Trojan Horse

by David Lender

  Inside the palace garage, tan-and-red-uniformed Royal Guards pulled the doors open. “I’ll ask how you’re doing after you’ve settled in. I have some business to tend to,” Yassar said flatly and disappeared to a rustle of robes and the click of a half-dozen pairs of heels. Sasha was met by two women in black abayas. They led her through an entrance past the stiff figures of more Royal Guards, then through successively complicated labyrinthine passageways to a set of double doors. Okay, keep your distance, get through it. And don’t let them see you flinch.

  Two young ladies wearing white Eisenhower-styled waistcut jackets trimmed with gold braid met her on the other side of the double doors and led her to a room. One knocked softly and they entered. The room was a spacious, trapezoidal-shaped apartment of some fifteen hundred square feet, an open door to a dressing room on the far wall, another door of unknown destination next to it. The construction was almost entirely of marble, except for the ceiling, which was of an ornate wooden latticework, a portion of which opened to a filigree skylight. Windows on the side opposite the hallway opened into a courtyard through latticework that cleverly obscured the view from outside without interfering from within.

  “I have the distinction of being your size.” A dark-haired young woman was lounging in the center of a king-sized bed. The bed seemed ready to swallow her petite frame, which sank into a three-inch-thick comforter, surrounded by rich maroon chenille throws and a half-dozen pillows with golden cords and tassels. The young lady didn’t look up from the television screen that commanded a four-by-six-foot square of the wall adjacent to her bed. She held a remote in her hand. The two attendants left.

  “No hello?” Sasha said. “And what’s my size got to do with anything?”

  The girl turned her head toward Sasha. She was a black-haired Arab beauty with uncharacteristically light complexion. “It’s why you’re here.” She put the television on mute and dropped the remote, which almost disappeared into the comforter. She observed Sasha through almond-shaped dark brown eyes. “It’s why you’re in with me, that is. And I must admit, I’m not happy about it, I’ve gotten quite used to being alone.” She smiled for the first time, halfheartedly. “After years of sharing, being the favorite has some advantages,” she said. “So let’s get you oriented and out of here as soon as possible, okay?”

  I’ll say. “I won’t even bother to unpack.”

  The girl laughed, looking at Sasha’s lone bag. She turned back to her TV, rummaged for a moment to find the remote. “We don’t wear those abayas inside the palace, certainly not inside the women’s section. Clothes are in the armoires.” She turned toward Sasha again. “Wear any of the Prada and I’ll kill you.”

  Little snit! Sasha tightened her jaw. She sighed and looked around the room, actually an assemblage of various rooms within the room. A Persian carpet here, creating a living area with chairs, settee, and table, a dining area there with a simple Persian-influenced table and four chairs. The main bedroom area was defined by another fine silk-and-wool Oriental carpet under the girl’s bed. Another bed, substantially smaller, surrounded by a modest night table and bureau, was established in the far corner near the dressing room door. The furniture was all Oriental and Mideastern antiques, mixed with the incongruously modern hi-tech audio-and-video system that the girl seemed to be obsessed with. Sasha continued to stand in silence.

  The girl rolled over on the bed, then finally slid off it and stood up. “I can see this is going to be difficult.” She shook herself and straightened her evanescent robe, under which she was naked.

  Oh my goodness! A bare-bottomed hostess wasn’t at all expected. And what else should that lead her to expect?

  “I’m supposed to show you how things work around here the first few days, weeks, whatever it takes.”

  “It won’t be long.” Sasha said through clenched teeth. And maybe I’ll strangle you first.

  “It better not.” The girl stood in front of Sasha, then smiled again, exposing a mouth that seemed accustomed to laughing. “Or I’ll be in big trouble, and even I can’t afford that around here.” She quickly kissed Sasha on the cheek.

  Don’t you dare…

  “I’m Nafta. And you, of course, are Sasha.”

  Sasha moved back until she felt her palms behind her against the marble walls. She rose up to her full height. Just leave me alone.

  Nafta cocked her head to the side. “Oh, sister, you look stressed. And tired.”

