The Academy

by Laura Antoniou

  Ninon laughed. “Oh, I freely relinquish that singular space to Anderson. I know my worth in the world. And while I may make a better lover, she makes a better slave, and we all know which is more important.”

  “Well, it’s very rare that a woman gets the respect she does, or the sheer power,” Bronwyn insisted. “I mean, look at what happened—she arrived at the very last day of the Academy, and everyone started talking about her, what did she think, and what did she want, and how did she vote—as if there was any question about that. I’d wager that if she had been here, Parker wouldn’t have had to compromise on that proposal; no one would dare oppose her publicly.”

  “Oh—I cannot say that,” Ken said gently.

  “I can,” Ninon said with a sigh, propping one foot into her slave’s lap comfortably. “But then, perhaps that was why she stayed away.”

  Michael wondered about that. Why did Anderson avoid these meetings, and why did she tend to stay out of the greater affairs of the Marketplace when it was obvious she had a lot of pull with the organization on all sorts of levels? Why stay in her little house in Brooklyn with no real staff to speak of, no luxuries, and no honor when she could easily be the mistress of a vast training house, a private estate with willing clients who would practically pay for the privilege of dusting her credenza? Even Grendel and Alexandra had a majordomo, a housekeeper, a cook, a gardener, and a stableman, and they only trained novices.

  “...and frankly, it’s good to see a woman in a position of power,” Bronwyn was saying.

  “Oh, feh,” Ken said, leaning forward. “Here we are, you are surrounded by women! I, myself, am one of the world’s greatest spotters, no? And here is Ninon, and there is Marcy, here are all the women you need! I think you and Kim here are, what is it—the wave of the future.”

  “I must respectfully disagree,” Kim said with a sigh. “It is true there do seem to be more women juniors this year—but I have seen the records. We do not stay, we do not rise to the top ranks. There are many, many more men, and truly, many more white men than Asians, even though our own market is quite large.”

  “Oh, and let’s not forget how few trainers are any color than caucasian,” Bronwyn declared, her own pale skin flushing. “We look very multi-racial this year, but that’s because of location, I think. Last year, in Switzerland, it was a sea of white!”

  “Why, did it snow?” Juan Matalino stepped into the garden, a towel around his shoulders, obviously fresh from swimming. He flopped down onto the grass next to Ron and grinned, and Ron grinned back welcoming him.

  “No, no, Bronwyn is explaining to us all how white, Western men rule the world,” laughed Ninon. “Somehow, this fact has escaped us until now!”

  “Well, some white men are acceptable,” Juan said, patting the slave that Ron was leaning on. “Have you tried this one yet, sir, he is very nice!”

  “No, maybe you could show me how nice he is, sir,” Ron flirted. “I’m Ron. And your name would be...?”

  “Well, forgive me for stating the obvious,” Bronwyn groused.

  “Oh, don’t be cross,” Ken said with an exasperated sigh. “Yes, it is sometimes hard to be a woman, but mostly, it is wonderful! And if every other trainer and spotter is a woman, then perhaps no one will notice us, hm? Better to be rare and treasured than to be common, that is what I say.”

  “Better to have a proper share in the power,” insisted Bronwyn.

  “Women can have power, even when you think they do not,” Ken responded quickly. “I think it is better to know your limitations and work beyond them, yes? Or within them, to the best of your choices. True, not everyone is as fortunate as I—but you might be amazed at what a woman can do when she is clever.”

  “I love clever women,” declared Juan, looking up from Ron’s ear, where he had been whispering. “I love clever women and handsome men.”

  “Then you would have loved this sale I just arranged,” Ken said with a laugh. “It is all about a clever woman and a handsome man.”

  “Excellent, tell me all about it. Leave nothing out.” Juan laughed and Ron moved over slightly to make room for him on the slave’s backside.

  “It is a fairy tale,” Ken began.

  “Great—I love stories about fairies!” Ron laughed.

