by Young
Mr. Ernest Harrold wasted no time in explaining, “Since the inception of this club a hundred and fifty years ago, it has been the focal point for members returning from India and the East.
“The Duke of Wellington was the club’s first and only president. He and a group of British officers were the original founding fathers. Noblemen and gentlemen associated with our Eastern Empire are distinguished members.” He delivered his explanation with an entertaining air of snobbishness.
It was 1968, and ‘Rule Britannia’ had dissipated with the roaring waves, yet Mr. Harrold continued his monologue as if England still ruled the Seven Seas.
I kept my thoughts to myself as we proceeded into the elegant library.
“Our library houses the best collection of books on and about the Orient. It also houses one of the finest British and Oriental art collections,” Ernest proclaimed.
Spaced proportionately between the polished oak shelves were volumes of leather-bound books and masterpieces by famed artists of the day. I felt as if I had entered the private study of a wealthy English gentleman. I gasped at such a prolific display of priceless antiquities.
When Harrold noticed my obfuscation, his pride swelled before he pronounced majestically, “Young master, the contents in this library are only a fraction of the club’s history.
“There are more in the drawing and smoking rooms.”
We entered a well-proportioned Drawing Room. An exquisite chinoiserie carpet covered the entire floor. The high ceilings flaunted murals by grand masters. I was awed by such sophistication. Mr. Harrold gave a cough to bring me back to reality.
“Our club has welcomed some intriguing travellers. Col. David Dyce Sombre was one such member. He was born in Salzburg with the name Walter Reinhard, but on account of his general disposition within the French army, he soon acquired the moniker ‘Sombre’.
“He deserted the French and signed up with the armed forces of the Honourable East India Company that ran the British possessions in the subcontinent.
“Before long, the colonel deserted the Company and joined the Nawab Kasim Ali Khan, who was at war with Britain.”
He paused to catch his breath. “Along the way, he married a Muslim woman and fathered a child by the name of Aloysius, whom the Mughal Emperor bestowed the title of Zuffer Yab Khan. This marriage did not prevent him from a further marriage - to an eccentric and mysterious dame of the Orient, the Begum Saroo.”
I chimed as my curiosity got the better of me, “Did he convert to Islam and marry four wives?”
Although Ernest found my supposition beguiling, he remain solemn.
He continued, “Being one of the wealthiest women of Asia, The Begum Saroo was baptised a Roman Catholic. She assumed the name of Joanna Nobilis. But a desirable convert she did not make: she had two of her female slaves flogged before throwing them into a dung pit in front of her tent. She had the intention of burning them alive.”
“Were they burned alive?” I questioned inquisitively.
Harrold did not answer but went on to explain, “On the other hand, the Begum was exceedingly generous. She funded the building of churches in India, as well as financially supporting the Holy See – who vested her designated heir, Dyce Sombre, with the Order of Christ.
“This, young Master, is just one outré character in our club’s early history.”
Before we had a chance to view the Smoking Room, a footman arrived and asked me to join my host at the table.
A Feast
Pastoral music greeted me in the ante-chamber. Atop an elegantly polished table lay the finest linens and glassware, placed with calculated precision beside sparkling silverware.
Amidst sprays of blossoming sweet peas were froths of lily of the Valley, tastefully arranged within a porcelain vase of oversized peonies. Charmed by such romantic touches, gratitude filled me.
My host insisted I share a glass of champagne, even though I didn’t drink. After some gentle persuasion, I obliged.
Our conversation soon drifted to the Assalamu Alaikum household.
“Are you enjoying Fahrib’s household?” Tad enquired.
I gave the Arab a polite reply. “I’m gaining a lot of valuable experience at Assalamu Alaikum. There is always something new…”
“You were astounded when I mentioned Roya was carrying Fayaad’s child,” Tad interrupted.
I kept silent, wondering if it was appropriate to press for details.
