by Paul Blades
The girls were always supervised, and if they were not practicing their dancing, or lounging around the main tent with Jaida or Rajib in attendance, they spent their times alone and bound in their tents. Every day, they fed from the breasts of the older women who seemed to be somehow imbonded to Jaida, as docile and compliant as a herd of cows, with Rajib as their harsh taskmaster. Daily, Rajib would mix special herbs and spices for them and mix them in their food. They dutifully and morosely consumed it while he watched, casting dark, fearful looks at him.
Over the months, the camp was moved several times. The older women, with the help of the men of the camp, would pack up Jaida’s tents. They moved by truck, not by camel, with the men of the camp as drivers. They also served as the musicians and had their families with them. This helped provide cover for Jaida, making their encampment seem pedestrian. It was clear that she had some kind of power over them and they would obey her orders with slavish deference. Their women and daughters served refreshments to Jaida’s guests at night, dressed in colorful Arab garb, although it was always clear that they were not available for other, carnal duties. Jaida’s girls traveled in little cages, gagged and bound, in a locked truck driven by Rajib. They would cross over to Algeria from time to time and into Libya. With Rajib at the head of the column, for some reason, they never had any trouble at the borders. Business would always pick up when they moved near a new city.
The spring came. In May, Farak was sold to a wealthy shipping magnate from Oman. Before she was allowed to leave, she spent a week in Rajib’s tent. The night after she left, the remaining girls were all brought into a circle in Jaida’s tent. Once they had all breathed deeply of Rajib’s incense, they joined hands while Jaida and Rajib made love on top of a large, silk cloth decorated with strange pentagrams and obscure writings. Within a few days, her replacement appeared, a tall, languorous Dutch girl who fell afoul of some drug dealers in Marrakech. She was given the name Anisah.
Little Bahira, the French girl, was sold in August, after a week in Rajib’s tent, to a man who owned a rich mining concession in Morocco. She was replaced two days after the subsequent ceremony by another American girl, Barbara, who they named Fatima. She was an athletic brunette with a fine, compact body who had disappeared from a bazaar in Cairo while on vacation.
Business was brisk, so much so, that the girls strained to accommodate it. As a result, in October, another ceremony was conducted and within a week, a sultry, black haired, dark eyed Irish girl was added. She had been with a UN team in Darfur when the village they were stationed at was overrun by raiders. The other team members had been released after some tense negotiations, but Cassie, later given the name Yaminah, was never found. Ghaniyah and Yaminah quickly became good friends.
In December, they were encamped by a small town called Daghagra in southeastern Tunis, about 60 miles from the Libyan border. It was Ghaniyah’s one year anniversary, but she didn’t know that. She didn’t think about those things. She had spent the last few days in Rajib’s tent just to make sure that her commitment to her new life was reinforced. All of a sudden, business dropped off to a mere trickle. Rajib went into town and came back with the news that there had been riots in Daghagra. All the girls were brought to the main tent and locked into their cages. Jaida and Rajib debated what to do. They considered moving back to Algeria, but had been told that border security had been heightened on the Algerian side due to the disturbances. The same was true on the Libyan side. They decided they would sit it out.
The girls were scheduled for refreshers. They practiced their dances. Business started to trickle in again. After two weeks, they decided to move nearer to a big city. They relocated outside the coastal city of Zuara. Business picked up. One night, in January, the 14th, news came in that the government had fallen. The next day, the 15th, some of the wealthy merchants from Zuara, who had been members of the opposition, sent word out that they wanted to reserve the next night, the 16th for a great celebration. Tantalized by premium rates, Jaida agreed.
The party started a little after sundown and carried on all night. By 11 o’clock, Ghaniyah had made five trips back to her tent. Liquor was flowing, the band was playing, the girls were dancing up a storm. Ghaniyah had developed, under Jaida’s tutelage, a special routine. She was wearing a golden circlet around her head on which dangled small, golden coins. Around her waist was a golden chain. A few months ago, Jaida had given her a bright diamond to wear in her nose, she had cried with happiness when she received it, and it sparkled in the bright lights that shined down over the dancing ring. She was in the middle of her performance, had discarded all of her diaphanous coverings, when suddenly three Humvees pulled into the circle of tents. Men dressed in desert camouflage uniforms jumped out and started firing their weapons in the air. They were in the main tent within moments. The girls started to scream, men ran for the exits. Jaida and Rajib sprung to their feet. Ghaniyah had been so entranced by her dance that when the music stopped it took her a few moments to realize it.
A boyish looking man, dressed in a jacket and tie approached her. He grabbed her by the arms and started shaking her. “Miss Harrington! Miss Harrington! It’s me, Tom Martin! From the American Embassy! Don’t you recognize me?”
Ghaniyah was in a daze. “Why is this man shaking me?” she thought. “What is Harrington? What does it mean?”
“Leslie!” the man shouted. He shook her some more. “Leslie! Wake up! Wake up! Your father sent us. These men are Air Force commandos. We’ve been looking for you for a year! The woman, Colonel Abib’s wife, called your father a year ago. Told him everything. We got Abib to talk, but we hadn’t been able to find your caravan. You’re going home!”
“Home?” she thought. “Leslie?” And then, from deep in her mind’s recesses, the name came floating back to her. “Leslie! That’s my name, Leslie! I’m Leslie Harrington! Oh my god!”
She turned and looked around the tent. Rajib was staring at her with his demon’s eyes. Jaida looked as if she were on fire. Martin pulled at Leslie’s arm.
“Come on, we’ve got to get going. All hell’s broken loose in Tunisia and the border is wide open. We can be there in an hour! You’re going home!”
Leslie realized that she was stark naked. Martin pulled on her arm again and she started to go with him. They ran out of the tent. He dragged her into a Humvee. It fired up and sped away.
Martin had a blanket and he covered her with it. Leslie started to cry. It was all over! She was going home!”
An hour later, the Humvees pulled through the unmanned Tunisian border and into Libya. Special arrangements had been made with the Libyan government and they were waived right through.
Martin was holding Leslie tightly in his arms. She was dazed, half awake. Her hand was between her legs. She thought of the gold ring in her pussy, which she had never been allowed to touch. Her fingers found it now. It was smooth and hard. She recalled its sparkling color whenever she had been given permission to see it. She thought of all she had been through, all the men and women who had used her, her life as a slave, owned and controlled by others, her life of fevered sexual abandonment. Strong, confining arms were holding her, controlling her. Her fingers rolled over the ring and then drifted north, into her lubricating divide. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she moaned, and began a slow, languorous manipulation of her sex.
POSTSCRIPT
Three months after she returned home, Leslie received in the mail an envelope postmarked from a town in western Tunisia called Talah. It contained a single colorful piece of paper coated with an aromatic dust. There were strange, Arabic words on it drawn atop a pentagram. Her fingers tingled as she held it. After scrutinizing it carefully, she threw it away and forgot all about it. For reasons she was not quite sure of, a week later, without telling her family, she boarded a plane to Madrid and then caught a connecting flight to Algiers. She stayed at a hotel on the outskirts of the city. The next morning, she resumed her journey, taking a train to the small Algerian town of Biskra
. She was met at the station by a tall, dark skinned man who seemed to know her. She got into a taxi with him, leaving her small travel bag on the platform, and they drove to an encampment a few miles outside of town where Jaida was waiting.
The end.