  “Not that kind of fairy, you despoiler of boys’ bottoms,” Ken said. “I mean a fairy story as in princesses and princes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Insha'allah

  by Karen Taylor

  Khadija took the veil off after entering her uncle’s house. Normally, she would only keep her head covered, but out of deference to her uncle and still in mourning for her father, she had wound the long cloth of the milayyeh around her head, neck and shoulders, and tucked the veil carefully across her face to hide everything except her eyes before heading through the crowded streets of Cairo. Anonymous in her dark, shapeless caftan, so different from the suits and dresses she was used to wearing, she felt enveloped, literally, by Cairo. Wrapped as our Prophet Mohammed was wrapped in the angel Gabriel’s embrace on Mount Hira, she thought to herself, as she pushed her way through the swarms of people. Fatma, a servant who had been with her family before she was born, was keeping pace with her.

  Khadija had been invited to the reading of her father’s will. Not that she would be physically present for the formality. While the will was read in her uncle’s private office to the men in the family, Khadija visited with her aunt and female cousins in the parlor, sipping tea and nibbling at the French pastries her aunt always served on formal occasions. Khadija hated her uncle’s apartment, with its dusty velvet curtains blocking any natural light, and retaining every scent of perfume her female relatives were wearing. The tables and mantelpieces were covered with three generations of family photographs, interspersed with trinkets from her uncle’s travels, objects Khadija knew were available in every airport souvenir shop. Gritting her teeth, Khadija sat gingerly on the edge of the overstuffed love seat next to her cousin-in-law, and endured the chatter about children and answering questions about the latest European fashions. When her uncle’s office door opened and the men poured out, the parlor bulged to capacity. The din was incredible with everyone talking at once, calling for more tea, or gathering up various wives and children to leave before afternoon prayers.

  “Allahu Akhhah,” wailed the muezzin from a minaret the nearest mosque, calling the Faithful to worship. Was it that late already? Khadija sighed, waiting respectfully in the parlor with her aunt and Fatma until her Uncle had finished his prayers. It was a relief to have her Uncle finally call her into his office. While it was as cluttered as the rest of the house, at least there were only two people in the room. Three, counting the elderly Fatma, who had been enlisted by her aunt to bring tea and still more pastries.

  “Khadija, my most beloved niece, here is your copy of the papers.” Ahmed handed a closed file to his niece, then gestured her to a chair.

  “Alfi shukir, Uncle,” Khadija thanked him. She placed the file in her lap without opening it. Patiently, she waited until Fatma set the tea down, and waited still further until the proper rituals had been observed in pouring and serving the beverage. She would not shame him by reading the papers before he could tell her his synopsis.

  “It is an interesting will, my beloved niece,” Ahmed began. “My brother, may he live in our memory, has left a most interesting will.” Khadija sighed inwardly. Her Uncle Ahmed had a reputation as a proper, courteous businessman of the old style. Old style meaning hours before business was actually brought up, and hours longer until it was settled. She herself preferred the more direct, approach, but she was a guest in her Uncle’s house. She shifted imperceptibly in her chair, in the hopes of finding a position she could maintain while appearing to be alert to every word her Uncle would speak—no matter how often she had heard them before.

  “As you know, your dear father did not expect your brother to die on such a peaceful military operation,” Ahmed was continuing. “It hurt your father b
adly, my beloved niece. His sickness worsened at the news, and he never recovered.”

  “I remember, Uncle,” Khadija replied softly, silently willing her uncle to get to the point.

  “Your beloved father, my brother, rewrote his will after the death of your brother, may he be with Allah,” Ahmed continued. “Your father had your best interests at heart, my darling niece. The will is, as I have mentioned, interesting, perhaps even unusual, but according to the attorneys, it is quite legal. Ah, Khadija, my sweet, your father’s wishes are most clear.” He paused, and sighed heavily.

  “Beloved Uncle, will you enlighten me as to my father’s wishes?” Khadija asked politely, hoping her eagerness was unnoticeable. Ahmed sighed heavily again, as if unable to form words.

  “Ya-beyh? Beloved Uncle?” she prompted him.

  “Yes, yes, you were always the impatient one, Khadija. Give this old man time to tell his story.”

  “La samaat, Uncle,” Khadija apologized, lowering her brown eyes demurely, silently counting to ten in as many languages as she could. Ahmed smiled at her deference.

