On Friday mornings, the mistress is usually in her rooms, preparing for her Sunday bismek. On Friday afternoons, she goes out to play the Tiles with her friends and gossip about husbands and wives who aren't there. I clean on Friday afternoons. I call the cleaning machine and it follows me down the hallway like a dog, snuffling along the baseboards for dust.
I open the door and smell attar of roses. The room is different, white marble floor veined with gold and amethyst, covered with purple rugs. Braziers and huge open windows looking out on a pillared walkway, beyond that vistas down to a lavender sea. It's the mistress' bismek setting. A young man is reading a letter on the walkway, a girl stands behind him, her face is tearstained.
Interactive fantasies. The characters are generated from lists of traits, they're projections controlled by whoever is game-mistress of the Insniek and fleshed out by the household Al. Everyone else comes over and becomes characters in the setting. There are poisonings and love affairs. The mistress' setting is in ancient times and seems to he quite popular. Some of her friends have two or three identities in the game.
She usually turns it off when she goes out. The little cleaning machine stops. It can read the difference between reality and the projection, but she has ordered it never to enter the projection because she says the sight of the thing snuffling through walls damages her sense of the alternate reality. I reach behind the screen and turn the projection off so that I can clean. The scene disappears, even the usual projections, and there is the mistress' rooms and their bare walls. "Go ahead," I tell the machine and start for the mistress' rooms to pick up things for the laundry.
To my horror, the mistress steps out of her bedroom. Her hair is loose and long and disheveled, and she is dressed in a day robe, obviously not intending to go out. She sees me in the hall and stops in astonishment. Then her face darkens, her beautiful, heavy eyebrows folding toward her nose, and I instinctively start to back up. "Oh, Mistress," I say, "I am sorry, I didn't know you were in, I'm sorry, let me get the cleaning machine and leave, I'll just be out of here in a moment, I thought you had gone out to play the Tiles, I should have checked with Fadina, it is my fault, mistress-"
"Did you turn them off?" she demands. "You stupid girl, did you turn Zarin and Nisea of?"
I nod mutely.
"Oh Holy One," she says. "Ugly, incompetent girl! Are you completely lacking in sense? Did you think they would be there and I wouldn't be here? It's difficult enough to prepare without interference!"
"I'll turn it back on," I say.
"Don't touch anything!" she shrieks. "FARINA!" The mistress has a very popular hismek and Fadina is always explaining to me how difficult it is for the mistress to think up new and interesting scenarios for her friends' participation.
I keep backing up, hissing at the cleaning machine, while the mistress follows me down the hall shrieking "FADINA!" and because I am watching the mistress I back into Fadina coming in the door.
"Didn't you tell Diyet that I'd be in this afternoon?" the mistress says.
"Of course," Fadina says.
I am aghast. "You did not!" I say.
"I did, too," Fadina says. "You were at the access. I distinctly told you and you said you would clean later."
I start to defend myself and the mistress slaps me in the face. "Enough of you, girl," she says. And then the mistress makes me stand there and berates me, reaching out now and then to grab my hair and yank it painfully, because of course she believes Fadina when the girl is clearly lying to avoid punishment. I cannot believe that Fadina has done this to me; she is in terror of offending the mistress, but she has always been a good girl, and I am innocent. My cheek stings, and my head aches from having my hair yanked, but, worse, I am so angry and so, so humiliated.
Finally we are allowed to leave. I know I should give Fadina a piece of my mind, but I just want to escape. Out in the hall, Fadina grabs me so hard that her nails bite into the soft part under my arm. "I told you she was in an absolute frenzy about Saturday," she whispers. "I can't believe you did that! And now she'll be in a terrible mood all evening and I'm the one who will suffer for it!"
"Fadina," I protest.
"Don't YOU 'Fadina' me, Diyet! If I don't get a slap out of this, it will be the intervention of the Holy One!"
