The Last Harem

by George P. Saunders

  "If he wants great singing, why doesn't he invite Pavarotti?" I said petulantly.

  "He's too fat. And he's not female. But Michael Jackson was there a few weeks ago."

  "Well," I said. "Lucky Mike. How much was his fee?"

  "Two million dollars, I believe," Aphrodite said.

  I was no longer stunned by such figures, not in context with the subject of Brunei. "Well, heck. Mike needs the money."

  Aphrodite swatted my arm and continued packing our bags.

  A word on Aphrodite with regard to preparing for travel, and with regard to being her boyfriend: I didn't have to do a thing. All I had to do was hold on to my passport. She did everything else. She packed clothes, socks, underwear, toiletries, paperwork, medicine, you name it. She's frighteningly efficient. Being a generally loutish fellow, hating packing and details, I was grateful for Aphrodite's expertise in such matters. I let her do everything. In fact, I had no choice; I was barred from closets and drawers until the packing process was complete.

  We departed Los Angeles for Singapore on July 11th. On our last stay in Singapore, tragedy hit via the television screen in our hotel room at the Hyatt Regency. TWA Flight 800 had gone down just after takeoff, near Long Island, New York. The details of this horrible event are well documented. Suffice to say that every time we got on a 747 for the remainder of our trip, we were pretty damned nervous. Perhaps not oddly, the paranoia was collective; everyone all over the world was talking about Flight 800 – at least in airports. Bear in mind, that at the time, no one knew (and I wonder if anyone now does) what caused the crash; the greatest likelihood back then was that a terrorist bomb had brought down the plane, with all 300 or so lives perishing as a result. Airports were not a fun place to be in mid-July, anywhere in the world.

  I had personal reasons to dread boarding airplanes during that time. The primary reason was that I hated flying in general; the secondary reason was Aphrodite's consistent preamble before we boarded each plane. The preamble went something like this:

  "I have a bad feeling about this flight, honey," she would say, just after we left the ticket counter.

  "Aphrodite," I would invariably say. "Please don't do this."

  "I can't help it. It's a 747."

  "I know that. 747s are the safest plane in the air."

  "Yes, but what about TWA –"

  "That was an isolated example of a 747 going down. And most likely, it was caused by a mechanical defect," I said at the time.

  George Saunders, aviation expert.

  "I feel there's a bomb on this plane," Aphrodite would say with pure, unadulterated conviction.

  "Please don't say that," I would say, very nervous.

  "Yes, there's definitely a bomb on board," she would say, nodding matter-of-factly at least six of the seven times we boarded a plane, be it a 747 or not.

  "There's no bomb on this plane," I would say, sometimes strapping myself into my seat, once on the airplane.

  "See that man there?" she would point. The man she pointed to, I'm sorry to say, was generally of foreign extraction, quite possibly middle-Eastern in appearance. The quintessential terrorist.

  "Yes, I see him," I would say. Mind you, this happened every single flight after Flight 800.

  "He's the one," she would say.

  I ordered scotch. A lot. Even before take-off. Take my fear of flying in general, add a dose of Aphrodite, then a few scotch chasers. It was the only way I could face becoming airborne.

  In retrospect of September 11, 2001, my views on air travel – and those of the world – have changed enormously. No jokes of terrorists on board at any time is today, in 2012, considered remotely amusing.

  Of course, once we were up and away, Aphrodite would drop the subject of bombs and terrorists. Until the turbulence began.

  "Oh, shit, this is it," she would say. Every time.

  Drunk at this point (every time) I would take her hand and kiss it. "What's it?" I would ask.

  "We're going down," she would say. "Just like Flight 800."

  "Nah, we'll be fine."

  "Where's that man? He's not in his seat?"

  "He went into the john."

  "To explode the bomb, I'll bet."

  I ordered tequila after that. Usually. Or gin. I can't remember.

