Seven
A half-dozen burly guards entered, shaking their coiled whips, pushing at us, harrying us as sheep dogs do a flock, separating us into two groups according to color. The guards discussed in which group the veiled woman belonged, then moved her toward the large group of terrified blacks.
Our small white contingent was led out into the vaulted slave souk, and each of us was mounted on a separate tiled dais where we would be auctioned off.
The guards herded out the black captives, parading them around and around the souk, enabling the customers to make selections from where they lounged on silk-cushioned marble benches. Separated family groups wept piteously. A guard tore the face veil from the Islamic woman who had comforted me. She raised a hand to her coffee-colored face, but continued to walk her erect, dignified way.
A customer, white-bearded and grotesquely stout, waddled over to touch my bandaged arm. The rosy-cheeked dealer shouted in Arabic. The customer backed off.
“The old pig,” said Rais Guzman to me in Spanish, a language none of the customers understood. “He knows he’s not permitted to touch you unless he buys you.” A scrolled parchment was handed to the old man. “Your doctor’s certification,” Rais Guzman informed me without the least hint of irony.
The auctioneer stepped to my dais. Bids were shouted.
In a shadowy corner, a tiny black girl stumbled. To avoid falling on the child, the unveiled Islamic woman swerved, flinging out her fettered arms. A customer’s delicate porcelain coffee cup spilled. And a guard shoved the woman to the ground, unfurling his rhinoceros hide whip.
Memory seized me. Pain. Humiliation. The cut of Amos Thornton’s riding crop. I leaped from the dais. All else seemed unreal, the gasped cries, the movement of guards, as I flung myself between the prostrate brown woman and the guard’s raised, lethal whip.
My body tensed for the blow. It never fell. Rais Guzman’s voice snapped an order and he moved to hold back the guard’s arm. “Get on that dais!” he growled at me.
“Not until I know she won’t be whipped!” The unthinking rage that pulsed through my blood shook in my voice.
Rais Guzman snapped out another order. The guard backed away. I helped the woman to rise. Again she began trudging the despairing circle.
As Rais Guzman handed me up the three cracked tile steps, he remarked, “An admirable display of spirit. It proves you’re not only beautiful but ardent.”
Indeed, the bidders’ shouting grew more excited.
The repulsively obese old man quavered out. The auctioneer nodded to the guards nearest me. One pinioned my wrists behind me so that the bamboo splints dug into my arm while the other lifted his hands to my breasts. I twisted and struggled. In vain. As my hair tumbled over my eyes, rough fingers undid the faceted gold buttons, stripping me of the court train.
“In Tripoli they are sons of dogs,” Rais Guzman said. “The law here is that before the final bid, the customer is entitled to see what it is that he buys.”
My burst of courage had dissolved. The guard unbuttoning my gown touched my breasts more than necessary, sending waves of nausea through me.
As my breasts and golden triangle of hair were revealed, the excitement in the crowd grew so thick that one could smell the strong, sexual sweat. More than one man reached furtively to touch himself. I closed my eyes. Let me faint, I thought. Let me die.
A contralto voice, one I had not yet heard, shouted a bid.
A wild hubbub ensued.
“Pull up your gown,” said Rais Guzman exultantly. “You’ve been bought. For ten times the highest amount ever offered in the Tripoli slave souk.” And he added, “The one who bought you is a stranger.”
I think he meant it as a consolation. But what did it matter? I struggled back into the satin gown.
A slight man in maroon turban and robes approached. His grave white face was beardless and smooth as a woman’s. With a numbed shock I realized my purchaser was a eunuch.
“My name is Ahmed,” he said in careful English. His voice had none of the shrillness I had come to associate with eunuchs, yet the contralto had no masculinity, either. Sympathetically he inquired, “Is there anything you wish?”
“Please send to Mijnheer Van Leyden at the Dutch consulate. He expected to ransom me—I’m Miss Moore. I’m positive he’ll repay all you’ve spent.”
“According to the laws of Tripoli,” Ahmed replied, gravely careful with his enunciation, “as soon as a prisoner is delivered to the slave market it is too late for ransom.”
I turned away to hide my tears. I had lost my world, my freedom and Stephen. So, for every intent and purpose, I was dead. How can a corpse weep?
