The Fourth Queen, page 4
If I am discovered, I shall claim that I am designing embroidery motifs to be stitched onto a djellabah for His Majesty. Since the Moors write a spiky topsy-turvy script, like a frayed woollen thread, they will never suspect the true import of my curlicues élégants. If the worst should come about, and the designs are dispatched to the Royal Tailors, I shall have the pleasure of seeing the Emperor promenading before his subjects in a djellabah emblazoned with damning descriptions of his own character. And if he is flanked by the Alim, as on most state occasions he is, I will be able to remark, to anyone who cares to hear me, that the Emperor has accomplished the impossible, by being both beside himself and outside himself at the same time.
June 7, 1769
Today I bade farewell to the White Queen and helped her into her sedan with her three daughters. All hung around with green tassels was this conveyance, like a woodland bower, and the porters dressed in green pantaloons, rouched and puffed out like pumpkins. For there are no carriages in this country. Indeed I have never seen a wheel on a vehicle at all, save on the tiny ceremonial barrow the Emperor drives when inspecting the ranks of his Black Guard, which more resembles a bucket than a barouche, rattling along like a tin cup tethered to his high-stepping horse.
Though her true name is Salamatu, I have dubbed her the White Queen to distinguish her from the Black Queen who is, mais naturellement, my glorious Batoom. For perhaps I have not yet explained that the Moor's god, Allah, though stringent in certain of his strictures, yet has the generosity to allow True Believers the luxury of four wives. (Indeed it occurs to me now to suggest that this munificence might explain His insistence on that curious docking of the cock's stocking that I mentioned earlier. Being, as our own God is, Omniscient, he would have foreseen that a certain increased wear and tear might ensue from the satisfaction of four women's appetites.)
Thus the Emperor, though courted by a thousand concubines, yet has honored a scant handful with the title of Wife. So we have our Black Queen and our White Queen, as I have said, plus two others of indeterminate hue but distinct ages, which I have styled the Young Queen and the Old Queen respectively. And they have each their separate apartments and slaves and are in receipt of greater funds from the Emperor's coffers—which renders them, likewise, the recipients of a greater share in the prodigious funds of Enmity that are gathered up in this place. For I have observed that certain of the women maintain their own personal countinghouses in which they hoard, with fierce avidity, the bitter coin of Envy.
Thus there were many that were glad to see the back of our White Queen; many who peeped in through the carved gates to her empty apartments, imagining their carpets and cushions arranged on her tiled floors. Indeed there are now hundreds of stalls vacant in this rambling stable of ours, because the White Queen's departure was occasioned by yet further purgings. For the Emperor's scything did not end with that initial swath of cast-off concubines. No indeed; that first swipe merely assuaged his more pressing of itches. Once old Malia's book was opened for his perusal, he became like your tacksman's lady on the first day of spring, opening windows, brushing soot from the walls, tipping molded oatmeal from the bottom of her sacks.
So two days later, to our dismay, it continues. Sitting down once again beneath the olive tree, he takes a tally of the women who have only delivered daughters and has them marshaled likewise before him together with their sweet shaven shrimplings—for all Moorish brats have their hair removed by way of a prophylactic against the plagues of parasites that thrive, like living paisley, in the warp and weft of these beautiful carpets.
Now here comes the White Queen flapping among them, gabbling wildly as usual in her elaborate hybrid of Irish and Arabic, making the others laugh and shake their heads—for these are your more senior women, rendered garrulous by their Motherhood as though their upper orifices had been opened by the same process that widened their wombs.
So the Emperor fixes her with his black eyes and she falls silent and kneels before him, and he takes her hands and kisses them and explains where he is sending her. And now the strangest thing happens. For I swear I can see a tear glinting on his cheek as he dismisses her and I am left wondering whether there is yet a morsel of soft clay in the flint of his heart that has been reached by this most unreachable of women. Indeed it surprises me somewhat that she was not dispatched moons ago. For it must be said that poor Salamatu is as mad as your proverbial March hare, having turned so suddenly when her son died two years back, poisoned, so they say, by a hand well greased by the coin of Envy.
