Stanley Elkin - George Mills

I’ll say one thing, Mills thought, these sailors live well!

“This is it,” Mills said with forced cheer. “Where they said that Kislar Agha is we’re looking for.” He pulled into a long, curved driveway, eased the horses to a gentle stop and brake-locked the Overland, hoping that Bufesqueu had noticed his skill. Bufesqueu said nothing, of course, and Mills leaped down from the bench first. He did not ask his friend what a Kislar Agha was, or where they were, or what they were doing there in the first place.

He was determined to change his friend’s ideas about him and, though he had no notion yet of why they’d come, to beat Bufesqueu and get to the Kislar Agha guy first. He hadn’t a clue what he would tell him, could only imagine his poses, his folded arms and knowing smirk. Perhaps, while waiting for the lightning to strike, he would kibitz the black boys, let the Kislar Agha bloke, and Bufesqueu too, see who they were dealing with.

(Because he’d already forgotten the danger, because this was an adventure, because it had been an adventure since he’d first started out for London to make his way in the world, before: since he’d accepted that letter of introduction which had been obsolete before it was written. Because it was all adventure: his meeting with King George, his — he understood this now — expulsion from England, his journey with the spy, Peterson, and his meeting with the Jew ambassador and the complicated betrayal at Mahmud’s Court; all, all of it adventure; being given over to the mullahs, to the Janissaries, killing Khoraghisinian and becoming a living legend, all of it — being sent down with Bufesqueu to take Constantinople with no more weapons between them than their two full-dress Janissary suits; the confiscation of the Overland and the grand ride they’d had, vulnerable and open-air’d as a Roman triumph; the business with the guards at the gates, even the peaceful drive through this voluptuary candyland. Because it was all adventure and he was an adventurer and an adventurer did not so much forget danger as acknowledge and then ignore it, that only then could he be vouchsafed immunity. Because it was all adventure and he lived now within some rhythm of action and respite which were as much the physical laws of adventure as ebb and flood tides were the governing physics of the seas. And because his feelings had been hurt, and there was no room or way to accommodate fear and sulk in the same place at the same time.)

Mills entered the building.

“The Kislar Agha,” George demanded of a huge fat black fellow in sheer, billowing trousers that tapered tightly at the ankles. He was shirtless and his full, hairless chest was barely covered by a light vest. He glanced at the man’s shoes, smooth and soft and slightly curling at the toes like a jester’s slippers. George lightly touched the Negro’s turban. “Hair not dry yet, darling?” And leaned toward him. “Let the air out of your pants, why don’t you?” he whispered. “Get your toes fixed. You look like some pansy-assed Nancy boy.”

The black man lifted Mills off the floor by the neck and quietly choked him. “Is this the way you address the assistant Chief Eunuch in the Sultan’s harem?” he asked mildly.

Mills’s frightened, high-pitched squeals brought another black man, even larger, into the room.

“Let him go, Suliem. I said let him go! ”

Reluctantly the giant withdrew his strangler’s hands from Mills’s neck and George dropped a good half foot to the floor.

“What’s this all about?” the Kislar Agha demanded.

And before George Mills could say “Service rivalry,” Bufesqueu had come up behind him and flung him aside.

“I’m Bufesqueu and he’s Mills,” he said, “and we’re deserters from the Janissaries seeking sanctuary.”

Which was how George Mills and Bufesqueu, his protector and benefactor, came to live as the only unimpaired males in the largest full-service harem in the world.

What he couldn’t get over were the scents.

As if they lived in a basket of fruit or box of wondrous candy. As if they lived in a great garden or amongst the savory headwinds of the juiced seasons. As if they lived in a kitchen or spicery, in a bakery, or within some balmy climate of luxurious merchandise pliant as trousseau. He sniffed the cloves, civets and gums of carpentry, the jeweler’s musky metals, the pomander of gemstone. In the groves and greenery of the planet. All cosmetics’ pervasive attars.

But there was more that he couldn’t get over:

King, he thought. King and Courier, Ambassador, Soup Man and Sultan and Sultan-in-Waiting. Chief Eunuch too, he thought. It was getting to be quite a list.

Or the fact, though he had forgotten the danger, that they were alive at all. His throat was still sore from Suliem’s attempt to choke him. But at last he was beginning to get his voice back. For days he had been silent as a giraffe. So silent that when Fatima, one of the slaves who attended the harem women, came into the laundry where he and Bufesqueu had been assigned to work, he had been unable to answer the woman’s questions regarding a particular satin sheet her mistress had inquired after. Mills had seen the sheet in question and had gone to fetch it, handing it to her wordlessly.

“Oh dear,” she said, “it’s been starched, hasn’t it? Lady Givnora specifically asked that it be laundered in rose water with no starch but only a touch of unscented olive balm to take the roughness off.” She held an edge of the sheet to her nostrils. “Why, this is lemon curd. Smell for yourself.” Mills pressed the sheet to his nose. “Well?” Fatima said. Mills shook his head. “Can you tell me why my mistress’s orders weren’t followed?” Mills shook his head. Fatima glowered at the new man and ordered the sheet to be re-washed. “Do you think you people can get it right this time?” Mills nodded and with a pen carefully noted her requirements as Fatima looked on, a gradual sympathy reflected on her thin face. “Oh my,” she said, “ you can’t talk at all, can you?” Mills shook his head. “Poor guy,” Fatima said. “They really did a job on you, didn’t they?” Mills nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I know. It must have been one of the deepest bits of barbering in the entire history of this plantation.” Mills looked at the thin slave. “Clipped ballocks, jolly roger, bush, asshole and all, did they? They couldn’t have left you with enough strings, snails and puppy dog’s tails to make a noise when you fall downstairs.” Mills shook his head vigorously and tried to talk but his throat was still too raw. “Don’t go on about it, luv,” Fatima said. “ I can’t hear you. I doubt anyone can, even your co-boy sopranos in these wildwoods. Maybe you sing your own song now, like those dogs whose screaks can’t be heard by other folks, only by a few fellow doggies who pick up the frequency on clear, cold nights when reception is good. See to the sheet, will you, luv?” Mills nodded.

He salved his throat with honey and licorice, coated it with sweet oils and unguents. When the week was up he sought out Bufesqueu.

“They think I’m a eunuch,” he rasped.

“Lord bless you, boy, why wouldn’t they? What’s the good of plumbing if it’s always leaking? No sooner do I rise in the morning than I rise in the morning. I remember where I am and start spilling my seed like some hungover farmer. I come into the laundry here and see their frillies and unmentionables and my piece starts to melt like a burning candle. Jeez, George, will you just look at this trim? The bedgear and belly dance togs and all the sweet else? I tell you, kid, even their soiled veils give my glands something to think about. I’m losing weight. Pounds and inches. I was better off down on that prayer rug.”