Stanley Elkin - George Mills

“Anyhow, that’s how some account for it, though maybe it’s just pride and will and determination, and Mills here ain’t no more manly than those other eunuchs, only more set in his ways. I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t know. But I don’t have to, do I? I told you about him and even worked out with Lady Givnora how best to get him here and prove my claims, and I think it’s just mean and shameful if you don’t give me my treat like you promised.”

All the odd power Mills had sensed in the woman seemed suddenly to have deserted her and she was only Fatima again, a woman too old to have to do any of this, too old to have to hold his balls in her hand.

The Royal Princess who had brought him put a heavy arm around Fatima’s shoulder. “Now, Fatima,” she said, “of course you’ll get your treat.” And she put a hand inside her robe and brought something out which Mills thought he recognized. She instructed the other women to do the same.

“Oh, thank you, my lady!” Fatima said and hurriedly pressed pieces of the halvah they had given her into her mouth. “Oh thank you,” she said again, her lips flecked with flaking candy. “Mnn,” she said, “it’s delicious.” The overweight women seemed indifferent to her enjoyment.

The seraglio was overstaffed. There was little to do. When he finished his work in the laundry, usually in the early afternoon, he was through for the day. He could return to the dormitory, talk to the eunuchs or, like Bufesqueu, chat up the slave girls.

By his own admission Bufesqueu wasn’t getting anything off them. They seemed, he said, frightened to have sex with him.

“They’re scared of the eunuchs,” he explained. “Listen,” he said, “could I borrow some of your bribegold?”

“Why not,” George said, “what’s there to spend it on?”

“I’ll be damned,” Bufesqueu said when he returned it a few days later. “I never saw anything like it. The sons of bitches are incorruptible.”

“Which sons of bitches?”

“The eunuch sons of bitches. I tried to pay them off, maybe they could get lost for an hour or two, but they weren’t having it. Listen,” he said, “could I have some of that back again? I ain’t ever paid for it yet, but there’s just so much a man can take.”

He’s the one, George thought, not me. He’s the one whose hard-on starts up around his ears.

“Here,” Bufesqueu said, returning the bribegold a second time. “I added this to my own but the sons of bitches are absolutely incorruptible.”

“The eunuchs,” George said.

“No, man, the slave girls.”

“Hey,” Bufesqueu said another time, “can I hit you up once more? I think I found a live one.”

“Sure,” George said, “why not? You always pay your debts.”

Bufesqueu had a broad smile on his face when he returned that night to the dormitory. “It was terrific,” Bufesqueu said. “I won’t say it didn’t hurt to put out the dough, but after all this time it was worth it.”

“Eunuch or slave girl?” George asked.

“Slave lady, man. Slave woman, slave grandma. It was that old broad, Fatima.”

Mills hadn’t told Bufesqueu about his experience in the harem. He didn’t want to be needled. In his place, Bufesqueu would have said, if he’d had his opportunities …

“Fatima?” George said. “Wasn’t she surprised to find out that, you know, you still have your balls?”

“The way I went at her? I think she was surprised I only have two.”

“She didn’t want to show you off?”

“Show me off? Maybe. If the whore could charge money.”

“Hey,” Bufesqueu said a day or two later, “I may have to borrow more of that bribegold.”

Which he was willing to let him have though Bufesqueu could not have said what use Fatima could have made of money.

They lived, all of them, in a closed shop. Only the Chief Eunuch was free to come and go as he pleased. Even the guards at the gate, though Bufesqueu and Mills were so preoccupied at the time neither had noticed, were shackled and attached by long chains to the gates they guarded. A harem girl might leave the grounds of the seraglio but only to go to the Sultan’s bedroom and she had to be escorted there by a eunuch through a passageway that led from the Valide Sultan’s house to Yildiz Palace.

So not only was it a closed shop, it was also a sealed one.

Though they had the run of the grounds now and could go almost anywhere they wished. Mills liked to hang about the extensive stables. With the Chief Eunuch’s permission he was sometimes allowed to exercise the horses and, on occasion, even to hitch them up to the elaborate, exotic vehicles he had only read about until now.

But with no one actually to drive for, soon even this diversion lost its appeal. As everything did. He no longer dreamed his cabby dreams, no longer often thought about England. If he regretted anything it was that he might not live to get a son to whom, like the Millses before him, he could tell the story he continued to live and even, in private now, to rehearse. Bufesqueu he had told it to long ago, telling him all, telling him everything, bringing his tale up to the time their lives had begun to coalesce and willing to go over even that part of their history, if only for practice, had only Bufesqueu been willing to listen, Mills reserving to himself only that part of the story which dealt with his trip to the harem. He realized now it was not the fear of a scolding that caused him to withhold this incident from his friend — the man had taught him much, saved his life, George owed him; of course he could have his bribegold — but that if it ever got out, and too many people already knew — Mills dreaded another summons to the interdicted harem — he would be castrated. Then, even if he lived, there could be no son. His tale would go untold. And what a tale, he thought. Kings and sultans had shaken him down, royal princesses, slaves and high officers had. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Except his bachelorhood. Except his sonlessness.

For his part Bufesqueu continued to go to Fatima, returning one night and tossing the remains of George’s double portion of bribegold down on the cot.

“What’s the matter?” Mills asked.

“I’m saving you money,” Bufesqueu said. “If I ask for more bribegold don’t give it to me.”

“What’s the matter, what’s wrong?”

“I didn’t mind that she was old,” Bufesqueu said bitterly. “I didn’t even mind that I was paying for it. But I’ll be damned if I’ll pay out any more of your hard-earned blood money bribegold to some old whore who’s too fat to fuck back.”

“Fatima?”

“You could hitch her to one of those carriages you get such a kick out of. Though I don’t think she’d move.”

“Fatima?”

“You said it, Fatima. Fat- ima.”

“Fatima?”

“What’s wrong with you, Mills? They run out of nuts to cut on around here? They started on eardrums now too?”

“Fatima’s not fat.”

“No? You seen her lately? You could rupture yourself holding her hand.”

“Where do you get it?” George demanded. “The harem girls?”

“Get what? Take your hands off me. What do you think this is?”

“Where do you get it, Fatima? Who sells you the halvah? ”

When he threatened to report her activities to the Kislar Agha, she confessed. Her supplier, she said, was Guzo Sanbanna.

“We could borrow equipment,” Mills told his friend. “We could go down to that field and play soccer.”

“No thanks, George, I don’t think so. But you go if you want to.” He was biting a fingernail, examining it.

“Suffi ben Packka’s in hospital again. Maybe we ought to pay him a visit.” Suffi was a eunuch whose wound had never healed properly.