  Sasha felt her fatigue, let her shoulders slump, looked up at Nafta through hooded eyes. “I need a nap.”

  “Good. Get one. If you’re coming out tonight you’ll need to look beautiful.” Nafta stepped over to the door and pushed a button beside it, then walked back over to the bed and sat down.

  “Tonight?” Sasha asked.

  “The party after dinner. The highlight of the day around here, where we’re all expected to shine. Some of the girls do little else all day but get ready for it. A competition of sorts. Gets a little catty sometimes, but it’s fun, you’ll like it.” They heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” Nafta called. One of the uniformed young ladies appeared in the doorway. “I’ll have some couscous,” Nafta said to the girl, her feet dangling over the edge of the bed a foot from the floor. “Make it with lamb today. Not too spicy, you know how I like it. Have them make up some nice garnishes—cornichons and caperberries—tell them to improvise. And some bottled water, no gas.” She turned to Sasha. “What would you like?”

  What is this? A hotel? “Oh, just a salad, anything.” Sasha said waving her arm. The attendant girl nodded and left.

  “Don’t be so reticent,” Nafta said. “You could’ve ordered whatever you wanted.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Sasha still stood awkwardly near the door, only a few feet into the room.

  “They cater to every nationality. You want haute cuisine French cooking, you’ve got it. Thai, giant prawns, Indian curry or steak, no problem. Get used to it, sister. Use your imagination. That’s the real reason you’re here. And remember, there’s nothing you can dream up that they, or their money, can’t satisfy. Squadrons of jets, fleets of Rolls-Royces, yachts, polo teams, mansions all over the world, and I’m only talking about Ibrahim.” Nafta laughed.

  Seems like you’re swallowed up in all this. Sasha looked at the other bed, testing its mattress with exhausted eyes.

  Nafta continued chattering as if Sasha hadn’t heard her the first time. “Yes, whatever you want. Catherine Bowne, one of the girls they brought in a year or so ago from California, simply adores Southern California avocados—not just avocados mind you—but Southern California avocados, so Ibrahim has them flown in once a week.”

  “Who’s Catherine Bowne?”

  “One of the other girls.”

  “Other girls?”

  “They’re twenty-six of us here.” Sasha’s jaw went slack. “Ibrahim’s got four cousins who are of age with similar tastes.”

  Oh my God, it’s a harem! Sasha put a hand to her forehead. “Where do they all come from? Why do they all do it?”

  “Everywhere. Talent agents in Hollywood. Plastic surgeons. Why do any of us do it? You?” She looked at Sasha.

  Sasha pretended not to hear and began pulling off her abaya. Right now I’m asking myself that.

  Nafta answered her own question. “A half million pounds a year, for starters. Another half million pounds a year or so in jewelry if you work at it, which is yours to take with you.”

  Sasha jerked her head to look into Nafta’s face. Her eyes were narrowed, her interest piqued. That’s enough to set me free. “Go on.” You’re a chatty thing, Nafta, don’t stop now.

  “That got your attention.” Nafta laughed. “Most of the girls know if they come here for a year or two, they’ll never have to work again, particularly if they’re a favorite.” She grinned, as if to say “yours truly.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Four years. There’s nowhere I’d rather be. You can get awfully used
to this. And I’ve got a great imagination.”

  Sasha finished pulling off her abaya. She still wore an English riding outfit underneath. Nafta tumbled back into the bedclothes and pillows. “Tally ho. If you’re into horses, Ibrahim’s got those too. A stable full of Arabians, although except when you’re riding you’ll have to lose the boots. Ibrahim’s really into feet, if you know what I mean. Well,” she said now at the ceiling, her feet pointed absurdly at it as well, her naked buttocks showing through her robe, “Better get yourself prepared. The queen bee herself will be here to check you out any minute now.”

  “Who?” Queen Bee?

  “Nibmar. Ibrahim’s mother. Yassar’s first and favorite wife.”

  “Why is she coming?”

  “See if you’re up to her standards for her oldest son. The men run things in the outside world, but you’re in the girls’ world now. Nibmar is queen of the roost around here. So even if Yassar thought you were just the thing, you still need to make Nibmar’s grade.” She rolled over on the bed and leveled her gaze at Sasha through forbidding eyes. “Don’t trifle with Nibmar.”