I have already gotten a slap, and it wasn't even my fault. I pull my arm away from Fadina and try to walk down the hall without losing my dignity. My face is hot and I am about to cry. Everything blurs in tears, so I duck into the linens and sit down on a hamper. I want to leave this place, I don't want to work for that old woman. I realize that my only friend in the world is Karl and now we are so far apart, and I feel so hurt and lonely that I just sob.
The door to the linens opens and I turn my back thinking, "Go away, whoever you are."
"Oh, excuse me;" the harni says.
At least it will go away. But the thought that the only thing around is the harni makes me feel even lonelier. I cannot stop myself from sobbing.
"Diyet," it says hesitantly, "are you all right?"
I can't answer. I want it to go away, and I don't.
After a moment, it says from right behind me, "Diyet, are you ill?"
I shake my head.
I can feel it standing there, perplexed, but I don't know what to do and I can't stop crying and I feel so foolish. I want my mother. Not that she would do anything other than remind me that the world is not fair. My mother believes in facing reality. Be strong, she always says. And that makes me cry harder.
After a minute, I hear the harni leave, and awash in self-pity, I even cry over that. My feelings of foolishness are beginning to outweigh my feelings of unhappiness, but perversely enough I realize that I am enjoying my cry. That it has been inside me, building stronger and stronger, and I didn't even know it.
Then someone comes in again, and I straighten my back again, and pretend to he checking towels. The only person it could be is Fadina.
It is the harni, with a box of tissues. He crouches beside me, his face full of concern. "Here," he says.
Embarrassed, I take one. If you didn't know, you would think he was a regular human. He even smells of clean man-scent. Like my brothers.
I blow my nose, wondering if harni ever cry. "Thank you," I say.
"I was afraid you were ill," he says.
I shake my head. "No, I am just angry.'
"You cry when you are angry?" he asks.
"The mistress is upset at me and it's Fadina's fault, but I had to take the blame." That makes me start to cry again, but the harni is patient and he just crouches next to me in among the linens, holding the box of tissues. By the time I collect myself, there is a little crumpled pile of tissues and some have tumbled to the floor. I take two tissues and start folding them into a flower, like my mother makes.
"Why are you so nice to me when I am so mean to you?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Because you do not want to he mean to me," he says. "It makes you suffer. I am sorry that I make you so uncomfortable."
"But you can't help being what you are," I say. My eyes are probably red. Harni never cry, I am certain. They are too perfect. I keep my eyes on the flower.
"Neither can you," he says. "When Mardin-salah made you take me with you on your day off, you were not even free to be angry with him. I knew that was why you were angry with me." He has eyes like Fhassin, my brother (who had long eyelashes like a girl, just like the harm).
Thinking about Mardin-salah makes my head ache a little and I think of something else. I remember and cover my mouth in horror. "Oh no."
"What is it?" he asks.
"I think ...I think Fadina did tell me that the mistress would be in, but I was, was thinking of something else, and I didn't pay attention." I was standing at the access, wondering if the harm was around, since that was where I was most likely to run into him.
"It is natural enough," he says, unnatural thing that he is. "If Fadina weren't jessed, she would probably be more understanding."<
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He is prescripted to be kind, I remind myself I should not ascribe human motives to an Al. But I haven't been fair to him, and he is the only one in the whole household sitting here among the linens with a box of tissues. I fluff out the folds of the flower and put it among the linens. A white tissue flower, a funeral flower.
"Thank you ... Akhmim." It is hard to say his name.
He smiles. "Do not be sad, Diyet."
I am careful and avoid the eye of the mistress as much as I can. Fadina is civil to me, but not friendly. She says hello to me, politely, and goes on with whatever she is doing.
It is Akhmim the harm, who stops me one evening and says, "The mistress wants us for hismek tomorrow." It's not the first time I've been asked to stand in, but usually it's Fadina who lets me know and tells me what I'm supposed to do. Lately, however, I have tried to be kind to Akhmim. He is easy to talk to, and like me he is alone in the household.
"What are we supposed to be?" I ask.
The harm flicks his long fingers dismissively. "Servants, of course. What's it like?"
"Bismek?" I shrug. "Play-acting."
