by David Capel
I blushed, and felt better and much, much worse at the same time.
As Jalila predicted, on the following morning I was given a new errand to the leather market. Without thinking, when Walid let me out of the door, I turned left instead of right, and he called me back saying, “where do you think you’re going?”
I slapped my forehead, muttered something about not thinking and turned on my heel. For a moment I was thoroughly alarmed at my stupidity, but as I wound my way towards the market, and then took a circuitous route back towards the east wall, I reflected that this was probably a good sign. It seemed most unlikely that the butler was an accomplice to my mistresses’ schemes. Too often the adulteress is betrayed by the servant.
On this occasion Jalila had made better preparation for me. She was reclining on the couch in the ante-chamber when I arrived, sipping at a cup of wine. She indicated the table where the flask and a second cup stood.
“I have not tasted wine since my captivity,” I said, sipping at the heady fluid, which was a passable red, strong from the hot Syrian sun.
“Good! It will dull your senses somewhat.”
“How do you arrange it so that I go on all these bazaar errands? Does not the butler think it strange?”
“Why should he? It is not his place to question his mistress,” she said dismissively. Then, after a pause, she elaborated. “Besides, I tell him that he is idle, and dawdles by the market stalls, chatting to his toothless friends. Whereas you know no-one to gossip to and are swifter on your feet.”
“And he doesn’t think it strange that sometimes I go, while you are out, and sometimes I stay?”
“He is too stupid to think in that way. And what profit would he get from such suspicions?”
I doubted the former point, but allowed the latter, and so left the matter at that.
“Anyway”, she pouted, “I am not here to discuss the household, but to escape it. Come here next to me.”
I have to say that Jalila was the most imaginative lover. She teased me and coaxed me in turn, murmuring instructions, and whether because of the wine or not, she strung out that second coupling for nearly an hour.
But she made it clear from the start that I was there above all to supply her physical needs. After we had finished we lay there on the bed, panting and glistening for a moment, and then I turned to admire the curves of her body beside me. I leant over to kiss her on the cheek, but she started away from me.
“Do not embrace me,” she said with a hiss, and I fell back, startled.
She was a cold and arrogant piece, as I discovered then and thereafter. Her haughtiness in the household had been no act. But that did not stop her from talking altogether, particularly while sipping wine before our regular bouts. Afterwards she tended to be more taciturn and would quickly dismiss me.
The most evocative memories tend to be provoked by fleeting, inexact sensations – a certain noise of creaking wood, or the smell of fruit in a garden. A tone of voice in a quite unconnected person many years later. Such sounds and smells conjure the moment more precisely than remembered images or words. Indeed a written account such as this one can sometimes replace the more vivid, almost unconscious recollection.
The cool remembrance of shade and sweat in that room in stuffy Damascus impressed itself on my mind – perhaps through the scent of lavender that Jalila used to perfume the room, or the sweet taste of wine on a woman’s lips. The weird, dreamlike sense of heady pleasure mixed with the alien fear of discovery and constraint was as powerful as a drug.
Jalila was also a good conversationalist in her way. She didn’t care a nummus for what I thought, being a slave, and so spoke freely. It was through her, perhaps, that I had my first clear insight into that particular type of the feminine psyche.
I once asked her, partly to prick her when she was being particularly sullen after love-making, if she shared a bed with her husband. Instead of being offended, as I hoped, she laughed.
“That old goat! Not if I can help it. We have had separate chambers since Safia was born. You have no idea – yet – of the insufferable habits of old men at night. He disgusts me.”
“Why on earth did you marry him?” said I, astounded. “Were you forced into it by your family?”
She snorted. “No! Well, of course I was under pressure to marry. But I had a choice of suitors. He was by far the richest, so I chose him, not realising what a miser he was.”
I considered her words for a moment. “And he shows no interest in you?”
She looked at me with an unpleasant smile on her face. “What, are you jealous? Well, if you must know, I now go to him once a month, after you, just in case. So he is happy. Not that he is up to much, most of the time.”
Now, I may seem unduly cynical in my assessment of the female condition as displayed by Jalila. But I am not saying that she was typical, merely one of a certain type. Our next exchange reminded me that the world need not be such a harsh place.
“Now you are a man, and a man rarely has to make such hard choices. If by some mischance you must marry a monster for the sake of position, you may take a mistress, and your duty becomes bearable. Or are matters otherwise in the Christian lands?”
“Not really.” I replied, ignoring the contradiction of our own situation to her words. As if reading my thoughts, she continued.
“I thought not. The woman’s lot is the same the world over. Now you may think me a jezebel for using you as I do. But I am simply grasping something of the choices available to every man. You probably compare me unfavourably to my daughter, who I know takes an unhealthy interest you and holds you in undeserved regard. Yet are you not as bad as I am? Tell me that you do not enjoy our meetings. I should tell Safia about them some day!”
And with that she grappled me for a second time, which was unusual for her, scratching at my back like the hawk she was.