  They heard another knock on the door. Nafta sat up straight in bed. The latch turned tentatively and one of the servant girls entered with a silver tray, followed by another similarly-attired attendant. They walked to the table and busied themselves with laying out the girls’ meal.

  As they ate, Sasha understood why Nafta had been designated to indoctrinate her. After forty-eight hours of her incessant chatter there would be nothing left for her to impart. Sasha got in a few words but Nafta told her about Ibrahim bringing the band Three Dog Night back from retirement for a week’s engagement at his nightly party; the size of the breasts on Florinda Wilson, former Miss California and aspiring movie star, before a casting agent sent her to one of Crown Prince Abdul’s—one of Ibrahim’s cousins—bodyguards to interview her and, oh my, she flashed her way into Saudi Arabia; the time Ibrahim, on a bet with Prince Omar, brought six of the girls to bed with him and serviced them all, she could tell you because she was there and witnessed it firsthand—well fourth-hand, so to speak—herself; and the time…Then a firm knock on the door silenced Nafta in midsentence. “That would be the Valide Sultana herself.”

  The door swung open and a petite woman with a prominent nose, full lips, and brown eyes with lashes half as long as Sasha’s toenails entered, followed by two attendants. “Hello, Sasha, welcome to Saudi Arabia. I’ve heard so much about you, child.” She spoke in refined British English like Sasha’s, but with pronunciation and diction in the high style, as if she were reading from Shakespeare. She strode across the room with the air of ownership, stood in front of Sasha, and eyed her up and down. She smiled gently, almost serenely. Her dark Arab skin was unlined, with the creamy glow of a life of biweekly facials, save for a few wrinkles at the eyes, and she wore a stylish tan dress that looked like it could have been on the cover of Vogue—Chanel? Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun.

  Not at all what Nafta had led me to expect. Sasha smiled back. “Hello, Nibmar.”

  “Well, my child, the first thing we need to do is get your measurements. I’ll ask you to remove your clothes. Preeba and Darkeen will assist you.” The two attendants stepped forward.

  Not on your life! Sasha’s body went rigid, her hands instinctively clutched at her breast. Her chin shot up, her eyes went wide with alarm, then narrowed with anger. Sasha saw Nibmar react—the serene presence in her eyes turn to resolve.

  “It’s all right, child. As you wish. I will help you.” She began to unbutton Sasha’s blouse.

  What kind of crazy place is this. Have I lost all individuality, all privacy? she lamented to herself, but in the same instant her anger returned. She stared into Nibmar’s eyes. “I can do that quite well for myself,” she said through curled lips. She began to unbutton her blouse. Nibmar stood back, returning Sasha’s glare and waved the two girls forward. She said something to them in Arabic. The two girls averted their eyes from Sasha as they began unbuttoning, unbuckling, and sliding her out of her clothing.

  Sasha struggled against them, pushing their hands away, only to have them gently but relentlessly resume. Twice. Five, six times, methodically pursuing her buttons, one conquest at a time, pushed away, back to it. Why didn’t she just run from the room? Shout at Nibmar to have her harpies leave her alone? One of the attendants tore a sleeve.

  Nibmar clapped her hands and the two girls froze. Nibmar walked forward and stood inches from Sasha’s face. “You will learn many things in your first few days.”

  Sasha stared back into Nibmar’s eyes, unrelenting. Nibmar might learn a few things, too. Maybe get a poke in the eye, not so figuratively, or a kick in the pants.

  Nibmar continued. “But never so important as to understand who I am and the all-encompassing affection of a good Saudi son for his mother. And the unlimited willingness to accept his mother’s advice as to what is best for him and those he consorts with. Do yourself the service of choosing your battles more carefully, over matters of more substance. An unruly colt sometimes kicks itself in the head.” She stepped back and waved the attendants forward again.

  A moment later Sasha stood before Nibmar fully naked except for a solitaire diamond—Christina’s gift for her 16th birthday—on a gold chain around her neck. Sasha heard Nafta’s feet pat across the floor back to her bed, then the sound of her resuming her ridiculous clicking around the television dial.