So now the mad White Queen and the others have been dispatched: off to Tafilalt, that green city of the East, which is peopled solely by Royal Offspring. For though hundreds of Royal Acorns drop to the ground every year, but one grows into that tree which becomes Emperor of Morocco. The rest are eventually clothed in garments of Royal Green and put out to pasture in the city of Tafilalt, where every man is a prince and every woman a princess, and they proliferate by the increments of Incest. Indeed these transplanted seedlings become the very pasture itself, for in their green turbans and veils are they not all garbed in the color of the grass? A very meadow of forsaken Filiation.
And tomorrow I am to be dispatched likewise, though to different pastures. In company with the canny Crone and a bevy of eunuchs, we are off around the country on a mission of Replenishment, to herd up fresh horseflesh for our empty stables, a flux of fillies for the Emperor to ride.
Our route is already decided, as through an orchard of ripe fruit. First travel we go east to the bazaars at the foot of the High Atlas Mountains, to pick our quota of the bronze Berber girls, each one tart as a wild apricot with her plaits to her knees. Next southwest to the markets of Sus where the sweet dark plums of Nuba are to be had—those few, I should say, that survive the bruising of their cruel transportation across the blazing deserts of this continent. Thence go we northward, in a wide arc along the coast, scouring the Atlantic ports for corsairs' contraband. Here are rich pickings indeed of the fair-skinned fruit that the Emperor particularly relishes.
For though most vessels that set sail from these shores return with catches of your usual finny variety, yet there are those that range farther, after larger quarry, forsaking their nets and becoming Fishers of Men, in obedience, did they but know it, to Jesus' command to His followers in far Galilee.
Thus was I hooked, stunted fish that I am, and set out gasping and pop-eyed on the fisherman's slab, there to be prodded and ogled and finally set on a live turtle and carried before the Emperor like a mullet on a plate.
Chapter 7
HELEN HAD NOTICED THE RED SHOES WHEN SHE WAS tidying up the Bairds' cabin the very first day. Unworn and still in their paper; the soles were blond as the day they were made. She picked them up and smelled the soft leather, ran her thumb along the rows of tiny stitches. When she was married, she'd have a pair of shoes like these.
The following day she scrubbed her feet carefully and tried on the shoes as soon as the cabin was empty. She'd expected them to be too small; they seemed so much daintier than the shoes she was used to. But they fitted like a second skin. She pointed her toe as though preparing for a polka, wondering what silk stockings would feel like smoothed up over her ankle bones and knees.
Next day it was a purple frock. Of all Melissa's clothes, it was the one she liked best. She eased it out of the locker and held it up against her body, lifting the whispering layers as though mounting the steps of a Boston mansion. Wedging a hand mirror in the window frame, she backed away as far as she could in the tiny cabin, trying to see how she'd look if she tried it on. Over the next few days she held them all against herself like that: the white muslin with little flowers, the heavy blue velvet, the one with yellow stripes, the red and the two greens. But she always came back to the purple.
It was such a grand color, she thought: a color to be noticed in; a color fit for a queen. She examined every frill, every gather; turned it inside out to look at every seam; danced with it in the cramped cabin. And one day, when she'd scrubbed herself thoroughly and washed her hair, and the Bairds were off playing cards in the captain's quarters, she decided to try it on.
THE SEA WAS FLAT THAT DAY and the sun hot. Helen bolted the cabin door, then threw open the tiny window. Slipping her own clothes off, she stood naked for a moment, feeling the air cool on her damp curls. Then she lifted the purple frock and lowered it reverently over her head, worming her freckled arms through the rustling sleeves.
Her heart was thudding. The silk was cold, then warm on her skin. It was like purple water sluicing over her thighs. Craning sideways, she began fastening the long line of tiny hooks running from hip to armpit. At the waist the frock began to feel tight; then very tight. Was it this tight on Melissa? How did she bear it all day? Ten more hooks to go. She breathed in, praying her sweat wouldn't stain the armpits. Five more. She leaned against the door and breathed in again. Yes!
