, the prince smacked her hand, and Olya shivered, flushed baconcolored, and the fauxgrammers gasped.
Kor said, “What?”
The prince said, “This is not for her—she must keep her figure.”
Kor said, “Forgive us, Prince.”
Then the prince pointed at me, “Here, you have the honor of tasting. Tell me it is good, tell me it is salty.”
“If you please, Prince, I’d rather not.”
“Do not worry, you cannot botch this. Tell me how scrummy it is—I can smell it.”
“Taste it yourself,” just a suggestion.
“But this honor is yours—it might be poisoned.”
“So feed it to your thugs.”
“They eat what I tell them to. Animals must not eat other animals.”
“Go ahead, enjoy.”
“You.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are a Jewish—you must be.”
“And you’re Muslim—pork isn’t for you.”
“So I am accurate—you are a Jewish—but not religious? Is it for religion that you refuse?”
“No, not that, I just don’t like being coerced. I don’t like having my face rubbed in another man’s dinner.”
“But this is soy, this is curd, imitation.”
“So we shouldn’t have a problem.”
“We should not,” and he unsheathed a dagger—hilt all bedizened with precious twinklings—cut the fake meats in half, stabbed each slice into his mouth, then set the glistering blade pseudogristled on the table.
“A bad habit from abroad,” he said. “All my education it was bacon, hams, and sausages, but here it is back to the soy. Do you not think, Jewish, that religions are quite like soy, like tofu? You let the good natural essence curdle, until what is left is without taste, a substitute?”
“Prince, how can I argue?”
“You are a Jewish, yes, but also of Israel?”
Kor said, “He’s not, Prince.”
I interrupted, “Fuck—you’re Kori fucking Dienerowitz. And his boss just below us is also a Jew.”
The prince thumbed at his neck.
Kor said, “But only my father’s a Jew—so technically I’m not.”
The prince turned and groped Olya, who’d been leaning on his chairback.
“Israel,” he said. “Jewish, indulge me.”
“I won’t,” I crossed my arms, my personal cutlery.
“Indulge me and say this woman is Israel—can we agree? Foot to head, this woman, Israel, yes?”
“Isn’t that demeaning?”
“According to who demeaning? Later you will fuck her and that will be demeaning but now she serves a purpose.”
“Demeaning to fucking Israel too, I meant.”
“Negev to Golan—how would you distribute?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You want me to cut?” again he brandished the dagger.
“Enough.”
“Do you want me to cut her? Be serious.”
“I don’t know—I’d probably give her away, all of her, you can always find a new one.”
“No, you cannot, this is the rub. This is the only one we both want, we both want her whole. What do we do? What say the Israelis?”
“We share?”
Olya, who understood I’d say about half—cut, divided in her comprehensions—trembled.
“I am the host and you are the guest, it is my hospitality so it is you tonight and me tomorrow? Or we try to coexist, bugger her at the same time the two of us?”
“We could. But I think we should let her off. A woman isn’t land. Affections aren’t an issue of territory.”
“They are the only territory. The Israelis think this. They say here, the Jewishes take the knocker tits and holes, the cunt and bum, the oases. And here, the elbow, the shoulder, the knee—my arse—the Arabs take the desert, quite.”
“You said Jews—and it’s not Arabs, it’s Palestinians.”
“The same—or not even the knees, but the more rubbish parts, the pinkie or thumb, the mingy hair, the cropless arid cellulite portion—that is what you do.”
“Not what I do.”
“But what say the Arabs?”
“The Palestinians.”
“We accept, we compromise—we say have the holes, the reproductives, have it all foot to head, even the face, just leave us with the navel.”
“The face you hide under veils because you’re too weak to resist?”
“The face we conceal out of respect.”
“And you fuck instead the Russians?”
“And we fuck instead the Russians—and we take our electronics from Asia, our online from America. We agree, assent, assure bloody right we will be your ally against terror, bloody right we will cooperate with your trade agreements, your military drones—bloody right all your energy needs will be met, even though bloody right all your foreign debt obligations will never be met—bloody right a stable industry because bloody right a stable government.”
“Stable because oppressive, Prince—stable because allowed to be.”
“Jewish, we are not Africa. Arabs are European—we believe in bargaining—we haggle.”
“Prince, yours is a theocracy criticizing a republic, a monarchy critiquing a democracy. Anyway, arguing the Emirates is different from arguing Jerusalem.”
“But it is not—regardless of our government you would treat us the same, it is politically expedient. If six million Emiris suddenly settled your America, policy would change in a snap.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“You are already convinced—you came from a failing empire to this desert, only to take advantage of us, quite—then it is back home to a second mortgage and the one woman marriage.”
“Not for me.”
“But just like you wank online and never touch, you preach a freedom you never practice. Your libertization is a fiction, which must be maintained so that particular pressures can be exerted upon particular regimes, in order to deprive them of their resources. What Israel does, what Jewishes have always done, is just perpetuate this lie. In the media especially. This falseh
ood is not just your god but also your idol. You are enslaved to it, and so you enslave us too.”
The prince, still holding Olya, stood, shoved her to the floor, where she huddled, heaved.
The weapon’s sharpness outglinting its jewels.
He wasn’t going to cut her empty head off, he didn’t have that in him, though he might’ve been capable of severing a toe. Instead, abruptly, he sheathed the dagger, and staggered out, his thuggery trudging behind him.†
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† This dagger would be the very last thing I’d tetrate—later, in Berlin, on an overcast noon at the Staatsbibliothek (library). Everything following this note was written entirely from my head, entirely out of what I know and think and saw and heard, without any technological verification, or direction. Any slips are solely my own. Correx and/or corrigenda may be sent but not received. The prince’s dagger was a khanjar, a scythey, severely curved—verging-on-90°-curved—weapon, reminiscent of a penis at rest. Khanjarha (the plural) are carried “in a[n] ivory or leather scabbard and decorated with jewel, gold, silver, etc., etc., worn on a belt similar[ly] decorated.” While the hilts of the most precious specimens are of rhinoceros horn, more common hilts are of sandalwood or marble. Design variations—hilt type, # of rings attaching scabbard to belt—denote different privileges enjoyed by the wearer. Though the steel used to fashion the blade was traditionally Yemeni, its ornamental silver was obtained, at the turn of last century, by melting down thalers, a popular bullion issue of Austro-Hungary. The prince’s model was gold or heavily gilded, its hilt definitely horny.
Insomnia, nausea.
Shit.
—I’ve been having some name grief—I don’t mean with my homonym, or Tetwin, but with the aliases we’ve been registered under. All standard operating procedure, of course, and it was fun though somewhat defamiliarizing initially to be calling down to the reception desks and have them say, “Fine day, Mr. Immermann,” or, “Bonsoir, M. Yaarsky.” Though it’s not obvious that any of this duplicity would be effective for celebrities of the first results page rank, who if they’re staying anywhere, even at the Burj, would certainly be noticed by employees, and then it’s just a matter of when the tip’s called in, to the press crews, or the protestors. It seems, then, that the only guests for whom this handling would make sense wouldn’t be recognizable by face, but only by name: the primeval way of being famous.