  “You are forgiven, my sweet niece. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your father’s last wishes. He has given me ownership in the parts of the business that I am already running in his name. The balance of the business will be given to you. That is, to you and your husband.”

  Khadija leaned forward in shock. “Husband? But uncle, I have no immediate plans to marry.”

  Ahmed looked grim. “Alas, my precious one, you do now. For, you see, unless you are married by this time next year, all of the business will be sold, divided to the shareholders, and all your father’s dreams will vanish like smoke.” Ahmed leaned forward as well, looking his niece directly in the eye. “Khadija, my beloved niece, you and I shall be honest right now. We both know which of us is better qualified to run the family business. I have done my best with this little office here in Cairo, but you are the one with the business degrees from that American school. You have increased the family’s business substantially while running the Zürich office. Your mind is better than that of ten men, but Khadija, my beloved, you are an unmarried woman! You are—what? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Almost too old! Your status is in question. No one will take you seriously. Your father, may his memory be a blessing, knew this. We must find you a husband in order to keep the family strong.” He straightened in his chair, clasping his hands before him. “Women should be married, Khadija. It is written that it is women’s nature to be wives and mothers. You are brilliant in business, my darling niece, but you need a husband or you will not be respected. A husband, Khadija, and insha’allah, I shall find one for you.”

  Khadija was silent. As much as she wanted to shout at her uncle at the unfairness of the will’s contents, she knew he was right. Her father had been very permissive with her, encouraging her to continue her education. When she was accepted at Wharton, her father rewarded her with apartments in both Philadelphia and New York, as well as a car and driver. After her graduation with highest honors, her father assigned her to the Zürich office, and soon she was running the entire European branch of the business, where women in business were welcomed or, at least, tolerated. In those years, she visited Cairo rarely, the last time returning for her brother’s funeral three years ago. Until her father’s death. Ah, abuyya, your death brings so many changes, Khadija thought, tears filling her eyes. She politely thanked her uncle for his concern, and as quickly as possible, she and Fatma left.

  * * * *

  It was a relief to be out of the disorderly, noisy rooms of her uncle’s home. Her father’s apartment filtered the light and heat of Cairo through colored glass windows and latticework, instead of the oppressive curtains that covered every window in her uncle’s house. Khadija’s father had been a collector of rare and unusual objects, but hated clutter. Silk wall hangings with intricate geometric patterns covered the walls, with silver and gold thread winking at her in the dusk. The bookshelves were filled with rare books, elaborate calligraphy on their leather bookbindings. When the muezzin’s evening call to the Faithful came through the open windows, Khadija knelt on the rich Persian carpet in the center of the floor, and focused herself on the first pillar of Islam: “La ilaha illa allah, sayyiduna muhammed ras ulu allah,” she murmured. “I bear witness that there is no god but Allah and that Muhammad is his Messenger.” She let the song of the muezzin, and her own prayers, wrap her in peace and serenity.

  Cairo was indeed recapturing her, Khadija thought with a sigh, rising from her kneeling position on the carpet. She seated herself at her father’s desk, lit the green banker’s lamp, and opened the file her uncle had given her. Indeed, the contents were as her uncle had told her. But there were also personal assets that were to be settled, as well. Her father’s apartments in Cairo, Alexandria, Zürich, New York, and London were hers free and clear. The will emphasized that the directive included the apartments’ contents. Khadija smiled. She knew, although perhaps the attorney did not, that this included her father’s other collection—his slaves.

  Khadija had been told of the Marketplace when her father had purchased a pleasure slave after her mother’s death. “It is the quality of their merchandise, my princess,” he explained to her. “Women are always available to serve a man with needs. But I collect quality. I wish for my merchandise to please me, even after I have spent myself in her.” And the woman he purchased was indeed, beautiful in the Western manner, tall and blond, with a small nose and blue eyes, and so thin that Khadija wondered how any man could lie with her without bruising themselves painfully on her bones. The slave was friendly, however, and Khadija enjoyed the times they had spent together, chatting in French, playing bridge in the Alexandria apartment, or watching the American movies when her father was out of town. When her father grew tired of the slave, Khadija suggested he give the blond to Ahmed as a present, but the suggestion was really to keep the woman near to her for company until she went away to college. I wonder where she is now? Khadija wondered. The current pleasure slave living in the Alexandria apartment was unknown to her. According to the papers, her father’s other slaves included the correspondence secretary who lived in the London apartment, the bahweb who was guarding the apartment and ran errands for the family, the chauffeur ... and Fatma.

