Copyright 1999 by MichaelD38@aol.com Untitled FORWARD This is, as far as I know, a true story. The path by which it came into my hands is an unusual one, so a few words of explanation are in order. During my last year in college, in order to fill out my General Education requirements, I took several courses in gerontology, which (I'll save you a trip to the dictionary) is the study of aging in society. The girl I was dating at the time was a gerontology major, and my primary interest in taking these courses was to have her as a teaching assistant. In the last course I took, in lieu of a final exam, the students were allowed to undertake a selection of in-depth projects. Most of them were basically dry reports on aging-related issues, but one involved working at a local nursing home and writing about the experience. Thinking it would be the easiest--my error would become evident soon enough--that was the project I chose. I was put to work in the nursing home's social services department, helping coordinate the various social activities that the staff put on for the residents. Finding this rather tedious (and wondering what sort of grade a report about bingo and clown visits would garner), I hit on the idea of interviewing the residents about their lives. Well, my boss thought this was a wonderful idea, and I soon discovered one of the unpleasant truths about nursing homes: a lot of the residents are very lonely. Most of them have families who visit them regularly enough, but too many of them don't. Either the families feel "uncomfortable" visiting them, or they simply don't have any close relatives. So when I showed up wanting to talk to them, I quickly had more material for my report than I ever could have needed. In the beginning, I tried to write down every- thing I heard, but eventually I gave up and just listened. Most of what the residents told me was rather mundane (I heard enough stories about World War II to last several lifetimes), but I have to say I found it all quite fascinating. These stories would form the bulk of the paper I ultimately wrote (for which I got an A and a lot of glowing compliments from the professor), but they were not the story I really wanted to tell. This is that story, but for reasons that the reader will see, it was not the one I turned in. After I had interviewed perhaps two dozen residents, I met the woman who wrote this story, whom I will call Fatima (out of respect for her wishes, I have not used her real name). She reminded me immediately of Katherine Hepburn. Not that she looked anything like her, but she had, like Hepburn, the sort of bone structure that made it very easy to see that she had once been a most beautiful woman. She still was, of course, but you could see that in her prime, she must have been quite dazzling. She was Middle Eastern, of slight build and steel gray hair, but her eyes still held a sharp twinkle. I introduced myself, and told her I was inter- viewing the residents about their life stories, but she only sniffed at me. "Why would you want to hear such a thing?" I gave her the explanation I had given everyone. "I want to help preserve your knowledge, the experiences of everyone here. So much of what you know might be lost otherwise." She looked at me severely. "But what if it's a story I don't wish to tell?" "Well, I don't want to pry into anything private. I only want to hear what you want to say." "Well, the story of my life in America is not worth listening to. I have children and grandchildren, but they don't care about me anymore. So I will not tell you about them. Before that . . ." Her voice trailed off and she turned to look out the window. "Let me think about this. Come back tomorrow. Now go." Intrigued, I returned the next day to find her waiting for me. "I have decided to tell you my story. But it is something I should write down. If the nurses hear me telling you such things, they will only sedate me and chase you away. My own children don't believe this, so the nurses will just think I am raving at you. Find me something to write with. If I ask the nurse, she may not bring it for days." I went back to the social services office, and brought her a legal pad and a pen. "I don't think this will be enough, but it should last me for tonight at least. Bring me more tomorrow." When I returned the next day, I found her feverishly scribbling on her legal pad, with two filled pads next to her on her tray. One of the nurses I had gotten to know stopped me outside her room. "Do you know what she's writing? She won't tell us, but she complained until I brought her more paper to write on." "The story of her life, I think. She wouldn't tell me either." Fatima waved me into her room. "More! I need more paper. This will take more than they gave me." "How much?" "More. I will see." I tried to take one of the filled legal pads to read what she had written, but she smacked my hand away. "Not until it is finished." So for the next week, I brought her paper to write on as she filled up a small pile of legal pads with her story. Finally, when I came to see her about seven or eight days later, she was finished. She handed the stack of paper to me with a flourish. "There! There is your story. Do with it what you like." "This is a lot more than I've gotten from the other residents." "Well, I expect I have more to tell. But