The Last Harem

by George P. Saunders

  The Big Picture called Heaven:

  We've all read the articles in those hip magazines that seem to center around Euro-trash pretty people who drive sport Black Mercedes – those gorgeous creatures perfectly coifed, of irritatingly perfect form and face, who seem to exist to simply emphasize our own unimportant existence in the world as normal human beings. Sometimes the articles give names – names you've only heard or read about in dime romance novels, but names that seem to invariably belong to all irritatingly perfect people everywhere: Wilburn, Leticia, Lita, Houston, Jiles, Crystal. It is these same perfect people who are, tragically, bequeathed, $10, $20 or $30 million dollar settlements from a relationship gone sour – or worse, people who were, sadly enough, born into this kind of hellish wealth. The poor little rich people whose greatest concerns from sunup to sundown are which berry to pop into the glass of Verve Cliquot - or which floating rib to remove to make next week's session of liposuction all the more visually effective.

  You've read about these people, too.

  They hover around Beverly Hills, Malibu or Bel Air. They have summer cottages in Europe. They're always just flying in or out on someone's Lear jet – possibly their own. Their car phones never stop ringing. Cellulite is an alien condition contracted by the great unwashed, the canaille of society, the less-than-perfect. As far as I can determine, they don't even sweat. Fifty cents on the dollar, they don't go to the bathroom, and if they do, it probably looks . . . telegenically beautiful.

  They are people who people love. Or seem to. At the very least, they are people that we envy.

  I call them alien beings from another planet. They don't have bad days, bad sex, or bad hair. If there is life after death . . . it will happen to them. Only them. The Glam. The Masters and Mistresses of an unfair universe.

  I hate them.

  But . . . I've always wanted to be like them – at least for a little while. I know, it's a frivolous fantasy, hardly worthy of greatness. But damn it . . . to coin the phrase from a famous song, wouldn't it be loverly?

  Those first few days with Aphrodite, my sordid little fantasy was coming to life. I lived and consumed conspicuously, just like the dirty rich I'd read so often about, the dirty rich I harbored dark and nasty thoughts for in my envious little heart. I ordered champagne by the pool, followed by a few Mai Thai chasers, just to keep the heat of day at bay. I ate caviar and luxuriated in South Pacific seas with perfect bath-water temperatures.

  For one brief, shining moment, I was one of those people in those articles. Maybe not as dysfunctional or sexually confused – as the articles always seem to indicate (I assumed, if you were sexually confused or dysfunctional, at least in Beverly Hills, these were the inherent qualities and guaranteed precursors to great wealth) - but equally blessed by serendipitous wealth. For a short time . . . . I felt like I was worth millions.

  For one brief shining moment . . . I was a Sultan.

  While I was not as experienced in the art of The Best Of Everything, Aphrodite had become a battle-cheery veteran. She had six months practice on me. Hanging out with the richest family in the world will do that to you. I tried to learn as fast as possible. In truth, I was a pretty good student.

  I reveled in the ability to spend, spend, spend (hell, after a while, I ceased imploring Aphrodite to be circumspect with her expenditure of funds; I dove right into the warm Pool of Plenty). But my enjoyment of the experience was always somewhat tempered by a natural predisposition toward thrift and caution; I had come from a modest family background, lower middle class, both parents working always. In fact, so had Aphrodite – but I clung to my Catholic, guilt-ridden repression and austerity with the same tenacity of Angelina Jolie's mission to save starving children – and as Brunei did to its self-imposed world isolationism.

  "This is nice, honey," I would say, as we ordered another bottle of Dom Perignion, "but we should really watch the spending."

  "Wrong, honey bunny," she would quip back. "I've been cooped up for sixth months in a palace, surrounded by Bruneian guards and aggressive monkeys. I want to live. Besides, it's my money. I can spend it anyway I want."

  The argument generally stopped there. Occasionally, I would be obtuse and continue my half-hearted insistence on the need for monetary conservation. But the response by Aphrodite would always be the same.

