A Place Far Away

by Vahan Zanoyan

  She was as curious about the other women as about the master. She had heard all sorts of stories from the girls about jealousies and intrigues in ‘harems.’ Competition for the master’s affections and generosity could turn vicious and ruthless. Granted, some of these stories probably were exaggerations. But she was sure some of that actually existed. Maybe that is why they did not encourage much interaction among the women. There was one Russian and one Turkish woman in the master’s collection, but he liked his women to have Arabic names. Any Arabs? Perhaps someone like the Moroccan girl she had seen in jail? Or some Lebanese bombshell like the ones she had run into in the discotheques in Dubai? And how would Ms. Sumaya find her “match” companion? Was it really a matter of compatible language, or was there more to it? Ano had said that she’d probably be the youngest and most beautiful in the bunch. Was that a curse or a blessing? A threat to her safety or an opportunity for something different?

  As she sank deeper into a trance, her mind shifted away from the present and wandered briefly through the streets of Moscow before cruising over Saralandj. What would her brother Avo think of this place? What would he think of what had happened to her, what she had ended up doing? She missed her home so much that finding a way to go back had become an obsession ever since the first night with Ayvazian. But then she had heard some gruesome stories from the girls about how families back home rarely accepted what they did. Some knew, of course, but many lived with the illusion that their daughters or mothers or wives had respectable jobs overseas. Susannah had told her one story where the brother of one of the girls had slit her throat when she eventually made it back home. Defending the family honor was big in the villages. Would Avo forgive her? It was Avo she missed more than any of her other siblings; him and her mother.

  She resisted thinking about her father; he had such a special place in her heart that thinking about him would create more emotional problems for Lara than she was ready to handle. She did, however, wonder what he would have thought about her situation; but the truth was that she did not know her father well enough to guess. That was an incredibly painful gap that Lara suffered from. She remembered him as a kind, supportive figure, even more so than her mother sometimes, and she remembered his reading most of all. But her situation now was so removed from her old life that it was impossible to venture any guesses about what her father thought or how he judged things.

  Lara Galian just ached, body and soul, for a moment in her old home.

  The fog in the forests of Saralandj was descending again, engulfing everything in its path. It had even reached here, mixing with the steam still slowly rising from her bath. It was quiet in the forest, just as it was here, and she was alone. No sound, no one in sight. And then the calm, soothing voice of her father came to her: “What did you discover in the forest, Lara?” “Nothing,” she whispered, “there was nothing there.” But there is a lot here. “What are you doing here, Lara? What do you expect to discover here?” Was that her voice or her father’s?

  “Just trying to find my way home,” she whispered.

  And I have not even met the new “master” yet, she thought. Sir, who likes things just so and not a bit different. Sir, who can be kind and generous and yet he can throw you to the dogs. Sir, who loves women so much that he has many of them, and he probably loves watching them compete for him…

  Is that your little secret, dear Sir? You like young girls to be clean of hair, love you with their mouths and tongues, call you ‘Sir’ and compete for your affection? Is that it? My forest is much more complex and sophisticated than that, even in its emptiness and silence. The trees can see in the dark. The trees watch you and listen to your steps. And the procession of Saralandj forest pines was marching in the steamy room, giving the white marble walls a greenish hue; she could feel them in the bathroom and see their reflection in the steamy mirror.

  “What did you discover in the forest, Lara?” Which forest, Papa? Talk to me, Papa jan, tell me how you think. I remember one of your stories, how women were throwing themselves into the Arax River to free themselves from being abducted by the Turks, or was it the Kurds? You read it to us once. Who were those ladies, Papa? When was that? A long time ago, but they were brave ladies, you said. They drowned themselves in the river, so as not to be caught and raped. They were brave and honorable, you said. Talk to me now; is that what you want me to do? Or do you want me to fight back. You also said the real heroes of our people fought back. There is no honor in being slaughtered like sheep, you said.

  The green hue became thicker and darker in the bathroom. Saralandj was here. There were no more voices, but the silence had more clarity than any voice.

  And then she saw herself leaving the forest, confident, seeing their house in the distance, the fear and anxiety of having been lost melting away and rising above her with the steam.

  I think I’ve seen a way out, just like in the forest, she wrote in her book. I need to win this, whatever it takes.

  VIII

  His Excellency Ahmed bin Abdullah bin Saif Al Barmaka is in his early thirties. He is the youngest son of an extended family of merchants with a long history of cooperation with the rulers of the country, who are members of the elite class of businessmen in the Dubai social scene. He and his brothers are on the boards of several state-owned corporations and have a thriving trading and contracting business throughout the United Arab Emirates. They also own close to a hundred prime pieces of real estate, residential and office buildings, hotels, undeveloped parcels of land and over twenty foreign offices in Asia, Europe and the Middle East. They are major shareholders in various regional airlines and own a fleet of private jets for the exclusive use of family members.

