The centre is hidden deep, as in an ant’s nest, these are the sultan’s mother’s chambers, lined with a uterine matrix of carpets, censed with myrrh, cooled by water that makes the parapets into streaming riverbeds. Around this extend the rooms of sons not yet of age; they, too, are women, after a fashion, enveloped in the feminine element until initiation cleaves by sword their pearly amniotic sac. Past these internal courtyards a complex hierarchy of cells for concubines opens up: the least desirable women are transferred upwards, as though their bodies, forgotten by men, were undergoing a mysterious process of angelification; the eldest live right beneath the roof – soon their souls will float away, off into the heavens, while their bodies, once so alluring, will dry out in imitation of ginger root.
Among these myriad corridors, atria, secret alcoves, cloisters and courtyards the young ruler himself has his bedrooms, each paired with a royal lavatory, where in stately luxury he indulges in tranquil royal defecation.
Every morning he’s released from the clutches of the mothers into the world, like an oversized child learning to walk a tad too late. Clad in his ceremonial caftan he plays his role – then in the evening returns with relief to the body, to his own intestines, to the soft vaginas of his concubines.
He returns from the chambers of the elders, where he governs his desert country – receiving delegations and administering the politics of a collapsing little local kingdom, politics in vain. For the news is frightful. The bloody clashes of the three great powers leave no doubts: they have to place a bet on a colour, like in roulette, come down on one of the sides. What is unclear is how to make this decision – based on where he was educated? An affinity for the culture? The sound of the language? This uncertainty’s fuelled further by his guests, whom he receives each morning. They are businessmen, merchants, consuls, whispering advisors. They arrange themselves before him on ornate pillows, wiping the sweat off their foreheads which, perpetually covered with pith helmets, remain a surprising white, reminiscent of the shade of rhizomes underground – stigma of these people with infernal origins. Others are in turbans and torses, pawing at or chewing on their long beards, unaware of the fact that this gesture can only be associated with lies and deceptions. They all have matters to discuss with him, wish to commend to him their services as negotiators, try to talk him into the one right choice. This gives him headaches. The kingdom isn’t large – all told a few dozen settlements in the oases of the rocky desert, of all the possible resources of nature it has only opencast salt mines. It has no access to the sea, no ports, strategic capes or straits. The women who reside in this small country raise chickpeas, sesame and saffron. Their husbands transport travellers and merchants in caravans across the desert to the south.
The young ruler has never been drawn to politics, doesn’t understand in the least what others find so fascinating about it, how his great father could have dedicated his whole life to it. But then he bears not the slightest resemblance to his father, who over the course of decades of fighting with the nomads in the desert built up this modest kingdom. From among his many brothers he was selected as his father’s successor solely because his mother was the eldest of the wives, an ambitious person. His mother assured him the power that for biological reasons she could not have for herself. The brother who would have been a serious rival to him met an unfortunate end, stung by a scorpion. His sisters don’t count, he doesn’t even really know them. When he looks at women, he always remembers that each could have been his sister and, in some strange way, this fills him with peace.
On the council of elders, that grim group of bearded men, he has no friends. When he appears in the meeting room, they suddenly fall silent, which always makes him feel as though they are conspiring against him. No doubt they are. Then, after a series of ritual greetings, they discuss matters and cast glances at him that only barely hide their contempt and aversion, though they are supposed exclusively to seek approval. Sometimes it seems to him – unfortunately, more and more often – that these fleeting glances contain an enmity that’s gotten rather tangible, sharp as a knife – that ultimately they don’t care if he ends up saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’, they only judge whether or not he should even continue to occupy this place in the centre of the room, this privileged position, and if this time he will manage to make any sound at all.
What do they expect of him? He is incapable of following their shouting over one another, so impassioned, the logic of their arguments. He focuses instead on the beautiful saffron turban worn by one of them, who happens to be the minister of fresh water resources, or to the exceptionally poor appearance of another; it’s difficult not to notice the sickly pallor of his face framed by that grey and massive beard. He must be ill; he’ll no doubt die soon.