"Like children's games:" he asks, looking doubtful.
"Well, yes and no. It's been going on couple of years now and there are hundreds of characters," I say. "The ladies all have roles, and you have to remember to call them by their character names and not their real names, and you have to pretend it's all real. All sorts of things happen; people get in trouble and they all figure out elaborate plots to get out of trouble and people get strange illnesses and everybody professes their undying affection. The mistress threw her best friend in prison for awhile, Fadina said that was very popular."
He looks at me for a moment, blinking his long eyelashes. "You are making fun of me, Diyet," he says, doubtful.
"No," I say laughing, "it is true." It is, too. "Akhmim, no one is ever really hurt or uncomfortable."
I think he cannot decide whether to believe me or not.
Saturday afternoon, I am dressed in a pagan-looking robe that leaves one shoulder bare. And makes me look ridiculous, I might add. I am probably a server. Projections are prettier than real people, but they aren't very good at handing out real food.
I am in the mistress' quarters early. The scent of some heavy, almost bitter incense is overwhelming. The cook is laying out real food, using our own service, but the table is too tall to sit at on the floor, and there are candles and brass bowls of dates to make it look antique. Without the projection, the elaborate table looks odd in the room, which is otherwise empty of furniture. Akhmim is helping, bringing in lounging chairs so that the guests can recline at the table. He is dressed in a white robe that comes to his knees and brown sandals that have elaborate crisscross ties, and, like me, his shoulder is bare. But the harni looks graceful. Maybe people really did wear clothes like this. I am embarrassed to he seen by a man with my shoulder and neck bare. Remember, I think, Akhmim is what he is, he is not really a man or he wouldn't be here. The mistress wouldn't have a man at bismek, not in her quarters. Everyone would be too uncomfortable, and Mardin-salah would never allow it.
Akhmim looks up, smiles at me, comes over. "Diyet," he says, "Fadina says that the mistress is in a terrible mood.
"She is always in a terrible mood when she is nervous," I say.
"I'm nervous."
"Akhmim!" I say, laughing, "don't worry."
I don't understand any of this playing pretend," he wails softly, "I never had a childhood!"
I take his hand and squeeze it. If he were a man, I would not touch him. "You'll do fine. We don't have to do much anyway, just serve dinner. Surely you can manage that, probably better than I can."
He bites his lower lip, and I am suddenly so reminded of my brother Bassin I could cry. But I just squeeze his hand again. I'm nervous, too, but not about serving dinner. I have avoided the mistress since the incident with the cleaning machine.
Fadina comes in and turns on the projection, and suddenly the white marble room glows around us, full of servants and musicians tuning up. I feel better, able to hide in the crowd. Akhmim glances around. "It's exciting," he says thoughtfully.
There are five guests. Fadina greets them at the door and takes them back to the wardrobe to change. Five middle-aged woman, come to pretend. I tell Akhmim their character names as they come in so that he knows what to call them.
The musicians start playing; projections, male and female, recline on projected couches. I know some of their names. Of course, they have projected servers and projected food. I wish I knew what the scenario was, usually Fadina tells me ahead of time, but she doesn't talk much to me these days. Pretty soon the mistress comes in with the real guests, and they all find the real couches, where they can talk to each other. First is bread and cheese, already on the table, and Akhmim has to pour wine, but I just stand there, next to a projected servant. Even this close, she seems real, exotic with her pale hair. I ask her what her name is and she whispers, "Miri." Fadina is standing next to the mistress' couch, she glares at me. I'm not supposed to make the household Al do extra work.
The first part of the meal is boring. The mistress' friends get up once in a while to whisper to each other or a projection, and projections do the same thing. There's some sort of intrigue going on, people look very tense and excited. Akhmim and I glance at each other and he smiles. While I am serving, I whisper to him, "Not so bad, is it?"
The two lovers I turned off are at this dinner, I guess they are important characters right now. The mistress' friends are always there, but the projections change so fast. The girl is apparently supposed to be the daughter of one of the mistress' friends. It will be something to do with the girl, I imagine.