  Fatma? Khadija was astonished. Fatma had been a fixture in her life since she was a baby. She even remembered her father telling stories of Fatma when he was a child. It had never occurred to her that Fatma was Marketplace material. She couldn’t imagine the ancient crone as a sexual being, much less being placed on an auction block. What had drawn her nurse to such a life? Unconsciously, her hand dropped to the bell, and she rang.

  * * * *

  “Oh, yes, ya madehm, I was sold in the Marketplace oh, fifty or sixty years ago,” Fatma told Khadija.

  “That long?” Khadija gasped. “But you have been working in our family all of my life.”

  “And most of your father’s too, may his memory be a blessing,” Fatma agreed. “It should be no surprise to you that Muslim families prefer to buy Muslim slaves to care for the children. Your grandfather purchased me to assist your grandmother with her two sons, when your aunt was still to be born. I have remained with your family since.”

  “But how did you find the Marketplace?” Khadija asked, fascinated with this new knowledge.

  “How, how? I don’t know how to explain it,” Fatma sighed. “I had friends from different places, women friends, with desires similar to my own,” she began. “I fell in love, ya madehm. I devoted myself to a woman in a way that I cannot explain. She was a mistress to a diplomat who had a house in my town, and she lived there to serve him. No, she was not a woman who had been purchased merely for the purpose of sex, but to provide much more to this diplomat. In fact, she had received special training for her skills, not just in the sexual area, in language, arts, politics, oh, she was so smart!”

  “A cultured whore, but still a whore,” Khadija sniffed, but Fatma determined
ly shook her head.

  “No, ya madehm, not a whore. The Marketplace is not a dealer of innocent flesh. They do not seek out the unknowing and force them into such lives. They do not even take those who simply exchange money for sexual intercourse. No, the Marketplace exists for people like me, who wish to serve honorably. I knew this when I first met this woman. She was not desperate or unhappy. She had a place inside her soul that needed to be useful to others. And she cultivated this place so that it brought her pride and grace in such a way that I knew that is what I wanted too.”

  “What did you do?” Khadija asked, drawn into the story despite herself.

  “Do? I asked to serve her in her house, to be closer to her. No,” Fatma laughed at the question forming on Khadija’s lips, “I was not used sexually. With this face? Even sixty years ago, I was no prize. It was not necessary, you see. There are women—and men, ya madehm—who are specially trained for such things. Why would their Owners waste their thrustings and groanings with a common house slave? No, but I learned much from my dear friend. I learned how to take such pride in the feelings I had for service, and to perfect the ability to anticipate the needs of my Owners. I discovered that my love for this woman was strong, but my need to serve was stronger. She was kind, bless her, and arranged for me to be taken into the Marketplace. I have remained ever since.”

  “Have you ever wanted to leave?” Khadija asked curiously.

  “Oh no, ya madehm, I am very happy in my place,” Fatma assured her. “Before the Marketplace, what did I have to look forward to? A life of drudgery, of poverty, of a husband who would make me carry his children! No, I have no use for men. I wanted more for my life. The Marketplace has given me everything I need.”

  * * * *

  Khadija went to bed that night, her head spinning at the thought of a woman choosing voluntary slavery. What would those radical feminists I went to school with think about the Marketplace? she wondered. Would they believe that some women actually preferred to serve, or would they insist it was brainwashing by the patriarchy? Khadija herself believed that some people, men and women, were naturally inclined toward such service. Even the Prophet Mohammed himself had written of the duties and responsibilities that were naturally masculine or naturally feminine. Lucky women, like Fatma, found a place where they would be permitted to serve honorably. I wonder about the men with those tendencies, Khadija thought as her mind drifted closer to sleep.