  Al Barmaka is a rebel of sorts, at least on traditional social grounds, even though his business savvy is legendary within the family. His single largest act of social defiance has been his refusal to marry and provide his parents with additional grandchildren over the twenty or so with whom his other siblings have blessed them. At his age, most of his brothers already had three to four children. But young Ahmed does not see the point. The future of the bloodline is long secured and a few more Al Barmakas running around will not have the same net utility as the first few grandchildren have. Besides, he believes that marriage tends to complicate things and cramp lifestyles, even in this male-dominated society. He knows that one day he’ll have to accept an official wife and start a family, but he is in no rush, even though by the customs and traditions of his society he probably is already late by almost a decade.

  He had seen Lara’s ‘portfolio’ only a few weeks earlier and decided to add her to his group of regular ladies. The so-called portfolio contained a brief and sketchy history focusing essentially on her age and ethnic origin, basic medical record (which was heavily edited to remove references to the abortion in Moscow), and current “status,” meaning current owner and manager. This was summarized in one paragraph of text. The rest of the twenty-page file contained nothing but photographs. Everything in the file appealed to him greatly—age, looks, origin (the novelty of it for him), her being in Dubai already, and the owner’s willingness to trade. It was just a matter of negotiating the price.

  “First of all,” Al Barmaka had told his recruiter, “why are they offering her for three years? Who says I want her for three years? Second, a quarter of a million dollars? Are they crazy?”

  “Well, three years because they think her age is so young that it calls for a longer contract than normal. They say that price averages just over $80 grand a year, which is also acceptable in such cases. But I can counter any way you want.”

  “One year. It is plenty, no matter how young. Offer them seventy-five K. All costs and obligations released for a year. I will pay her a salary and all her expenses. Then they can have her back.”

  It took a week to conclude the negotiations and finalize the deal. Ayvazian played hard to get and raised the fee for one year to a round one-hundred thousand dollars, payable up front. He was
very pleased. He would have her back in a year, to put her back in the high value market in Moscow, where, having spent a year as a private concubine of a celebrity, it was hoped that she would master the fine art of seduction and learn something about playing with the rich and famous. His initial $500 dollar investment in acquiring Lara had paid off very handsomely indeed.

  When Al Barmaka first walked into Lara’s chalet, he was not sure what to expect. Although Sumaya was an experienced trainer, and she had not let him down before, they had never dealt with such a young person. He was excited, not just for coming to a new woman, but for the mystery. He felt the anticipation of a child about to open a nicely wrapped gift.

  Lara was ready for him. She had been sitting in the living room in her abaya reading a book when he opened the front door and walked in.

  “And you are my new Leila,” he exclaimed with a smile. “So happy to see you.”

  “Happy to see you too, Sir,” said Lara, jumping to her feet and standing in front of him with her head bowed down, looking at her feet.

  “Look up, Leila. Do not hide that pretty face from me.”

  “Yes, Sir.” And up came the magic eyes, the youthful face, the piercing look, the radiance, all wrapped in such a perfectly harmonious demeanor that Al Barmaka said a silent thank you to the gods. This is a delicate flower, he thought, to be handled with care. It was moments like this that validated his status, his wealth, his stature. Al Barmaka fancied himself as a modern day Arab nobleman of the same caliber as the nobility in Andalus, who ruled Spain for several centuries and lived surrounded by the richest material and cultural means ever enjoyed by a class of people in history, or so Al Barmaka imagined. They drank the best wines, in spite of prohibition of alcohol by Islam, had the most beautiful women in the realm, enjoyed the highest levels of art, music and poetry, and were at the forefront of science and medicine. That’s how Al Barmaka liked to think of himself.

  He took off his headdress and tossed it on the sofa. Lara immediately picked it up, folded it carefully and laid it on the side table. Then she carefully placed the Iqal, the round halo-like black top that went over the headdress, on top of it, making sure that the long tassels were neatly folded also. Al Barmaka was already sitting comfortably on the sofa and patting the space next to him for her to sit. She obliged, sitting at the very edge of the couch but close to him, with her back straight and turned toward him, almost as if at attention.

  “Are you nervous, Leila?”

  “A little, Sir.” And the eyes looked down again.

  “Look at me. No need to be nervous. We now belong together, okay? We will take our time getting to know each other.”

  “Yes, okay, Sir.”

  “We will have a lot of time to talk in the coming days and weeks. But now, I want you to go and draw a bath for me. Can you do that?”

  “Of course, right away, Sir.”

  Lara noticed that Al Barmaka did not smoke, a welcome relief. He actually smelled good, and his breath smelled good. He was thin, fit, and surprisingly young. With all the evidence of wealth spread around, Lara had expected someone much older. How could someone so young be so rich? “All I know is that one has to be born in the right gene pool,” Susannah had told her. “You and I are not that lucky.”

  But Al Barmaka did not fit the stories of the young and rich locals, who were portrayed as spoiled to distraction, with no sense of true appreciation for anything that was handed to them, and no regard for anyone other than themselves, rowdy, rude and painfully immature. The man sitting on the sofa did not appear to be anywhere close to that description. Granted, he was older than the characters in those stories, but this one carried himself with calculated calm and seriousness and a display of a consideration which was uncharacteristic of anything else that she had seen or heard. This must be the local nobility, Lara thought as she drew his bath.

