With grace, she picked up the cup in one delicate hand and the teapot in another. She poured from the pot to the cup. Then she leaned over and poured into the cup each had on his knee.
A little tea party! How charming!
She raised her cup, the two small boys raised theirs. “Serefe!” she said, meaning “Here’s to you” in Turkish. They all drank.
The tea must have been awfully hot and strong. The two small boys drank theirs and gasped and coughed. But they smiled and watched as she sipped hers.
“Now,” said Utanc, in her low, husky voice, “we will get on with the next story.”
The two small boys wriggled with delight and hitched themselves closer, fixing their eyes on her adoringly. How utterly charming she was–telling them fairy stories.
Utanc spread her arms along the top of the garden seat. “The name of this story is ‘Goldilocks and the Three Commissars.’” She settled herself comfortably. “Once upon a time there was this beautiful little girl named Goldilocks. That means she had gold-colored hair. And she was ramming around in the woods getting into things. Nosy. So she came to this cottage and picked the lock and trespassed with illegal entry.
“Now this Goldilocks had a horrible appetite because she came from capitalistic parents and, as usual, she thought she was starved. And there on the table sat three bowls of porridge. So she decided it was a worker’s cottage and she better exploit it.
“She sat herself down in the biggest chair and had at that porridge. But it was too hot. So she went to the next-sized chair and tried to wolf that porridge. But it was too cold. So she sat down in the smallest chair and, wow, that porridge was great. So her capitalist tendencies got the better of her and she ATE IT ALL UP. Left absolutely nothing.
“Now, actually, this cottage belonged to three commissars and they had been out to a party meeting to help the workers and it was an awful joke on this Goldilocks pig that they weren’t workers at all but real rough, tough, friends-of-the-people, no-nonsense commissars. A real bad break for this kid Goldilocks, but the little pig should have known better. So she split.
“So the biggest commissar put his whip down on the table and suddenly looked at his porridge and he said, ‘Who the hell has been at this porridge?’ And the medium-sized commissar put his brass knuckles down on the table and said, ‘Hey, what (bleepard) has been at my porridge?’ And the smallest commissar had just hung up his handgun when he saw his own plate and it was EMPTY!”
The two small boys strained forward to get every word. Utanc leaned toward them. She continued, “So they spotted footprints in the snow and they got out their dogs and they trailed Goldilocks! They trailed her across mountains and ice packs on rivers and through forests. Wow! What a chase! And they finally got Goldilocks up a tree.”
Utanc sat back. She took another sip from the silver cup. She didn’t seem to be going to go on. The two small boys strained forward. “Yes?” “Yes?”
Utanc smiled dreamily. Then she said, “So they caught her and (bleeped) her and everybody had a lot of fun.”
The two small boys began to laugh. They laughed and laughed and so did Utanc. The little boys got to laughing so hard they were rolling around on the grass, holding their stomachs.
Finally it calmed down. Utanc smiled at them prettily. She got the silver pot again. “Have some more tea,” she said.
It was such a charming scene! Of course, Utanc had been subjected to the Russian propaganda machine. And naturally she would not be timid talking to little boys. But it was so sweet of her to be taking her time to educate these two little Turkish brats. It showed a kind, indulgent heart.
It was as she reached out with the pot that I caught sight of her naked armpit. I had not realized anything could affect me so much. I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
And then that excrement named Karagoz came around the end of the inner garden wall and coughed. I got up and pretended I had lost something and walked off.
The husky, low sound of her voice haunted my ears. For the rest of that afternoon I couldn’t think of anything else.
Imagine the thrill when, at eight o’clock that night, one of the small boys came to me.
“Utanc says to take a bath and get on your turban and go sit in the salon.”
And believe me, I was into the turban and caftan like a shot and into that lounge zip. I sat on the cushions and waited.
PART TWENTY
Chapter 7
The yellow-orange flame light painted the room.
She slipped quietly through the door.
Like a shadow she flowed to her pillows.
She sat cross-legged in the center of the room. She put down a large, silver, mirror-shiny tray, her cura irizva and tambourine. She wore baggy pantaloons of gray, a silver-embroidered short jacket that hid her breasts but exposed her stomach and arms. She had a silver band around her hair. She was veiled.
Her head was down. She was not looking at me.
She just sat there. From time to time she sighed.
I was afraid to speak for fear she would run away. But after a very long time, I whispered, “Why are you downcast?”
In a very low, husky voice she said, “O Master, I am sad because I cannot tolerate the thought of being without the bare necessities of life. I sigh for the deprivation of not having silk handkerchiefs, French bubble bath, antiperspirant and Chennel Number 5. I require only minor cash to buy them—a few hundred thousand lira.”
She looked so sad, slumped there. She was a wild, primitive nomad of the Kara Kum Desert. It would not do to remind her she was now a slave. Naturally she needed money to buy necessities. How she must have missed them, tending camels in that sandy waste.
“They are yours,” I said in a lordly manner.
