Mother Nile

by Warren Adler

The impresario, she believed, hired her on merit, although there was the implication that she might have to be especially friendly to the club’s most important customers. Being especially friendly while avoiding pregnancy or disease required, she had already learned, far more talent than the dance.

  It was better than being, like her mother, a stevedore at the Rod El Farag market, unloading wicker crates of tomatoes for a pittance, while her father spent his days playing backgammon with his cronies at the coffee shop, sucking hash smoke from his water pipe.

  Her mother was shamed by Farrah’s dancing. But that did not extend to refusing to accept a weekly stipend to feed the ever-burgeoning army of squalid children that fell from her mother’s fecund womb. With that, and her father’s increasing dependency on his hashish dreams, there was almost nothing left of her salary.

  The impresario’s tyrannical assistant barged into the dressing room and clapped his hands.

  “Hurry, ladies. Hurry now. Highness has arrived.”

  “Old fat ass,” one of the girls grumbled, audible enough to engage the assistant, who treated the dancers like a herd of sheep.

  “He is your king, you bitch,” he hissed. Despite the power of delegation, he was an object of ridicule. He pointed a finger at the offending girl’s nose.

  “And when you dance, I want his royal cock to tingle.”

  “Nothing can make the dead rise again,” another girl said.

  “Except maybe his tongue,” the first girl said with obvious reference to the assistant. He glared at her arrogantly.

  “There’s not a good fuck in the crowd,” he muttered, surveying their state of readiness and moving off.

  Farrah listened but said nothing. She liked the idea of the king watching the show. It would certainly be a step up from her usual audiences, a leering mob of businessmen, bent on experiencing the famous fleshpots of the orient. Not that she did not enjoy their admiration, especially during the routine. There was something enormously fulfilling being the center of attention.

  The musical cue began and the girls made their last-minute corrections in their makeup and costumes and elbowed their way out to the stage entrance. The assistant checked them out and they moved into the spotlight, an undulating mass of spangles, silk, and female flesh.

  They were the warm-up act. The real attraction was the European stars that would follow.

  King Farouk was sitting alone at a large ringside table. She could almost touch him, a huge mountain of a man in a red fez, wearing a dark striped suit with a white flower in the lapel. On the table in front of him was a huge silver tray of pastries from which he would delicately pluck one with his chubby fingers and drop it whole into a gaping mouth, washing it down with a glass of cola. At other tables, placed on either side of him were his notorious Albanian bodyguards, alert and watchful over their charge, and a motley group of fawning retainers.

  Although she was only one of the six dancers in the opening act, she sensed the flattery of his special observation. Farouk looked heavier than his pictures, if that were possible. But what struck her, more than his physical appearance, was an aura of loneliness. He sat there like some overstuffed, neglected child, an illusion fostered by the fact that his chair was double the proportions of the others.

  When their routine was over, the girls gathered in a little courtyard outside of the club, set aside for the entertainers’ leisure until the next show began. The management also provided dormitory-style rooms for those girls, like Farrah, who chose to live there rather than home.

  It was January and cool and the girls huddled in their light wraps. But it was more comfortable than the steaming dressing rooms or stuffy dormitory. Farrah listened to the girls’ gossip, mostly about people she did not know. It was of little interest to her and she made no effort to join in. Besides, she was a loner and few people had ever earned her trust. Her father had come the closest. But in the end, he had betrayed her with his habit.

  A man appeared in the entranceway. He flicked a spent cigarette on the hard dirt floor of the courtyard and ground it out with his heel. The gesture told everything about him, arrogance and guile, cruelty and theatrics. He was squat, like a block of solid energy, with a bull neck that held a sallow face out of which dark little eyes peered, mocking and contemptuous. A crooked smile, nothing more than an empty show of teeth, spread over the lower part of his face.

  “Zakki,” one of the girls whispered.

