The Last Harem

by George P. Saunders

  I had heard that Singapore was very tough on drug laws. In fact, if you were found trying to smuggle even marijuana into the city, you could be caned to death.

  The layover went quickly and soon (again) we were off to the airport. This time, we boarded a Royal Brunei Airlines plane.

  Two hours later, we arrived.

  ***

  I guess by now you must think that I'm hopelessly alcoholic, along with my girlfriends and George as well. To be sure, my friends and I did a lot of drinking en route to Brunei. It helped calm the nerves, allay some of the terror from my discussion with Sue. Even as we boarded Royal Brunei Airlines at roughly 11:00 a.m. in Singapore, we stopped for a few quick Mimosas.

  We landed in Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei's capital, about two hours later. And, yes, you guessed it, we were all quite tipsy. As soon as we got off the airplane, we saw several men in uniform – Royal Guards, waiting for us at the gate. I believe there were four of them in all, ages twenty to thirty. Their dress was fairly simple – white shirts, black pants and black hats that looked like oversized yamakas. We said hello, giggled, tried to appear sober, but failed miserably. The guards weren't really friendly, I don't believe one cracked a smile, but they were all exceptionally polite. Two of the guards asked for our passports and visas, and padded off, presumably to take care of customs.

  Kayla whispered to me as we walked to the airport exit.

  "Bet there's a few limousines waiting for us. Maybe one for each girl," she said.

  "Wow," I said, believing that Kayla had somehow acquired inside information that I had been denied. I anticipated drinking champagne in my own limousine, on the way to the palace. I stole furtive glances at Sue, who remained consistently morose.

  "They'll take us over in boxes," Sue said, on the way to the terminal exit. "If I have to blow one of the drivers, I'll scream!"

  I exchanged a look with Kayla. Sue seemed like she was from another planet.

  "Come on, this is Brunei. Limousines!" Kayla insisted. She winked at me, the girl in the know.

  We were in for a surprise.

  Two station wagons were parked along the immaculate sidewalk, just outside the terminal, with their doors open. Apparently, the Royal Family was sensitive to any kind of ostentatious exposure regarding their expensive, hedonistic "soft treasure" from the Imperialist West. They seemed to go out of their way to downplay our arrival – and get us out of public view as soon as possible.

  I guess, in retrospect, I could understand this policy. You run a country, you have enormous wealth, you want the respect of your people; why flaunt the eccentricities of your private life in front of your subjects? It made good political sense to downplay our arrival.

  The guards spoke English – not well, but enough to make themselves understood. They said we would arrive at something called The Sports Grounds within twenty minutes. We were instructed to sit back, and enjoy the ride.

  There was no further discussion after that.

  Kayla and I were in one car; Dalia, Cathy and Sue were in the station wagon just behind us.

  We remained silent throughout the entire trip from the airport to the Royal Palace.

  ***

  We arrived at the "Sports Club."

  I was expecting this miniature palatial city, paved with a nice road, possibly embedded with gold and diamonds. I know, an overactive imagination. And as usual, overactive imaginations are destined for disappointment.

  There was no gold. No priceless jewels lining the Yellow Brick Road to the Palace. Instead, we drove on a dirt road near the Sultan's garage. We caught a glimpse of the cars themselves: all Mercedes and Rolls Royces. How many, you ask?

  Try a few hundred.

  Literally.

  The garages were enormous – brick, concrete structures, very modern in appearance. I'd say the one garage was probably as large as a garage found in a modern apartment complex.

  The Palace beyond was also not what I was expecting, at least in terms of external architecture.

  I thought that the front gate to the grounds would be somehow magical in appearance, perhaps also laced with gold, rubies and diamonds. Instead, the gate we entered was made out of cast iron, affixed to concrete walls, downright utilitarian. Pretty drab. We drove through the gates. We entered a compound filled with mansions. I knew they weren't part of the palace, but they were huge, impressive.

  This was where we would be living for the next few months.

  We got out of our vehicles, and entered the Sports Club.