At once she sat up straight. Her eyes flicked at me and then were demurely downcast.
She picked up her little drum and began to beat upon it, slowly, timidly. Then she began to hum a wordless, plaintive tune.
I knew she was encouraging herself.
The drumbeat grew stronger. Then in midbar she changed over from the drum to the silver tray and began to beat upon it instead.
The tune she hummed became stronger, faster, less plaintive.
As she sat, her body began to sway. She came to her knees. Her body swayed more.
Her bracelets were hitting the tray with a crash! The beat became faster. In a sitting position, but sitting on nothing, she began to kick out with her feet, one after the other!
In that sitting posture, kicking out her silvered toes in rhythm, banging the flashing tray, she sailed around the room humming some savage tune! She actually seemed to float above the floor!
From one end of the room to the other she went, back and forth. Now at the end of each passage, she leaped up, came down on her heels, extended and cried, “Heigh!” And then each time, her bracelets rattled against the tray. Barbaric!
She was going in wide circles now. It was a Russian dance! She went faster. The tray crashed louder as she banged it.
My body began to jump with the rhythm of it. I was following her with my eyes but my body also began to twist to the left and to the right.
The circles were getting smaller. She was closer and closer to the center of the room.
And then she was back in the center. She was humming more intensely. She was on her knees. She was swinging the tray above her head, the flat side facing me, left and right and left and right, banging it with her hand each time.
I found my body twitching in response to the rhythm. My eyes followed the tray.
The yellow-orange flame flashed and flashed. I found myself panting in rhythm.
Her hips were grinding now. She ripped the veil from her face. Her eyes were on me like hot coals.
My body was jerking, all of its own accord, back and forth, back and forth.
Suddenly she sank on her heels. She put down the tray. She seized her cura irizva.
With the same tune she had been humming, she began t
o strike chords.
Her eyes were scorching me.
She began to sing:
Unspent kisses clog my throat,
Unspent smiles lurk
Behind my lips.
Unspent passion dams my breath
And sucks back in
The unspent tongue!
My hands
That ache
With unspent caress
Tremble
When I think
Of pouring out upon you
All my flood
Of UNSPENT LOVE!
It was unbearable! I cried out, “Oh, my darling!” I flung out my hands to her.
The cry, the gesture, startled her. She cowered away. And before I could protest, she abandoned her instruments and fled from the room!
Before I could reach her door, the iron bolt was in place.
I tried to plead. I begged. But my voice must not have been able to penetrate the door. It remained locked.
After a long time I went and got five hundred thousand lira and pushed them, one by one, through the crack under the door. The last one simply stayed there, its tip still showing. I looked at it for the rest of the night.
The next day I got bold enough to creep along the wall of the inner garden but, alas, the hole I had found was now plugged up.
I thought I heard voices in the garden once. I could not be sure. I spent a miserable, aching day.
I did not really have too much hope. But around eight, a small boy came to me. He said, “Utanc told me to say you should take a bath and get your turban on and go into the salon.”
Oh, never was a bath taken so fast.
Almost in no time, I was in the salon.
I waited.
At long, long last, the door crept open.
Softly and quietly she slipped in. She was wearing a tight jacket that left her arms and belly bare. It was of gold embroidery. She wore baggy pantaloons of gold. She had a gold band with flowers around her black hair. She was veiled in a golden veil. As she sat, I saw that her fingernails and toenails were painted gold. She was carrying a flashing sword and her cura irizva.
But she sat with her eyes downcast, her head bowed. From time to time, she sighed.
“Why are you sighing?” I said at last, very softly so as not to frighten her.
“O Master,” she said with downcast eyes, “I cannot tolerate the thought of not being able to call Istanbul, Paris and New York to order, COD, the small and vital things a poor woman has to have to preserve her beauty in her master’s eyes. I need a telephone in my room with a WATS line and an unlisted number.”
Well, naturally a wild and shy desert girl from the primitive and uncultured wastes of the Kara Kum Desert wouldn’t want to have her phone number listed.
“It is yours,” I said in a lordly way.
She began to hum slowly and plaintively. She picked up the sword and began to tap the blade in rhythm, first to her right, then to her left. Her body began to move with the sword.
The sword seemed to be leading her, pulling her up little by little to her feet as it went from left to right. Her eyes were on it, following it.
Her feet began to move, steps to the left, steps to the right.
The yellow-orange flame light clashed upon the sword, rippled over her body.
Now she began to slash with the sword as she danced. The whoosh-whoosh of it blended in with the tune she was humming.
Then the sword began to spin. I was terrified she would cut herself!
Then with one hand on the tip and the other on the hilt she began to leap over the sword and back again in rhythm! And gracefully!
Suddenly she let go of the tip end and began to whirl. She had the sword extended. She became a blur of gold.
She leaped into the air and came down!
The sword lanced up!
I was certain she would stab herself!
The razor edge slit her veil!
The two halves fell apart. Her face was revealed. She seemed fixated upon the upright sword. Her head began to go back. Her hips began to work. Her belly muscles began to writhe.
