Ostensibly the love lessons—everything they did could be perceived as instruction; Mills was fascinated (when he wasn’t terrified), as he was by all protocols—were for the benefit of the young virgins among them. It fell to the women to tell these girls which things seemed most to please the Sultan, which parts of his body she was forbidden to kiss or to touch, which she was encouraged to, what obeisance she was required to make after he climaxed, what she must do to protect the Sultan’s skin from the blood or, if there were danger of spilled semen contacting his body, which remedial actions were permissible, which taboo. It seemed there were dozens of things for a virgin to remember, not the least of which was the virgin’s “tribute.” This was some new technique or position she was required to bring to his bed should the Sultan require it, some clever trick he’d never seen or heard of before. (Comprehensive lists, updated each time a new virgin paid a visit to the Sultan, were posted in all the dormitories in the harem, and it was an offense punishable by death if a virgin attempted to contribute something which another virgin had already offered. It did a girl no good to rely on the man’s faulty memory, since duplicates of all lists kept by the women were kept by the potentate.
“He old, honey,” Amhara might say. “He an
old
man. Likely he won’t do more than ask can you tell him your moves.”
“I’m not here,” the Chief Eunuch would explain, “to embarrass anyone. I’m here to choose one of you and I’m here to protect you. I don’t believe that women by nature are either more or less duplicitous than men. We’re only human, alas, and if I’m privy to these discussions it’s not, in this instance at least, prurience which draws me. Rather it’s my conviction, one or two steps up from belief, that the nature of any organization is built on the principle of self-interest. In a harem the natural enemy of a woman is another woman. The mothers are jealous of the favored ladies, the favored ladies are jealous of the novices, and
everyone
is jealous of the virgins. Only in sexual organizations like our own, you see, does the jealousy leak downward.
“I’m fairly certain you’ve already been briefed but suspicious enough to believe that it’s only because I was expected. If I didn’t show up on these occasions it wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility that these ladies could fail to tutor you in what’s expected. You could fault tonight, you could die. In any event I trust a review can do no harm, and I enjoy our chalk talks.—Yoyu?”
“Sir?”
“Would you be kind enough to recite for Shariz the Prayer of Virgin Gratitude?”
So he followed Fatima.
In his office the Kislar Agha was speaking to a short man in a striped gown just long enough to trip over should he step rather than shuffle. He wore a small fez—it could have been cut for a child—from which the tassel had come loose. “Oh, Mills,” the eunuch interrupted himself, “come here a moment, would you?” And then to the man: “Show Mills, won’t you? Fatima’s right, he’s the one with whom you should be taking up this point. Thanks, Fatima, it was a good idea, your bringing Laundry into the discussion.”
“Laundry,” the man said, “you’ve seen one of these?” He produced a strange, toylike object from inside his caftan. “Now this is only what we call a ‘mock-up.’ It’s scale, however, and should give you a pretty good idea. In real life this particular item goes forty-five by sixty. You’ve seen this?”
Mills shook his head.
“No? See, Kislar Agha? Even Laundry ain’t seen nothing like it. It’s brand new but I’m not offering you no novelty item. I don’t take nothing away from novelty goods, but in Yildiz? They don’t look right in a palace, novelty goods. They’re a masses thing——kickshaw, straws and pins.”
“Get on with it, Guzo.”
Guzo? This? This was Guzo Sanbanna?
“I’m piquing his interest, Kislar. In my line you don’t get nowhere you don’t pique their interest. All right, Laundry, you want to take a guess what this mock-up is a mock-up of?” He handed Mills the model, which, now it was in his hands, he saw was actually two components, one on top of the other, the first a sort of cloth-covered frame, the second a thick rectangular pad which fit on it. “Can you guess? Remember, it’s only a model.”
Mills shook his head.
“I’ll give you a hint, Laundry. What’s the dimensions of your sheets?”
George shrugged.
“
It’s a box spring and mattress!
” Sanbanna said as if delivering a punchline.
“A box spring and mattress,” Mills repeated dully.
“You’ve never heard of mattresses?”
“Sure,” George said. “I’ve heard of mattresses.”
“Well the box spring fits
under
them! On a
bed
frame! It gives
back
support! You know, before the Industrial Revolution none of this would have been possible. Look—here, give me, I’ll show you, this cloth part snaps off—rows of coil springs! Just imagine what one of these could do for the backs of all those favored ladies you got around here. Or the novices. Or anyone else for that matter whose back takes a beating from time to time. Why, sleeping on one of these is like sleeping on a cloud! For the rest of your life you wake up refreshed!
“And I’ll tell you something else. With these new firm support mattresses there’s never any sag. You’re healthier, more cheerful. They put a spring in your step. They help keep you regular.”
