Turpitude

by Young

  The lad did not know how to respond to my suggestion. Neither did he contradict me.

  When Jules entreated me privately for an after-dinner stroll that evening, little did I imagine what would happen.

  1968

  Sharjah

  Sharjah is the third-largest of the seven Emirates that joined the UAE on December 2nd, 1971. During the mid-nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, this tranquil port owned a major pearl-fishing industry. That was until the discovery of the Mubarak oilfield in 1971. This Emirate, along with Sheik Fahrib’s family fortune, changed forever.

  In 1968, when the Ship arrived at Sharjah Airport, the airfield was located two miles across the desert from the city center. All provisions for air travelers, including the in-flight catering and water services were brought by donkeys from nearby settlements. Traders arrived from towns by camel to do business with foreigners.

  Sharjah was then a Trucial and a Salute State. It was also a regional base for the British Royal Airforce, under British protection and run by The Trucial Oman Scouts (a paramilitary force raised by the British as the Trucial Oman Levies, to serve in the Trucial States). The Levies were later renamed the Trucial Oman Scouts.

  Our landing strip was used mainly by Imperial Airways flights en route from England to India, until British presence officially ended in 1971 with Sharjah’s independence.

  Though I knew my patriarch was of royal descent, I had thought him a cousin to Sharjah’s ruling family, the Al Qaawasim family. Little did I realize that the highly educated Dr. Sheik Fahrib was a sibling of the reigning monarch. He had barely spoken about his royal heritage before our arrival to his hometown.

  The sheik was the first to descend from our plane. A troop of uniformed men and several gun salutes greeted him.

  Among all those I met during my time with my various household patriarchs, Sheik Fahrib was by far the most august and the most unassuming aristocrat.

  Before long, we were ushered into a couple of luxury sedans speeding towards the sheik’s royal residence.

  Within the Rolls Royce

  Monsieur Alain Dubois had left with Prince P to Paris, and I was missing my professor’s presence. Not paying attention to our group’s chitter-chatter, I stared out at the desert-scape. Soon, my mind drifted to speculations of what my new tutor, Victor Angel Triqueros would be like – before Zac uttered the word ‘homosexuality’.

  My chaperone had vociferated, “Do you know that homosexuality is an offense in Sharjah?”

  “We were taught that at the Bahriji,” came Andy’s response.

  Coraline chimed, “We know that adultery and fornication in this country are punishable by lashes and death. Therefore, we have to be secretive about what we do in private.”

  “Aren’t these ‘crimes’ committed by the same people who created these laws?” Narnia remarked.

  Zac riposted instantaneously, “These rules and regulations are created by the Brits and the Islamic clerics to control the masses, and to bring fear to the people they govern.”

  Andy declared, “We also know that the rich and the elite live double lives. Most of them say one thing but live by another. They can do whatever they like, as long as it’s hidden behind closed doors.”

  Albert opined, “Can they commit murder and get away with it?”

  As if the lad had opened a can of worms, our discussion came to an abrupt silence. Finally, Andy put an end to that question, “Well, boy, I don’t think we’ll go there.”

  The Man Who Would be King

  Suddenly, a thought flashed through my mind. “Will Sheik Fahrib be the future ruler of this Sheikdom?” I questioned.

  All eyes were fixed on me before Andy muttered, “Maybe, maybe not.”

  I resumed, “If his brother is the current ruler, wouldn’t Fahrib be next in line to the throne?”

  Zac pronounced, “That is, if the current ruler dies or abdicates, then it is likely that Fahrib will be next in line. Young, politics is dirty and complicated. Nobody can predict what the future holds. You’ll have to wait to see how things play out.”

  How did things play out?

  This was how things played out four and half years later, after our party had left the Enlightened Royal Oracle Society and our various Arabian households.

