The Last Harem

by George P. Saunders

  One large sofa and a dining table were the only main pieces of furniture in the studio. Prince Jefri sat on a simple wooden chair when he painted. I looked at all of the pictures of the girls he'd painted thus far; they were all nudes. I felt mildly irritated that I should be asked to pose in a bikini.

  "Robin, I have no objections to doing a nude for you," I said, probably a bit peevishly. "I've done this before in Los Angeles. And was paid well for it, I might add."

  He smiled and shrugged. "I did not want to appear forward by asking you as much," he said. "Besides, you being nude, I feel, is our private affair, Aphrodite."

  I laughed, breaking the tension.

  "However, in deference to your desires, a nude it shall be," he smiled.

  And so my portrait was a nude. I am very proud of it.

  During the painting sessions, we spoke only a little. Prince Jefri was usually very immersed with the task at hand, and was not disposed to conversation in general. I would have welcomed more talk, since the posing was rather tedious at times. The Prince endeavored to keep me happy and comfortable at all times – usually with the aid of some champagne. His bar was fully stocked (of course!), and when I left the sessions, I was invariably quite tipsy.

  After one particular session, the Prince and I decided to open a second bottle of champagne. I don't know what got into me that day, but I suddenly wanted something more than mere bubbly.

  "Ever do shots?" I asked Robin.

  "Shots?"

  "You know, like Tequila," I said.

  "Oh, of course. I like Margaritas. Very fond of Tequila," he said amiably.

  "So. You haven't done shots," I said.

  I instructed the Prince to go and get some Tequila, and two small shot glasses (or the equivalent thereof). He returned in a few seconds, and thus my instruction commenced.

  Prince Jefri was not generally a heavy drinker. Most Muslims were not. A religious and cultural thing, to be sure. The Tequila went to his head within five minutes. It went to mine much sooner. Soon we were giggling and rolling on the floor, laughing, playing with the paints, acting silly.

  We made love on the studio floor, rolling around in wet paint. It was all very erotic at the time – and fairly quick. The Prince exercised best efforts in being gentle, but there is that particular style of lovemaking that he prefers which is, quite frankly, difficult to enjoy. Afterwards, since that particular orifice was unaccustomed to the activity, I bled for a day or two, sporadically. Mind you, it wasn't agonizing, but it wasn't something I think I could get used to on a daily basis.

  That night at the party, Mr. Jan walked forward with an envelope and pressed it into my hands. The Prince had still not arrived; the evening was still fairly young, around 11:30 p.m., if I remember correctly.

  I took the envelope and looked inside.

  Folded in a note was $120,000 Sing Dollars, the equivalent of $100,000 American. I read the note, shaking my head in disbelief:

  Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, Aphrodite. It was a unique experience for me, and I shall remember you always. Please accept this donation to your favorite charity. Robin.

  I laughed, but I waved Mr. Jan over and asked him for a pen and a piece of paper. Mr. Jan complied with my request, and I wrote my return note. In the note, I thanked Robin for his generosity, and told him I was happy my rear end was considered a pleasurable piggy bank.

  I handed the note and the envelope back to Mr. Jan and asked him to give it to Prince Jefri later that evening. Mr. Jan bowed politely.

  Robin did not come down to the party that night.

  Nor the next night.

  I came to the conclusion that I had done the unpardonable: I had made an off-colored joke. An egregious error for which I imagined at the time would result in my immediate expulsion from the Palace Grounds.

  ***

  But no expulsion happened.

  On the third night after I had written my note to the Prince, Mr. Jan approached me again. This time, he was carrying a small box, about the size of a shoe box. He drew me away from the other girls on the dance floor, and took me to one of the private booths near the entrance of the Party Room.

  "Ms. Dorian," Mr. Jan said slowly. "You must open this box now, in front of me. Please."

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "It is from Prince Jefri," he said and waited.

  I gulped, but began to tear off the outer wrapping of plain pink paper.

  It was a simple, velvet jewelry case. I opened it and stared. Inside, were four more gold Rolex watches, all with small diamonds embedding the perimeter of the faceplate. I put both hands to my mouth in astonishment.

  "Please, read the note," Mr. Jan urged.

  I picked up the note lying under the watches and did as I was told:

  You are a funny girl. My next gift to you: Want to go to Singapore?

  "You will accept this … gift?" Mr. Jan asked quietly.

  I looked up at Mr. Jan, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, a gesture which surprised him enormously.

  "Yes," I said. "I accept this wonderful gift with all my heart. Please thank Robin for me, would you?"

  Mr. Jan smiled widely, nodded quickly, and was up and gone all in about three seconds flat. The other girls immediately swarmed around me once Mr. Jan had left, along with Prince Jefri's friends. I glanced up at Tina, who gave me the thumbs up sign. I rolled my eyes and waved her away.

  From a purely materialistic standpoint, my date with Prince Jefri was one of the most beneficial in my life. The net worth of the four Rolexes, in addition to the two other Rolexes and two Bulgari necklaces exceeded $300,000. I thought back to four months ago in October, when I had less than $300 to my name. I smiled to myself.