Untying her hair, she shook it forward over one shoulder. How bonny it looked, glinting like copper against the purple. Where was the mirror? She rummaged in a drawer: there. She held it out at arm's length and gazed at what she could see of her reflection. Gathering her hair up in one hand, she looked around for pins and a comb to secure it. How did Melissa get hers to stay up? She propped the mirror against the pillow and bent over it.
A corner of her mind was aware of folk shouting: some kind of rough game—perhaps a brawl—out on deck. Then suddenly someone was charging along the corridor, banging on the doors, bellowing: “Pirates ahoy! All men and all weapons on deck!”
Helen spun around to the window. In the distance she could see four longboats knifing cleanly through the water toward the ship, their lines of oars rising and falling like the ribs of four swimmers, breathing in and out, in and out. Behind her, someone was trying a key in the lock. It was Robert Baird, yelling “My pistols! They're inside. Let me in!” then battering at the door with his fists.
Helen stared at the closed door. How could she let him in? She was wearing Melissa's frock. In a frenzy, she began unhooking the line of hooks. One, two, three. Her fingers were numb, soft as sausages. She turned back to the window. The boats were closer now. She could see the rowers bending and pulling on the oars. Four hooks; five, six, seven. She heard Robert start kicking the door and tried wrenching the frock off over her head. It wouldn't go over her shoulders so she tugged it back down and began fickling at the hooks again.
Eight, nine, ten. People in the main cabin were screaming beneath her feet. The kicking on the door became thick thuds as he began ramming it with his shoulder.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Now she noticed a new sound, above the banging on the door, the shouting and screaming on the ship: a rhythmic grunting, like her stepmother Meg when she was giving birth. It was the rowers. Whirling around to the open window, she could see them clearly now, bending and straightening, speeding toward the ship.
Their skin was black! Helen froze: Was she imagining it? No, a few were paler, but most were dark as bladder wrack. As they sped closer, she saw some backs were crisscrossed with red wounds, and clouds of flies hovered and settled again each time they hauled on the oars. She could see their faces creasing in pain as they rowed. Who'd whipped them like that? Her eyes flew to the bearded men standing over them, the whips coiled in their hands; their lances and longbows; the pistols and knives at their waists. Why were they were dressed like women, these other men, in those flapping white frocks and colored sashes?
There was a sudden shout and the rowers lifted their oars from the water. The grunting stopped and the boats sliced silently through the water toward the ship. Behind her the door splintered and crashed open.
Chapter 8
Sallee, June 28, 1769
WE HAVE BEEN TRAVELING THREE WEEKS NOW, AND I have lost count of the varieties of biting beastie that have battened on my poor freckled skin. This kingdom is so various, with its howling deserts and teetering mountains, its lush forests and meadows, its miles of roaring surf spiked with the bones of dead ships. And each place with its special collection of small Vermin to sting the earlobes or scuttle up the neb, deposit eggs in the hair or burrow between the toes. So that if I were to present myself tomorrow at the Edinburgh Zoological Society, there would be brawling in the halls as the whiskery Members vied to examine me.
The oases are the worst, where each suck of brackish water raises a cloud of midgies with the appetites of vampires. The new women are protected, for the most part, by their haiks, but we men are driven to lighting up brushwood fires whenever we stop, to dispel the smoke of insects with a smoke of our own.
Despite these torments, and the tireless toadying of the sheikhs and khalefs who have been our hosts, I am relishing this excursion away from the palace. I had not realized how I'd been missing the sheer movement of the outside air: its dizzy green breezes, the sting of salt spray, even the puffing dust the animals kick up. The only wind in the Harem comes from the waggling of a thousand tongues, the waving of a thousand tasseled fans. And the vistas out here! My first day aloft my white stallion, I was like a veritable weathercock, spinning my head this way and that, trying to encompass the wild beauties of this land.