  "What are we doing here?" I asked to no one in particular.

  The other girls shrugged their mutual ignorance as well.

  Once inside the Sports Club, a woman named Camilla greeted us, speaking in a distinctly annoying British accent. She was essentially our cruise director, and titular Grande Dame of the harem. Her job was to indoctrinate us to our new lives here at the palace.

  "Welcome, ladies, welcome all," she commenced, as we stood there in a huge hallway. "The Sultan and his brothers, the royal highnesses, extend greetings to you all. From here, you will be taken to your quarters, where you will all be able to relax for a bit. My name is Camilla and I want you to look at me as your ombudsman."

  "What's that?" Sue piped up.

  Camille rolled her eyes impatiently. "It's like a confidante. Someone you can go to if you have problems, or feel depressed, or if you need someone just to talk to."

  Camille nodded to some servants and she was gone. I rarely saw her after that first introduction.

  Dalia was the first girl to be dropped off at House Number One. At House Number Two, Sue and Cathy were deposited. Last to be dropped off at House Number Three was Kayla, and House Number Four was my final destination.

  The guards followed me, carrying my bags. Most of the girls already living there were still asleep. The parties, as we were to learn, lasted until 3 a.m. Of course, no one went right to bed afterwards. So things were quiet when we arrived at mid-day.

  I was a little concerned that I would not be Kayla's roommate. Here I was, again, alone. Would I have a roommate? Would I have a private suite?

  When I entered the house, I was greeted by two maids - Tipi and Kai Li. They were both from Thailand, and they smiled constantly. They spoke very little English, but they bowed a lot. Most of the maids were either Thai, or Indonesian; very few Chinese, some Filipino ... no Bruneians.

  A few of the girls were up and about and one recognized me: she was a good friend's sister. Her name was Tina. My friend's name is Lisa. Lisa had left Brunei many months earlier, but we had never had the occasion to speak. I was relieved to see someone with whom I had at least some passing acquaintance.

  Tina took me to the room, with the maids and the guards still behind me. I realized that I would be sharing a room, not with one girl, but two – Tina and Patty. I freaked a bit – I like my privacy, and I wasn't crazy about this kind of crowd. At this moment, inexplicable fear gripped my soul: what had I gotten myself into? Was this really some kind of claustrophobic harem?

  The guards left my bags and I began to unpack. Tina stayed with me, perhaps anticipating my anxiety. She started to explain the routine of the palace. She knew that we were coming, so she had stayed up all night to greet us. Tina was a very genuine person, but later I learned that some of the girls actually stayed up to see the "new competition" arriving. It sounds silly – but this was the case. The atmosphere was not unlike a nest of pit vipers: catty women who had little else to do except gossip and discuss the other women's shortcomings. This was not the opinion I formed of my new digs immediately – but it was the impression I was left with on my last day, just before my journey home. I'll explain my reasons later...

  No sooner had I finished unpacking than the guards notified us that we had to be ready to go to the infirmary within the hour. We being, "the new arrivals."

  The infirmary?

  Why? I wasn't sick.

  The reason, of course, became very clear: we were to be tested for any
sexual diseases. AIDS, specifically. It was a terrifying disease to the Royal Family. We were to be tested every sixty days.

  The clinic was very clean; large and airy, not the least bit antiquated. The doctors and nurses were Caucasian, from London, Australia and New Zealand. Both doctors were around forty and very handsome. Their names were Dr. Sam and Dr. Zeus.

  Dr. Sam withdrew blood from my arm and smiled.

  "Glad to be here?" he asked.

  "I don't know," I said, wincing as the needle went in. "Is this really necessary?" I asked, looking at my blood suck up into the syringe.

  "Afraid so, lassy," the young doctor replied. "The whole AIDS scare has most of the Asian Pacific in a panic. It's just a precaution, really very routine."

  Well, it may have been routine – but I also found it to be a bit intrusive. I mean, it wasn't like I was going to have sex while I was here . . .

  My mind flitted back to my conversation with Sue on the plane.

