The Bride Price (8 page)

The infidel woman proved this shortcoming by addressing him firmly, “You must listen to me, monsieur. I am not a slave.”

“You are my slave,” he countered scornfully, turning to leave.

“Non,
wait.” The girl plucked at his sleeve to prevent his departure, oblivious to the collective gasp that went up from the women, Arab and European, behind her.

Enraged, the man whirled, his expression ugly, his sword drawn. “It would be wise, kaffir, to remember slaves can be killed by their masters for disobedience.”

“I am not a slave,” Bryna repeated stubbornly, refusing to retreat. “My name is Bryna O’Toole. My father is Blaine O’Toole—”

Nejm slashed the air in front of her face viciously with his sword to silence her. Then, placing the point under her chin, he pricked her skin lightly and cursed,
“Wallahi,
deceiver, you most worthless of women, I do not care if your father is the Aga Kizlar to the
kadin
of the sultan himself. I tell you, you are my slave and you will obey me.”

Her chest heaving with fury, Bryna forced herself to stand still as a drop of blood trickled down her neck and spread in a tiny stain on the collar of her dress.

“Dispute me and I will cut out your tongue,” the Arab threatened ominously. “Many men prefer silence in their women.

“That is better.” He lowered the sword and stepped back “Come, you may be spared a trip to the souk. A buyer has come.” He beckoned Pamela and Theresa, who had watched the scene, horrified, from across the room. They came at once, weaving their way resignedly past the stunned and silent Arab women.

“Now follow me,” Nejm ordered. “Keep your heads bowed and show much respect, for this man is a marriage broker of Baghdad. He is a great man, a hajji who has made pilgrimages to both Mecca and Medina, those most holy of cities.”

“Do not argue,” Theresa murmured in warning behind Bryna. “I do not believe he would cut out your tongue, but I have heard the bastinado is painful indeed, a form of torture. They beat the soles of the feet with a rod, sometimes crippling the victim. You do not wish to be punished in such a manner.”

Swallowing defiant words, Bryna led the other women down the narrow corridor behind the slave trader. The rebellion quelled, Nejm strutted importantly at the head of the procession, resembling nothing so much as a bantam rooster, trailed by three disheveled, unwilling hens.

He stepped into the
majlis,
or reception room, and motioned the women to follow. They hesitated in the shadowy hallway and peered through the open door. Behind them, Mubarak spoke quietly and insistently in French, herding them into the room before taking his position in the doorway.

Although far from luxurious, the
majlis
was the most comfortable room in Nejm’s house. A few worn carpets decorated the floor and cheap, colorful cushions were tossed onto low, threadbare divans. Through the open grillwork over the windows, a solitary mimosa, flowering in the courtyard, could be seen. Ceramic pots filled with water were positioned in the corners of the room to cool it.

On the divan at the far end of the room sat the roundest man Bryna had ever seen. He lounged, sipping coffee, eating gazelle’s horn pastries and sweating profusely in the heat. A sleepy-eyed black boy stood behind him, lethargically wielding a huge ostrich feather fan. When the man spoke sharply over his shoulder, the lad immediately put more energy into his fanning, but his effort diminished as soon as his master turned his attention elsewhere.

“As salaam ’alaykum,
Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein,” Nejm greeted his visitor respectfully.

“Wa ’alaykum as salaam,
Nejm Al Anwar.” The fat man’s voice was sweet and surprisingly reedy for one so large.

“Welcome a hundred times,” Nejm intoned. “May Allah give you a happy day.”

“May your day be blessed and prosperous, though not too prosperous at my expense.” Suleiman wheezed at his own joke. He looked to where the women stood and asked, “They speak French?”

“Yes.”

“Come forward, my lovelies,” he instructed them kindly in French. As the women stepped forward, the potential buyer inspected the two dark-haired girls who stood nearest him. They were beautiful indeed, but even though their heads were bowed decorously, he saw too much pride in their manners.