The athlete reached across to hold my hand. “Young, you must think my race does strange things.”
I shook my head. Yet, I yearned to know.
He began, “I am a Muslim, not by choice, but by birth, and so are the majority of my friends and compatriots. Islam is an antithetical religion. Even though Muslims fall under the umbrella of Islam, every individual’s belief system is different.”
He paused. “Since Islamic school, Fahrib and I have been close friends. We agree on most issues, but on some, we differ vastly. He’s a conservative, while I’m a liberal. The doctor prefers to socialize with people of his class, while I enjoy the company of nonconformist individuals.”
I blurted, “You’re a libertine.”
He burst out in laughter. “I suppose you can call me that. In reality, I’m more conservative than your ‘Master.’”
“How so?”
“I believe in old-fashioned romance, rather than a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am liaison,” my host confessed.
“Yet you wasted no time when we were on the boat at Musandam Dibba Al Hisn,” I gushed.
He laughed aloud. “Boy, you sure know how to tease an old guy like me.”
“Is not what I said true?” I razzed.
“I couldn’t resist a sassy cutie like you,” he countered. But then, he turned serious.
“I’ve something I want to ask you.”
“What is it?”
Just as suddenly, he resumed his playful demeanour.
I was puzzled so I pressed, “What is it you want to ask me?”
He waved his hand nonchalantly. “Oh… It’s about Roya and Fayaad.”
He gathered his thoughts before resuming, “I was informed by reliable sources that Fayaad and Roya were secret lovers. I hinted about it to Fah (his nick-name for Sheik Fahrib), but he brushed off my notion as malicious gossip.
“Since I had no desire to interfere in such matters of the heart, I kept to myself until Fah approached me as a stand-in for him and Shahria.”
I posed inquisitively, “Do you think he knows about the affaire but had no desire to stir up crud?
“Even though he’s in-love with P, he can’t bring himself to confront his own feelings.”
Tad remarked, “I wondered this myself.
“You know, Young, we cannot be openly gay in our culture. Most of the time, we have to live conspiratorial lives and mask our true feelings.”
I ribbed, “Is that why you date sexy beauty queens and beautiful models? As a cover-up for enjoying handsome boys?”
He turned solemn.
I felt skittish, as if I’d touched a nerve, so I kept silent. But instead of changing the subject, Tad planted a passionate kiss on my lips in front of the attending footman, who turned away as if he wasn’t aware of what just transpired.
“I’ve been waiting for the right moment to do this,” my host revealed. “You and me, alone.”
My heart pounded incessantly from his defiant act. I thought hard for an appropriate response. None came.
In walked Mr. Harrold. “Sir, are you ready for your digestif in the smoking room?”
I was glad to be saved by the steward as we followed Ernest into an adjoining chamber. No words were exchanged as we sat by the crackling fire, until the footman arrived with our digestive and a choice of fine cigars for Tad’s selection.
He commenced when he took a puff. “Young, tell me about you?”
In truth, E.R.O.S. recruits were taught to be listeners rather than speakers of their lives. We were there to serve rather than be listened
to. Atop that, no patriarchs, or even compatriots of patriarchs, had asked me that question until now.
“There is nothing to tell. I’m learning a great deal in my student exchange program,” I stammered.
Tad chuckled at my hesitance. “You look so cute when you’re bashful.”
I gave a nervous smile.
Suddenly, he knelt and held my hands, before extracting a tiny box out of his suit pocket. He handed me the package.
“Will you live with me?” he muttered.
“What do you mean?” I half-shrieked.
“I mean just that. Will you live with me?” he pleaded.
“You mean… be your kept boy?” I mumbled.
“I’ll set you up in a comfortable London flat. You can travel with me when the occasion arises. And you are free to do whatever you like in London when I’m not in the city.”