  I suddenly felt like crying.

  I had just finished with the blood test when suddenly a man entered.

  "Stand," Dr. Sam nudged me.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Please. Just stand," he said. He sounded . . . intimidated.

  I stood, along with the other inhabitants of the clinic, Kayla included. Dalia, Sue and Cathy had just entered the infirmary moments before the appearance of the strange man who commanded so much attention – and respect.

  "Who is he?" I whispered to the doctor.

  "It's the Minister of Foreign Affairs, His Royal Highness Prince Mohammed Bolkiah."

  A prince.

  "You mean, the Sultan himself?" I asked, enthralled.

  "No," the doctor whispered. "It's the Sultan's brother. The second in command of the country."

  I studied the Prince. He seemed rather ordinary; short, though well dressed, with a natty little jacket and a starched shirt with no tie. I'd say he was around 45. He walked passed us all, and did not even acknowledge our presence.

  "What's he doing here?" I nudged my doctor. I was clearly a pest; Kayla and the other girls were dead silent.

  "I don't know, Ms. Dorian," Dr. Sam sighed. "I'm sure it's for a very good reason."

  This was supposed to shut me up. It did, for the time being.

  Anyway, blood taken, we left and went back to our respective houses. I finished the rest of my unpacking and took a nap.

  One of the guards approached me just before I retired. He explained in choppy English that we (the "new arrivals") had to be "prepared" earlier than the other girls for our formal introductions to the Prince and his entourage.

  "Prepared?" I asked. "Prepared for what?"

  Apparently, all the new girls were required to arrive to someplace called the Library before the others. In the Library, a Polaroid picture would be taken of each of us. The Library was in the Royal Palace itself!

  The Library looked like a hotel. Everything was marble; there was a humongous chandelier inside – and a bowling alley, just as you entered. Inside, also, was a tennis court! Diamonds, rubies and gold embossed every statue, every clock. I was surrounded by millions of dollars in jewels. The chandelier was the largest of any I had ever seen, embedded with rubies and emeralds.

  I cannot impress upon you how magnificent this interior appeared. Everything glistened; it was like something out of A Thousand And One Arabian Nights. It was, quite simply, intimidating.

  The staircase was completely carpeted; picture Gone With The Wind. This was the Library – or at least part of it. The section that Kayla, myself and the three other girls were escorted to also had a huge television. The guards led us inside, where we were told that Mr. Jan would meet us presently.

  We waited for around two hours. We watched television – a movie called Caddyshack on HBO Asia. Waitresses poured champagne for us and fed us hors d'oevres. The other girls, including Kayla, were very tired; they all fell asleep. I was determined to remain awake so as to greet Mr. Jan properly.

  It is at this point that I must contradict one statement made in the tabloids regarding this "waiting room" experience. Yes, the girls are all led to the Library, as a preamble to their ultimate destination – the Party Room. And yes, unfortunately, there is a substantial wait before Mr. Jan arrives to escort us personally to that Party Room. But I read someplace in one of the rag sheets that a girl stated the following:

  "We were all led to the Library. A big room, very scary. We then noticed a strange gas seeping out of one of the vents, almost like mist. One might confuse it for an air conditioning leak. But then suddenly, we were all feeling drowsy. We awakened several hours later. Our clothes were disheveled and we noticed scratch marks and small bruises on our bodies..."

  The implication is clear: That the girl(s) were all summarily knocked unconscious by some mysterious aerosol and were subsequently mauled – or worse. To which I say:

  Ridiculous.

  I noticed no strange mist seeping in from air vents. Nor did I fall asleep. Nor did I notice scratch marks or bruises on either myself or the other girls when Mr. Jan finally arrived.

  Perhaps we were the exception. Perhaps we were deemed "ungasable"...

  Sure enough, when Mr. Jan arrived I was the only one not fast asleep. I nudged the other girls awake.

  "I'm going to take you down to the party," Mr. Jan said, "and introduce you to everyone."