  Things change.

  And how.

  ***

  Singapore is a jewel of a city. Imagine the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz.

  For those of you out there, I'll go into a little history of its genesis.

  Singapore had been a part of various local empires since it was first inhabited in the second century AD. Modern Singapore was started as a trading center of something called the East India Company by Sir Stamford Raffles in 1819 with permission from the Sultanate of Johor (this current Sultan and family's ancestors).

  The British obtained full control over the island in 1824 and Singapore became one of the British Straits Settlements in 1826. Singapore was treated like shit by the Japanese in World War II when it invaded and occupied the country, then Singapore reverted to British rule after the war. It became internally self-governing in 1959. Singapore united with other former British territories to form Malaysia in 1963 and became a fully independent state two years later after separation from Malaysia.

  Since then it has had a massive increase in wealth, and is one of the Four Asian Tigers. Singapore is the world's fourth-leading financial center, the world's second-biggest casino gambling market, and the world's third-largest oil refining center. The port of Singapore is one of the five busiest ports in the world. The country is home to more US dollar millionaire households per capita than any other country. The World Bank notes Singapore as the easiest place in the world to do business. Signing off on this back-history, suffice to say, Singapore is one of the world's wealthiest countries on the planet.

  These facts are nothing compared to the bloody shopping malls Singapore boasts. There, you could acquire anything in the world. And it wasn't cheap.

  Around six of us girls flew on one of Robin's private jets (he flew in with one of his wives on another plane) and we were more or less chaperoned by Camilla – our virtual house mother. We had body guards of course. They were ubiquitous to our 'birds in the golden cage' existence in Brunei.

  But, hell, it was a fun outing. We shopped til' closing time, around nine or ten at night, and there was no expense account or limit to our spending.

  It was at that time that Camilla took me aside and told me in confidence that she hoped I was not falling in love with Robin.


  Of course, I was not, and her statement did not take me by surprise. I had been told some weeks earlier that Robin had 'favorite girls' … I was not one of them, simply on occasion, a pleasant diversion.

  I could care less. I'd made a small fortune thus far due to my friendliness … and my genitals. Life could be worse.

  I informed Camilla thus. She smiled, and nodded.

  "Smart girl, Aphrodite," she said. "You hold no illusions about your place in Brunei, or in Robin's affections. How wise of you."

  But Camilla, the bitch, at least had the good graces to admit that he found me charming enough to treat me to a Singapore shopping spree, where I ended up with bags of beautiful gowns, dresses, and purses, all worth a fortune.

  I also had the presence of mind to occupy most of my shopping for near priceless jewelry, versus that of wardrobe expenditure.

  We got back to Brunei, and I had made my decision to have my discussion with Mr. Jan and inform him that Dawn, that vicious snipe, was responsible for Patty's drug overdose.

  I was pleased that Dawn was expelled the very next day, though not without pay.

  I watched as she was loaded into a station wagon. I smiled at her as she mouthed the words: "Fucking cunt."

  Patty, my dear, you have been vindicated, I thought at the time.

  But that was another significant period for me because I had the strangest feeling that while Robin still liked me, there would be no more romantic invitations.

  My intuition was correct in this matter.

  Robin and I were done.

  * * *

  On February 23rd, 1996, Prince Jefri invited me out of the Palace to celebrate National Day, along with ostensibly, two of his 'favorite' women from one of the other houses, their names of which shall be known here as Jewell and Jordan. National Day preparations take two months; schoolchildren, civil servants and private sector representatives rehearse for long hours in colorful crowd formations and flash card displays. The event is held in the Hassanal Bolkiah National Stadium before 35,000 spectators. It can also be seen nationwide, live, on television.

  The Sultan himself was present that day – but again, I never had the honor of meeting the man. Still, after months of staring at the same houses on the palace grounds, riding the same horses, talking to the same people, with little variation, it was an exciting day out on the town.

  Why the Prince had me join him, in lieu of other more desirable young women, is still a mystery to me. I guess I made him laugh.

  * * *

  March wore on, and that was the dullest month for me to endure. It was likewise so for the other girls. That was because Prince Jefri's friends were notably absent at the party several times a week in March. As was Robin himself.

  I asked myself if I actually missed Robin, and decided in a strange way, I did. True, I lived most days in a state of depression over my current employment as Whore Royale Harem Girl USA, but the thought of the money I'd made thus far made up for that sense of desolation or spiritual loss.

  I thought of how I would be able to help my family when I returned home.

  March is the month of Awal Ramadhan – a holy time for Muslims. It is a period of fasting. Thus, Muslims abstain from eating and drinking for long periods of time. During fasting hours, it is considered ill-mannered (even offensive) to publicly eat, drink, smoke, etc. A word of advice to the world traveler: do not invite a Muslim person to have coffee or anything else during these sacred times. It could cause considerable embarrassment.

  So, our days were quiet. And so were our nights.

