The Last Harem

by George P. Saunders

  Not to refute any allegations to the contrary, I found it interesting to note that such kindness and consideration by the Sultan towards one of his subjects didn't exactly fit some of the profiles I had been reading about describing him as a depraved, sex addict who tortures and anally molested beautiful young women. Crazy notion . . . maybe it was just me . . .

  Food for thought. Nothing more.

  One could argue, I suppose, that dirty old sex-crazed men could also demonstrate intermittent acts of humanitarianism, but I'm just having a rough time painting the picture thus... That the Sultanate had a particular craving for beautiful young women is undeniable, as we will get into later. You, the reader, will have to be the judge and jury as to its overall behavior based on Aphrodite's adventures in Brunei.

  And as for Mrs. Balik, hey, she said there was nothing more in the world she could ever want.

  Except, maybe . . . another gold chain.

  What woman wouldn't want another one of those?

  ***

  One more word on Brunei's economic and political base.

  Brunei's wealth comes from natural gas and oil. But expert projections see those underground assets as being exhausted within the next twenty years. This doesn't mean the Sultan and his kin will be looking to Welfare for support – but it does mean that the country is going to have to find new forms of economic activity to avoid being a stagnant nation of pension collectors. And that means expanding business outward – and relying on other resources aside from oil and gas to maintain a healthy economy.

  Does this threaten the current political structure?

  Damn right it does.

  Brunei will have to have a broader participation in world business; this means more international business folk coming through Brunei and more Bruneians trekking to more places abroad. All this schlepping about by people is going to lead to an influx of new political ideas. With an overwhelming pressure for increased democratization, and the protection of civil and human rights – I would say, simply, that the greatest challenge Brunei will have to face in the coming decades is preserving the monarchical power base.

  Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

  So the old saying goes. Brunei - for the above reasons, and those I'm about to explore further – is definitely a nation the world will be watching for years to come...

  ***

  And what does all this have to do with hot chicks going over there to get paid, in one week, twice as much as the average American makes in ten months?

  Well, a lot.

  It's important to see the cold facts and figures, just to get an idea of what kind of numbers we're dealing with.

  Money is simply not an option in Brunei.

  It's a way of life.

  Period.

  I closed my textbooks and wondered what Aphrodite was doing in a galaxy called Brunei, far, far away...

  Easy Lies the Head that Wears the Crown

  By way of Aphrodite...

  The first day turned into the second. Then the third. Each day seemed identical. It would begin around noon. I would awaken, generally hungover, order an orange juice and champagne from the maid who was assigned to me, then stretch. Each of the girls had their own personal maid. It was very nice. My maid's name was Kai Li, a very pretty Chinese girl just a little older than me. Her English was passable, and communication was sometimes a little slow between her and I, but what I loved about Kai Li was her laugh. It was a high pitched, shrill little giggle that was absolutely endearing. When I left Brunei six months later, I missed Kai Li most of all.

  After my stretching exercises, I ate a banana or some eggs; the houses came with two full time cooks. At any time between the hours of 6 a.m. and 12 midnight, we could place an order with either Frank, an Australian gourmet cook, or Chang, our more local and equally tireless chef who specialized in all things (surprisingly) Oriental. They were both excellent at what they did, and they both catered to the girls without complaint.

  I stuck close to Tina, one of my roommates, simply because she was my friend Lisa's sister. Lisa had been stationed in the same house that Kayla now lived. I pestered Tina constantly for details of life here.

  "You'll see what it's like," she would say. She laughed often, and always seemed happy, but she recalled very little about most things.

  I liked her immensely. She was simple, charming, not a worry-wart like myself who had to know everything about everything now, fast, right away. Tina had lived here for almost a year; she was purportedly worth over $2 million.

  She had also slept with the Prince.

  For which I learned, you automatically received a small stipend of between $500,000 and $1,000,000. Once consummated, you were labeled "one of Prince Jefri's girls" and were treated with utmost respect, at least by the guards and the inner circle of Prince Jefri's friends.

  I pressed Tina for details on the Prince. But she gave none.

  "He's the Prince," she'd say simply. "And if he wants you, you'll know."

  "If he . . . wants me?" I said on the second day, just before Tina and I were about to go for a jog.

  "Well, sure. There's always that possibility."

  My mind stopped. And momentarily nose-dived into a panic. I again recalled Sue and her "insider information" regarding the fuck factor here in Brunei. I wondered if Tamara, my agent, had lied to me. That I was here to be the sexual chattel of some alien king, in a land I little understood, in a palace that regarded me simply as a receptacle from some horny prince's lust.

  I tried to control my temper, as I slowed to a halt.

  "Tina, I have to talk to you. Please stop," I said.

  Tina stopped and regarded me quizzically.

  "Are we, or are we not, expected to be prostitutes?"

  She laughed, then came over and kissed me. Right on the lips. She then brushed my hair back . . . and smiled.

  "It's not what you think, Aphrodite," she said. "You'll see."

  I was first stunned by the kiss on the lips – this girl hardly knew me, and was easily seven years my junior, at age 20. I pondered that only for a moment; it was the subsequent information which vexed me more than I can describe: It's not what I think, she said.