‘Die’ – the word fills the young ruler with overwhelming disgust; it isn’t good he’s thought of it, already he can feel saliva flood his mouth, his throat contracting – perverse inversion of orgasm. And he knows he must get out.
This is why he knows already what he’s going to do, though he keeps it all a secret from his mother.
She comes to him late that evening, nonetheless, although even she must first announce herself to his two trusted guards, eunuchs, black as ebony: Gog and Magog. She visits her son as he’s enjoying his time in the arms of his little friends. She sits at his feet on a beautifully woven pillow, her bracelets clanking. Every time she moves, she sets off waves of the spicy fragrance of the oils in which she coats her aged body. She says she knows about everything, and that she’ll help him to set out, just so long as he promises to take her with him. Does he realize that by leaving her here he would be condemning her to death?
‘We have devoted kin in the desert who will certainly receive us. I already sent a man to them with our news. We will wait out the worst time there, and then in disguise, taking what is ours, jewels and gold, we shall set out for the west, for the ports, and escape from there and not return. We shall settle in Europe, but not too far, so that in good weather we’ll be able to glimpse Africa’s shores. I will still care for your children, son,’ she says, and it is clear she does believe in this flight of theirs, but it is just as clear that in those grandchildren she can no longer – certainly not.
What can he say? He pets their silken heads, consents.
But in the hive there are no secrets, word spreads hexagonally, cell by cell, through the fireplaces, the restrooms, corridors and courtyards. It spreads with the hot air off cast-iron pans that burn charcoal so as to make the winter chills more bearable. At times the air that comes in from the hinterland is so cold that a thin layer of ice covers the urine in the majolica chamber pots. The news spreads across the concubines’ floors and all of them, even those grown most angelic, on the uppermost floors, pack up their few possessions. They whisper amongst themselves, already arguing over spots in the caravan.
Over the next few days the palace visibly revives; it’s been ages since it saw so much commotion. Which is why our ruler is surprised everything seems to go unnoticed by the Scarlet Turban or the Miserable Beard.
He thinks they’re dumber than he even realized.
Meanwhile, they are thinking the exact same thing – that their ruler has turned out to be more stupid than they’d ever even noticed. They’ll feel less sorry for him because of it. For already from the west a great army is arriving, by ship and over land – they whisper among themselves. It is said they come in hordes. It is said they have declared a holy war upon the world. That they intend to conquer us, the young ruler’s advisors whisper. They care most about Jerusalem, where the remains of their prophet lie. There is nothing that can be done about them – they are insatiable and capable of anything. They will plunder our homes, rape our women, set our houses on fire, desecrate our mosques. They will violate all treaties and agreements, they are greedy and erratic. It is clear – there is no question of a tomb here, we would give them all our tombs, just let them take them, we have plenty here. If what interests them are cemeteries, let them take them. But it has become very apparent this is just a pretext; they want to take the living, not the dead. Just as soon as their ships have moored on our continent they’ll raise their cry of battle in their hoarse and obstreperous language – they cannot speak a proper language, nor read a proper alphabet – and, bleached by the sun from their long journey, faded by the sea salt that covers their skin in the finest layer of silver, they will overrun our cities, unhinging the doors of our houses, shattering pitchers of oil, plundering our larders and even reaching – heaven help us – the shalwar of our women. They are unable to answer any greeting we can offer, they gaze at us dully, and their light-coloured irises appear rinsed out, thoughtless. Someone’s said they are a tribe born at the bottom of the sea, reared by waves and silver fish, and indeed its members do look like bits of wood spit out upon the shore, their skin is the colour of bones the sea has played with for too long. But others insist it isn’t true – how, then, could their ruler, the man with the red beard, have drowned in the depths of the river Selef?