I swear to you every word of that is true. You will think me mad, but it is so." I assured her I believed her, but she laughed. "Say that again after you have read it." I didn't get a chance to read it until I got back to my dorm that night. Her handwriting was some- what shaky, though elegant, so the going was a little slow. But once I got into it, well, suffice to say I didn't get to sleep until very late that night. No single word could really describe my reac- tion. "Stunned" is a good one, though. When I got into the meat of the story, and realized what I was reading about, and what she had experienced, my head was almost buzzing. It was almost too much to believe, as she had warned me, but she had written it too quick- ly and passionately to have made any of it up. It was a view into someone else's soul the likes of which I had never expected. I'll tell you this much, though-- I think I fell in love with her that night. I don't know--and still don't--who it was I came to love, whether it was the young girl in the story, or the old woman in the nursing home, or some mixture of both, I really can't say. But I did love her. Going back to see her the next day was one of the hardest things I've ever done. She was waiting for me, sitting in her bed with a regal expression on her face. She accused me of not believing her, but I assured her I did. We began talking about her experiences, the things I had read, though censoring it carefully for the ears of the nurses. There was even more than what she had written, and this time, I took notes judiciously. I basically abandoned my project at that point. She was the last resident I interviewed, even though the nurses told me there were others who wanted to talk to me. I still feel a little guilty about that, but Fatima had me captivated. She didn't want me to leave, so I didn't. As the reader will see, Fatima was at one point a storyteller. She did not at first write out any of these stories; she mentions them in her life history, but no more. Once I asked her about them, however, she was soon writing them out for me. From her I learned another important lesson. Most of us think of older persons as set in their ways and resistant to change. I learned from Fatima that one is never too old for new experiences. As odd as it might seem for a woman in her nineties to be bitten by the writing bug, that seems to be what happened. She wrote me a whole stack of stories, all the ones she could remember from her youth. "I had books with these stories," she told me, "and I took them with me when I came to America. I hoped to pass them on to my grandchildren, but they care nothing for books. They are only interested in rap music and video games. In any case, they are written in Pakistani, which none of them can read. I don't suppose you can read Pakistani?" I couldn't, of course. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'm sure my children have long since thrown them away. They want nothing to do with their mother's homeland. They are too interested in being American." Her children, as I knew from her history, were half-white, as she had married the American man who brought her to this country. Some of the stories she wrote I have included in this work, some I have not. I could not include them all, so I chose the ones I thought she liked the most. But finally one day that spring, I arrived at the home to find her room empty, and the nurse telling me that she had died in her sleep that night. It was one of the few times in my adult life that I ever really cried. The nurse told me she could not give me any information about her without her family's consent, but she promised to tell them I wanted to attend her funeral. I never heard from them. That was about four years ago. For four years, only one other person saw Fatima's stories. Soon after she died, I showed them to my girlfriend. I wasn't sure how she would react, but perhaps because of her training in gerontology, she was as captivated as I was. She even asked me if I wanted to act out several scenes in the stories (which we did; I leave it to the reader to guess which ones). For a long time, I didn't want to tell anyone else about Fatima, but my girlfriend convinced me that I was doing the same thing to her that her family had: hiding her away out of embarrassment. That my motives might have been purer was irrelevant; the end result was the same. So I spent the better part of a month tran- scribing and editing her life story. The changes I have made are largely cosmetic; I have made a conscious effort not to impose my voice on hers. I merely tried to fix the problems inherent in any first draft, which her handwritten story was. Some bits were illegible, and I had to guess at them; others I added from our discussions after first reading it. And, as I said, I added some of the stories she wrote for me. In her history she mentions her storytelling but does not repeat any of the stories. I thought it worthwhile to insert some of those stories into those parts of the history. But other than that I made no real changes. I would have liked to put her real name on this work, but as the reader will see, she deliberately sets out to remain anonymous, so I have respected her wishes. I do not think it detracts from the story. She still lives in here. I hope you come to love her as