  We followed Mr. Jan down another gorgeous staircase – one that Rhett and Scarlett would have envied – and entered the Party Room.

  The Party Room was completely carpeted – and as large as an average disco. I saw sparkles in the carpet and speculated that perhaps there was gold dust in the material. A full bar was available; all the chairs and couches were gray leather. The tables were black marble, with miniature statutes: lions with diamonds and rubies in their eyes.

  The mahogany dance floor was surprisingly small. A Filipino woman was singing when I entered, with a Thai D.J. in the background; there were five female singers behind the lead. Most of the songs I recognized were in English; Michael Jackson, Michael Bolton, even the Beetles. But always with an Asian accent. I found it amusing.

  The D.J. was positioned behind a synthesizer, the likes of which belonged in a recording studio. Mr. Jan introduced us to all of Prince Jefri's friends.

  Prince Jefri occupied a very high place in the government; he was, as you may guess, part of the Sultan's close family. He is one of the people responsible for the importation of girls from all over the world. In fact, the Sultan himself had nothing to do with the nightly parties; nor did he, according to my best sources, even approve of the past time.

  I was amused when I read in the tabloids how the Sultan himself engaged in sexual escapades with his various brothers, cousins and other family members. Which brings me to my first huge revelation for the world – and an observation directly contradicted by the media. Here it is, the "ugly" truth: As far as I know, the Sultan was happily married to his two wives and is, quite frankly, too damned busy taking care of his country to party with imported beauties from abroad! The tabloids will hate to hear this little tidbit; most of their attention targets the Sultan himself. Not once during my six month stay in Brunei did the Sultan visit the Party Room or request any of the young ladies for a "private" audience. Never happened. And I am quite sure ... never will.

  It was my impression that the Sultan was very aware of his position in the political arena globally. He oftentimes invited the highest dignitaries from all over the world to his palace; on the Sultan's birthday, three months after I left, Prince Charles was the special guest. The impression the Sultan wanted to leave with them was one of a civilized city-state, run by, of course, civilized people. The Sultan reminds me of the King of Siam – ever mindful of place in the world, the perception of himself by other nations as a respectable and responsible leader, and ever uncomfortable with the current perception of Brunei as some huge island Mecca fully equipped for violent and unspeakable orgies.

  Bottom
line: The Sultan ran the place in a statesman-like manner. Very seriously. He kept long hours, and from all accounts, was not terribly interested in molesting young American women. I'm not saying that he was an angel; I can't vouchsafe for his personal character, nor was I equipped with enough information to comment on either the Sultan or Brunei regarding various human rights issues. But to my best knowledge, the Sultan had never been to the Party Room; he just wasn't interested.

  That's not to say that other members of the Royal Family didn't enjoy hanging with us almost every night. I guess they had the luxury to do so.

  On my first night, I met five friends of Prince Jefri. They ranged in age from 35 to 50 - two were Chinese, one was Indian, one was Italian and the last was a Brunei resident, perhaps Malaysian. His name I learned early on was Big Roy – called that because, well, he was large. Fat, I guess. Very, very fat. I liked Big Roy; he had a good sense of humor and was always a gentleman – though as I'll get into later, he had a certain romantic inclination for me.

  I remembered, in that moment, just looking around at all the girls and Prince Jefri's friends, and thinking that I had entered the Twilight Zone. On one end of the room, all the Asian girls congregated; on the other end, the American, British and Canadian girls stayed together. I thought this was rather odd, but I realized later that this was primarily because of the language barrier. Also, the Asian girls lived in different houses from the European or American girls; they stayed on premises known as Cottageland.

  During my entire stay in Brunei, I never once went to Cottageland. I don't believe we (Americans or Europeans) were welcome there; in fact, we were simply disliked. A very telling incident rammed that point home a few months later, with tragic consequences...

  Once in the Party Room, we were free to do as we wished. I mingled, though stayed close to Kayla, and ordered my first drink: A glass of Dom Perignion. It would be the first of many during my stay in Brunei. Dom Perignion became my mainstay, my fix for each nightly party.