“I have to go to school,” I protested. “I’ve obligations to fulfil and promises to keep. I can’t run off and be a kept boy! Besides, I don’t know you that well…” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
He laughed at my disquietude. “Please give my proposal some thought. You don’t have to give me an answer this minute. I can wait. I’m a patient man.”
As hard as I tried to keep my cool, I was flustered by this turn of events. I had not expected a proposal from anyone, let alone this good-looking man-about-town who was every female’s prince charming.
I was again saved by a knock at the Smoking Room door.
“Sir, there are a couple of visitors to see you,” announced the steward. “Shall I show them in?”
“Of course,” came the reply.
My jaw dropped when Jabril and my Valet entered.
“Come in. We’re just finishing up. Would you like a drink before we proceed to St James’s?”
They shook their heads.
“Very well, then, let’s proceed to Dieudonné’s Hotel,” our host vociferated.
“What’s at Dieudonné’s Hotel?” I chirped in puzzlement.
“You’ll find out soon enough. It’s Friday the 13th!” our host proclaimed.
Andy and Jabril patted my back and grinned mischievously.
The Eccentric Club
We arrived at No. 9–11 Ryder Street, home to the Eccentric Club.
“For more than a century and half, this establishment has been an important British institution,” Jabril explained, as usual, as we proceeded toward the entrance. “Its members are amongst those who helped shape British culture into what it is today. Its history is inseparable from that of Great Britain itself.”
“This club was founded a number of times by unrelated and socially different groups of people. For centuries, it served as a meeting place for many great and original minds, pioneers of thought in artistic, literary, theatrical, scientific, legal and political circles. This venue provides an amicable environment for their recreational and creative pastime, as well as a testing ground for novel and controversial theories and approaches to issues important to British society and mankind,” my Valet championed.
“What has Friday the 13th got to do with being eccentric?” I asked curiously.
Before any of my companions could answer, Tad motioned for us to walk under a ladder that had been placed at the doorway.
We did as was told.
Once inside, we came upon a full-length broken mirror leaning against the side of the cloakroom.
Our host vociferated over the noisy space. “Make sure you look at yourself in the cracked mirror before we find a table!”
Members in quirky outfits with aberrant looks were chatting animatedly with one another. The place resembled a flock of exotic cackling birds mixed with an assortment of dishevelled carpetbaggers. I had never seen such an assemblage of eccentrics before. I went to town gawking at every individual in this packed chamber. Within the sea of outlandish characters, the four of us were the most conventional.
When our beverages were brought to our table, a series of unconventional phenomena happened. Out of the blue, our waiter popped open a black umbrella and held it over our heads while handing us our drinks. Suddenly, a black cat jumped onto the table and knocked over the coverless container, spilling a handful of salt onto the table.
Instead of being irritated, Tad, Jabril and Andy took it with a grain of salt, bursting out in laughter. I stared in bewilderment before my chaperone opined, “Young, you should see the look on your face, it’s hilarious.” He laughed insanely.
Equally in mirth, Tad explained, “Young, the Eccentric Society took an interest in challenging long-held superstitions and celebrated Friday the 13th as part of the club’s many rituals. That’s why we are here tonight – to celebrate Friday the 13th.”
He added, “Free-thinking members dined under ladders, held umbrellas indoors, and made themselves lightning rods to bring bad luck. The rituals we just performed are also for laughing in the face of Lady Luck. It’s a sort of demonstration that collective positive thinking can give rise to good fortune any day of the week or month. Superstitions that have been handed down throughout the ages are simply superstitions ingrained in our minds by our ancestors. There is no scientific truth to them.”
“London loves nothing more than an eccentric, and eccentrics love no city more than London,” Andy concluded before we proceeded to paint the tavern red that joyous evening in London town.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Shop Till You Drop
“The quickest way to know a person is to go shopping with them.”