  I'm free. Let me have some fun. Besides, George, are you really having such a rotten time?

  She was right. I was wrong.

  End of story. I drank another Mai Tai, and shut up.

  The Big Picture. It's nice to be rich.

  Don't let anyone tell you different.

  Mind you, we weren't really rich - but in the short term, a pile of cash had come our way – or should I say, came Aphrodite's way, and I was along for the ride. It was fun. In retrospect, I have no regrets of the $25,000 plus that was spent in the nine days we spent in Singapore and Bali. This may sound odd, but we spent so much time partying, drinking, shopping and exploring, that we talked very little about Aphrodite's stay in Brunei. I sensed she didn't really want to go into it immediately; couldn't say I blamed her, really ... for her, it was like talking shop. The details could wait.

  While I still didn't have the whole story of what Aphrodite had actually done or seen while in Brunei, I found myself always winking a wary eye towards one other person for all the money.

  You guessed it.

  The old Sultan himself. Or attendant family members, like younger brothers.

  Dear High Prince Bolkia, I joked often to myself, and sometimes to Aphrodite. Thanks for the cash. Thanks for the memories. Live long and prosper. You devil!

  "You're a nut, George," Aphrodite told me on our second day in Singapore. "But thanks for letting me come to Brunei."

  "I had a choice?" I said.

  "Well, you could have broken up with me or left me for another woman when I was gone," she pointed out.

  "True. But I didn't. And so, here I am."

  She laughed – a beautiful laugh filled with warmth and humor; she leaned over and kissed me and told me she loved me. I closed my eyes and thought: Ah, the Big Picture.

  Sometimes, on rare occasions . . . it could be perfect.

  The perfection factor at that time, however, was always tainted by what I didn't know of Aphrodite's stay in Brunei. Thus, my humor was tinged with just a trace of wistful sadness. At that time, I admit, I was fearing the worst as to what Aphrodite had to do in Brunei to become so quickly – and generously – financially liquid. Whenever the nasty question popped into my mind, like 'who did she fuck?' or 'what position', or 'how many times?', I shut myself down ... and drank. Because, you see, when you love someone – really love someone – ultimately, you have to trust them at the highest levels. There is no other recourse in the matter.

  So I trusted. Or tried...

  And tried to enjoy the Big Picture: an idyllic existence in a south pacific paradise . . . with the most beautiful woman in the world, my darling Aphrodite...

  Bali

  I heard a story once that when the first Dutch war yacht pulled into Bali in the late 16th century, the whole crew immediately jumped ship.

  Why?

  Simple reason: Bali was heaven on earth.

  It took the captain two years to round up his men before he could set sail back to Holland.

  It was to this tiny tropical island that Aphrodite and I flew to on the morning of April 10th, 1996. It is located on the eastern coast of Java – both Indonesia's masterpiece and one of the world's greatest cultural jewels. Three million people live in Bali, a place surrounded by volcanoes, beautiful beaches and magnificent layers of sculpted rice fields. But more than anything else, it is the Balinese culture that is the real treasure. Here, life and arts are completely interwoven to an extent unheard of in the West. Every Balinese citizen recognizes himself as an artist – an artist whose birthright demands the continual creation of music, dance and crafts to honor the gods and maintain the island's natural balance.


  Historically speaking, Bali is a fossilized Java. After the Balinese escaped the control of the Sumatran SriviRobina Empire (7th to 13th Centuries), the island came under the control of various East Javanese kingdoms who introduced Hindu theologies. The tiny island through the ages became famous as a refuge for artisans, painters and craftsmen from the other warring Indonesian nations at the time . . . including Brunei.

  Aside from occasional incursions by the Dutch and English, Bali remained almost completely isolated until the tragic events of 1894. To avenge a massacre of Dutch soldiers by the Balinese, the Dutch government ordered an attack on the royal court of Mataram. Rather than surrender, the king and the entourage committed puputan – a form of ritualistic suicide in which the unarmed Balinese hurled themselves at the heavily fortified Dutch. That one group suicide put an end to the Royal Family – and all descendants thereafter...