  On one occasion, I actually believed Aphrodite had articulated our respective epithets. It was on a connector flight from Rome to Venice, on the last leg of our world-wide trek. The airline was Al Italia. The plane was a two engine, propeller driven, puddle-jumper that carried exactly 29 people. No more. Including pilot, co-pilot and one stewardess.

  "This is the one," Aphrodite started in, as I clutched at my seatbelt.

  "Stop it," I said. It was morning. I had not yet had a drink. Big mistake.

  "No, really. Look at this plane. I could spit at it, and it would drop out of the sky."

  "Aphrodite, please," I whimpered. "You do this every time. Every time we get on a plane, you torment me like this."

  "I don't mean to. I just think of those poor people on Flight 800 –"

  "So do I. But stop including us in the probable crash statistic," I said. "It's getting old."

  She shut up. We took off. We were flying over a magnificent mountain range when suddenly, an updraft hit our plane. We teetered. And then we began to descend.

  AAAHHHH! My mind said silently...

  Aphrodite reached for my hand. But she said nothing.

  Our Italian pilot came on the loudspeaker:

  "Ladies and gentlemen, what you just felt was fairly common at this altitude and given our location, as we begin our descent into Venice. Warm air sometimes mixes with the colder convective air of –"

  I didn't listen after that. The plane continued to rock and roll like Madonna on methadone. I remembered Tamara's husband, throwing up in the john, freaked out by airsickness and I had new sympathy for the boy. I felt my stomach begin to churn.

  "I love you," Aphrodite said quietly, her eyes closed. I don't think Aphrodite was as terrified as I was (and am) of flying, but given the recent tragedy of Flight 800 at the time, I suspect she was simply resigned to her life being extinguished in some kind of air tragedy. Of course, I felt this every time I boarded any plane, anywhere, but for Aphrodite, the sensation was probably very unique.

  The plane continued to teeter and weave.

  Then, by god, she said the strangest thing in the world, believe it or not:

  "I fucked the prince," she said.

  * * *

  It caught me completely off-guard. I turned and stared at her but said nothing for the remainder of the flight.

  We landed. Believe it or not. A smooth landing at that.

  I saddled up to the nearest bar, Aphrodite in tow, and we did a couple of shots of Tequila. I turned to her:

  "Was that the truth?" I asked her, point blank.

  She gave me an equally blunt expression.

  "Yes."

  And then she spent ten minutes detailing her history with Robin.

  "Why did you decide to tell me twenty minutes ago?" I asked in quiet shock.

  "I – if I was going to die, it was just something I wanted to say to you. I love you. But I was with the Prince for a night. I didn't take any money. I was just drunk."

  I thought about what she had just said. I was still pissed as hell, but a voice in the back of my head told me to be understanding on this matter. After all, she could have lied to me, never told me about the affair with Prince Jefri, or for that matter, with Tina. But she didn't take that tack. She had leveled with me.

  It was painful, but it wasn't devastating.

  "Well, Aphrodite, believe it or not, I still love you," I said. I turned to her and shrugged. "You'll have to tell me the details later."

  "No, you'll just write about it one day," she teased.

  And she was right.

  ***

  We spent three magical days in Venice. Venice was my favorite stop in our round-the-world extravaganza. If you'v
e never been there ... go!!! It is like no other city in the world. The canals, the gondolas, St. Mark's Square . . .the pigeons!! Pigeons? Just go ...you'll see what I mean.

  I proposed to Aphrodite in Venice. Just as my father had proposed to my mother there back in 1958, after he had rescued her from a case of food poisoning. My mother and father had actually met in Paris; they both worked in the airline industries, he with Western and she with KLM, they had both been married and divorced, they were both on the town, healing from past loves that didn't work... Rose (my mom) got food poisoning in Paris, but was on duty as a ticket agent, traveling to Venice; dad (George, Sr.) spoke French, and had helped get a doctor for mom in that lovely city . . . and, in fact, had saved her life in the process. Rose had salmonella. Had it not been for George, Sr., mom may very well have moved on . . . and this book may never have been written, for better or for worse.

  Notwithstanding this romantic event, mother moved on to Venice. Quite by chance, my father was also en route to Venice. They met again . . . this time, at the famous Hotel Danielli. Resigned to chance, they decided to throw up their hands and do what any two sane people forced to stare fate straight in the face would do . . . they married. Not in Venice, mind you, but the proposal – ah, the proposal – was made under a bridge, in a gondola, at sunset.

  Does it get more romantic than that?

  I believe Rose had told the story to Aphrodite at one time. I remember the story well – both from dad's point of view, and from mom's.

  Aphrodite had decided that this was the most romantic proposal in the history of proposals.

  And so, as you might suspect, we dined at the Hotel Danielli, where my parents, Rose and George, had met 36 years earlier. We dined well. On a clear night, with the gondoliers singing their ballads to a city that loved nothing more than to hear their languid voices hum on the summer air . . .

  And the next day, towards sunset, I rented a gondola. Hand in hand, we entered the boat, and asked our gondolier and his partner to row on . . . and sing . . .

  And sing they did.

  Perhaps they were not the best singers in the world; surely not Pavarottis or Domingos . . . . but they were good. And they saw that we were in love. The Venetians are like no other people on the planet; they respect love as no one else can. They sang for us all night. And all we did was lie back, listen, kiss, and look at the stars.

  It was a perfect moment.

  Aphrodite and I share this with you now because it is important to her story: clearly, without the benefit of her stay in Brunei, such a dream could not have come true. The money helped.

  Beast that I was, at that moment under the stars, I was thinking of Brunei – if only fleetingly.

  Yet my thoughts were infinitely benevolent.

  This was good, I thought.

  This . . . was worth remembering . . . and writing about.

  Go to Venice. You'll see what I mean.

  The Goddess of Love and Beauty

  By way of Aphrodite...

  We actually bought the engagement ring in Singapore. But I insisted that the proposal take place in Venice.

  Girls, don't you agree?

  I periodically checked my machine at home, and sure enough, Robin had left some messages. They were short, quiet, never offensive; mainly curious as to my health and to my happiness. The tenor of the messages never varied from call to call, and in fact, they were singularly similar in nature.

  To this day, I am not sure why the Prince continued to maintain contact in those months after I left Brunei. I assume, quite simply, he missed me.

  I may not have been a so-called favorite … but perhaps I had become something more: A friend.

  He finally stopped calling six months after I had left Brunei. I never attempted to keep up the correspondence, by phone or by letter. In my mind, there was no point. I felt he was a nice guy, we had a few laughs together, but, let's face it, we were worlds apart in so many ways. I suspected after awhile that what Tina said early on, that the Prince had fallen in love with me, was true. Perhaps not deeply in love – but I was someone he would never forget.

  George and I remembered reading one tabloid months later that spoke of unholy acts of rape and sodomy – perpetrated by none other than the Sultan himself and Prince Jefri – against a particular young women who stayed in Brunei for a few short weeks.

  I keep thinking of Robin's delicate, almost effeminate bow to me on our initial meeting. His slight frame. His shyness. His gentleness. His ability to please a woman, his endearing way of wanting to do so on every occasion I was with him. I try to envision orgies, with leashes, with animals, with scimitar-wielding guards forcing young women into bizarre acts of copulation. I try to capture this gaudy vision of sex and violence, courtesy of the tabloids. It's hard.

  And then I remember... I was there.

  I never saw any of that. And I was there for not one month, but six. I was treated exceptionally well by the Sultanate. I was never raped. Nor sodomized. Nor thrust into a room, filled with tumescent young foreign men determined to do me harm, sexual or otherwise.

  Perhaps I missed something...

  But I doubt it.

  My most profound sexual experience was with another woman. Tina, who to this day lives happily ever after in Brunei. I love her as I'll never love a man. Even George. And he knows it. Understands it, even. For that, I loved him more than I can say. And yes, I had multiple romantic encounters with Robin.

  Brunei changed my life.