  What I thought, of course, was the worst.

  The rest of the day proved happily uneventful and was pretty much representative of most of my days in Brunei: I jogged, I rode horses, I worked out in the gym, I laid by the pool and tanned. I returned to the house for a bite to eat, a bath, and then proceeded to prepare for that night's party. Such was my hectic routine day to day, at least for the first month.

  The second and third night pretty much repeated the first; Prince Jefri's friends arrived around 11 p.m. the Prince himself arrived by nearly midnight, sometimes with a wife, or sons, sometimes by himself. And, as always, he remained properly detached on the lowest level of the massive staircase leading to the upper levels of the Library, which was of course, annexed to the 2,000 room palace beyond.

  I sang on the second and third night, along with some of the other girls. The night wore on; I drank champagne, chatted with Kayla, and gradually came to know a few of the other girls, including Sue, Dalia and Cathy, my companions from Los Angeles.

  Always, in those first days, I was expecting "the call."

  The call by the Prince.

  I imagined the dialogue.

  "Good evening, Ms. Dorian," the Prince was certain to say in my imagination. A royal Count Dracula, Asian style.

  "Hello," I would gulp, my eyes as wide as those of a deer trapped in the beams of an oncoming semi-rig.

  "You fascinate me, Ms. Dorian," he would say in my fantasy. "Fascinate – and delight."

  "Yes. Well. It's what I'm paid to do," I would say cleverly. Only in my dreams.

  "Indeed. And I love your singing voice," the Satanic Prince of my fantasy would continue lasciviously.

  "My voice. Yes. Remarkable, isn't it. Years of training. You should hear me play the violin." I was always far wittier in my
fantasies than I would ever be in real life.

  And then he would say those words – the words I knew would be forthcoming, if not at first . . . then at last.

  "I want to make love to you. Wild, passionate, forbidden love. From stem to stern, you will be mine. Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever," the Prince would say, clutching at me like some starved ferret, tearing at fresh kill. The undeniable power of the King, speaking his desires – for the crown could be denied nothing.

  And then, of course, in my dream – I would scream.

  Worse, my screams would do no good. He would take me. Again, and again, and again. He would own me. Completely. In ways that Western culture would little understand, without the aid of an anatomical guidebook of the human body. I would be ravaged, against my will, despite my pleas, in spite of my inalienable rights as a citizen of the United States.

  Such was the horrible picture I was waiting to be forged and painted, courtesy of the Prince Regent himself.

  But such a dreadful scenario never materialized, and no "call" was ever placed.

  I rode horses by day, jogged, tanned by the pool, and ate myself silly – but no one ever asked for sex, or intimidated me with innuendo.

  After one month, I was beginning to believe that Brunei was indeed, a dream come true. Sue must have clearly been mistaken. Apparently, what Tamara my agent had told me was absolutely accurate. The Prince and his pals simply wanted pretty young things prancing about for three hours at night, but nothing more. In two weeks, I would return home with roughly $150,000 to my name.

  Not bad, I thought at the time – the beginning of November, 1995.

  Not bad at all.

  Then . . . suddenly . . . things began to change.

  The first change came with the news from the United States.

  The news that Linda Sobek had been murdered.

  It was because of poor Linda that I met the Prince, in person.

  ***

  Who was Linda Sobek?

  At the time, back in November of 1995, she was just another nobody - like myself. A young model trying to make it in Hollywood.

  Within the span of a week, Linda, like Nicole Simpson, would become more famous dead than alive.

  I mention Linda here because she was my girlfriend Kayla's very best friend in the whole world. I mention her, also, because it was her tragic murder which was the trigger event that led to my first meeting with Prince Jefri.

  When Kayla heard about Linda's murder, it was at the beginning of the party; HBO Asia was about to come on, but it was preceded by Asia CNN. The news hit Kayla like a ton of bricks.

  I was standing next to her at the bar. She didn't cry, she just stared at the television, shaking her head back and forth.

  "This is a joke," she was muttering, more of a whisper.

  I said nothing. I didn't know Linda, had never even met the girl. But I watched my friend Kayla – and could tell that she was someone dear to her.

  Kayla stepped forward, a glass of Dom Perignion in her hand. She stumbled, and fell onto her knees. And then began to sob. Huddled in a small ball, in the middle of the dance floor, she cried for ten minutes, begging us to turn off the television, and looking around saying simply "I have to go, I have to go."

  Mr. Jan arrived ten minutes later, and was informed by one of Prince Jefri's friends about what had transpired. The Prince had not yet arrived for his nightly vigil at the base of the stairs; but Mr. Jan disappeared a moment later, presumably to inform the Prince of the news – and of the despair one of the girls was presently feeling.

  Kayla was excused from the party; I asked if I could accompany her back to her house, and everyone agreed this would be best.

  "I need my passport," she said. "My ticket."

  I assured her that these details were being attended to; privately, I hoped for as much. I assumed Mr. Jan was already on the ball with this matter – he always seemed so efficient.