  By the last week of March, I made a decision. My next phone call to George would be to tell him that I was coming home.

  Tina cried when I told her I had to leave, but she understood. She had broken up with her boyfriend a month earlier by phone, so she felt she had nothing to lose by staying on for awhile longer.

  "George is a lucky guy," she said to me. "I hope he knows that."

  I smiled and said I believed he did.

  In our final "tea meeting," I told Robin of my decision to leave. He said nothing for a few minutes.

  "I trust we have not offended you," he said quietly.

  "Hardly," I said. I wanted to reach out and touch his hand – to reassure him that I had been treated well by everyone, but that would have been inappropriate. Possibly even offensive. I was, after all, still the hired help, despite what had transpired between us on an intimate level more than several times.

  "You will not stay just awhile longer for the Sultan's birthday?" he said in a tone of voice I recognized as solicitous.

  His Majesty's birthday was on July 15th – nearly three months away.

  "I can't, Robin," I said softly. "I have family at home I would like to see. It has been a long time."

  The Prince smiled. And nodded in understanding.

  "I will miss you, Aphrodite," he said. He stood up, reached for my hand as was his custom, and kissed it. Then bowed, and turned slowly to walk back into the palace.

  That was the last time I ever saw Robin.

  I left a week later, in early April.

  That week before my departure, the parties were conducted without Robin's presence.

  I was not offended.

  In a strange way, I felt it was a kind of honor that he remained determinedly absent.

  Perhaps, it was Prince Jefri's way of saying good bye. And thanks for the memories.

  I packed my things, in essence, my small fortune, and was in Singapore by that evening, with three bags, one filled with around a million dollars of equivalent American cash, and jewelry in excess of $700,000.

  ***

  I had spent six months in Brunei.

  Each day, I prayed to the God of routine; prayed that my routine would not be upset with the unexpected. I would almost never awake before noon, and when I did, it was to the holy sound of prayer. Muslims pray five times a day, and the sound of prayer calling is haunting, melodic, deeply moving. Whenever I heard the sound, I was again reminded of what an alien world Brunei was to me.

  I did not have the opportunity to see the great Mosque near the center of town; I would not have been allowed inside, even had I visited the place. I believe that all women are prohibited from entry into the mosque. Muslim women are encouraged to pray within their homes; only men may enter the Holy Place.

  Each day, the call to pray awakened me: "God is great, there are no other Gods, but God; and Mohammed was his Prophet. Come to prayer, come to prayer. God is great; there is no God, but God!"

  I came to accept the call as beautiful.

  I must state here, even towards the close of my stay in Brunei, I did not acquire many close friends in my House, or the other Houses down the road. Friendships were surprisingly hard to maintain and keep among the girls; enemies were not, as my association with Dawn had proved all too well. There was an overall atmosphere of distrust among us. We were competitors, and thus not permitted the luxury of intimacy – except that of primal sexuality, which Tina and I had enjoyed.

  With regard to sex, most of the women, by necessity, behaved more like men. Like myself, they took lovers among themselves. There was no deep, emotional attachment in most of these affairs; I believe what I possessed with Tina was a rarity. I would estimate that ninety percent of the girls outside of Cottageland simply used sex to remain sane – and distracted. Distracted by the excruciating routine of day to day life cloistered in a palace that offered little in the way of diversity or entertainment.

  Girls would come and go. For the most part, an average "tour" in Brunei would be no more than six weeks, two months at most. I spoke with most of the new arrivals, many who had different representatives than Tamara. They were all told that Brunei was a dream come true – but that there were conditions attached to "employment" here - something I was never told of directly. I hold nothing against Tamara, since I had obviously been designated as an "entertainer" here in Brunei, not a surrogate sex partner.

  I had no objections t
o the designation.

  But it is a fact: Most of the girls who come to Brunei do so with full knowledge of what may be expected of them. We were all adults; and we were guests in a strange land, clearly here because of our perceived attractiveness to the native population, vessels of pleasure for those who held the golden mien.

  The tradition, I was sure, would continue for a while longer after my departure.

  Harems are ancient institutions. Time honored. And alive and well in Brunei, I would imagine, even now, some 16 years after my departure from that alien world in a galaxy far, far away.

  Yes, harems are real – and ongoing.

  I am an alumni to one such harem.

  ***

  On the morning of April 6, 1996 Mr. Jan came to my house. He personally walked me to the car that would take me to the airport. As he opened the door to the automobile, he handed me a single small bag. I took it and glanced inside.

  It was crammed with money.

  I realized that this was my salary over the past six months.

  I was expecting something more official, but, no, that was it.

  Mr. Jan bowed slightly, snapped his fingers to the driver, then turned and walked away.

  As the car moved out of the driveway, I glanced back at House Number Four. I saw Tina pressed against the top floor window. She was waving at me. I waved back and started to cry.

  My adventure in Brunei had come to an unceremonious end.

  Then, I was free. Free to enjoy the fruits of my prostitutional labor.

  I closed my eyes and said a small prayer of thanks.

  I was safe. Fat. And rich...