  Nibmar walked a slow circle around Sasha, who stood as if for a military inspection, her chin edging higher in defiance. “You are very beautiful. Prince Yassar only imagined how exquisite.”

  Ganesha, open my heart. Give me peace and keep my soul from bursting from my body. Sasha closed her eyes. She felt Nibmar’s presence.

  “Are you honest, subtle and submissive?” Nibmar asked.

  A laugh shot from Sasha in a burst. “Honest certainly! But hardly subtle or submissive!” Nibmar wasn’t amused. She nodded to the two assistants again. One of them stepped forward with a tape measure. The other placed her hands on Sasha, moving her limbs, directing her. Sasha felt the cold tape on her skin as they encircled her breasts at their fullest points.

  Sasha now avoided Nibmar’s eyes and observed Nafta, who still lounged on the bed, clicking past a hockey game to a pornographic film. Nafta leaned forward, studying the film as if she were filing away the information for later use. Nibmar observed the measurement process with the same scientific intensity.

  One of the girls inadvertently tugged at Sasha’s gold chain and the clasp gave way. Nibmar dropped to her knees and retrieved it, cradling it in her two hands to Sasha. “Forgive her, child. A careless accident.” She took one of Sasha’s hands and placed the necklace in it. “See, it’s the clasp. An easy repair. Permit me to handle it myself.”

  “Thank you,” was all Sasha could think of to say. What a remarkable transformation. What an unusual reaction.

  One of the girls produced a robe, which Sasha eagerly put on. Thank God that’s over. She felt tears beginning to form in her eyes and breathed deeply to force them away. Nibmar waved the two girls out the door and led Sasha to the settee.

  “Your classes in Islamic culture and palace etiquette begin tomorrow. You’ll need to learn how to behave.”

  “And how is that?” Sasha said, suddenly feeling she was up to taking Nibmar on again.

  “Solicitous. Entertaining. Beguiling.” Nibmar’s eyes were hard once more. “But you can start with subtle and submissive.” She stood up abruptly. “Tomorrow afternoon after your physical examination. Nafta, your roommate, can help you.”

  Sasha returned Nibmar’s hardened stare. “I would prefer my own quarters. It’s what I’m accustomed to.”

  “Then get accustomed to having a roommate. At least until you learn to behave properly.” Nibmar turned and left.

  Sasha felt her face flush. So I’m to be poked and prodded, have my privacy violated and I’m to live in a dorm. Give me two weeks. I’ll hav
e this whole place turned upside down.

  Sasha savored some private moments after Nafta dressed and left for the party, then dozed and awakened to twilight glowing red through the latticed windows. She listened in the half-darkness to evening prayers, mournful callings from the minarets, plaintive at first, then louder, insistent, the music of a faith, a world she didn’t know. She stirred in the bed—the twin bed pushed against the wall almost as an afterthought—her bed, in her shared quarters, and swung her feet to the floor. She walked across the rug, then sat down with her feet on the edge of it so the cool marble beneath could revive her. Her limbs ached, as did her heart. She rested her face on her knees. Oh, God, I feel so violated. What have I done? What has Christina done to me? What have you done to me, Yassar? She gave in to her sobs, clutched her legs until her forearms ached.

  Finally she arched her head back and sighed. All right. Enough. This is your life now. Don’t just sit around agonizing, frozen. Do something about it. She recalled Christina’s words: “It’s OK to hurt when you hurt; feel it and get through it. Don’t deprive yourself of knowing the ecstasy of being alive.” The thought of the Countess sent a surge of pain through her, like someone stomping on a fresh wound.

  Face your situation. You’ve been destroyed by some woman who never was, never will be, never wanted to be your mother. Sold by her for drugs to the highest bidder, the only bidder, the “kindest” of her friends. A man who probably wanted to bed you himself, but is too religious, decorous, whatever—so he does the next best thing and buys you for his son. Great life!

  She stopped herself, realizing she was standing. All right, you’ve lived your life unbridled. Christina saw to that. Now you’re in some God-awful country. So what do you do?