by Zia Wesley
Perhaps this is magic water.
A few minutes later, Zahar reappeared, wearing only a length of colorful cotton cloth around her hips. She motioned Aimée to come out of the pool and wrapped her in a big, white towel, then helped her to step onto a pair of very strange wooden sandals. They were made from three pieces of wood, which raised her five inches off the floor. The shoes were cumbersome and almost impossible to walk in, but Zahar indicated that she should wear them. Taking her hand to help her balance, Zahar led her to an alcove off the main room that held five large marble sinks affixed to two of the walls. Silver faucets in the shape of open-mouthed fish poured hot and cold water into the sinks—Aimée had never seen such a sight.
A low marble seat stood before each sink. Zahar led Aimée to one of them, removed the towel, and helped her to sit. The seat was sculpted to hold the roundness of a woman’s buttocks, and Aimée sat watching the water pour freely before her, captivated by the wonder and beauty of this extraordinary place.
Zahar ladled bowls of warm water over Aimée’s neck and shoulders, then lathered her body with a fragrant soap and scrubbed every inch of her body with a rough loofa, the dried gourd used for centuries in the Middle East. Using copper bowls of warm water, Zahar rinsed off the suds, then tilted Aimée’s head back and massaged her hair with a fragrant substance resembling clay. The fragrance reminded Aimée of roses.
Aimée liked the fragrant lather and the feeling of Zahar’s fingers on her scalp, and closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation. Zahar tilted Aimée backwards once again and deftly rinsed the soap from her hair.
When she was finished, Aimée’s whole body tingled. Taking her by the hand, the slave led her from the sink and wrapped her in a soft white towel. Positioning her on a low cushion, she used a large wooden comb to untangle her long blonde hair, holding the golden strands in her ebony fingers and smiling in wonder. She had never seen such hair before.
When Aimée was combed out and dried off, Zahar helped her to step back onto the wooden clogs, then led her into an alcove with several narrow, waist-high tables. The room had two unusual depressions in its floor, like gutters. Two naked Nubian women, wearing the same type of high wooden clogs as Aimée, led her to one of the tables and motioned for her to lie down on her back. As Aimée tried to discern their intent, another woman appeared, carrying a large wooden bowl with an amber substance resembling honey.
Working quickly as a team, the women lifted one of Aimée’s arms over her head and used a flat wooden spatula to spread the warm honey substance onto her armpit. Aimée turned her head to the side to watch, unable to figure out what they might be doing. When she tried to take back her arm, two of the women prevented her from moving it. They continued to hold her arm stretched up over her head while another woman fanned the honey-covered armpit with a large paper fan. After a few minutes the woman stopped fanning and, using her fingers, began to peel up a small corner of the honey, which had now become cold and hard. Suddenly, with the quickest movement, she ripped the substance off Aimée’s skin. Aimée yelped loudly as the hardened honey took every one of her golden blonde hairs with it. The pain was intense, but only lasted a few seconds.
Aimée tried in vain to get off the table, but the women held her in place to finish their work. They rinsed under her arm with warm water then applied some fragrant oil to the newly hairless area. Completely mystified by this operation but powerless to resist, Aimée stopped trying.
For the next hour, the two women worked expertly to remove every trace of Aimée’s body hair. When they approached her pubic area, it took six slaves to hold her down. But struggle as she tried, every hair was ultimately removed. Unlike her legs and underarms, which recovered from the stinging pain rather quickly, her nether region would ache until the next day.
Totally baffled by the hair removal, she wished she could converse with the women to ask its meaning. She could certainly not ask the French-speaking giant, Baba. She wondered if her hair would ever grow back. If her hair did grow back, she wondered if she would be forced to endure this treatment again. Had she understood their language, they could have told her that as proscribed by the Quran, women were forbidden to have body hair. Her hair would grow back within four to five weeks and would be dutifully removed again and again.
When she was smooth and hairless (except for the hair on her head), two slaves slathered her entire body with fragrant oil, expertly massaging it into her skin. This was the first time that Aimée had ever been touched in this way. Strange hands ran over her naked body, kneading her muscles from face to toes. She wanted to resist, surely it must be sinful, but these same hands had just performed even stranger ministrations, which she had been powerless to resist. She decided that she should just lie still lest they become angry. But as she lay there pretending to submit, their expert hands and the intoxicating fragrance of the oils lulled her into a state of true relaxation.
When the massage was over and she stepped off the table and onto the clogs, she saw that their purpose was to keep one’s feet out of the sticky substance used to remove her hair, which was now all over the floor and running down the gutters.
They wrapped her in a soft cotton blanket and led her to a divan, placing a pillow beneath her head. Motioning her to close her eyes and rest, Aimée immediately fell into a deep sleep, the most restful one she’d had in weeks. When she awoke two hours later, Zahar appeared and helped her don her caftan.
