11
Jimmy Culundis, the Greek international arms dealer, lay back in the massive bath tub that was sunk into the floor of the huge bathroom and felt very relaxed. He was in the finest luxury money could buy, from a bath with a built-in temperature control system that maintained the bath water at whatever temperature the occupant selected, to the gold-plated taps, to the expensive soaps, to the climate-controlled room walled in marble and smoked-glass mirrors. It wasn’t unlike the bathroom he had in his house in Geneva, he decided. Nor unlike his villa in Greece; nor unlike his apartment in Paris.
Culundis was in a guest suite in Prince Abr Qu’Ih Missh’s private quarters, on the sixty-fifth floor of the Royal Palace in Tunquit, the capital of Umm Al Amnah. It was Friday night, and his private DC-8 had landed him at the country’s airport less than one hour earlier. He ran the soap down his flabby stomach, then, for a moment tensing his muscles, he raised his pelvis up out of the water, and carefully soaped every part of his long, limp phallus, a part of his body of which he was particularly fond and proud — the only part, in fact. He soaped around his scrotum, the inside of his thighs and his thatch of pubic hair, and then dunked everything back into the water. Then he slid his right hand under the water, gripped his phallus, and lifted it up, so that the top of it poked out of the water like a periscope.
Then, pretending it was a periscope, he turned it, first to the right, then to the left; then he stretched it up out of the water, as far as it would go in its limp state, bent it forward like a hosepipe, and started making the sound of machine-gun fire.
Suddenly, he became aware that he was no longer alone in the room; someone was looking at him. He lifted his eyes upwards. He saw a blonde girl, in a thin white dress that was virtually transparent and had a slit from the navel to the ground; she was smiling at him, and had an amused twinkle in her eyes.
‘Abby said you might like someone to scrub your back.’ She leaned forward, and the dress parted completely over her white, slightly tanned thighs. The Greek’s eyes bulged, and he decided that either Prince Abr Qu’Ih Missh had curious taste in the way he liked his housemaids to dress, or else the country of Umm Al Amnah was suffering from an acute shortage of ladies’ underwear. Her eyes moved from his, to a spot further down the bathwater. He looked down there too, and then went even redder. His phallus was standing bolt upright, several inches out of the water and, this time, completely unsupported by his hand.
An hour later, Culundis and Prince Missh stepped out of the express elevator onto the ninety-fifth floor of the Royal Palace, the dining quarters of Sheik Hyyad bin Bakkrah al Quozzohok, thirty-seventh Emir of Amnah, the Prince’s father. Missh had changed out of the expensive T-shirt he had been wearing earlier in the day into a cobalt-blue djellabah and traditional head-dress; he was, as was customary in his father’s quarters, barefoot. Culundis was in a cream silk Nina Ricci suit, a bright yellow silk shirt and a green-and orange striped satin silk tie. On Missh’s tactful suggestion, he too was barefooted, and not looking totally at ease about being so, in spite of having spent his entire childhood in that state. They stepped out of the elevator into a small marble hall, in the centre of which was a huge arch, with armed guards in djellabas standing on either side. They walked through the arch into a large windowless ante-room. The room was dark, with light provided by a few open candles; the walls were hung with tapestries, which could scarcely be seen, and the marble floor was covered in a magnificent Persian rug. A servant immediately brought them a tray with two cups, each containing thick sweet coffee. Culundis frowned in disappointment at not getting an alcoholic drink, then remembered the blonde and felt better. The sweet smell of roasting meat filled the room. As they drank their coffee, Missh pointed out to Culundis the history of the family that was depicted in the tapestries; Culundis grunted politely, and wondered if it would be rude for him to light a cigar. He peered through the gloom and the works of art that had taken scores of women hundreds of years to complete and decided, quietly to himself, that once you had seen one damned Arab wandering around the desert, you had seen them all.
A servant walked in from the next room, which was again connected by a huge archway, stood in the centre of the archway, and bowed slowly.
‘Come,’ said Missh, ‘my Father is ready to receive us for dinner.’ The two men walked through into a much larger, but not much brighter-lit room.
‘How come there aren’t any windows?’ Culundis whispered.
‘My father does not like anything to distract from the food and the company. Elsewhere in his quarters, there are many windows.’
The floor on one side of the room was bare marble. The floor on the other side had thick carpeting and was richly scattered with cushions; seated in the midst, on an enormous pile of cushions, Culundis could make out a frail-looking old man, very thin, with long bony arms and long bony legs that protruded from his robes.
Missh went up to his father, bowed down, and the two embraced each other; then Missh stood back and bade Culundis walk forward. ‘Father, you remember Mr Culundis?’
Culundis stood awkwardly; Missh hadn’t briefed him on what to do. The Emir opened his bony arms, and Culundis leaned down and received a short, cold embrace. The Emir bade Culundis sit, as with all guests, in the place of honour on his right, and his son to the left.
‘It is an honour to be here once again, your Highness,’ said Culundis. ‘You look well.’ The Emir nodded politely, and stared fixedly ahead. Culundis soon saw why. The food was arriving. Eight servants staggered in holding a massive cauldron that was about four feet wide, although only about two and a half feet high; there was a thick rim of rice, from the centre of which rose a pyramid of dissected mutton, topped with four sheep heads, from which the tongues curled outwards. Two more servants followed with a huge steaming pitcher, from which they poured a gravy sauce containing the offal over the pyramid.
The Emir leaned forward, plucked the tongue from one head, turned to Culundis on his right, and proffered it. Culundis took it, nodded graciously, looked at it, and took a small nibble. There were only two things which he absolutely loathed to eat; one was apricots, the other was tongue.
Culundis watched the Emir lean forward, cut some strips of meat off a shoulder, make a small ball with some rice, lay the strips around the outside of the ball, and place the whole assembly in his mouth. Whilst his attention was diverted, Culundis slipped the rest of his tongue into his jacket pocket with one hand whilst pretending to push it into his mouth with the other; the Emir, chewing slowly, turned to look at his son’s guest. Culundis made large, slow, chewing motions with his mouth, and the Emir looked satisfied that his guest was content.
He was a strange-looking man, thought Culundis, in complete contrast to his tall and handsome son; he was no more than five-foot four, thin as a rake, with an almost birdlike face. The face was dominated by a large hooked nose, on either side of which were half-moon shaped eyes which darted nervously about every few seconds, then stopped for some moments whilst the heavy lids slowly closed together, then opened again. Those eyelids were about the only thing father and son had in common. Both had that long slow blink. It made the son look arrogant, and the father like a crow that was digesting a worm. The bird-like face of the old man was even more accentuated by his bony arms and legs, so thin they were almost scaly. Neither father nor son spoke, but concentrated on hacking bits of meat and packing their rice balls. Culundis looked around for a knife. The Emir noticed he had stopped eating, leaned forward, and pulled out another tongue, again handing it to him with a gracious nod. Once more Culundis went through the motions of eating and then slipped it into his jacket pocket. The remaining two tongues went the same way, and then Culundis relaxed a little; he hoped the stain wouldn’t show too badly through his white pocket, and he looked forward to a morsel of the lamb he could enjoy. He saw the Emir looking at him patiently, waiting until he had finished chewing. Culundis completed, for the fourth time, the motions of finishing off a tongue, and licked his lips, whereupon the Emir clapped his hands together and the servants came in and removed the cauldrons. Culundis began to feel extremely glum. Finally the Emir spoke: