The Sultan of Barakesh sits on a striped silk pillow. It rests on a huge colorful Persian rug in the center of his magnificent tent. Camels, many camels, are blubbering in the hot sun, doing nothing but breathing and stinking up the tent’s open flaps.
Frightened and angry, I sit cross legged on the outer edge of the circle. Trays of sticky brown dates, pomegranates, grapes as big as my fist, are brought in for his approval and the enjoyment of his ladies, waiting ladies. Sandaled feet make no noise nor do any of the ladies of the harem. He is the King of Kings, kind, gentle when he wants to be but those times are rare. He motions towards the beautiful young girl standing in front of him. She moves forward like a slithering snake. The Sultan claps his hands and one of the many eunuchs bring the young miss to him. His eyes swallow her youth, her beauty while he fondles her breasts, move down to her navel. The eunuch brings him a vial of pomegranate juice and pours it in her navel. The Sultan licks it out and nods a yes.
All of the harem knows the young beauty will do his bidding tonight, maybe one more night and he is tired of her. We will never see Alhandra after that. Before she is led out of the circled room the Sultan slips a long, beautiful golden chain around her neck, doubles it over her head and it is still long enough to reach her purple painted pomegranate navel. Finger cymbals clang, click. Alhandra is gone.
Her place is filled at once by a pretty and buxom young lady who has thick lips, huge breasts that more than peek out from her sheer silk jacket. No doubt at all, she is a virgin. Curious shining eyes give her away. The eunuch leads her to the empty space Alhandra left. He bows and looks towards the Sultan. I have watched this joke of a ceremony many times but have yet to see the signal that passes from one to the other. The strong but virginal man walks backwards, stands erect, folds his muscled arms over his chest, raises his head high and leaves the tent.
I have been spared the Sultan’s lust longer than most ladies but my good fortune cannot last much longer. It is best I not dwell on this thought. I sew and sew, make beautiful scarves, shawls to ward off the cool desert evenings. The Sultan gives them to his nightly amours. A short reprieve happens for us all. Our every day pleasures cease. Camels approach. The Bedouins are here. They want to trade wines, camels for water, for fur rugs. One black bearded Bedouin offers his fat wife for one camel. The camel is prettier. The Sultan laughs at him. ‘Go away, camel shit. Go away or you will die!’ Nomads know of the Sultan and leave without a trade. Strong cool winds blow away their footprints.
The day is hot but bearable as palm leaves tied to poles swing back and forth. I eat well, am brought an especially lovely dress to wear today. My turn has come. For weeks I have tried to plan an escape but know that death here will be kinder than walking to infinity in the burning sand. As the sun lowers itself behind a burning dune, night’s chill begins. I am called into the Sultan’s bedroom. Servants remove my clothes, bathe me in clear perfumed water. Fragrant oils slide over every part of my body. My hair is fixed with jewels. A sedan chair, pillows embroidered with golden threads, awaits me. There is no escape. I am borne in to the Sultan. Soft white furs are on the floor. There are long pillows for me, longer, fluffier ones for the Sultan.
As he walks in, his robe is blown open. I cannot believe what I see. He closes his robe and sits on the white fur, asks me to dance for him. Tambourines click fast, faster. Leather drums are pounded by the eunuchs. I swirl and tire quickly. My mind leaves where I am. Many Bedouins arrive, they steal treasures. The tent catches fire. There isn’t enough water to save it. I tell him about the fat Bedouin who forces him into her bed. She is bewitched and is really a princess. My story is long, it rattles, seems senseless to me, but the Sultan is entranced. He hangs on every word I say. ‘End it, end it!’ he commands. With quietly practiced cunning, I apologize. ‘I am sorry, I have no end to my story. If you let me return in three moons, I will finish it for you. You will be pleased. An agreement is made and I return to my own bed. For two days and nights I think, I dream of exciting stories–no end to any. Each day I am revered, treated like the Queen of Sheba, bathed, perfumed, fed the finest of foods. I live on and on and on.
When next your caravan passes the Sultan’s Empire, please stop here, ask to visit me. Tell eunuch # 10 to let you visit Zela-bop Sherazade, Story Teller Extraordinaire.
No comments:
Post a Comment