Aimée and Zahar returned to the guest room to find an exquisite assortment of clothing displayed on the divan. With a big smile on her handsome face, Zahar held up one beautiful garment after another for Aimée to see. There were loose silk underdresses like chemises, fashioned in soft pastel colors, with intricate embroidery along the hems. Voluminous silk trousers fastened at the waist and ankles with little pearl buttons. Light linen caftans woven with gold and silver threads had long, flowing sleeves and pearls stitched to their hems. There were a dozen pairs of soft leather slippers embroidered with silver and gold. However, the items that Aimée found most fascinating were the belts made of ropes of jewels. Each was long enough to wrap around her lithe body two or three times.
Zahar showed her how the belts might also be worn as necklaces, wrapped around her neck several times with a long loop that hung past her waist. There were silver ones hung with turquoise, corral and enameled beads, a gold one studded with rubies, sapphires and diamonds, and another of freshwater pearls. Aimée had never seen jewels of this size or variety. They were wondrous but, when she looked down at herself dressed and bejeweled she was seized with panic. What could be the purpose of all of this extravagance? Am I being arrayed to be ravished?
The smile disappeared from her face, and despair took hold. No doubt the price of the giant’s help would be her virtue. She sat down on a big silk cushion, put her face in her hands and cried. Zahar brought her a glass of mint tea, but fearing it might be drugged, Aimée would not drink it.
At a loss for what to do, Zahar stood silently until Ahmet arrived. At the sight of the male servant, Aimée wailed louder. As if comprehending the girl’s fear, Zahar fussed over her and spoke soothingly but firmly. Even though Aimée could not understand her words, she discerned their meaning—she had no choice. There was no escape. The barbarian was her only hope. Maybe she could appeal to his sense of chivalry, if indeed he had one.
Zahar dried Aimée’s tear-streaked face and gently gathered loose strands of her blonde curls to fasten them with a jeweled comb. Then she led her to the waiting Ahmet, whose disapproval of her histrionics was apparent. His haughtiness made her feel like she had during her failure in Paris. Angry and determined that no one should ever make her feel unworthy again, she stamped her little foot and scowled at him. With a raise of his eyebrows, he turned and graciously motioned her to follow.
Chapter 18
Aimée followed Ahmet through three long hallways to a small, oval-shaped room whose ceiling stood miraculously open to the star-filled evening sky. For the secon
d time that day, she had walked into a room unlike any she had ever seen. She stood in the doorway, looking up in amazement. In this house, it seemed that each time her fear arose some wondrous sight obliterated it. The open roof allowed warm night air to fill the space with fragrant scents of night-blooming jasmine and datura, reminding her of Martinique. She stared up at the stars, captivated by the room’s exotic beauty.
Baba had been reclining on a mound of plump pillows. When Aimée entered, he heaved himself up to a standing position, clasped his hands together in prayer and gasped at her beautiful transformation.
The rose-colored silk caftan she wore, heavily embroidered with silver threads, matched the silk slippers on her feet perfectly. Thin chains of gold interspersed with rubies graced her ankles and wrists. Zahar had helped her to arrange a sheer golden scarf over her head and shoulders, and ropes of unevenly shaped freshwater pearls, interspersed with rubies, encircled her neck twice, then hung to the top of her thighs. As she removed the headscarf, soft waves of her pale blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, almost to her waist.
“Magnifique, ma petite. You eclipse the very stars,” he said indicating the open ceiling. “Come sit. We will dine and I will tell you a wonderful tale. Come.”
Aimée’s guard went up, but she did not want to alienate the only person who might help her. Sensing her hesitation, he offered his hand and smiled.
“No one will harm you, ma petite. You have nothing to fear, I assure you.”
She wanted to believe this exotic giant of a man who spoke French almost perfectly. What choice did she have? She lightly touched his outstretched hand and noticed that the table at which they would sit was inlaid with an unusual bright blue, gold-flecked stone. Its highly polished surface took all of her attention for several seconds as she stood resting her hand in Baba’s.
Reading her thoughts he said, “Lapis lazuli. Do you find it pleasing?”
“I have never seen anything like it.”
“Yes, it is quite rare. Like you, little flower.” He lightly kissed her hand in the French style, unintentionally bringing her back to the reality of her precarious situation.
“Shall we?” he asked, as they sat down at the extraordinary table together.
A servant approached to place a large brass bowl on the table in front of Baba.
“To wash the hands. Like so,” he said, extending his hands over the bowl as the servant poured warm water from a pitcher over them. He handed Baba a linen towel for drying.
Aimée mimicked Baba’s motions as the servant repeated the procedure with a fresh towel for her. Another servant approached the table and from where he stood, poured a long stream of sweet mint tea into each of their small glasses without spilling a drop.
As Aimée watched both elegant presentations, she thought, they are so much more civilized than I believed barbarians to be. The pirates and their ragged ship had given no inkling of such a refined culture. However, Baba’s magnificent home was more sumptuous than anything she had ever seen, and his graciousness seemed to indicate good breeding and education, attributes not commonly ascribed to barbarians.