Ahmed bowed decorously to me before going to the slave dealer, who gave him my documents.
“Here.” Rais Guzman was handing me my shabby cassimere cloak, all that remained to me of my former life. “Nobody knows who the eunuch is, or why he’s bought you. Obviously, though, he’s of immense wealth. There’s no reason for tears. As I expected, you’ve landed in the lap of luxury.” He raised his three-cornered captain’s hat. “I congratulate you.” And he went off to collect his leather bag of gold.
Ahmed returned. Among his retinue of servants was the Islamic woman, once more covered by her veil.
Ahmed read from the parchment, slowly translating from Arabic to English, “Uisha, of Egyptian and Libyan parentage. A mute. Skilled in the arts of massage and tending women’s hair.”
Uisha bowed to me. Touching her right hand over her heart, she extended it, palm up, toward me. An odd, baffling gesture.
“You wished me to buy her, too, did you not?” Ahmed inquired.
“It was very kind of you, but—well, why did you select me, or her, when—” I halted abruptly, not wishing to insult his unmanned state.
“Why did I, who cannot possess you, buy you?”
I nodded.
“You have a function,” he said, leading me toward the brick arch. “My master—”
I interrupted, “Then you’re a slave, too?”
“I was,” he replied. “My master is a very great man, and I was content to belong to him, but he freed me. And now in my own country he has given me the great honor of making me vizier of his households. You’re a present to him.”
“I’m to be given—like a bauble?”
“Like the rarest of treasures, Naksh.”
This was the first time I had heard my Islamic name, and I frowned at its oddness.
“Naksh is Arabic,” Ahmed explained. “It means the Beautiful One.”
“Is that why you bought me, because I’m blond and fair-skinned?”
“There are blond slaves to be bought—at a price,” he replied gravely. “When you rescued Uisha, who is neither of your race nor of your world, I saw your bravery and generosity of spirit.” He paused. “Through you, my master will be introduced to the virtues of the West.”
“How can a slave teach anything?”
“You are Naksh, the Beautiful One,” Ahmed said, his sober eyes resting on me. “By being yourself, he will learn from you.”
We moved out of the unholy murk of the slave market. A line of camels knelt waiting. One was magnificently caparisoned, its kneepads decorated with mirrors framed in pearls, a blue silk palanquin rising above the quilted saddle. A short ladder had been placed at the crouching animal’s side to ease the climb. Ahmed led me toward it.
“From here on you will be cherished and hidden, Naksh, in the manner befitting a woman who belongs to the Pasha Mohammed Ali.”
The quietly spoken name was like the reverberations of mountains falling.
“The Pasha?” I asked, a chill passing over my body. “You mean the ruler of Egypt?”
“He has conquered far more territories than Egypt,” said Ahmed, helping me up the ladder. “He is the single most powerful man on this earth.”
I recalled the story of the Pasha ordering the massacre of 470 Mamelukes, and the chill penetrated my bone marrow. I was to be sla
ve to the cruelest despot alive.
“You will teach him about the West,” said Ahmed, drawing the silk curtain of the palanquin closed.
Eight
Uisha emptied the flacon between my shoulder blades.
As her skilled palms spread the jasmine-scented oil over my body, I felt embarrassed. It was still difficult for me, raised in modesty, to accept such ministrations. Yet I let her massage me. Ahmed had made her my private servant and she clung to me with mute gratitude.
I was stretched on my stomach in one of the alcoves of the bathhouse in the Pasha’s harem. My wrist had healed by the time I reached Cairo, over a month ago. Before my arrival, however, the Pasha had left on an extensive tour of his Syrian provinces, so I hadn’t yet been thrust into his terrible presence. Yesterday he had returned to the Citadel—or so I had overheard.
I spoke Arabic now. When Ahmed’s retinue had left Tripoli on that Sunday joining a large caravan, Uisha and I were as anonymous as any of the veiled female travelers, and Ahmed, too, had kept his identity secret. Each evening of the six-week journey along the great hajj trade route between Tripoli and Egypt, the eunuch taught me Arabic.
Realizing that the language was essential for escape, I was an apt pupil. My one goal was to be reunited with Stephen—and fear of the Pasha added steel to my determination to escape.
