by J A Deriu
“I must compliment you on the food,” Pierre said, using a napkin to dab his lips. “As I also should on your enterprise. I have been working in your … ah … bill clearinghouse, and it is exceptionally busy. The volume of business is impressive.”
“Ah, yes. I believe our man, Ahmad, and his magnificent cane are well organized.”
“You must be quite the businessman.”
“Ah, I am only fortunate, the fifth of my family to be stationed in this distant trading post of the empire. This is not my home. My real home is in the new Rome, the dream of Osman, the precious stone embraced by the entire world. Konstantinople, of course. My family are Phanariot. We have been merchants of the empire for centuries. We even predate the sultan in the queen of cities. We are Greeks from the time of the Byzantine, making our name in the Galata business district. All that is here – impressive that you find it – is from the many generations, and nothing compared to what you would see in the family home in Phanar.”
“I see,” Pierre said, “a great history.” A servant spooned more food onto his plate. He lifted the glass. It was a sweet wine. Therma looked at him but did not make eye contact. The candlelight winked on the pendants that hung from her ears.
“Your story, it is of interest,” Alex said, lifting his own glass and examining the wine in the candlelight. “You are not the usual kind that we contract with. You have the potential for great advancement. One of my chief bookkeepers is from Buenos Aires.”
“Yes. I am sure that would be favorable … I may have mentioned when we last spoke that I am an executive of the Fugger Corporation and that this corporation, which is substantial, would dearly want my return.”
“Did you? Yes, you did, but do not think of that. Any contact with New Europa is forbidden. Your Fugger Corporation could be on Mars. There is no going there. This happens from year to year with the New Europeans. At this time, the tensions are high because of what happened in the Qing. This may change one year. And do not forget that your contract was expensive. I would not be the impressive businessman if I did not make sure it was repaid in full then, would I?”
Pierre gulped his wine. He had a feeling of futility. “Certainly, sir, yes, certainly. Could I ask about my colleague? The short man that was purchased at the same time.”
Alex touched his chin. “Him, yes, I recall, the small man.” He looked at Therma. “What did we do with him?” She did not answer. “Oh, yes, I recall,” he answered his own question. “He has been put to work in the laundry. It is very advantageous because of his size. He is able to climb into the washing machines and retrieve items that are usually lost. He is well suited. Do not concern yourself. Now eat, eat. We are only at the beginning course.”
Pierre reluctantly chuckled at Ernest’s dirty fate.
Therma stood midway through the next course and left without a word. Pierre opened his mouth to say something.
“Now try this, my friend,” Alex said. “You will love this dish.” He waved across a waiter, and a dish was held in front of him. It looked to be filled with skewered frogs, cooked to a charcoal.
There were many more dishes. Pierre politely tried each one. Alex spoke of his enterprise and its famed history. The accolades presented at the Topkapi Palace where they shot fireworks into the night sky. A dozen trading outposts across the empire and in the adjoining empires, always susceptible to the currents of global affairs and the whims of absolute rulers. And the art of surviving and prospering from those shifts, upheaval, and war.
Alex placed his fat fingers on the tabletop and lifted himself to stand. “Let us enjoy a good cigarette and drink. Come on, stand. Let’s retire to the library.”
He followed the bulky man through double doors and into a room with large open windows. Thick drapes blew into the room. Two claw-legged lounge chairs faced the windows. They sat down and were only lit by the moonlight. The night air was sultry. Alex waved away insects. He reached and opened a wooden cigarette case that sat on a table between the chairs. “These are Giannitsa cigarettes, the best the empire has ever known.” He handed Pierre a cigarette and then pointed to a stout bottle also on the table. “And this is known as cognac from the provinces of Rumelia. I think you will enjoy it.” He lit the cigarette and then filled two short glasses with the liquor. “Yes, it is considered alcohol, and some would not partake. I am flexible in this regard. Yes, I am loyal to the Prophet. But remember in history, my family followed a different faith, that of the Byzantines.”
Pierre quivered when he tasted the cigarette. “Ah, it tastes … lovely.” He lifted the short glass to hold it in front.
Alex held his glass aloft. “Enjoy, my friend.” They both sculled the liquor. Pierre felt a jolt right through his body. Alex puffed on his cigarette, refilled the glasses, and this time drank the cognac with a sip. “I imagine that you were a success in the Europa Metropolis. It is a shame you became tangled in overseas intrigue. You are an affable man, you listen keenly. You are handsome with the look of a devil.”
“I thank you for the compliments, yes I was – a successful banker in the Metropolis. I long to return …”
“Like all others that ply their trade in this outpost, they long to return to their true home – the call of it is like that of a siren.”
Outside the windows Pierre could see the silhouettes of the guardsmen patrolling the grounds. “One of your workers was telling me of a man who was flogged in public for wanting to return to his village.”
“Yes, there are those that are rough. That is not my way. The local constabulary are always thinking of cruelty. They celebrate a new torture device as though humanity has progressed. Do you know what the greatest torture contraption ever invented is? It is not a modern invention at all.” Pierre looked at him dumbly. “It is the woman’s bra. Never has there been a device that has tortured men as this. Brutally depriving them of true beauty that is beyond words. Depriving them of the sight of the most perfect pleasures. The glory of existence.” He shook while he spoke and then laughed a hearty laugh.
