This imminent visit had a bearing on the situation in which I found myself. Because of my strange garb and the fact that I spoke Yiddish, Balkis had assumed that I must be an emissary from Solomon sent to guide her during the final part of her journey. Tabari, however, was suspicious. He opposed the peaceful visit to the King of the Israelites. He was for conquering them before they conquered the Shebans. His was a sort of Dean Rusk11 approach to diplomacy. Also, as far as Tabari was concerned, the color of my skin was against me. White men were slaves or enemies in his book. And since he was evidently some sort of Prime Minister, or Chief Advisor, to Balkis, his book was important.
As I became aware of this, I realized that I had no choice but to go along with the gag. I had to let Balkis go on thinking I was an emissary from Solomon. The alternative was at least slavery, and from the thunderclouds on Tabari’s face, it might as well be death. I ad libbed some felicitations from Solomon to the Queen of the Shebans and was welcomed warmly. Balkis extended the hospitality of the palace and I was conducted to a suite of rooms which she placed at my disposal.
Here I was greeted by a pair of Caucasian slaves assigned to serve me. Both spoke Yiddish fluently, although it turned out they were neither Hebrew nor Arabian, but European. They introduced themselves as Georgus and Lurlina, manslave and wife, and seemed to take their condition of servitude for granted.
“We’ve never served a white man before,” Georgus told me. There was a hint of resentment in his tone.
“Well, I’ve never had slaves before,” I told him.
“But how peculiar!” Lurlina was surprised. “I’d always heard the Israelites kept slaves.”
“You don’t look like an Israelite, Master,” Georgus added insolently.
“What’s an Israelite supposed to look like?” I inquired.
“They have very dark, curly hair and fair skin and their noses are hooked.”
I looked at Georgus. He had dark, curly hair and fair skin. I turned to Lurlina. Her nose was decidedly hooked.
“Pay no mind to Georgus,” she told me. “He doesn’t know how to behave in the house. He’s really a field slave.”
“I’m as much of a house slave as you are,” Georgus protested indignantly.
“You are not! My family have been house slaves for four generations. Yours were all cotton pickers in South Egypt. If I hadn’t married you, you’d still be hoeing cotton. You see,” she turned to me again, “I married beneath me.”
“She was a scullery maid in Memphis,” Georgus told me. “If she hadn’t married me, she never would have been sold to the Shebans. They wanted me because I spoke their language and they only took her because she was married to me.”
“I see. You don’t mind being slaves?” I asked as an afterthought.
“We were born white, and so we were born slaves. What else should we be? Perhaps if we’d been born black--” Lurlina mused.
“Nonsense! How could we have been born black? Our parents were white. Does a beast give birth to a human being? We are what we are. We must accept it. The Shebans are superior and we are inferior and that’s all there is to it!” Georgus was firm.
“There’s nothing worse than a field slave who gets to be a house slave,” Lurlina told me, disgust in her tone. “They’re the worst handkerchief-heads of all.”
“It’s foolish to try to change what you are,” Georgus insisted.
“That’s right. You just keep sucking up to Ol’ Massa!” she spat at him.
“You keep talking like that and they’ll come with their black sheets and put the both of us away altogether!”
“Fear is all he knows.” Lurlina was contemptuous. “When the cotton-pickers tried to revolt, he went running to the Egyptians and warned them. That’s really how we got to Sheba. They sold him to the Shebans as a palace slave as a reward. You’re still nothing but a field hand,” she spat at him. “Once a field hand, always a field hand!”
“Don’t be so hoity-toity. I have Negro blood in my veins! That’s more than you can say!”
“Just because some Moor slept with your grandmother doesn’t make you any better than I am,” Lurlina countered. “Lots of black masters have desired me. But I put them off with my pride.”
“Ha! Not likely! But have you noticed the way the Queen looks at me? There’s a lust there, I tell you.”
“That’s only because she’s like all the other Negroes. She thinks white men are the greatest when it comes to sex. She should know you like I do. And you’d better be careful. If the queen ever did take you and Master Tabari found out about it, he’d have you tortured to death. You know how these black men are about a white man daring to go near their women. He’d have you killed just for looking at her with lust in your eyes.”
“For once, I guess you’re right.” Georgus sighed and turned to me. “How is it that a white man is treated as a guest in this palace?” he wondered aloud.
“I come as an emissary from King Solomon,” I lied.
“Surprising they would make this distinction. Usually all white men look alike to them,” Lurlina commented.
“Let us not be sarcastic about our masters. We are fortunate. Further westward are black masters who are said to eat white people. White meat is said to be a great delicacy in that land.”
“I have heard our Sheban masters sneer at that practice,” Lurlina pointed out. “They say that the trouble with eating white people is that an hour later you’re hungry again.”
“Nevertheless, we’re privileged.” Georgus vanished into the next room and returned a moment later. “Your bath is ready, Master,” he told me. “Lurlina and I will be pleased to bathe you if you wish it now.”
“I’ll bathe myself,” I told them. “You can go now.”
They withdrew and I went into the lavishly tiled bathroom. I sat on the edge of the tub, which was the size of a small swimming pool, and turned a dial on the wrist radio.
“ ‘HISTORY TELLS US THAT THE NIGRA HAS ALWAYS BEEN INFERIOR, IS INFERIOR, AND ALWAYS WILL BE INFERIOR!’ WITH THESE WORDS EX-GOVERNOR GEORGE WALLACE OF ALABAMA BEGAN HIS SPEECH INTRODUCING HIS WIFE, THE CURRENT GOVERNOR, TO A GROUP OF . . .”
I switched off the news broadcast and got the transmitter working. Finally I was rewarded by the sound of Papa Baapuh’s voice muttering in Tibetan. After a moment Ti Nih replaced him.
“What’s going off there?” I demanded. “When are you going to get me out of here?”
“Still much mad Papa. Him put second load in washer machine. No do nothing before finish.”
“That’s ridiculous. Did you find Dudley?”
“Him here.”
“Hello, Steve. How are you, fella?” It was Dudley.
“Ginger-peachy!” I was sarcastic. “How are you?”
“Not so hot, Steve. Let’s face it. I don’t have long. I’m a dying man. My kidney has been acting up and . . .”
As his voice droned on, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d be in one helluva pickle if Dudley died while I was still in Sheba. Papa Baapuh might never agree to bring me back if Dudley wasn’t there to pressure him.
“Take care of yourself,” I interrupted Dudley, “take very good care of yourself, old buddy.”