The sword seemed to pump up and down.
The tune she hummed was turning into moans.
Her hips ground harder and harder. My own body was moving in rhythm to hers. I could not control it. I did not try!
Suddenly she upended the sword.
She drove it into the floor!
It quivered there!
She sat behind it.
Her eyes went from the sword to me and I was almost scalded by the passion in them.
She savagely yanked her cura irizva to her. But then she sighed tremulously.
She struck a chord of great longing. She sang:
Let me drink of you.
Let me drink with my eyes
The bold male beauty of your limbs!
Let me drink with my breath
The brutal male scent of you!
Let me drink with my lips
The taste of your male flesh.
Let me drink and drink and drink
Before I starve
Of longing for you!
Let me drink,
Let me drink,
Oh Allah, let me drink
Before I die of love
And EMPTINESS!
The sobbing plaint was more than I could take. “Utanc!” I shouted.
It broke the spell!
She cast away the cura irizva with a clatter.
She fled from the room!
And even though I was very fast, the door was locked and barred before I could reach her room.
I stood there for hours. I couldn’t stop trembling. I went to my office and wrote out an order for a WATS line with an unlisted number. I slid it under her door but the edge stayed in view.
The next day I realized that I was becoming physically ill. I ached all over. Things were in a sort of a blur. I just wandered about, stopping now and then and staring and not seeing what I was looking at.
I thought to myself that this was no good, getting ill this way. I would not be fit if anything did happen to bring Utanc to my bed. Although I almost never touched the stuff, a bit of Scotch might do me good. I had been keeping a bottle to give to the captain of the Blixo when he arrived. I went to a cupboard to dig it out.
It was gone!
I called the waiter.
He said he didn’t know anything about it.
I wandered around some more. I couldn’t even sit down!
The waiter came in to serve me my supper.
He kept standing there, twisting his hands, so I looked at him. The waiter had a black eye!
“Sultan Bey,” he said, shuffling his feet, “I came to confess that it was I who took the Scotch.”
But really, even though this was a marvelous opportunity to punish him, I was too far gone. I simply waved him away. I couldn’t eat my supper either.
Maybe I would die and simply be through with the whole thing. I had decided finally and inevitably that this was the best plan when, suddenly, there was one of the small boys.
“Utanc says that you should bathe and put on a turban and go into the salon.”
Weak as I was, I made pretty good time!
I waited quite a while.
Then there was a slither at the door. It cracked wider. In she came. She was carrying a bucket, two unlit torches and her cura irizva.
Quietly she took her place in the center of the room. She was dressed in red-embroidered pantaloons and vest. She had a red band with flowers in it around her black hair. Her toenails and fingernails were scarlet. And so was her veil.
But she just sat slumped, eyes downcast. She sighed deeply. She looked listless.
At length I got up courage enough to whisper, “Why are you sighing?”
“O my master, I am sad because I cannot tolerate the thought of being cooped up all day in a single room and garden. Were I to move about on foot, I would be stared at or attacked upon the roads. I feel I can never be ha
ppy without a BMW 320, fuel-injected engine, five-speed stick shift, rally-model sedan.”
For the first time I felt a surge of horror. Such a car would cost a million and a half Turkish lira!
She sighed tremulously. But then, of course, she would feel cooped up. A wild, primitive desert girl, she was used to the limitless vistas, rolling dunes and the vast sky of Russian Turkmen. Her leg moved slightly. I was terrified she would run away.
“It is yours,” I said.
She began to hum quietly. She picked up the two torches and went over to the open lamps. She lit them. She came back to the center of the room.
She stood there, a torch in each hand. Their light and the lamplight made moving shadows around her on the floor. The live flame seemed to make her body writhe.
Humming, she began to juggle the torches, tossing them and catching them, one after the other, in rhythm.
Then she sped to the right and sped to the left and back and forth. I was turning my whole body to follow her. At the end of the run, she tossed a torch high, turning and then catching it.
She narrowed the run. And then she was standing in one place. She was still juggling the torches. But now, each time a hand was momentarily free, she was tugging at her red veil. Little by little, her face was becoming bare.
Then the veil was gone!
She stood there juggling the torches. But now there was a change. The torches were crossing from one hand to the other, both together as they spun. I turned right and left, following the flame. Her feet began to beat the rhythm of the tune.
Her body now seemed to be writhing more. Or was it just the flame shadows?
It was her body!
Her belly was moving!
She was beginning to grind with her hips. She was going from one foot to the other. The torches both together were being tossed from left to right and back again. My body moved of its own accord to follow them.
Her chin was coming down. Her eyes were fixed upon me.
Then, as she stood there, grinding her hips, moving her belly, her head began to come up. Up and up! Her eyes began to glaze!
Her mouth was open, slack. I had never noticed before that her mouth was large, that her lips were full and red. And wet.
Mission Earth Volume 3: The Enemy Within Page 5