  But I must honestly say . . . it changed my life for the better. It opened my eyes: we live in a big world. God knows, there are a hundred different cultures out there – some which are completely alien to that of the United States. Sure, you all know that. But to see one culture in particular, Brunei; how it functions, how it treats women, marriage, sex, death, love and day to day living . . . to compare it to "American normality" in terms of acceptability . . . well. . .

  It is, at the very least, something to write about.

  ***

  After my return from Brunei in 1996, I was offered $5,000 for an interview by one of the top tabloids. I declined the offer.

  If the Sultan or his family were guilty, as alleged, I'm sure the truth would come out. For the time being, I went on record as stating, categorically, that I did not believe the Sultan or his family were guilty of any criminal sexual wrongdoing. Just one woman's opinion, but there it was.

  In fact, all I could say to the Sultanate as of that date and now

  is . . . thank you.

  Thank you for making my life richer.

  Thank you for a fascinating adventure.

  Thank you for the opportunity to tell an interesting story.

  For the record still, these thanks have not been paid for. I am not in contact with any representative or family member of the Sultanate. For all I know, the Sultanate would gladly do without my thanks - or the publicity generated by this book, if any.

  Probably, this is the case.

  Still, I'm grateful.

  Epilogue and Conclusions

  In 1997, I had just appeared on the Geraldo Rivera show. I accepted the tour of duty for $500. I was flown Coach to New York. My reasoning was simple: every chance I had to go on record to defend the Sultanate from the wicked allegations from certain parties regarding sexual criminality, I took it. I was accompanied by two friends, one an ex Playmate.

  Geraldo was predictably harsh. There was no mistaking his innuendo that all the girls who went over to Brunei were, in essence, whores. But then again, this came as no surprise to me. I suspected nothing less than "Geraldoesque Exploitation." Still, I appeared on air, in a wig, speaking my piece.

  There seemed to be little indication that the interest in the Sultanate and its controversial "harems" was in any danger of diminishing; in fact, various high profile television shows and networks had brought every story they could obtain to its highest potential for exposure. Brunei, the Sultanate and the harems therein were still titillating food
for the masses. And America would wolf down whatever television or the tabloids fed it like a puppy going for its Alpo.

  With Geraldo behind me, I had decided to retire from the world of talk-show television. I appeared on 20/20 and Close-Up; again in shadows, again, under an alias. I believe I had been fair and truthful with regard to all principal characters, but my openness on this subject, I had the feeling, did not go down well on many fronts.

  I am of the belief that this book deals more fairly with the Sultanate than the many tabloids did back in the 1990s.

  As for those allegations by certain parties – the allegations that state that the Sultan and his family were nothing more than brutal rapists, well . . . I still doubt it. Obviously, based on my personal experience (as well as testimony by friends of mine who also stayed in Brunei) these allegations seem somewhat farfetched. At the very least, exaggerated; at worst, blatant prevarication in an attempt to bilk the Royal Family out of millions of dollars in hopeful settlement. But, again, who knows? If indeed these allegations prove meritorious, substantively supported by witnesses and/or irrefutable proof of another nature, then I would be the first to offer heartfelt apologies for our initial doubt in this matter.

  However, at this time, I cannot recant on my personal experiences in Brunei; those remain, of course, unchanged and true.

  My Brunei experience, in a word, was extraordinary; and as you've read, hardly filled with violence and sexual harassment.

  ***

  Conclusions?

  Well, I, personally, have a few. To recap:

  Prince Jefri, aka Robin, and his entourage, enjoyed throwing parties on a nightly basis. They liked girls. So much so, that they were willing to invite them from all over the world to join in the nightly festivities. They were even willing to pay them a generous salary for their time. And, yes, on occasion, Prince Jefri, aka Robin, would even invite a girl or two out for "tea" and make romantic overtures. Sometimes they were accepted, in which case, the girls approached were recompensed in generous financial fashion; sometimes, such overtures were politely declined . . . in which case, the young lady or ladies doing the declining were courteously escorted to the airport the next day, their salaries paid up to that point, and sent unceremoniously home.