Marcelene Cox
February 2013
Continuation of Andy’s Message (part four)
The priest from Taer and Anak’s parish was as corrupt as they came. The day after I broke ties with the boys, they came to my lodging with their priest demanding monetary compensation for my intimate liaisons with them. I had no idea the Father ran a homeless shelter for runaway kids. This padre was a pimp: he dished out these runaways in return for food and protection.
That day, he labelled me a sinner and pelted me with fire and brimstone, accusing me of corrupting his innocent dependants. Then he proceeded to hound me to repent from my nefarious ways.
According to this man of God, ‘the one and only way’ to cleanse my moral impurities was to confess and donate to his parish. He gave me an ultimatum to appear at his office at the soonest and told me he would not hesitate to contact the police if I transgressed.
But as soon as they were out of sight, my buddies and I vanished to another island without trace. From there, we departed for Canada, knowing the threat had been nothing but fraudulent extortion. (Besides, I knew if I had gone in for confession, he would have tape-recorded my penance to blackmail me).
My intuition had served me well: a year later, I came upon a TV documentary exposing the Marcos’ state and church corruption in the Philippines. One of the indicted priests was none other than the man who had accosted me the year before.
Young, you probably are aware that corruption runs rampant in Third-World countries. This tale of mine is just one cautionary example of many. This disreputable experience had left its loathsome mark – one I had difficulty quelling, even though I wanted to see more of this awe-inspiring country.
Maybe my apprehension will dissipate if I visit that part of the world with you, cherished memories in hand. You’re one fine specimen from that region. ☺
Your loving ex,
Andy
XOXOXO
1968
The Green Men
The moment our Rolls pulled up to the Basil Street entrance of one of London’s infamous department stores, the “Carriage Attendants” dressed in spiffy green uniforms stepped forward to assist our entourage. These ever-present “Green Men,” were customer service ambassadors. Their job was to open doors, greet VIPs, and assist hard-core shoppers with their packages. We had arrived at Harrods, Knightsbridge.
Our efficient cultural attachés had made prior arrangements with the Harrods’ manage
ment, so the moment we entered, we were greeted by shopping consultants Mary, Margaret and Elsie. These three women went out of their way to be cordial (they had obviously been briefed by Sahim and Hussain and knew our entourage were not the easiest to please). What they didn’t expect was pickiness in the form of Shahria, Ain, and a couple of the conservative women.
On the contrary, the pregnant Roya and her ladies-in-waiting turned out to require less effort than their burka-wearing sisters.
Margaret escorted the men to the wine, spirits, cigars, sporting goods and menswear departments, leaving both attachés, Victor, Andy and me to accompany the women to the haute couture salon.
As much as my Valet and teacher desired to go with Tad and Jabril to the masculine divisions, they were obliged to accompany me.
Heedful of the needs of their big-spender clients, the shopping consultants had organized a private fashion parade for the Assalamu Alaikum ladies.
The designer-clad models filed in, one by one in fully covered ensembles showing neither an inch of skin nor the beauty of the female form.
I was taken aback when the outré conventional Shahria and Ain murmured in Arabic to the attachés, “Can we see something more modern?” Andy and I snickered when my teacher translated ‘modern’ to us as ‘enticing.’
The harem women wandered around the salon in separate packs while the consultants hurriedly resolved this unforeseen circumstance by gathering a more ‘enticing’ collection for view.
Not having any patience to wait, Margaret chaperoned Roya, Kifah, the bride-to-be, and her bridesmaids, Iba, Lina, Safiya and their accompanying attaché to the Fine Jewellery Room to shop for sparkles.
Elsie, Hussain, Victor, Andy and I were left to help the remainder of the women view the reappraised fashion collection.
I was amazed when Shahria tried on a shapely Balenciaga cocktail dress overlaid with delicate lace décolletage. When she emerged from the dressing room, she looked amazing. Even a couple of her traditionalist peers complimented her elegance. Though not all the oohs were of the appreciative sort. Ain, her bosom “Sister of Perpetual Abstinence” shook her head in disapproval.