I think it was discourse such as this that turned me finally against her. In my pride I hated her, as I thought, for her imperious use of me. But in truth, of course, she struck near the mark, and if I had been a more honest young man I would have acknowledged it. Yet the comparison with Safia blinded me to that.
For a time I put aside my resentment, for our meetings were both diverting and lucrative. On every occasion she would fill my purse with a few coins. I did not spend them on liquor. It was not that I feared discovery from the smell on my breath. Jalila supplied me with anise or liquorice, which she used herself to disguise the scent of alcohol (she was an avid drinker when the occasion allowed). Instead I built up a store of savings and clothes, which I smuggled out of the Circassian Gate and stashed in a hidden culvert. My endeavour was spurred by the shame of being paid for the service I gave my mistress. At least the money should go to a cause that was against her interest.
It was four or five months after our first tryst that the arrangement turned sour. We drank more than usual on that occasion, for it was a hot afternoon, and Ibn Khalid was away on a trip to Harran for a few days, and had taken Walid with him. We had time, and my experience is that time, heat and wine often lead to trouble.
I was irritable on my arrival, because I had been delayed by Safia, who had insisted on sitting with me despite my supposed errand to the markets. She had entreated me to stay in the cloister with her, arguing that the absence of her father and mother (whom she thought to be spending the day with a friend) relieved me of any immediate obligations.
I had been forced to leave rather abruptly, and she had seemed crestfallen at my insistence. I left the house with that disquieting feeling of an opportunity missed without knowing exactly what it was that I had foregone.
By the time I reached the house by the little courtyard I was out of sorts. Jalila offered me wine, and I spun out our conversation while we drank. It was one of those occasions when, instead of relaxing the body and enlivening the mind, the spirit of Dionysus shows its malicious side, and enhances a mood that is already turning sour.
I was a reluctant lover, seeing not the myste
ry and intrigue of the unfaithful wife, but the imperfections of her age – the sagging curve of her belly, the weight of her breasts and the soft down on her lips and back.
My ill humour brought forth a notion that had been lurking in my mind for some time now, that Jalila was as guilty as I, and thus had almost as much to lose from our discovery. In that case, so my dark logic told me, I could treat her with impunity, and our complicity had released me from the bonds that had formerly enslaved me to her. With the drink in me I was prepared to gamble what no man should – that a strong woman will not cut off her nose to spite her face.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Jalila, as I edged away from her for the third time.
“I don’t know. I’m not in the right frame of mind today.”
“The right frame of mind? What nonsense is this? I will change your mood!” And she lunged at me again, but I held her off, clasping her arms as her breasts wobbled in front of me.
“Let go of me! How dare you? I did not bid you here to decide one way or another. You will do as I say.”
A sudden thought struck me and I released her. “I will, but only if you do as I say first.”
“What do you mean?”
I paused for a moment, a brief moment of clarity holding me back. But it left me and I said, “I have had enough of playing the slave. Are we not in the same boat as you once said to me? This time I will be the master, and you my slave. Turn around!”
She glared at me in incomprehension for a moment and then her eyes blazed.
“What! Do you take me for a whore?” and before I could move she slapped me hard in the face.
For a moment I was stunned, and then I was filled with fury and drunken lust and I slapped her back, then bore down on her, but she wriggled free and hit me full in the face, or tried to, but I swerved, and she hit my ear, and I stumbled, scraping my shin against the bedstead.
“Get out!” she shrieked, and she looked magnificent for a moment, standing there naked, and then she turned and stalked out into the antechamber.
“Get out,” she said again, and this time her voice was deep and low, “Get out, and do not come back until perchance I summon you at my leisure.”
I stood and considered for a moment whether to thrash her, but I didn’t have the game for it, so instead I said as coolly as I could, “I will go with pleasure, and never come back. You are too old for me anyway, you witch, and even your wine dulls my eyes insufficiently for the task these days. Goodbye, and find someone else your own age next time.”
I pulled my tunic over my head and walked through the room hurriedly, half expecting her to lash out as I passed her. But she had turned her back, holding her clothes against her body, and did not even look at me as I left.
As I walked the streets back towards the house, I quickly sobered up and regretted my actions. I stopped for a moment by a fountain and splashed my face in the water to gather my thoughts and cool my skin. It seemed to me then that, while I had acted rashly, I had no cause for undue concern. There was nothing that Jalila could do to avenge my insults, for she would thus betray herself. I even allowed myself a chuckle. It was more likely that before too long I would be sent once more to the markets. Then we would see on which foot the boot was worn!
ς
For two days nothing happened. I worked quietly in the house at Ibn Khalid’s instruction, cataloguing his library and translating pieces of text as usual. From time to time I was called to help with the small chores that occupy such a household.
Of course I avoided Jalila, but this was not difficult, since our paths did not cross much in the normal course of the day anyway. Nonetheless I detected a subtle awkwardness in the house. A man can be remarkably sensitive to a change of mood in another, even if that other says nothing and his outward behaviour is unchanged. The problem is that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish between a genuine change in someone else or your own enhanced sensitivity. The two can become self-fulfilling. Anticipating a change in mood, you can subtly alter your own behaviour, thus bringing attention to the problem.