Sanbanna lowered his voice. “The whores of Amsterdam, where this product was researched and developed under the supervision of the world’s most distinguished orthopedic scientists, the biggest men in the field, the whores of Amsterdam have been using these box spring and mattress sets on an experimental basis for months now. The incidence of pox has never been lower and some of the girls claim literally to have doubled their business. I can’t vouch for that part of course, but I saw the biggest smiles on those Dutchmen’s faces when I was up there last time. Ear-to-ear. I thought their damn faces were cracking. Here, you can look at my passport you don’t believe I was up there.” He shoved an Empire passport under Mills’s nose and snatched it back quickly. His lowered voice was laced with confidentiality. “Listen,
I
know the Sultan is no ordinary john. What, are you kidding? A
carte blanche
guy with the pick of the litter? I’ll let you in on something, Laundry. This is strictly a company store in a strictly company town and what makes its owner happy can’t help but trickle down and make some of its clerks happy too. Am I talking out of turn here, Kislar? Am I out of line on this?”
Mills looked at the Chief Eunuch.
“Guzo’s enthusiastic,” the Kislar Agha said, “but we’ve been doing business with him for years now.”
“Did I steer you wrong on the baby doll nighties? Did I steer you wrong on the filmy lingerie? Tell him, Kislar.”
“He’s not the purchasing agent, Guzo. He folds sheets in the laundry.”
“Yeah,” he said, “and don’t know their size. I can’t help it,” Sanbanna said, “I
believe
in my products. I’m this progress ambassador.”
A king, Mills thought, a sultan. Princes and princesses. A progress ambassador.
“He folds
sheets,
Guzo.”
“Well the
question
is sheets. Sheets are what’s under discussion. Look, I’ll lay my cards on the table. What are we talking about? Two or three hundred box springs and mattresses? My foot we are! We’re talking revolution! A
sleep
revolution!
Sure,
I want to sell you the box springs and mattresses. And of
course
it would be a feather in my cap to bring two hundred sets on line in Yildiz Palace Seraglio. But the
real
feather in the cap would be to get my box spring and mattress under the Sultan’s ass!
“
Think!
Who does the fucking? Those two hundred or so girls? The
Sultan
does the fucking. Those favored ladies are lucky if they see him three or four times a year. The mothers of those kids got stretch marks on them like lines on rulers. Maybe
they
have relations twice a year. As for the novices … Well, I don’t have to tell you. So it’s the Sultan. This is the man with the smile on his face!
That’s
the direction of my thinking. The box spring and mattress under
his
back! If I could tell the world its greatest lover only trusts his body to one of these babies——well, I
don’t
have to tell you!
That’s
where the plumage in the millinery is!”
“Guzo,” the Chief Eunuch said, “our seraglio is not a test kitchen.”
“So I asked myself, I asked myself, ‘Sanbanna, you got a problem. How does a person like yourself, less than a commoner, get next to the sultan of the Ottoman Empire? How do you advise such a person?’ ‘Good will. Word of mouth, Guzo,’ I told myself. ‘That’s the way to handle it. Let the broads do the job.’ ” He was staring directly into Mills’s eyes.
“He folds sheets, Guzo,” the Kislar said.
“Forgive me, Kislar, haven’t we been talking about sheets? Didn’t I ask him sheet dimensions? Ain’t that what our whole deal hinges on? Ain’t that why we called Laundry in for consultations?”
“But, Guzo, he doesn’t
know.
”
“Maybe because it never came up. Maybe because Laundry’s too conscientious for idle speculations. Maybe because he was never bored enough to say to some co-worker, ‘Hey, pal, for the hell of it, why don’t we get a tape and
measure
the goddamn things?’ ”
“They won’t fit,” George Mills said. “They’re only forty by sixty.”
“You shouldn’t listen to crap, George,” Sanbanna said.
“They won’t fit your whatchamacallits. They’re five inches too narrow in the width.”
“Why did you want to see me?”
George looked at him closely. “It’s not important,” he said.
“Sure it’s important,” Sanbanna said.
“No,” Mills said. Suddenly he was very tired. “I thought maybe I ought to talk to the man who’s making these women so fat.”
“Sure,” Sanbanna said.
George studied him a moment. He went on, keeping his voice flat, draining all curiosity from it. “They, you know, nibble.”
“They gorge.”
“Probably when, you know, the eunuchs aren’t around.”
“They cram it down.”
“Not that, you know, I’ve ever actually seen them.”
“They pack it away,” Sanbanna said. “They wolf the stuff!”
“Even Fatima. Even Fatima’s, you know, put on a few pounds since I’ve been here.”
“She’s a guzzle gut. She’s a gourmand glut gobble.”
“She lives high,” Mills said.
“Not because it’s contraband,” Sanbanna said, “not even because it’s cheap or plentiful.”