Through the screen of her lowered eyelashes, Bryna regarded the corpulent man with equal interest. Suleiman Ibn Hussein was obviously a man of great wealth; his very bulk bespoke a life of plenty. Under his scarlet tarboosh with its meticulously wrapped white turban, his face, flushed from the heat, showed signs of indulgence. His eyes were almost lost in folds of fat, and over his triple chin his beard was combed to a neat point.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” Suleiman said. “I am Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein of Baghdad. My old friend Nejm Al Anwar, this most courteous of men—May Allah watch over him!—has arranged for this private display today, knowing how I despise crowded auction houses. They tend to be so uncivilized in the Mahgreb.” He smiled appreciatively as the procurer positioned himself behind his buyer to whisper bits of helpful information into his ear.

“Come closer now where I can see you. And you, frightened little hare, come out of hiding,” the obese man gently urged Pamela. “I know you are there behind the others.”

Reluctantly, the blond-haired girl slipped between Bryna and Theresa and stepped into the light.

“Mashallah,”
Suleiman breathed when he saw the dainty British girl with her pale skin, honey-colored hair, and brown eyes. She was a houri, a woman such as those who await true believers in Paradise. The dark beauty of the others dimmed to his Eastern eyes as Pamela presented herself, her head bowed sorrowfully.

“You have done well this time, Nejm,” Suleiman purred in Arabic, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I will take this pale-haired one. It is unfortunate, however, you have only one blonde and no redheads.”

“Unfortunate indeed. But the other two, Hajji, are they not also fair?” Nejm cajoled. “The one has the glow of fire in her hair if you look closely.”

Almost as an afterthought, the buyer glanced at the other girls again. They resembled each other slightly. He toyed with the idea of selling them as a pair. Both women had dark hair and both looked aristocratic, but there the similarities ended. The Spaniard was dainty, with olive skin and tousled curly locks. The American was tall, but she was graceful. Her skin was fair and the pink of the dress she wore lent its color to her cheeks. Her hair was dark, but in the light there were indeed glints of red. It was too bad about her eyes, he mused, but perhaps somewhere he could find a buyer who was not superstitious.

“The dark ones are strong and healthy,” Nejm pressed. “They will bear many sons and bring a fine bride price.”

“I do not know.” Suleiman sighed expressively, reaching for a sweet. “In Arabia are many dark-haired women,”

“But none so fair,” the slave trader argued.

“I suppose,” the fat man replied doubtfully. “But at least Arabian women are obedient daughters of Islam. These two—”

“Will hear and obey your every order, my lord,” Nejm finished his sentence eagerly. “They, too, will be Moslem as soon as they have made their
shahada,
their professions of faith.”

“I do not know,” Suleiman repeated dubiously, watching the slave trader’s tense reaction out of the corner of one hooded eye. “Have they any blemishes, beyond the unfortunate color of that one’s eyes?” He nodded toward Bryna, noting that her blue eyes watched their exchange with intelligence.

“None,
sidi,
they are perfect,” Nejm assured him, although he had not inspected their bodies.

“They are virgins?”

“Of course.” The trader assumed an air of injured dignity. “Do you wish them to disrobe?”

Suleiman waved his hand in negligent refusal. White women were at a premium and greatly desired in the harems of Arabia. As quickly as he reached Jidda, he could easily sell any of these, sight unseen.

“Then you wish to buy them?” Nejm asked eagerly, but his potential purchaser remained noncommittal. The slave trader coaxed and bargained and finally, in frustration, threatened to withdraw his offer to sell any of the women. But even as he herded them toward the door, waving his arms behind them and shouting, Suleiman seemed unmoved.

“Wait,” the Turk called as if he had made a sudden decision. “Perhaps I could take the Spaniard off your hands, if that is the only way you will let me buy the blonde.”

“No, Hajji, all three or none,” Nejm insisted boldly, thoroughly enjoying the haggling.

“Then you must send them all back to Mubarak.” Suleiman sighed. His sides quaked gleefully under his caftan as he watched the other man’s face fall.

“Oh, Suleiman, Beloved of Allah, I fear he has relieved you of your wits if you will pass up such delicate blossoms of womanhood,” the trader lamented, gesturing extravagantly toward the women.

“He has not deprived me of my wits completely, for I will not buy any women without bargaining first, Nejm. Let us speak of their worth. But I warn you, if I must take all three to have the one, I expect a good price from you.”

“Wallahi,” Nejm cried as if affronted, “I have never been anything but fair to you.”

“What do you suppose they are saying?” Pamela found the courage to whisper to Bryna.

“I think they are striking a bargain,” Bryna answered, drawing herself up, “and they are much mistaken if they think I am going to stand by quietly and be sold.”