  In 1965, the ruler of Sharjah, Sheik Saqr, was deposed. Speculation circled that this dethronement was a British connivance, since they were seeking an exit strategy from the gulf. The British had tried to encourage a federation of the Sheikhdoms that could survive after they left. The man most likely to take the lead in this federation was Sheikh Raschid of Dubai.

  The problem: Sharjah and Dubai had been in dispute for centuries. Therefore it was highly unlikely that Sheikh Saqr and his followers would accept the dominance of a Dubai ruler. This conjecture was what led up to the decision that Saqr had to go.

  Sheikh Khalid III, a young modernist and an older sibling of Dr. Fahrib, was appointed as the new ruler of Sharjah. Khalid III was a stalwart friend of Sheikh Raschid of Dubai, who seemed to be his mentor.

  Although Sheikh Saqr was banished into exile to Cairo, he was by no means finished. No one knew he had returned to Sharjah six years later to make an unexpected comeback. When a group of armed men led by Saqr fought their way into Sharjah Palace and assassinated Khalid III, the British were taken by surprise.

  Sheikh Saqr regained rule, but it didn’t last. The ruler of Dubai, together with British troops from Oman, once again forced Saqr into exile. This time around, a new ruler of Sharjah was proclaimed. He was the brother of the assassinated Sheikh Khalid III – you guessed it; it was none other than the one and only learned Doctor of Science, Philosophy and a string of other Honorary Doctorates.

  Throughout his rule, this princely philanthropist had done much to improve the lives of its denizens – and in 2015, Sharjah was hailed by UNESCO as the ‘Cultural Capital of the Arab World’.

  Yet, forbidden thoroughfares are slow to change, if they change at all, since they offer charms that are unspeakably desirable. I recall what the seventh-century clergyman Ali ibn Abi Talib so rightly wrote:

  “Do not share the knowledge with which you have been blessed with everyone in general, as you do with some people in particular; and know that there are some men in whom Allah, may He be glorified, has placed hidden secrets, which they are forbidden to reveal.“

  Chapter Forty-One

  Assalamu Alaikum

  “Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational.“

  Hugh Mackay

  1968

  Assalamu Alaikum (Peace Be Upon You)

  Like many palatial residences within Arab nations, Assalamu Alaikum was an expansive compound, surrounded by high walls guarded by security personnel twenty-four seven, like a contemporary fortress. Some may consider these grand mansions private playgrounds for the rich and elite, while others view them as opulent prisons – protection against the general populace that may rise against their dictatorial monarchy.

  Several princely buildings were attractively positioned so that the royal household could enjoy panoramic views of the Persian Gulf. It was in this milieu that the learned Dr Fahrib and his siblings grew up.

  As teenagers, Prince P, his bosom pal, encouraged the young sheik to explore the larger world. Like most privileged children of royal descent, Sheik Abdul Mutmud bin Fahrib attended exclusive schools before obtaining his doctorate at a foreign university.

  This humanitarian patriarch made a vow that he would help better the lives of the less fortunate both in his country and abroad. Like Prince P, he had difficulty coming to grips with a couple of his nephews, who, like Hamad (P’s brother), were spoiled and uncontrollable.

  Although our arrival at Assalamu Alaikum brought much jubilation the first few days, our presence soon morphed to apprehension. Though the sheik’s wives were pleased to see their husband after a long absence, the patriarch felt otherwise. The veiled womenfol
k greeted us, especially the two foreign females, Narnia and Coraline, with disquietude.

  Even though their shrouded expressions were difficult to discern, when the males were introduced to the sizable household, the women’s body language radiated blithe excitement.

  As in the Quwah, the dynamic complexities within this royal household were a minefield for us students to trudge through with sagacity and perspicacity. It would be easy to get on the wrong footing with any of its members.

  Most of the time, we were treated with complaisance, but when backs were turned, gossip abounded, especially among the idle womenfolk and scandalmongering servants. Except for my private tutor Señor Victor Angel Triqueros, who, like Dubois, spoke fluent Arabic, none of us students understood their native tongue.

