Eva Stachniak - Garden of Venus

‘How soft your skin is, my sweet wisdom.’

‘Come closer. You are not afraid of me, are you?’

Is this what fear does? Freezes the heart? Stops the mind from dreaming?

She lets the Princess hold her hand. Mana has taught her how to give pleasure. Each body has its own desires. She knows how to press a muscle, gently first, then harder, and harder, until the pressure inside it is released. She knows how to dissolve the knots of tension, to bring relief.

A smile is pasted to her lips, a contortion of flesh. It makes her mouth quiver. The Princess calls her an angel, a sweet, beautiful child. A temptress. Sophie will lack for nothing. Ever. Sophie will be like a queen.

‘Kiss me,’ the Princess says, pointing at her lips.

‘Not like this. Harder.’

There are bruises on her thighs and arms, but she has not felt pain. Her own body feels as if it belongs to someone else, to another woman she can see from above. A woman whose face is covered with kisses, whose body is pinned to the bed. Whose clothes are prised away from her and whose hands clutch to her naked breasts. This other woman has stopped fighting her fate. She is lying motionless in the soft bed, with her eyes closed. She is trying to sink so deep that no one would find her. She is trying to close herself to the touch that yanks her from her dreamlike state. Nothing is happening, she repeats to herself. This is nothing. Nothing.

‘What is done once,’ the Princess whispers, ‘cannot be undone. What is felt once, will never be forgotten. You are mine, now,’ she whispers. ‘My own little wisdom.’

In the darkness Sophie prays for time to hurry, to go faster. Her lips are sore where the Princess has bitten them.

‘I am making you happy. You cannot hide your own pleasure from me.’

‘Say it!’

‘You are making me happy. I cannot hide my own pleasure from you.’

‘I am your mistress. There is no one else but me.’

‘You are my mistress. There is no one else but you.’

‘Ever.’

‘Ever.’

The bed is crumpled and moist with sweat; pillows have fallen off, to the floor. Silk-covered pillows, soft and smooth. The Princess is still holding her arm, making her lie there. There are other kinds of wisdom, she says. Many crave it, but few are chosen. Only to the few it shall be revealed. Wisdom that speaks of the true delights of love, of secrets common women are not meant to know.

‘Listen, my little wisdom. With me you will know it all.’

These stories speak of mysterious journeys across parched deserts; of abandoned inns where, in spite of the worst fears, sumptuous meals await an exhausted traveller; of crossroads where the hanged long for the mercy of the burial; of old hermits who know the way. It is enough to close her eyes to see the deep dungeons where hatred and envy rule and the fragrant gardens where beauty and love meet in secret. In search of their fate, the travellers of those tales fight hunger and thirst, battle false desires—the phantoms that drive the soul away from its dream.

‘Such are the stories of the night,’ the Sultana whispers. ‘They are all for you, my sweet wisdom.’

For there are more stories. Stories wrenched away from the possessed. Stories from forbidden books, stories of women who know as much as the men, but who guard their secret knowledge with their lives.

‘I know them all, my sweet wisdom,’ the Sultana says. ‘And soon, you too will know them.’

But then, a moment later, she is snoring, her arm heavy on Sophie’s shoulder. For a long while Sophie tries to wriggle out from under this arm. To stand up, gasp for breath. Her stomach churns and the coffee she has drunk rises up her throat. For a brief moment of despair she considers standing on the edge of the window and throwing herself down, into the paved courtyard underneath, but she doesn’t want to die.

She lets the tears flow, silently, until sleep comes. In the morning, she will think of something. Luck will not abandon her like that. Without warning, without giving her another chance. Luck may have played a mean trick on her, but Sophie has not lost her faith.

‘I’m worthy of a king’s bed,’ she thinks, just before sleep comforts her, just before she remembers the smell of jessamine and honeysuckle; just before she forgets the silk belt in the black ebony coffer and the cold anger in the servant’s voice.

The Greeks are but our slaves, she hears, their race a perfect example of what happens when the men are not separated from the women. No work ever gets done, because with all these women running in the streets men only want to have fun. Idleness and lies rule them. And deceit.

But the Russians, she says in protest, do not separate the women. Or the French. Or the English. No one heeds her words. What does she know, a plaything that has caught the Princess’s fancy. Clanging bells on her arms so that her arrival does not go unnoticed.

The Harem, she hears, is a woman’s blessing. Without it, a woman would be exposed to curious glances in the streets. To prying eyes, to jeerings from the passersby. Here, a woman has everything she may ever want. Why would she want to venture outside? What is it that she lacks?

When she laughs, the women say: ‘Don’t laugh too much or you’ll cry soon.’

It is in the small courtyard, by the fountain, that the women gather: odalisques, servants, and slaves. On low tables the slaves have laid clays, dried pomegranate peel, nut bark, saffron, dried roses, myrtle, orange flowers. There are fresh eggs the whites of which will be rubbed with shebba to make the thick lumpy mass that will cleanse the skin. For it is with the skin, they say, that you touch the world.

The women, their faces covered with gooey masks, sit patiently and talk. Things have to be done right, the way they were done before. Only the conceited believe one could discover a better way than the one practised for generations. A better way of embroidering or preparing a face mask. A better way of dancing or making coffee. A better way to live.

But there is other talk too. Of slaves whose beauty caught the eye of the Master, of these moments for which one prepares one’s whole life. A moment in which a man’s eye can change the woman’s fate; when a slave can become an odalisque; and then, if Allah wills that, maybe even a mother of a Sultan’s child. Unless, of course, one day, in the hammam, such a woman finds the doors locked, and the heat and the steam take her breath away.

Why?

The women shrug their shoulders. Doesn’t she know how easy it is to cause envy? To make a false step, say one word too many. Doesn’t she know anything?

Every night it seems to Sophie that she can hear the locking of many doors. There is a restlessness in her. A force sets upon her as soon as she opens her eyes and does not leave her until she falls asleep under the heavy arm of her mistress. The same restlessness that makes a fox caught in a snare chew off its leg.

To stop it Sophie thinks of the black eunuch. His black skin has a warm tone, and he smells of sandalwood. Hadim Effendi, a learned one, the Princess sometimes calls him, laughing. He was but a boy when he was first brought to the Palace. A boy who cried and cried until one of the slave women had the presence of mind to sing to him. Now he is kislar aghasi, master of the maidens. Unlike the white eunuchs who guard the gates of the Seraglio, he is allowed to enter the chamber of the women. He is fond of bright embroidered patterns, of jackets trimmed with gold.

Hadim Effendi likes her. She has discovered that on one of the restless nights when her mistress sent her for a pearl necklace, and she got lost in the corridors of the Seraglio. To silence the clanking bells, she stopped by the latticed window and looked outside. A beautiful moon, milky white, illuminated the sleeping city. It was difficult to believe that people lived there, in these dimly lit streets. That they loved, worked, slept, died there. That there was anyone else there besides Bekjih, the night watchman, his feet tapping on the cobbled stones as if he came from the kingdom of the dead.