  “Look,” the girl closest to Farrah hissed. “The king’s pimp.” The girl sighed, showing the mixture of resignation and contempt in which she held him.

  Surveying the girls as if he were looking over prize dogs from the king’s kennels, he walked over to Farrah, bowed mischievously, showing a full head of shiny brilliantine hair parted dead center, and handed her an ornate candy box. On it was the king’s crest.

  “Compliments of His Majesty,” he said. Then he looked at each girl in turn, showing his disdain. “He hopes you will join him at the cabaret after the last show. I’ll come and escort you to his table.” She felt his arrogant, lustful gaze wash over her. She had no illusions about what that look meant. She had seen it many times.

  When he left, the girls turned toward her, not with the glow of envy as she expected, but with disdain. A girl named Tina, her dark skin showing its mark of Nubian antecedents, was quick to voice her opinion.

  “It’s the hazards of the occupation, my dear. The king’s pimp has chosen.” She spat out the words sarcastically.

  “She’ll be riding the pyramids tonight,” one of the other girls chuckled.

  The reference inflamed her. Not that she was beyond reproach, but she had, above all, clung to a sense of dignity. A man’s needs were his own business and submission was a tactic employed when all alternatives to avoid it failed, which was not often.

  “It’s not all that bad, kid,” one of the girls chirped. She was the heaviest of the group with huge breasts that hung like melons over a rippling, fat-layered belly. “He’s like a big Teddy Bear, generous and gentle. He likes his food and his pussy, in that order.”

  “I can picture you both. Two fat goats in rut,” Tina snapped harshly. “When I think of you together, I could retch.” Now that she had the group’s attention, there was a malicious pause as she gathered her venom. “Of course, that’s ancient history. Who would look at you now?”

  “She’s jealous,” the big girl said, as the eyes of the others turned toward her. “She’s beneath his royal dignity. He wouldn’t go near her black hide.”

  “At least I didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of that grease-ball,” Tina bellowed. She jerked a finger toward the entranceway through which Zakki had just passed.

  The last remark, delivered with raw malevolence, dampened the conversation, and the girls drifted silently into their own thoughts. Zakki’s entrance and departure was like a black sandstorm. He had, Farrah knew, extracted his admission charge from each of them.

  Farrah opened the chocolates and picked one, offering the rest around.

  “Have a sweet,” she said, hoping to take the gloom out of the atmosphere. But Tina would not be pacified, refusing her haughtily.

  “That’s the way it is with them as well,” she said, looking at the preferred candy box. “They make a selection and it comes out without resistance.”

  “You wish it were you, Tina,” the big girl said. “Too bad they don’t like chocolate.”

  The remark drew laughter. Tina stood up and quickly ran through the door.

  “She’s too sensitive,” one of the other girls said, directing her remarks to Farrah. “What the hell. At least he’s the king.”

  “Some king,” another girl said. “That’s why Egypt is a sewer. What can he do for his people in nightclubs and gambling casinos, making an ass of himself with girls?”

  “Like you,” the big girl said. “And me.” She laughed. “I su
ppose it’s not easy being a king. He needs relaxation. So we are doing our patriotic duty. At least one gets laid in a palace.”

  “And the royal cock doth rise, thank Allah,” the big girl said.

  The girls laughed at her joke, breaking the tension. It was no good being serious, Farrah realized. Better to flow with the tide. One did not control events, especially a woman. Not in Egypt.

  The king was still at his table during the last show. The pile of pastries had dwindled, but the face, heavyjowled and impassive, watched the proceedings without the slightest show of emotion. She knew he was observing her. Zakki sat at another table, grinning, exhibiting his empty smile. He seemed to embody something greedy, unclean. She had not yet defined it to herself as hate.

  Chapter Five

  Zakki was waiting for her outside the dressing room, leaning against the corridor wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Like the others, she had dressed quickly, eager to get out of that stifling atmosphere.

  “You were good,” he said. “I liked watching you.”