He told Pierre of his love for business and his lust for women. Pierre thought of Therma and then his own wife. Alex spoke of his enterprise and how it was the only bastion of an eroding empire. Pierre sat quietly and listened, forcing himself to have a taste for the cigarettes and the cognac. The background noises to the merchant’s talking were the sounds of insects from the gardens.
As was normal with powerful men, after money and sex, there was politics. “You may say that my enterprise is bustling, and it may appear that way to you, but only two summers ago I had double the men that I have now in that workroom, and they worked from morning to midnight, not ending at the dinner bell like you have found. I have bad dreams that the capital of the empire is not as it is supposed to be. I have always thought that the health of the empire was measured by trade. I would not be the man to give advice to the watcher from the windows, the rarely seen and mystical sultan, but I suspect that he is too generous. If I was to be that man to give the Shadow of God on Earth advice, I would say that the Vakif, that absurd promise of welfare from the cradle to the grave, is bankrupting the empire. I may even say that it is my view that this was the reason for the folly of the Qing invasion, to find wealth, to refill the royal vaults, which I suspect are bare. Why else have taxes been increased, new taxes created, ones never experienced before? How is a humble merchant to pay these? Meanwhile the bureaucracy is bloated. The viziers are providing bad advice. The eternal state is in jeopardy. If I, with my tiny store of knowledge, know this and can sense it from my miserable corner of the empire, surely the sultan will also be having sleepless nights.”
Pierre felt the itch of an insect biting at his skin.
“Yet, I thank the all-knowing Creator for what we have.” Alex scoffed. “The Mughals are worse. Stuck in their midst, I can see the farce that is their empire. Really only a collection of pirates, ambitious clerks, and corrupt f
at men. But alas, I have spoken enough. This liquor will do that. I trust that you will have a splendid day of work tomorrow.” The big man hoicked himself out of the chair and swayed out of the room.
Pierre watched his shadow disappear. A cigarette still smoldered on the table. “Good night,” he said quietly and looked around the room. “I suppose.” He was alone. He could have slept in the lounge chair. It was comfortable. He guessed that was not what he was supposed to do and that he should go back to the dormitory. He tipped the rest of the glass of cognac into his mouth and stood.
The candles had burned out or were on their last wax. He moved carefully through the dim hallways. Artwork and statues loomed out of the darkness toward him. He slowed to pass an alcove. The hard liquor dulled his reality. An arm reached at him from the dark. It grabbed at his shirt collar, and he was spun into the darkness. The intoxicating perfume smacked across his face. He was pulled into a room. His body did not resist. The room was faintly lit by moonlight. A velvet sofa was in the middle. He was propelled by firm but gentle hands to land on it. Her face emerged above him. Her long lashes were sharp. Her fingernails dug into his skin. Her knee was atop his leg. She was wearing a silken gown. Her body was distinct underneath.
It was Therma. He opened his mouth. She placed a finger across his lips, and then her hand moved to feel his face. She pushed herself against him and lowered her head. His face was against her hair like a towel. She turned her head so that their faces touched. Her lurid lips faced him. He was pressed against the sofa. Her athletic legs straddled him. She attacked him with wild kissing. He half lifted an arm to defend himself. She pushed it down and lay on him. His head was against the arm of the sofa, and her body was against his. Her mouth and teeth pinched his skin. For a moment he was a boy again in the schoolyard.
He raised his head so that they were looking at each other eye to eye, and he used his hand to block the thrust of her mouth. “I am married,” he said. Her frenetic movements stopped. Her eyes gaped at him. She eased off him so that he could use his elbows to straighten. They were sitting next to each other. She looked away. Pierre thought of what he should say. He was trembling thinking of Alex, the orange men, and especially Ida. He wanted to run out of the room. She was beautiful and smelled like heaven.
Her eyes returned to watch him and her breathing was shallow. “I am sorry,” she said. Her voice was soft and heavily accented. “I did not know.”
“Oh, don’t be worried. I … under normal circumstances … I am loyal to my wife.”
She guiltily cupped her face with her hands. “That is noble.”
“I should go,” he said. “My comfortable bed awaits.” He moved to stand.
“Wait,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “Sit with me for some time.”
He sat with his hands folded on his lap and could hear the chiming of a clock somewhere in the mansion.
“You speak like an Englishman,” she said. “Where are you from?”
“I am from the Metropolis in New Europa. That is where I belong, and where I should be. It is an accident that I am here,” he said in a whispery voice.
“That is where the one you are married to is waiting for you, isn’t it?”
“It is, and she would be very concerned that I have not returned.”
Therma looked across the room and touched her hand with its painted nails on her lips as if thinking. “I have heard much of this place, the Metropolis. It is as famous as Konstantinople and New Konstantinople.”
He nodded in agreement and listened intently for any dreaded noise from within the house, waiting anxiously for her dismissal. The slightest sign would do. Her thigh pressed against him.