  Sure enough, within the hour, after Kayla had been calmed, Mr. Jan arrived, tickets in hand, passport and visas gently pressed into Kayla's hands.

  There was also an envelope filled with money. Kayla's salary thus far for 30 days of "work" – plus a little something extra. She did not bother to count it there. Her mind was back in California, with the family of a girlfriend she had come to love – and who was now dead. But for the record, Kayla's salary, after four weeks, came to around $200,000. She received $100,000 for the grievance of losing a friend while away from home

  The next day, early in the morning, before any of the other girls were conscious, Kayla left us. I remained awake with Kayla for the entire night, though I was of little comfort to her. She kept watching Asia CNN for any further updates – but no other details came from the States.

  Linda Sobek was murdered on November 19, 1995, by a photographer who lured her out to a National Forest, under the pretense of a test photographic gig – a common thing for models, wherein a photographer will shoot out a few rolls of film for a girl, free of charge, so long as he retains ownership of the negatives. The gig turned into a rape and strangulation. The killer is still in jail, convicted of first degree murder, without the chance for parole.

  The funeral took place two days later, and Kayla arrived home in time to attend it.

  At the approximate time we thought the funeral took place, all the girls at the party observed a moment of silence. Prince Jefri had arrived, and he stood at the base of his stairs, with his wife, and two sons. A prayer was said silently by one and all. Perhaps a prayer in different languages, under different religious beliefs and conviction – but it was a moment of silence for a dead woman that I will never forget.

  When I glanced around in that instance, I saw simply the collective reflection on death – and of tragedy.

  I didn't know Linda Sobek . . . but I cried, along with the other girls. Why? We were all models or actresses. Any one of us could have been in that poor woman's position. Bad things happened all the time to beautiful young women in Hollywood. A bad thing had happened to me in Japan.

  We cried for Linda. But we also cried for the injustice of it all. Rapists and murderers are alive and well on planet Earth. It's a fact. And it's a fact that infuriates me. I wish there was someone whom you could take such a complaint to, but there isn't. At the end of the day, there is only God – God, who seems so far away, who seems so – untouchable. So distant.

  God, who allows young women to be raped, tortured and killed.

  After our moment of silence, I poured my champagne down the drain. I ordered a bottle of scotch.

  You can guess the rest.

  ***

  All of us were tested for AIDS on the first of every month.

  I was to discover why in very short order: The Prince (and/or his friends) would, occasionally, ask one or more of the girls of their choice for sexual intercourse.

  The Prince, by necessity, was forced to be very discreet. Because he was four times married, according to Islamic law, he was technically unable to engage in sex outside of the sanctity of marriage. When he approached a girl, he would assume a completely different name: Prince Jefri's alias was "Robin."

  Of course, any of the girls invited for tea (a precursor to sex) who met with "Robin" realized it was the Prince. No one was fooled. The game was always played out; Robin was just a guy who liked tea and pretty girls.

  Tina, who had already had sex with Prince Jefri, informed us of the routine. It would go something like this:

  Mr. Jan would discreetly approach the girl of Prince Jefri's fancy at the party the night before and say:

  "Prince Jefri would very much appreciate the pleasure of your company at morning tea tomorrow," he would say in precision English. "That is, if your schedule is not too busy."

  I laughed. Was that last line a joke?

  "No, he always seemed very serious," Tina emphasized. "But I've talked to some of the other girls he's approached, and Mr. Jan always says the same thing – about tea and busy schedules."

  I w
as amazed. It was, truly, like a game.

  The girl either accepted or declined, also by way of Mr. Jan. Rarely did a girl decline the initial invitation. Once accepted, she was expected to attend tea on the royal grounds precisely at 10:00 the following morning.

  Girls were never late for the meetings because Mr. Jan arrived at the respective girl's house an hour in advance (perhaps in anticipation of something going wrong, or a girl being hungover, and thus slower to prepare than usual). He would move things along with clipped precision. Tina led me to believe that if he had to carry a girl to the palace grounds, unconscious, he would do so – just to keep the Prince happy, and keep schedules intact and precise.

  When Tina had been invited to meet the Prince, she had awakened very early – and dressed in a full evening gown. Mr. Jan arrived and groaned.

  "No, no, no," Tina remembered him saying. "It's just tea. You don't need to look like a call girl."

  Tina re-dressed, changed into a simple party mini-skirt, with a modest body shawl, and was ushered out in haste by Mr. Jan. She and the Prince clicked immediately; he liked her for the very reasons I liked her – an innocent, upbeat personality that never got complicated. Such was Tina, who, I was to learn quite personally, was far from innocent in other ways.

  Once this initial "tea meeting" took place, the second invitation was extended, this time by the Prince himself.

  Tina said that the Prince was always subtle, never a bully, never without a sense of romance and whimsy. A girl, Tina maintained, could tell if he wanted her for an evening. He would simply ask you to join him for a cocktail after the party. If you smiled and said you'd be delighted . . . then you knew that you had a certain obligation to fulfill, and apparently, were willing to comply. If, however – as had happened on occasion – you politely decline the invitation for a cocktail (for any number of reasons), you were escorted back to the house, and invited to pack your bags...