  Señor Victor Angel Triqueros

  Our newly appointed professor was already waiting for us at the mansion when we arrived. This elegantly attired and good-looking savant was a man of philosophy, a soon-to-be specialist in human behavioural psychology. He came highly recommended by Dr Henderson and was a friend and ex-classmate of Monsieur Dubois. While effectuating his Master of Science degree, Triqueros had been hired by the sheik, both as an apprentice to his practice and as a private tutor to the royal household.

  The Sheik was delighted to have a subordinate with whom he could discuss psychological intellectualism that neither chaperones nor students understood.

  Although Victor was charming and personable, he also maintained a certain garder la distance between us, as students. Though I could discuss any topic with the Señor, unlike the spontaneous Dubois, he took time to ponder my questions before providing definitive responses. I found this trait endearing but did not mention it to anyone.

  When I was in his company, his commanding voice and authoritative presence engendered thrilling anticipation. It was eventually made known to me that the psychological prodigy was quelling to gain approval from an imperious father, a classic case of “Prodigy of Narcissistic Injury” – more potently chronicled by none other than the Spaniard during one of our private tutorials.

  The Señor explained, “The prodigy – the precocious ‘genius’ – feels entitled to special treatment. Yet, he rarely gets it. This frustrates him and renders him even more aggressively driven and overachieving than he is by nature.

  “This child prodigy is dehumanised and instrumentalized. His parents or one of his parents love him not for what he really is – but for what the father or the mother or both wish and imagine him to be: the fulfilment of their dreams and frustrated wishes. The child becomes the vessel of his parents’ discontented lives: a tool, a magic brush with which they can transform their failures into successes, their humiliation into victory, and their frustrations into happiness.”

  My Valet, on the other hand, found my teacher haughty. Andy, being Andy, commented not on his empathy but gave my professor the benefit of the doubt nevertheless. When I asked my chaperone his thoughts of the Señor, his reply was, “The truth will ultimately reveal what the naked eyes fail to unravel.” Then, he left me to ponder that answer.

  Meanwhile, birds of a feather flock together; Zac took to Victor like fish to water. My big brother was enamored by the Señor’s style, poise and controlled deportment. Since my BB spoke fluent Spanish, they communicated in Castilian when in each other’s company. They would chatter away like old chums when no one was paying attention. Pragmatism would return instantaneously when a household member approached.

  One day, I asked my guardian the reason behind that concerted effort to switch from lighthearted joviality to pensive sobriety.

  Zac vented, “Boy oh boy, tongues may wag when backs are turned.”

  “How can tongues wag when the two of you speak a language no one understands?” I countered.

  “It is better to be cautious than bemoan one’s action at a later date.”

  I remarked, “How can anyone live freely when they have to watch their backs constantly?”

  “Young man, it’s a part of your E.R.O.S. discipline to practice discretion,” he said jestingly, though his remark did contain an element of truth.

  Narnia’s rapport with him was cordial in their early encounters, but this willful female would soon come to challenge her professor’s tutelage, even though his noble concerns were for her own good. This young lady was at the age where rebelliousness was to her the hallmark of individuality. Coraline had to intervene on several occasions to defuse mounting eruptions between student and educator. Quite often their incompatibility extended beyond the walls of the classroom.

  Our vocation in Sharjah was indeed a trying time, not only for Narnia but also for our host. Known to only a few, the sheik was suffering from a severe case of saudade. No longer in his homeland, he was missing the Bharani prince. His desire to return to Europe only made his temporal stay less than attractive when his recalcitrant nephews took to heavy drug abuse and rape.

  On the surface, Albert and I showed no signs of any emotional meltdowns. Andy, my Valet once again, certainly helped me through those arduous weeks, not to mention the welcomed diversions that came my way via Shahria and Roya, Fahrib’s senior and junior wives, who solicited me for fashion advice.