“I will help you,” she said.
“You will? How?”
“The universe is out of time, and we should enjoy what is left.”
He looked at her, unsure of what to say.
“I have a friend, Olivetta. Her family, I know that they trade with the Metropolis. They own a shipping company. It is one of the biggest companies in the kingdom. The embargo is not a problem for them. I know that they can get you home.” She touched his cheek. Her delicate finger tingled his skin as it moved. “I vow that you will return to your wife.” She held his face with both her hands and kissed his lips. He moved with the rhythm of the kiss and let his body sway as every part of her pressed against him.
After a long time, she pulled away from him and detached their limbs. He was breathless. She moved into the light and glowed over him like a goddess.
“I thank you, Therma,” he said. “Is this possible, what you said?”
“Olivetta is my dearest friend. We grew up as girls together. She will not fail us.” She spent a long moment looking over him. “Good night, Pierre.” She stepped back and disappeared into the night.
He walked stealthily out of the house. He was seen in the gardens by the orange guards, but they did not stop him once they saw that he was moving toward the worker dormitory. He stepped over the sleeping workers, stepping on a few and producing tired growls. He sneaked onto his mat, curled his body, and pulled the sheets over him. In the feeblest of moonlight, he could make out the head of Hondo looking at him. He did not need to see the face to know that it would have a questioning look on it. “Nothing exciting happened,” Pierre said. “Go back to sleep.”
The work day started with a spasm of activity. Pierre moved numbly with the flow of action as the workers rushed to be ready for the start time. It was useful that he did not need to think to do the work, as his mind was elsewhere. He watched the orange men to see if a message would come from the house. In this strange world he now inhabited, he feared that the events of the night may not have happened. The manner of Hondo told him that they had. He sat eating his rice at the lunch break, looking at Pierre with awe. “You really are a lord.” The upbeat nature of Hondo did not lift Pierre’s sullenness as the day finished and he was still trapped in the miserable sweatshop.
He sat cross legged, unwilling to lie down. The workers were extinguishing their lights. Hondo sat across from him struggling to read his book. “What book are you reading?” Pierre asked.
“It is by a writer from your city. It is how I improve my English. It is the story of a boy from the slums. He falls in love. The girl he loves does not love him, because of her mother, but he has a secret backer, and he becomes rich, and well … I haven’t finished yet.” He lowered the book. “Look, they are back.”
Pierre turned to see an orange guard glaring at him. He growled and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Pierre stood. He turned to Hondo. “I will not see you again, my friend. I am sure your fortune will change. They always do.”
The guard pulled him by the arm, and they were outside on the path to the mansion. The guard shoved him to walk faster. “Hey, watch yourself.” Pierre cussed at him. The guard whacked a gloved fist into Pierre’s side. He moved quietly, holding his ribs and wondering why the change from the night before.
He could see that the house was lit with flaming light, and a group of people stood at the entrance. The guard shoved him hard in the back, and he stumbled forward. The large shape of Alex loomed out to meet him. “You have caused much controversy here,” the big man said. Behind him Pierre could see Therma. She was gripping the lapels of a coat and pulling it tight around her neck. There were orange men at his flanks and others that Pierre did not know standing nearby. “What a day of drama, and all because of you, you Metropolitan Casanova,” Alex said with equal part seriousness and part joviality. “My wife was up at dawn because of you, and she never wakes before midday.” Therma was biting her lip.
Pierre straightened himself and raised his arm to block the light. The whole household was watching him, including servants peeking through the windows. “I’m unsure what you mean … we had dinner.”
“Ah, let me explain. It seems my wife got the idea that you were
a man in a predicament that needed saving. Over here you will see some very dear friends of ours, the Doukas family.” Alex waved his arm to a group standing joylessly under the arch of the entrance. They were a hawk-faced couple. “This is Marcus and Olivetta.” Pierre remembered the name, Therma’s friend. There was another man standing with them, lean and imperious looking. Another three orange men had taken up positions around Pierre. “The Doukas family are trading merchants like ourselves and well connected to the southern trade routes,” Alex continued. “A plan was hatched with scant thought. I shall not say much more about its origins. You are aware. This plan was to provide passage for you to the continent of New Europa. A ridiculous idea. Nonetheless it was discussed in the household of the Doukas family. Now one thing that is certain is that my friends here, the Doukas family, are great patriots. No sooner did they hear of this plan than they notified the gentleman you see standing with them.” The man Alex referred to put his hand to his chin as if considering Pierre. “This is Taymoor from the Mahsusa. He was very interested in your story.”
The man stepped toward Pierre. He spoke slowly and carefully but in a language Pierre did not understand.
“Let me tell you what he said,” Alex said. “He said that the Ottoman Secret Service wants to talk to you. You witnessed the battle of the Qing desert fortress.”
“I did not see anything,” Pierre declared.
The Ottoman spoke as if he understood Pierre.
Alex translated. “You were traveling with Templars. Taymoor has declared you an enemy of the empire.”
“No, this is a mistake,” Pierre pleaded.
The man spoke again.
“What does he say?” Pierre asked Alex.