Almost two hours into the dinner, the girl is arguing with her lover and stands up to leave- her eyes roll back in her head and she falls to the marble floor, thrashing. There is hysterical activity, projected characters rushing to the girl, the woman whose character is supposed to be the mother of the girl behaving with theatrical dignity in the circle of real women. The male lover is hysterical, kneeling and sobbing. It makes me uncomfortable, both the seizures and the reactions. I look for Akhmim, he is standing against the wall, holding a pitcher of wine, observing. He looks thoughtful. The girl's lover reaches onto the table and picks tip her wine glass while everybody else watches him. The action is so highlighted that only an idiot would fail to realize that it's supposed to be important. The "mother" shrieks suddenly, "Stop him! It's poison!" And there is more hysterical activity, but they are too late. The lover drinks down the wine. The "mother" is "held back" by her friends, expeditious since the other characters are projections and she would look foolish trying to touch them.
I am embarrassed by the melodrama, by the way these women play with violence. I look hack at Akhmim, but he's still observing. What does he think, I wonder.
There is a call for a physician, projections rush to and fro. There is a long, drawn-out death scene for the girl, followed by an equally long death for the lover. The women are openly sobbing, including Fadina. I clasp my hands together, squeeze them, look at the floor. Finally, everything is played out. They sit around the "dining room" and discuss the scenario and how masterful it was. The mistress looks drained but pleased. One by one the women pad back and change, then let themselves out until only the mistress and the "mother" are left.
"It was wonderful," she keeps telling the mistress.
"As good as when Hekmet was ill?" the mistress asks.
"Oh, yes. It was wonderful!" Finally they go back to change, Fadina following to help, and Akhmim and I can start clearing the dishes off the table.
"So what did you think," I ask, "was it what you expected?"
Akhmim makes a noncommittal gesture.
I stack plates and dump them on a tray. Akhmim boosts the tray, balancing it at his shoulder like a waiter. He is really much stronger than he looks. You don't like it," he says finally.
I shake my head.
"W
hy not, because it's not real?"
"All this violence," I say. "Nobody would want to live this way. Nobody would want these things to happen to them." I am collecting wine glasses, colored transparent blue and rose like soap bubbles.
He stands looking at me, observing me the way he did the women, I think. What do we look like to harni? He is beautiful, the tray balanced effortlessly, the muscles of his bare arm and shoulder visible. He looks pagan enough in his white robe, with his perfect, timeless face. Even his long curly hair seems right.
I try to explain. "They entertain themselves with suffering."
"They're only projections,' he says.
"But they seem real, the whole point is to forget they're projections, isn't it?" The glasses ring against each other as I collect them.
Softly he says, "They are bored women, what do they have in their lives?"
I want him to understand how I am different. "You can't tell me it doesn't affect the way they see people, look at the way the mistress treats Fadina!" Akhmim tries to interrupt me, but I want to finish what I am saying. "She wants excitement, even if it means watching death. Watching a seizure, that's not entertaining, not unless there's something wrong. It's decadent, what they do, it's ... it's sinful! Death isn't entertainment."
"Diyet!" he says.
Then the mistress grabs my hair and yanks me around and all the glasses in my arms fall to the floor and shatter.
Sweet childhood. Adulthood is salty. Not that it's not rewarding, mind you, just different. The rewards of childhood are joy and pleasure, but the rewards of adulthood are strength. I am punished, but it is light punishment, not something that demands so much strength. The mistress beats me. She doesn't really hurt me much, it's noisy and frightening, and I cut my knee where I kneel in broken glass, but no serious damage. I am locked in my room and only allowed punishment food: bread, tea, and a little cheese, but I can have all the paper I want, and I fill my rooms with flowers. White paper roses, white iris with petals curling down to reveal their centers, snowy calla lilies like trumpets and poppies and tulips of luscious paper with nap like velvet. My walls are white, and the world is white, filled with white flowers.
Mothers & Other Monsters: Stories Page 22