much as I did. * * * I. I am an old woman now, and the Sultan is long dead, so I may safely write of the things I have seen. My children dismiss these tales as the ravings of a woman who took too many puffs of the hookah, but if anything, I expect what I say here will not fully capture the intensity of my experiences. The land where I was born is now much changed and contorted by modern politics, so I will not confuse the reader by adding names to the places I describe. I was forty-five before I left the city of my birth, and the great bulk of my story takes place within the Sultan's palace, so it matters little what went on outside. I was born in the greatest city of our land, the oldest daughter of my father's third wife. My father was a merchant, who traded in silk that he had shipped west from China. He had many children, but I was his prettiest daughter, and thus his favorite. I grew up pampered and spoiled, with no demands placed upon me other than that I grow more pretty each day so as catch the eye of some other rich merchant or (even better) a noble and allow my father to further expand his operations, and thus his wealth. He would be more successful in that endeavor than he could have imagined. The ruler of our land was the Sultan Suleimein, who was named after the great conqueror of the 13th Century. The Sultan's personal life was an object of much speculation and gossip among the people of my city, and especially among foolish young girls like myself and my sisters. Although he had the four wives that our faith allows, it was widely suspected that he had a large group of concubines, whom he kept hidden away. There were rumors about young girls being snatched off the streets by the Sultan's men, never to be seen again. Like most such stories, it was one for which witnesses were impossible to come by, but that everyone seemed to have heard. I first heard these rumors from my half-sisters, who delighted in tormenting me with them and many other frightening stories, so jealous were they of my father's attention. "I wager the Sultan doesn't keep those girls for himself. I think he takes them to his dungeon to torture!" one of them told me. "No, I bet that he eats them!" another said. "You lie! You don't know these things!" I would cry in protest. "Yes I do," my oldest sister said, "I have heard of them many times. The Sultan likes to cut girls into small pieces to feed to his horses. He likes to boil them in oil." "Yes, so you'd better be careful," my other sisters would say, "he likes spoiled little girls like you." Of course, they would keep this up until I was in tears, and I would run to my mother for comfort. She would tell me not to listen to me, that they were just jealous of my beauty. But she never told me the stories were not true. I would be fifteen when I learned the truth myself. At fifteen, I was rapidly approaching marriage- able age, and my father was now casting about for those parties who might be interested. I had no shortage of suitors, but none who quite fit my father's expecta- tions. My opinions, of course, meant nothing, but that was how it had always been in our land, so I did not question it. I only hoped my father would pick someone young and handsome, whom I could love, and not one of his withered old business partners. Although my mother, as a married woman, was required to wear the chador (the full length veil that concealed her totally from view) outside our house, I, as an unmarried daughter, was not, so there were many who could see my charms when I accompanied her. Know- ing that our servants were on hand to protect me, I enjoying flirting with those whose notice I attracted. On one of these trips outside, along the main road from the market, we were passed by a contingent of the Sultan's guards coming toward us. Rather than storm past us however, the captain of the group drew up sharply as he approached, and stared at me quite boldly as they passed. He did smile, nor did he leer. This was not the looks of desire I had grown used to; it seemed more an appraisal, for what purpose I could not fathom. My mother noticed him, and a moment later wrapped her cloak around me and hustled me past. I squirmed from her grip and looked back behind us. The captain was turned slightly, watching us walk away. Then he barked an order at his men, and they resumed the rapid gait with which they had approached us. For two weeks, my mother would not allow me to accompany her out of the house, no matter how much I whined and complained. Finally, I tattled on her to my father, who then demanded of her why she was hiding me away when he was trying to arrange my marriage. She would not answer him, and he smacked her to the floor. After that, my mother let me come with her, but she held me close at all times, glancing about as if we were pursued by invisible enemies. Where before she ignored my flirtations, she now slapped me and called me a foolish child the first time I let someone catch my gaze. I did not know it then, but we were indeed being followed. On one of our trips outside my home, we were accosted by a filthy beggar, who pestered us until one of my father's servants knocked him flat on the ground. Had that servant known then who he was striking, his heart might have burst in fear. Much later, I would learn that the Sultan liked to amuse himself