“It’s strange,” Mills said, almost to himself. “He’s a sultan. Any race you can think of.”
“Yes,” Sanbanna said.
“Every body type. Women with bones under their faces like fine welts, women with bone structures like log cabins.”
“Yes.”
“And their
hair,
” Mills said. “My God, their hair soft as down or rough as the stuffing in bad furniture.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s the fucking
Sultan.
He wants girls, he invades countries with armies, for Christ’s sake. He sends generals out with glass slippers. He has an entire empire to choose from. There’s pageants and beauty contests. Miss African Village, Miss Sand Dunes. Miss Off-Shore Islands.”
“Yes,” Sanbanna said.
“They’re all
fat!
”
“Not even to get out of it,” Sanbanna said, “not even to make themselves unattractive or too heavy to handle.”
“No,” Mills said.
“Not even because they’re bored,” Sanbanna said. “But because
halvah
and the delicatessen I’m able to bring in are the only things still available to them that tickle their palates. Who knows? Maybe the palate is the only organ they have that’s still alive. Maybe that’s what burns out last. Everything mortified but the nerves of the mouth, the sweet and sour synapses.”
Suddenly Mills shuddered with questions. “Cheap?” he said. “Plentiful?”
Sanbanna looked at him. “Fatima shook you down?”
“I gave her my bribegold,” he said and could have bitten his tongue in half. The man didn’t seem to have heard. “Listen,” Mills said, “I’ve seen them giggling, I’ve watched them carry on.”
“Eunuchs,” Sanbanna said contemptuously.
“Not the eunuchs, the women.”
“I’m talking about the women,” Sanbanna said.
“The women?”
“Didn’t I already tell you it’s a company town?”
“All right,” Mills said, “good will, word of mouth. You get on their bright side. They talk up the merchandise to the Kislar Agha. They say swell things about the dry goods. Then what?”
“Come on, Mills,” Sanbanna snapped, “you said it yourself. Forty by sixty. They don’t even fit. What do you suppose just a contract for new sheets would be worth in this place? Wouldn’t I be jumping up and down if I was who you think I am? Or are you some eunuch too? Big time Paradise Dispatcher!”
“Hey,” Mills said.
“Hey yourself. Why not? Why wouldn’t you be? Everyone else around here is. The prickless princes and parched princesses. The favorites and novices and slaves. Who
ain’t
a eunuch? Your pal Bufesqueu? Come on, he’s spoony as the rest of them. They’re a loony, loopy, lovelorn lot, Mills. All the screw-loose steers, all the hindered heifers. What a picture!”
“Eunuchs in love,” Mills said.
“Who said anything about love? Love
sick
ness! Sentiment. Rapture and craziness. Doting. Dottiness. Fan mail and fantasy. Coquetry, swoon, languish and yearning. Ogle. Intrigue and eye contact. The heart’s round robin. Who mentioned love? There ain’t enough love in this place to wet a dream.”
And Mills thinking maybe it was a part of adventure when perfect strangers told you things, when they took trouble with you. Or perhaps straight talk was only a kind of condescension. Sanbanna would never have spoken this way to the Kislar.
“Well?” said the
halvah
trader.
“Gee, Guzo,” Mills said, “you know the part I don’t get?”
“You? You don’t get any of it.”
“Who made you candy man?”
“George Fourth,” Sanbanna said.
Mills stared at him. Moses Magaziner returned his gaze. “Oh no,” Mills said, “no no. This isn’t the way a world works. No no. You can’t get
me
with that stuff. What, there’s magic in the moonlight? No no. Look,” Mills said earnestly, almost severely, “sometimes things happen and you’d have to give long odds. Sure, and throw in a point spread just to get someone into position where he can’t afford not to take your bet. Freaky things. Not just coincidence but coincidence called.
In
expectation! Jolts and starts and thunderclaps, percentage and probability not just caught unaware or caught napping but caught napping unaware with its pants down. I mean out-of-the-blue-you-could-have-knocked-me-down-with-a-feather stuff, things so improbable as to be imponderable. Junk, you know? A fire at the ball game or an earthquake in the park. So farfetched and implausible it would be like spitting in God’s eye. One chance in a million would be a dead cert, foolproof, sure thing, safe bet, lead pipe cinch next to what I’m talking about. Or
not
talking about. Because what I
am
talking about you
can’t
talk about. Because if you could,” and he was weeping now, “because if you could, you could talk about everything, think about anything. Lovely things would happen, spectacular things. Friends like women who love you. Like lawyers who can save you or doctors that can heal. Everything would work out. The world would come true. I don’t mean God or saying your prayers. I don’t even mean hope. Hell, you could make a wish over a lousy birthday candle and it wouldn’t even have to be
your
birthday and the candle wouldn’t even have to be stuck in a cake. Shit, it wouldn’t even have to be
lit!
”