Uisha’s fingers dug firmly into the muscles of my waist, and to distract myself, I looked at the central pool of the bathhouse. Through the glass mosaic of the dome, rosy sunlight dappled two of the Pasha’s adolescent daughters, half sisters, as, naked and laughing, they splashed one another.
From the alcove I could see the Pasha’s four wives. He was permitted that number by his religion. All four were clad in bright, gauzy robes that wetness made transparent.
Lullah Zuleika, the first wife—her title was Great Kadine—was at the head of the harem hierarchy, for she was mother to the Pasha’s oldest son, his heir, Ibraham. Lullah Zuleika was very stout, yet through her robe her flesh showed firm and healthy. Her moon face was creased into the sweetest smile imaginable: on her capacious lap perched a rotund baby boy, her first grandson, and she was fastening a gold amulet around his creased little neck. Lullah Zuleika was exceptionally superstitious. And exceptionally kind.
Lounging across the pool were the Syrian kadines. They were cousins, and from Syria’s ruling family. It was said that the Pasha had married them to secure his conquest of their homeland. At this moment, both Syrian kadines were feeding peeled grapes to a tiny girl who, with her black hair and huge dark eyes and camellia-white skin, might have belonged to either. Though these two shared a husband, they were best friends, seldom apart, and if there were any jealousy between them, I had never seen it. They gossiped about me and never spoke to me of their own accord—but if I spoke to them, they would reply.
The youngest kadine was a different story.
The Princess Corazhade.
The princess was niece to Sultan Mahmoud II, who sat on the jeweled throne of Constantinople and was the figurehead ruler of the Ottoman Empire, which included Egypt, the Near East to the Euphrates River, Asia Minor, Armenia, Bulgaria, Greece, Turkey, Albania, as well as provinces along the Danube River. Though politically Sultan Mahmoud had no power at all, he was revered as a descendant of the mighty Ottoman sultans who had conquered all Islam in the thirteenth century.
At the moment, the princess stood in arrogant nakedness as pearls were twined in her hip-length black hair by two servants. Once I had approached the princess: she had said, “Slaves don’t address me, and I don’t talk to them, except to give orders.”
Was her rudeness a normal outcropping of envy? The princess and I were of an age, so she might have viewed me as a rival. But I am sure she didn’t. It’s my belief that the disdainful brown eyes under the straight black brows, simply didn’t see me at all.
Uisha wiped off the excess oil. She unscrewed a jar. The foul-odored white paste was a depilatory made of quicklime and orpiment. Sighing, I raised my arms to let her apply paste to my fine blond stubble. The Egyptian fetish for removing female body hair deeply disturbed me. I had felt humiliated when, at my entry to the harem, my pubic triangle had been removed with resin.
Uisha washed the stinging paste from my underarms, and began perfuming me with attar of roses, when a gong sounded. I’d never heard its deep, reverberating note before.
It appeared to be a signal. Alcoves and the central pool rang with excited calls. Nurses scuttled after tiny children, young girls gleefully splashed from the water. The concubines clapped for their servants. Silken wrappers were donned. Wooden bathhouse clogs rang across tile floors like quick, happy drumbeats.
Lullah Zuleika hurried toward me, her rotund body swaying above improbably slender ankles.
“Naksh,” she said breathlessly with a glance at Uisha to ensure the mute servant was listening. “The Pasha’s home at last. That gong was the signal he’s about to visit the harem.”
My perfumed body went cold. It’s going to happen, I thought, and through my mind flashed terrifying visions of a dark-bearded Turk assaulting me.
“Will … does he usually see us all at once …?”
Lullah Zuleika’s soft bosom quivered with laughter. “Naksh, Naksh, it’s not as you’re thinking. Oh, assuredly he’ll take someone to his alcove. Probably …” She glanced at the princess, who, chin high, watched her servants scurry to gather her perfumes, lotions and jewels. “But this is a welcome home party. Don’t Franks have parties?”
“I’m an American,” I said doggedly. In the harem I had found vast, ignorant prejudice about the West. All nationalities were lumped together in one derogatory term. Frank.