So if I was with my master discussing our work in the corner of the courtyard, and Jalila would stalk past us, I could not remember how to react naturally. I forgot how I had behaved in this and countless other everyday situations before our row, or certainly before she instigated our liaison. Should I glance at her casually? Smile? Ignore her completely? Look at the floor? The quite natural and unconscious movements of any given moment became forced and rehearsed.
In this way I suspect that Ibn Khalid noticed a slight tension in his household, even if he did not know the exact cause. That is why he was so easily persuaded to act.
I was sitting on my stool as was my custom in the shady corner of the cloister near the library door. It was mid morning and the house was quiet. Ibn Khalid had gone out on business, and I had noticed some visitors come to collect Jalila for one of her social outings.
I heard a soft step on the flagstones opposite and I looked up to see Safia hurrying towards me. I stood and smiled in welcome, happy at the thought of one of our friendly conversations. But her brows were creased with worry, and I saw that she had been crying.
“Safia, are you alright? What has happened?” I offered her my stool but she shook her head.
“John, I… I don’t know what to say.” She stood there chewing her lip, her eyes downcast. Then, to my consternation, she turned away and a great sob escaped from her throat, and she shook with grief.
For a moment I hesitated before touching her, but then I placed my hands firmly on her shoulders and turned her back to face me.
“Safia, what is wrong? You must tell me!”
And she did. And it was one of the most horrible things I have ever heard. As she spoke my innards froze as if to ice and my hands trembled.
“John, it’s you. My mother and father.”
“What?” said I, already alarmed, “what do you mean?”
“Oh, I can’t bear it, I can’t speak,” she sobbed, and turned away once more. This of course was of no use whatever, but I controlled my panic and forced myself to speak calmly, fearing the worst.
“Safia, what is it, now? You must tell me. I’m sure it is not so bad. Come now.”
“But it is John, it is. They, they want to hurt you. My mother said that … that you harboured evil thoughts, and that… and last night they agreed. So when they left this morning I had to come to you. I don’t know where father has gone, but maybe…” and she sobbed again.
By this time I was in a thorough panic, and I could have shaken this silly girl to get some sense out of her. Instinct told me time was against me, but I saw that I must hide my anger and fright if I was to get any sense out of her. I guided her gently to the chair, and this time she took it, and I said,
“Come, Safia, there is no need to be afraid. Tell me from the beginning what has happened. You said your mother…?”
“Yes, it was last night, after we had dined. My mother started to say…things about you.”
“What things?” I asked, my heart in my mouth.
“That you, that you were casting unclean looks upon me. That you lusted after me.”
“Good Lord! And what did your father say to that?”
“At first he did not believe her. But she insisted upon it. She said that she had seen you… looking at me. That she worried about your intentions. That you were an unbeliever and a Roman, and it was not suitable to have you in the house with me.” By now she was gabbling in distress and embarrassment. “She said that I was young, and impressionable, and that you might try to… to…”
I looked at her in amazement. And I was just about to blurt out denial, to exclaim at how preposterous this was, almost in relief at Jalila’s hiding of the greater truth. But then inspiration took me, and in a flash of insight I saw that this would not do.
“Safia,” I said, crouching down and taking her hands in mine. “I would never, never, take advantage of you.” I shook my head as if in i
ncomprehension. “That they would doubt my loyalty grieves me. But you know, do you not, that whatever I thought, whatever my…” and here I clammed up and looked away as she had done.
“What thoughts, John, what do you mean?” she asked, her lips trembling.
“I mean… whatever my innermost thoughts, the thoughts of my heart I mean, to you, I would never, never act…. dishonourably to you.”
She looked at me, here almond eyes brimming with tears, as that same heart of mine pounded with frustration at the delay. I willed her to tell me what on earth was going on.
“But enough of my own feelings, they are nothing,” I lied. “It is you who I worry about, Safia. Tell me what happened last night. What is it that your parents said that upset you so much? Do they plan to send me away, to sell me?”
“No, no, John. It is not that. It is worse. They… ugh, I cannot believe it!”
“What?” I said, the hairs on my neck standing up in fear.
“My mother said there was only one way. One solution to make me safe. And eventually my father agreed. John, they are going to … to geld you. To make you a eunuch.”
I looked at her in astonishment. That utter bitch of a mother of hers! Worse than Potiphar’s wife! But again I was inspired. I leant forward and kissed her gently on the lips while my mind raced.
“Thank you Safia,” I said as smoothly as I could. “I thank you from the depths of my heart. That you would have the courage to…” But here she interrupted me. She flung herself forward into my arms and pressed her mouth to mine, and suddenly we were kissing for real. This was of course the last thing on my mind, but I gave as good as I got, and then broke away after a decent interval. But before I could get onto the pressing business of how to escape the ghastly fate her parents had in store for me, she started to prattle and sob.
“Oh John, oh John, I can’t believe what she said!” and I thought, yes, the vengeful harlot, but Safia went on, “but of course she was right! How could she know, but then that is a mother’s instinct.”
I wondered what on earth she was babbling about, but she went on.