  Zac was better suited to Albert than to me. Neither Zac nor I were in love with one another, although we had spent intimate moments together. We were but teammates in a game, playing the field while the game lasted. As soon as the game was over and the referee blew the whistle to quit, we resumed our respective roles as guardian and charge.

  With Andy, our relationship extended beyond the call of duty. We were soulmates destined to be together, like the doctor and the prince. Neither my Valet nor I envisioned our fate coming to a devastating halt two years later.

  Christmas Day 2012

  Continuation of my Message to Andy (part 2)

  After the evening’s ‘Kumbayah’ singalong at the OBSS camp, we had some alone time before returning to our respective tents for a good night’s sleep, fresh and ready for the following day’s Outward Bound events.

  Just as I was ready to garner some quality time to myself, Jules asked, “How are you feeling, Young?”

  “I’m good sir, and you?” I answered.

  “Care for a stroll with me?”

  “Sure. I was about to find a quiet spot to contemplate,” I said.

  “What are you contemplating?”

  “Oh. This, that and the other,” I remarked nonchalantly.

  “Is something bothering you?” he pressed.

  I looked at him for a brief second. “Maybe there’s something that’s bothering you?” I countered.

  He went silent, thinking of an appropriate parry.

  “Err, err… there is nothing bothering me. I’m concerned about your recovery… from the swimming incident.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  Silence followed, before the instructor muttered, “Shall we walk? I’d like to get to know you better.”

  We headed away from the camp, but remained silent. When out of earshot, Jules began, “You are different from the other boys at the camp.”

  “How so?”

  “You are mature beyond your age,” he opined. “Most of the boys who come to OBSS lack social and human relationship skills. But you… you seem to know a lot more than meets the eye.”

  The Caucasian was inveigling me to confide in him.

  “I learned the art of social conversation and human relationships at my English boarding school.”

  “It must be an excellent school,” he declared.

  “It sure is. I learned a lot of invaluable skills, not taught in regular classes,” I commented sportively.

  Jules pressed, “What exactly did they teach you?”

  “Oh, I’d rather show than tell,” I teased. “Would you like me to demonstrate?”

  I moved closer to him. He did not back away, but stood entranced in the dark. I pulled him towards me. I heard his palpitating heart booming through the
quiet night. Yet, I encountered no resistance. As I reached to unzip his jeans, his sinewy body trembled. His awkwardness was a sign of inexperience in the gutsy game of seduction, and I was eager to entice this callow Caucasian into my web of sensual delight.

  Flashes of my Bahriji schooling rushed through my mind as my lips caressed the tautness of his comely mouth, teasing him open with my slithering tongue. Heartened by my gutsiness, his tension slowly melted to flames of sizzling arousal. I grabbed his wrist and led us deeper into the darken forest. Pinning him against a towering tree our twirling tongues coalesced wantonly. Our pent-up desires burst forth like torrid infernos, consuming our sanity to debaucherous lunacy. We tore at each other’s clothes, athirst to ravage our lusty lubriciousness within the stillness of this stifling forest. Fervent tongues caressed with yearning intimacy over, around and atop every desirous crevice of our fiery souls.

  Our pulsating hardness drummed in capricious potency, demanding satisfaction within our forbidden orifices, where only sacred mystics dared to venture. Throwing caution to the wind, I suckled at his bulging protuberance. Beguiled by my prowess, he jabbed his bulbous rosiness down my craving throat while my pleasuring hand evoked a rhythmic carnality that had wooed mankind since the dawn of humanity.

  The Caucasian unleashed his deliverance in a flourish of heaving crescendos. Jets of piquant liberation gushed down my yearning orifice, as I drank his nourishing fill with gusto.

  Not much coaxing was needed to spew my abundance onto Jules’ athletic frame. My seething virility coated his musculature. We amalgamated in a passionate kiss before the instructor returned alone to camp.

  I stayed to gather myself, to cherish an end to a licentious evening with a closeted homosexual. He had spoken no words after our frenzied indulgence.