  But there also was a chilling distance in Al Barmaka. His small sharp eyes, thin and long face accentuated by a well-trimmed goatee, and high, pronounced cheekbones did not exude warmth, even when he smiled. There was a toughness hidden in there somewhere, bred over generations of desert life which, although no longer applicable today, still had its uses in the modern day business world. It was that core harshness that sometimes surfaced with a strong hint of understated cruelty that gave any onlooker a chill. It was a toughness that Lara recognized; the survival conditions in Saralandj, although entirely different from the desert, were equally difficult and had long imposed a similar toughness on the villagers as well.

  There was no hesitation or any sense of bashfulness in his movements as he walked over to the bathroom and got undressed. He acted as if he was in the presence of his wife of many years. His body was muscular and tight, almost stringy. He approached Lara and expertly undid the embroidered buttons at the back of her abaya and slipped it off her shoulders. He looked at her body for a brief moment, with the sexy grey and green bra and panties, and got into the tub. Lara sensed his swelling arousal from his eyes, without looking at it or feeling it physically.

  “Join me.”

  He watched her as she undressed and came to the tub. “Let me see you first,” he said.

  Lara was not sure what he meant. He gestured with his hand for her to turn around. She slowly made a three hundred and sixty degree turn and faced him again. She was blushing. He gestured to her to get in. Her hand was covering her sex as she lifted her right leg to quickly get into the tub, and that simple act of shyness aroused him even more. She noticed.

  Their love-making was smooth and effortless. She remained coy and submissive throughout, both in the tub and later in bed, and followed his lead willingly, lovingly. For the first time she felt that this man really wanted her to enjoy it, and that it mattered to him that she did. He acted considerate, giving, caring. She had never before known this in any client, and obviously never in a rapist. But she did not dwell on that. “Never lose your head, Lara,” she remembered, and reminded herself of that admonition once again. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the tough and cruel part of him, the more dominant and unchangeable part of the reality she was facing. She realized that her nagging need to be loved and cared for had to be resisted at all costs.

  In the wee hours of the morning, he got out of bed, dressed, and left, giving her a short nod. Maybe he was too tired for a more affectionate goodbye; maybe his mind was too preoccupied with work for long pleasantries; or maybe he just didn’t care. At any rate, she was thankful for that; she would never wonder or fantasize again about her real role in this house.

  Sumaya should be pleased, but she does not appear to be. Her job is to see to it that the girls make the master content, and he seems quite content. There has not been any complaint from him for two weeks. No little irritating lapses committed by one of the girls about which Sumaya has had to lecture the offending party. And Sumaya has not even sent anyone to teach Lara details of how she should behave, as she had initially intended. Al Barmaka has seen Sumaya only once in the past two weeks, which is unusual. He normally calls her at least once every few days to either complain about something or to give a new order. And that is not where it ends. He has seen no one except Lara in the past two weeks. Even when she had her period, he did not visit any of the other girls for four days, preferring to wait for Lara. That is a truly major departure from his common practice, a first in the seventeen years that Sumaya has worked for him.

  Sumaya is mulling this over when Nadia calls. Her real name is Natalia, but she has been given an Arab name like the others. She is a twenty-six-year-old Russian girl, one of the favorites of Al Barmaka, until Lara’s arrival. Blonde, thin and attractive, Natalia knows not only how to handle Al Barmaka, but also Sumaya. Once in a while, she has passed on to Sumaya part of the special monetary bonuses that Al Barmaka is in the habit of giving. She is a professional, determined to leave Dubai a rich woman before she is thirty and “retire” in Moscow. She needs to keep the affections of Al Barmaka and the loyalty and favor of Su
maya in order to achieve her goal. She tells Sumaya she needs to see her urgently. Sumaya has been expecting this call, and, if anything, is surprised it has taken Nadia this long.

  “He has not seen me for two weeks,” says Natalia as soon as she is seated in Sumaya’s living room.

  “I know.”

  “He has not been traveling, right? He is here in Dubai, in his house, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Has he been sick?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Ms. Sumaya, please. We’ve known each other for six months now, and you’ve known him for many years. Please talk to me. Is there someone new on the premises?”

  Sumaya shifts her weight and crosses her leg. She looks Natalia over, with her perfectly pressed embroidered black abaya, golden locks resting on her shoulders, long lashes casting a sad shadow over her eyes. She sees the concern, almost like a panic, but she also sees the pure professionalism in her posture. She can work with this woman. She understands she is in business. Even the personal issues are about business. Leila, on the other hand, is just a kid. She has managed to enamor Al Barmaka more because of what she is than what she does. She is an unknown, with no apparent simple or single thing driving her, and therefore unreliable. But she can rely on Nadia’s professionalism.

  “Yes, there is,” she says finally. The girls are not really supposed to ask such questions, as it is considered to be none of their business. But they always find out eventually. “She has been here for two weeks. She is very young, around seventeen.”