  World War II came and went, and was followed by the bloody 1965 Indonesian revolt against the communists. Bali had a terrible experience: an estimated 100,000 Balinese were murdered after rival political parties ran amok. Tragedy struck again in 1963 when the devastating eruption of Mt. Agung killed thousands.

  Into this mixture of hell and paradise, Aphrodite and I flew that late morning of April 10th.

  Notwithstanding the interesting historical comments above, I would like to state simply that Bali is the most beautiful place in the world. We stayed at the Laguna Sheraton in Kuta, a region in the southernmost part of Bali. White sands and natural lagoons surrounded this resort. The room we occupied had a terrace overlooking one of these lagoons. Each morning, you could dive off your terrace into the brilliant green waters and lose yourself in their natural warmth.

  Our stay in Bali was splendid and was marked by only one disturbing event: Aphrodite's agent had mailed over to our hotel a document she had only recently acquired herself in the states. The document was more like a piece of crazed hate mail. It was a two-page letter addressed to the United States Internal Revenue Service and was signed by someone called Charles Rubin, an alias, we later learned. Charles had represented a few girls a year earlier as an agent in the Brunei connection. Tamara informed us that several of these girls had stiffed Charles on his 30 percent commission upon their return to the United States. In a fit of fury, Charles generated this document hoping to extract revenge.

  The document was didactic and rambling, with misspellings in almost every sentence, but the gist of the document went something like this: That all the women who went over to Brunei were paid and consenting prostitutes. He referred to all the women in this document as "The Brunei Whores" – women who made hundreds of thousands of dollars for sexual services to the Sultanate. Not only were the women whores (so stated the document), but they returned to the United States without ever filing their income taxes. The document further went on to describe several acts of copulation that were generally preferred by the Sultanate and the price tag attached to each varying act. The document essentially was a call to arms for the United States Internal Revenue Service to not only track down these women (some of whom he named), but to prosecute them not only for tax evasion, but for illegal prostitution and solicitation.

  I remember reading this document with amazement. That anyone within the U.S. Government would take this fellow seriously, based on his rambling, childish allegations (and executed with an almost painful absence of grammatical structure) was hard to believe. But to actually believe any of the tawdry accusations, or to even consider some kind of government recourse against these girls (based only on Charles' name calling), was equally unfathomable.

  But since I've raised the issue, I must come to one and all of the girls' defense, at least those I've interviewed: they're all law abiding tax payers. Sure, they've not been crazy about forking over great chunks of change to the IRS, but I cannot attest to one example of a girl trying to shirk her financial obligation to the government, Aphrodite included.

  Tamara explained to us that she had met Charles once. He was a cocaine and heroin addict and, quite simply, out of his mind. She doubted very much there would be any official response to the letter. I tended to agree with her.

  As of this date, I've heard of no official action being taken by the IRS or the U.S. State Department with regard to Charles' document. What a surprise.

  During our stay in Bali, we were escorted through the countryside by a lovely little Balinese man named Kula. He spoke very little English, but he was equally patient with our deplorable lack of knowledge for the Balinese language. He drove us around and showed us some of the splendid temples, some of which are over five hundred years old; that night, he took us to his home in Kuta and introduced us to his large family. We drank a very strong wine, the name of which I have long forgotten, but the hangover of which I will remember always.

  The wine, Kula told us, could cause madness if consumed in too great a quantity. Once, Kula said, he drank an entire bottle of the wine, and it allowed him to see spirits. Ghosts and spirits run freely in the Balinese culture; they are very real entities to these people, as are the various gods of old.

  That night, I drank an entire bottle of the wine with Aphrodite. When we returned to our hotel, I told Aphrodite that I wanted to swim in the lagoons.

  "I'll be around ten minutes," I told her.

  I disappeared for almost four hours.