“The color suits you, Marie-Marthé. I hope my selections pleased you.”
“They were all so beautiful it made choice quite difficult. And these pearls,” she said, absently running the fingers of her right hand lovingly over them, “they are quite exquisite.” Trying to mask the purpose of her inquiry, she innocently asked, “Is this the manner in which all guests are welcomed in your home?”
Detecting the meaning beneath her words, Baba laughed heartily. “No, no. Only a guest of your stature, little one, and that is rare. Yes, quite unusual. Now I hope that you are hungry, because my cook has prepared one of my favorite dishes in your honor.”
He clapped his hands and four servants filed into the room, each carrying a large silver tray. The first approached and knelt to place a platter of sliced, raw vegetables before them. A small bowl in the center of the platter held what appeared to be clotted cream. Baba selected a slice of red pepper and dipped it into the little bowl.
“Yogurt with garlic and mint,” he said popping the tidbit into his mouth and selecting a slice of cucumber for his next bite. “Eat, my dear, it is delicious, and you look as though you have not eaten in weeks.”
Not finding any utensils on the table, and seeing that Baba had used his fingers, Aimée reached for a slice of cucumber.
Immediately Baba’s eyes widened as he put both hands up to stop her. “No, no, mademoiselle! Not that hand! Only the right... never the left, never.” he exclaimed.
Aimée dropped the cucumber and picked it up again with her right hand.
“That is correct.” Baba smiled with relief.
“Why only the right hand?” she asked.
“The left is used for other personal things. One never uses that hand for food. It would be unclean.”
Aimée did not understand his explanation, but said nothing. She gingerly dipped the cucumber into the yogurt and brought it to her mouth. She was surprised to find it delicious, both tangy and refreshing.
The next servant approached and knelt to place a steaming bowl of grain on the table.
“Couscous with currants and almonds,” Baba announced, and Aimée recognized it as the same grain that she had eaten aboard the pirates’ ship in a much less elegant presentation.
A third servant lowered a large earthenware platter piled high with fragrant chunks of cooked meat.
“Lamb?” Aimée asked, inhaling its distinct aroma.
“Yes, lamb braised in sweet goat’s milk and honey. Delicious.”
Finally, the last servant came forward and laid a colorful earthenware platter on the table in front of Baba. It appeared to be some type of pie, covered with powdered sugar. The servant handed Baba a long wooden spoon.
Baba grinned at Aimée. “But this is food for the gods... it’s called bistilla.” he exclaimed, plunging the spoon deep into the center of the pie.
Immediately, steam escaped from the hole as Baba continued making the opening larger with the spoon. He inhaled the spicy fragrance of the escaping steam and indicated for Aimée to do the same. She sniffed hungrily and immediately identified cinnamon.
“Ahh, delightful.” he said, closing his eyes in contentment. “But we must let it cool a bit.”
The servant moved the dish to the other side of the table.
Aimée searched the table again, but could find no utensils. Surely, she was not meant to eat everything with her hands? Before she could ask, a servant scooped a small portion of couscous onto her plate with a large, flat wooden spatula and topped it with a helping of lamb. Baba, who was served first, had already picked up some of the grains with his fingers and brought them neatly to his mouth. He motioned Aimée to do the same.
Careful to use only her right hand, she tried to pick up the grains as neatly as Baba had, but found it awkward and difficult.
“It is an art that you will learn. Try to use just the tips of three fingers, like this.” He demonstrated slowly for her, and again she tried to imitate his motion. “Do not worry. You will learn.”
No need, she thought. I will not be here that long.
The couscous and lamb were incredibly delicious and she had been very hungry. She wondered if it was permissible to lick ones’ fingers but refrained because she did not see Baba do so. When the first course was finished, Baba motioned the servant to serve the bistilla. When it was on her plate, Aimée saw that it was actually several layers of paper-thin crust surrounding some unknown ingredients. As politely as she could, she asked what was in it.
Baba thought for a moment. “I believe that you call this pigeon. There are also almonds, pistachios, raisins and sugar.”
Aimée’s eyes blinked rapidly in astonishment. It looked nothing like pigeon and it smelled strongly of cinnamon. When she picked it up in her fingers, she saw that it contained small bits of meat that indeed looked like fowl. There were also some bi
ts of things that tasted like nuts but were green in color, and some sweet brown things that tasted like fruit. After swallowing her first bite, she decided that it was the best thing she had ever tasted. Her hunger overrode any self-consciousness over her ability to eat neatly with one hand, and she managed to eat two helpings.
Baba watched happily. “I knew you would enjoy the bistilla. And now we shall have some sweets and rose petal tea while I tell you my wonderful plan.”
Until that moment, Aimée had been so engrossed in eating the delicious food that she had forgotten her fear. Now that her hunger was satisfied, her trepidation returned. Her cautiousness rose as the servants cleared the table and brought a platter of sweet cakes, dates, figs and nuts.