  “I wasn’t my best,” she admitted, anticipating what she might have to say to the king. She expected a barrage of flattery and platitudes from Farouk, and had decided to treat him like any other important customer. She had learned that the fantasy and illusion of the cabaret world faded quickly once the stage lights were turned off and the costumes put away. She was hardly as interesting as the dance implied. But the fantasy, she had learned, continued to dwell in a man’s mind.

  Zakki grasped her under her arm and led her along the corridor to what she thought was another entrance to the cabaret. Instead, he moved quickly into a small dimly lit room. It took her a moment to get her bearings. The room contained a low couch, a table and dusty mirrors, obviously an old dressing room.

  “The king really likes you,” he said, sitting down on the couch and patting the pillow beside him. “I think you should consider yourself quite a lucky lady.” She held back, more curious than frightened. He was quite repulsive. Pathetic, she decided, with his clumsy attempts at ingratiation.

  “It’s not everyone that gets chosen by the king himself.” His crooked smile looked like it was being held there with enormous effort.

  “All right. I’m flattered,” she said, assuming a hardcrusted pose. It seemed the only response. He patted the pillow next to him again.

  “Come. We will talk. I want to get to know you.” She started to back toward the door, turning the knob. It was locked and he held up the key, laughing.

  “You said we would meet the king at his table.”

  “And we will. We will.” His tongue, like a cobra’s, seemed to lash out over his teeth onto his thickish lips.

  “Now come here. Don’t be a silly girl.” He reached out and she stepped back, feeling the cold breeze of his movement. Her agility obviously annoyed him. The smile drooped and he stood up and pressed her body to the wall.

  “When Zakki says come here, you come here.”

  Against her, his body felt like cold stone. Gripping her shoulders, he began kissing her neck and breathing heavily into her ear, while his hands roamed her buttocks. She let herself hang against him, inert, groping for a solution.

  “Finished?” she asked, contemptuously. The remark seemed to dampen his ardor and he moved away. But her momentary relief was short-lived. He grasped her arm, dragging her along to the couch, tossing her on it with great force. His smile was gone now, his face flushed. Suddenly, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a pearl-handled knife. He pressed a button and the blade jumped out.

  Her options, she knew from experience, were quickly narrowing. She could, of course, submit. But that was always a last resort. What she feared most was disfigurement. Not pain.

  But he did not make any move for immediate gratification. Instead, he began to calmly clean his nails with the blade of the knife.

  “There are many doors in life,” he said, not looking at her. “You can take the door to kingly favor, which has its special rewards. He is very generous if he gets what he wants. Or you could take the door to obscurity.” He looked up suddenly and surveyed the room. “This is considered a pretty good place to work, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t respond. He had made his point.

  “Zakki is the keeper of the key. You must always remember that. But Zakki demands his admission fee. You understand.”

  There seemed no other choice than to nod agreement. Looking at him, she shuddered with revulsion. There was something so palpably repelling about him that she decided that even access to the king, whatever that meant materially, wasn’t worth it. Yet now was not the time to make that decision. The blade of his knife was a firm persuader.

  She prepared herself to do anything, to steel herself, not for the sake of the king, but for herself. It was pointless to be a heroine. To a woman, the theatrics of refusal had dire consequences. Suddenly, he looked at his watch.

  “You’ve wasted time. We could have been finished by now,” he muttered. So, she thought, hopefully, he is afraid of the king.

  He put the knife away and opened the door with a courtly display of feigned politeness, although he squeezed her breast as she passed to claim his title of possession. She made no protest.

  The king turned to her as she approached, his impassivity melting. She noted that all the cakes on the table had disappeared. He did not stand up to greet her, offering her a seat beside him, a gesture of special honor. Beneath the kingly air, she detected again the pain of his loneliness. The fat seemed a shield. Behind the jowls, she sensed an innocent boyishness.