“You’re a Frank.” Lullah Zuleika gathered me into a warm, sandalwood-scented hug. “But a very nice one. And you’ve been so patient about waiting to meet the Pasha. This afternoon you shall.” The moon face beamed. “The party’s in my apartment. I’ll serve sherbets and sweetmeats. The Pasha will give us all presents, and the children will run around in excitement.” She added like a fond mother, “Don’t forget to wear your amulet for good luck.”
Lullah Zuleika’s belief in magic was equal to her kindness. On the night Ahmed had led me, veiled and weak with anxiety, into the creamy-walled harem, she had presented me with a small, cylindrical gold charm. “It contains a verse of the Koran to protect you from the evil eye,” she had informed me. When I unrolled the scrap of paper to read aloud the minuscule calligraphy—Lullah Zuleika couldn’t read—she kissed me. From that night on, Frank or no, Lullah Zuleika had considered me as one of her own. She was so warm and good that I had begun to ask myself if she loved the Pasha could he be totally evil? And then I would remind myself that Lullah Zuleika, woman of Islam, had been trained to revere all males as gods.
She was instructing Uisha, “Make certain she has on all the bangles and rings that Ahmed gave her. She has a habit of forgetting.” Eastern women wear tremendous amounts of jewelry, and what they cannot load onto their own person, they then use to adorn their servants.
The bathhouse had emptied. While Lullah Zuleika was talking to Uisha, my mind began racing.
Wasn’t this the opportunity I’d been awaiting?
Escape.
I could almost hear Stephen’s assurances: In the East the law of sanctuary is strong, and those who are pursued—for whatever reasons—are safe in … consulates. While the harem gathered in Lullah Zuleika’s spacious apartment overlooking the rose garden, I would be on my way to the Dutch consulate.
There was no trick to leaving. The Pasha’s harem, like the others, was far from a prison. Servants constantly went on errands. Wives, daughters and concubines, suitably muffled and further hidden by retinues, sallied forth to visit other harems. Only the merchants who wished to enter and sell their finest wares were challenged. Why should gatekeepers question those who departed? Even the humblest kitchen slaves were proud to belong to the Pasha’s household. Who leaves paradise?
Uish
a held the mirror at different angles so that I could see myself in voluminous blue shot-silk harem trousers, a sheer white silk bodice and a small, royal blue velvet vest designed to draw attention to my breasts. With my gold jewelry, I was an exotic blond odalisque.
I thanked her, pressing a dinar in her palm—Ahmed had given me a coin purse, and I often made Uisha small presents. “Buy yourself some sugared dates,” I said. Outside the harem kitchens, women vended delicacies, and Uisha had a sweet tooth.
She shook her head, gesturing she would remain with me.
“No, you go ahead,” I insisted. “I’ll be at the party. You enjoy yourself, too.”
Realizing I wouldn’t ever see her again brought a lump to my throat. I’d grown very close to this skillful, comforting mute. I kissed her coffee-colored cheek. Her eloquent eyes were baffled. “Sugared dates,” I repeated, pushing her toward the door.
An infuriatingly good servant, she held it open for me. So I had to thrust my bare feet into the up-pointed blue velvet Turkish slippers and pretend I was on my way to Lullah Zuleika’s apartment.
By now the courtyard was alive. Women hurried along, chattering and laughing, touching henna-tipped fingers to bejeweled braids. A nurse carried a richly clad infant, and two little girls skipped after them in unison.
I joined the throng. After a few steps I glanced back. Uisha had disappeared. I clasped my hand to my throat. “I forgot my necklace,” I said loudly to nobody in particular. My remark was ignored. For once I was delighted to be snubbed.
Running back to my room, I closed the door, leaning against it, holding a hand to my wildly fluttering heart. In my clothes press were the robes and veil I’d worn on the long journey to Cairo.
Enveloped in the black habarah—or robe—and white face veil, I was anonymous: I could have been any woman in the harem from the slight slave, Uisha, to Lullah Zuleika, the rotund Great Kadine.
Finally, the courtyard was empty. The splashing of the fountains sounded ominously loud. My robes rustled like ghostly cerements. And all at once I remembered the blind harem storyteller reciting a tale of a eunuch greatly devoted to his master: this eunuch had used a red silk cord to strangle an escaping odalisque.
The Emerald Embrace Page 10