  The lagoons are inter-connecting and surround the hotel. I swam from one lagoon to another and as the wine kicked in, I became disoriented. I finally emerged from the waters, stark naked. And then I started running through the huge hotel, trying to find my room. I was buck naked, but I did not run into a single guest or a single member of the staff for almost twenty minutes. Thank God. Had a local Balinese seen me, white ass, schwang waving in the wind, he would have been convinced I was a lunatic ghost and most likely started screaming bloody murder.

  I tripped and fell near one of the closed cafes; I swiped a table mat and covered myself, using it like a towel. Hours later, I found the front desk and was courteously led back to my room, where I found Aphrodite in tears.

  "I thought you drowned. I've been calling everyone for hours," she said, making me feel dreadful and guilty.

  "I'm sorry, honey," I replied, about to pass out. "It was the gods of Bali. They made me do it."

  That, and the wine.

  We returned to Singapore the following day, checking into the Hyatt Regency for the second time in two weeks.

  We learned that Prince Jefri was staying on the eleventh floor, with one wife, and a small entourage. Aphrodite asked the manager if we might go up there; she explained that she was a friend of the Prince.

  "I'm afraid that floor is off limits to all our guests," the manager informed her politely.

  We ignored the directive. Early that same evening, we stopped off at the eleventh floor. We were surprised. There were no guards serving as security. But there was the opulence that had become so familiar to Aphrodite in recent months: the walls were dressed in red velvet and animal statues filled with rubies, emeralds and diamonds stood under each window, even door knobs were gold in nature – or appeared to be, in any event. We didn't dare go down the halls; the elevator doors closed and we contented ourselves with that brief glimpse of the Prince's "Singapore" quarters.

  "I would have liked to meet the Prince," I told Aphrodite.

  "That will never happen, sweetheart," she said.

  And she was right.

  We're Back in Kansas, Toto!

  We arrived back in Los Angeles on April 17.

  I dove into a new project, a rewrite of an action picture to be shot in Mexico. Aphrodite dove into our next travel adventure: that of circumventing the globe in two weeks. Her point being, she had the money, and she had never done anything like that before. She asked me if I would go with her, and I said, yes.

  I was scheduled to go to Mexico with the cast and crew of the action picture I was rewriting in the beginning of July called Perfect Target. I left for Puerto Vallarta
on the 6th, while Aphrodite planned our trip. We would leave on the 11th of July, one day after I returned from Mexico. The travel agenda would take us first to Singapore (again!), then to Sydney, Australia. After three days in the outback, we would then return to Singapore for a day, then take a plane to Rome, Italy. From Rome, we would then drive to Naples, Florence, then hop a flight to Venice. Three days in Venice, then on to Zurich, Switzerland. A day there, then half way around the world back home to Los Angeles, on July 25th.

  And that's exactly how it went down. I spent five days in the hot, humid jungles of Mexico, watching my movie being shot, enjoying tequila, and being wined and dined by the producers of the film, friends of mine by the name of Christian and Lee Solomon. The jungles looked like those of Cambodia, and in fact, many well-known movies had been shot in this same location, Night of the Iguana, with Richard Burton and Ava Gardner, and Predator, with Arnold Schwarzenegger, to name a few. The shoot was brilliantly directed by my friend, Sheldon Lettich, a talented fellow who had also directed Jean Claude Van Damme in his first few films. I had asked Aphrodite if she wanted to spend some time with me, but she was too involved planning the world trip to come down. I understood; even together, I began to realize, Aphrodite and I led very separate lives. Perhaps for the best. We never get on one another's nerves, and if on occasion we quarrel, such conflicts are universally and blissfully short-lived.

  When I came back from Mexico on the 10th of July, I was shocked to hear that Aphrodite had received a call from Prince Jefri. A personal call.

  "He just wanted to say hello," Aphrodite said casually.

  "That's it?" I asked, incredulous.

  "Well, that, and to say he missed my singing," Aphrodite giggled.