  Perhaps it was the contrast with Zakki, who had taken a seat at the next table with the Albanian guards, but she felt oddly comfortable.

  “You’ve a smashing figure, Farrah,” the king said, smiling.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she responded, lowering her gaze. She felt all eyes on her. The proximity to him gave her special status.

  “I used to have quite a figure myself.” He patted his belly, recalling pictures she had seen of the handsome boy king. “Would you like a sweet?” he said. A waiter had placed another tray of cakes on the table. When she refused, he lifted one and popped it into his mouth.

  “Very wise,” he said. “Very wise.” Without taking his eyes off her, he chewed the cake.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.

  “This is my first night, Your Majesty.”

  He lifted his glass of cola.

  “My compliments to the management.” He sipped his drink. “Nothing on earth is better than a pretty woman.” He reached for another cake. “Or a good pastry. In the end, what else is there?” He held the cake delicately in his chubby fingers. His smile disappearing as his thoughts turned inward again. Abruptly, he stood up. The Albanian guards rose en masse. Offering his arm, she took it and the retinue passed quickly through the cabaret, like a formal parade.

  His white Rolls was waiting for him and she was surprised to see that Zakki was already seated in the front seat. So he is only his chauffeur, she observed, with relish. The car shot forward and moved swiftly through the city, followed by two other cars packed with his guards.

  “Do you like to gamble, Farrah?” the king asked. He sat in a corner of the rear seat, taking her hand in his.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I never have.”

  “You’ll bring me luck.” He squeezed her hand. “Everything is chance.” Again, he seemed to slide back into himself, sighing lightly. In silhouette, his profile gave away hints of his youthfulness. He had, she knew, just passed his thirtieth birthday, an odd paradox because his pictures made him seem much older. He had been divorced from the Shah of Iran’s daughter for nearly three years, which seemed to anger many people, despite the fact that the marriage had long ago disintegrated.

  The white Rolls stopped before the canopied entrance of the Royal Automobile Club.
Zakki got out and opened the door, and the king playfully jabbed him in the ribs as he got out.

  “This is the meanest Arab in captivity,” he quipped. “A dark bastard with a black heart.” Zakki bore the remark with his now familiar fixed smile. “Every good king needs a trusted lackey.” The king laughed, turning to Farrah, who was uncertain how to act, sensing that Zakki was seething inside, but had obviously, long ago, worked out a strategy of dissimulation. Let him, he seemed to be saying, although his eyes glowed with hate. Farouk either ignored it or did not understand.

  The club was crowded with players in formal dress. They looked up only briefly from the chemin de fer tables and roulette wheels as the king strode to an oversized chair reserved for him at the roulette tables. One of his Albanian guards placed piles of chips in front of him. A high chair was brought for Farrah, who sat beside him.

  “You will be a lucky charm.” He patted her thigh. “What is the month and day of your birth?”

  “March 5,” Farrah said, flattered by the question.

  “One thousand on the three. One thousand on the five,” he told the croupier. Two other roulette games were in progress nearby, and the croupier sent a messenger to place the bets on all three. The wheels spun, the steel ball rolled. She could not understand the game, only that the pile of chips dwindled and the little ball never clicked into the holes of the three or the five. Apparently this was also true of the other tables as well. Through it all, the king was stoic, unemotional, watching the play without comment, mesmerized by the moving ball and the constant movement and counting of the chips.

  She felt the contained excitement of the atmosphere, masked by the steady hum of the gambling machinery, the click of the steel ball, and the call of the winning numbers called out in French by the croupier.

  “You are not so lucky, my sweet.” It was Zakki, whispering in her ear, his breath hot with an odor that must have come from his bowels.

  The king pressed on. Piles of chips paraded before him in endless quantities. He never touched a single chip, his pudgy hands clasped over his enormous belly, as if he had to press himself together to keep everything inside from spilling out. He smelled of light perfume, and she noted that his hands, clothes, and shoes were immaculate.