Since we embarked on our journey, we have spent three quarters of our allocation and acquired nigh on fifty new lasses. The Crone and I have become quite the connoisseurs, huddling sotto voce over the merits of each proffered pulcher, then haggling with various flint-eyed kinsmen and procurers over her price.
What a strange process this is, to choose mistresses for another man: to judge the flavor of each woman by his tastes. There are certain basic requirements, of course, such as fecundity (which the Crone, by some alchemy, ascertains), plus a certain symmetry in the features, and the plumpness I have mentioned before.
Yet, compared with these fleshly young virgins, with their dimpled wrists and doughy breasts, my big Batoom seems so sure and substantial. Where they giggle and cover their mouths, she throws her great chest out and roars. Where they call peevishly for some slave to tote their bags, she hoists hers up without a thought. And I challenge anyone to cite a more stirring sight than the Black Queen, tall and magnificent, gliding gracefully along, barefoot, barrel-arsed, with her water jar on her head.
This is true Beauty to my mind: her gusty laugh and honest heart, her vast backside bending among her sorghums and millets (for she insists on growing her native food in her private garden, and cooking it herself in her own cauldron). Batoom, my cook and my gardener; my sea-lion, my she-bear; how I've missed her tart wisdom and sour porridge!
We are billeted in the seraglio of the Governor of Sallee—to the chagrin of his incumbent concubines, who had to vacate twenty-three of their dank chambers to accommodate us. For we are now an unwieldy company of four score, composed of the handpicked bonnies themselves (including the Governor's own pustular daughter, whom we could not, in all politeness, refuse), plus assorted slaves to groom and feed them, and a battalion of our heftiest eunuchs for their protection.
We are to remain here two more days, while the Crone completes some business of her own—involving, I would hazard, the secret disposal of the sacks of coins she has strapped beneath her garments, which cause her valiant mule's legs to buckle and have rendered her yet more bent and shift-eyed than usual.
She aims to thwart the Emperor's tax collectors by depositing some portion of her fortune with her numerous offspring who reside in this city. At least that is what I suspect, for this has become the avid preoccupation of each citizen since the Emperor reformed his Revenue, with some burying their treasures in the goat shed and going about in rags to simulate poverty.
I have communicated my suspicions to the Crone, by lurking nearby while she gingerly dismounts and casually commenting on the strange clinking that accompanies all her movements. This knowledge will stand me in good stead, I hope, if she should ever discover the true nature of my relationship with Batoom. For, though we have established a wary camaraderie on this journey, I cannot imagine it would prove sufficiently strong to counter her absolute adherence to the Emperor.
Observing Malia in such close proximity these past weeks has taught me much about the arifahs, or wise women, of this kingdom. I have discovered, for instance, why they grow the nail on the smallest finger of the left hand into a two-inch talon. Men whisper that it is a claw to signify their kindred with the feared Hyena, which are held to be witches in animal guise by reason of their sloping backs and ungainly gait: the very image of a human on all fours. Further proof is their penchant for gobbling goatherds' weans (fresh neonate flesh was ever your Hecate's habitual tidbit).
Though I doubt the Crone's withered lips would ever smack on so distasteful a morsel, I can confirm that the uncanny claw serves the function of terminating pregnancy. I have witnessed this operation any number of times now, and it is conducted with surprising delicacy. Indeed, it is a procedure all potential concubines must endure en route to the Emperor's couch, for it would not do to introduce a cuckoo into the Royal Nest.
Wincing at the sight of the cruel talon, I did once venture that an examination of the hymen might serve as well, at which the old Witch cackled uproariously, declaring that we men are utter idiots in this regard. Chortling all the while, she then goes on to detail some of the subterfuges women concoct to convince some sap that he is shafting a virgin. To wit, I can now assert that a man would be better advised to check his mother-in-law's henhouse for a missing pullet than to examine his sheets for maiden's blood on his wedding night.