“Remember the bastinado,” Theresa muttered in her ear.

“Oui,
remember the bastinado,” Mubarak advised from behind the women. Stepping into the room unobtrusively, he grasped Bryna’s arm so tightly that she nearly cried out in pain. Holding her in place, he whispered urgently, “I do this for your own protection, mademoiselle, for I tell you, you will regret it if you shame my master.”

“Silence, women!” Nejm bellowed. “Mubarak, take them back to the harem.” Rubbing his hands in anticipation of the second round of dickering, the trader returned to his customer.

“
Balek!
Make way!” Suleiman’s little slave shouted. Holding the stirrup of his master’s donkey, he trotted alongside, urging the crowd out of their path. The party made slow progress as the massive Turk swayed from side to side on his donkey, his ample girth overhanging either side of the tiny saddle, threatening in many spots to brush the walls along the narrow streets.

Behind him, Bryna, Pamela, and Theresa followed on foot, sweltering in stiff black haiks and yashmaks. They were flanked by Suleiman’s guards, four armed Nubian eunuchs, and marched through the streets at a brisk clip.

Bryna tried to keep up, the men’s sandals Mubarak had finally located to fit her flapping in the dust. Hoping for a miracle, she looked around desperately, her vision impaired by the heavy veil she wore. If only she could spy her father’s face in the crowd, she would call out to him, she could escape.

Soon they passed through a gate into streets that became wider and less congested. The air even seemed cleaner. Slowly they descended toward the shimmering blue brilliance of the ocean, which they could see in the distance beyond the sunbaked brick buildings. Glancing over her shoulder, Bryna thought she could see Blaine’s home perched on the cliff above them.

Suleiman’s company stopped before a large whitewashed compound. The marriage broker dismounted with an exercised wheeze and led the way into a pleasant courtyard, its lush growth encircled by colorful tiled walls. In each of the four comers of the enclosure, small fountains tinkled musically, and in the center another shot a stream of water into the air, where glistening droplets caught the sun like tiny prisms. The main house, built around the courtyard, was spacious and open, permitting a sea breeze even in the walled courtyard.

Breathing heavily, Suleiman collapsed on a stone bench. “Turki,” he gasped, motioning for the black boy to fan him. As the three white women in their uncomfortable costumes and the Nubian guards stood by in the sun, the boy applied himself energetically to his task.

When he had recovered sufficiently, the fat man clapped his hands and an aging black eunuch appeared. Dignified and efficient, the slave bowed to his master and presented him with a cup of water.

Between greedy swallows, Suleiman said, “This is Jamil, head of my household in Tangier. He will see to your needs. All you must do is ask. Listen to him well, for he has much to teach you.

“Jamil, take them to the baths right away.”

“Yes,
sidi.
Follow me,” Jamil instructed the women in French. He led his charges past a luxurious
majlis,
through an exquisitely crafted iron gate to a breezeway leading to the building that served as harem. They did not stop at any of the closed doors lining the corridor. Instead the eunuch led them straight through the building into the baths.

Several female Arab bath attendants met them at the door. They laughed and chattered as they helped the newcomers remove their clothing, their voices dying to awed whispers when Pamela’s fair hair and skin were revealed.

“My master has done well today.” Jamil’s forbidding face softened approvingly. “Skin so fair I have never seen.”

At a nod from him, three servants came forward and took charge of the new women. The girl assigned to Bryna was a striking Berber with a warm smile and intricate tattoos along her dusky arms.

When she learned her caretaker spoke neither French nor English, Bryna said little. She suffered herself to be stripped and led to the baths. She did not fuss and try to hide her body as the European women did, but she refused to surrender her locket. Using sign language, the Berber girl made it clear the necklace would be returned after the bath. Too weary to argue, Bryna gave it to her, oddly pleased when the other girl admired it. The only possession left to her, it kept the Creole girl from feeling as if she had slipped into a nightmare where she would be forever lost.

The bath was over none too soon for Bryna. Wrapped in a towel, she was laid on a bench and her thick hair spread out to dry. Skillfully the Berber girl massaged Bryna’s back and neck, relieving knots of tension and strain, then left her to nap. After nearly an hour Bryna was awakened and given a cup of cool water to drink and some clothes.