by dressing as a beggar and slinking about his city to learn the things his advisors might not tell him. I am certain that beggar was the Sultan, who had come to see the young girl his guard captain had spotted. Two nights after our run-in with the beggar, I was awoken by shouting and wailing from the front of our house. My door burst open, but rather than my mother or my servants, who were the only ones who ever came to my room, it was my father's first wife, whom I feared and despised. She brusquely ordered me to dress and come out to the entry room. Half in fear, but more in curiosity, I obeyed. As I followed her out to the front, I saw my sisters peeping out of their rooms, but she shouted at them to go back to bed, and their doors all slammed shut at once. I was brought up short in amazement when we reached the front of the house. My mother was being restrained by two large servants, and she wailed in despair at the sight of me, reaching out to snatch me away. My father was there as well, but he wore an air of obsequiousness and servitude the likes of which I had never seen. In his hands was a plump pouch which he clutched like his most precious possession. Finally, I saw the source of the commotion. In the entryway, flanked by several of the royal guards, was the captain who had stared at me so boldly those weeks before. He looked me over and nodded to my father, who motioned me to come closer. Not giving me a chance to comply, my father's first wife jerked me over to them. He took my arm and pulled me close. "Fatima, you must go with these men. They will take you to your new home." I looked again at the guard captain. "Is he to be my husband?" The man was handsome, and he seemed to be important, so the prospect hardly repulsed me. I had not thought my marriage would be so abrupt, though. My father hesitated. "Not quite. But he will take you to him," he lied. The captain took my arm, and I gave a final glance back at my mother, who shrieked in terror as if I were being killed. My father darted over to her and smacked her repeatedly, telling her to be silent. I felt a twinge of fear at this, but I was too excited at the prospect of meeting my husband. The captain wrapped me in a full cloak, covering even my eyes, and took me out to the street, where a coach awaited us. Inside were two fat, beefy men, who looked me over once and then ignored me. The captain shut the door behind me, and I heard a latch snap closed. The coach began moving, and my mothers wails gradually faded away. "Do you know is to be husband?" I asked the men. Both of them chuckled. "You are not to be married," one of them said, "we are taking you to the Sultan." I gasped, and suddenly understood my mother's distress. "Will he boil me in oil?" I squeaked. Now they laughed out loud. "No, girl. You will see," the larger one said. This calmed me slightly, but it is no over- statement to say that I was terrified. Perhaps he would not boil me in oil, but I had not the slightest conception of what would happen to me. Ten minutes later we reached what I took to be the palace, but I could not see out of the coach to be sure. When we stopped, the two men pulled the clock over my head again to cover my face. I heard the door open, and they led me out of the coach. I could not see anything but the floor, which was ornately tiled, and I dared not lift my head. They took me deep into the palace, up several narrow flights of stairs. Finally we reached a richly carved wooden door, and one of the men knocked. A moment later, a strangely accented female voice answered. "Put her through." A heard a latch move, and the men opened the door and pushed me forward into a small compartment. The door shut, and somehow it latched again. I looked up slightly and saw another door before me. Then the door opened, and I dropped my head in fear. Someone approached closely, and I saw a pair of feet below me, bare except for a gold ankle chain and richly painted nails. Hands reached up, and pushed back my hood. It was a woman, apparently the one who had spoken, and I gasped when I saw her. She was not of our land. Her skin was pale and her face was framed by long flaxen hair. She had large blue eyes and was at least as pretty as I was, if not more. With a start, I realized she was nude! Her smooth body and firm breasts were as exposed as the golden hair between her legs. I blushed and looked away from her. She brought a hand up and stroked my cheek. "It's all right. You must be Fatima. My name is Greta. Welcome." "Where am I?" "In the Sultan's seraglio. He has brought you to us." "Us?" She smiled. "Yes, there are many more of us here." I looked back at her. She was still smiling at me, wearing the sort of pleasant expression my mother did when she kissed me and put me to bed. This relaxed me considerably. Unless her mind was gone, I did not think this could be a woman who faced dismemberment in the Sultan's dungeon. She seemed so much older and more worldly than I, though I know now she could not have been more than nineteen. "We have been waiting for you. Come." Greta took my hand and led me along a richly tiled hallway to another set of doors. As we approached I could hear music and quiet conversation ahead of us. Greta open the doors and led me in. Shock is too mild a word to describe my reaction on first entering the seraglio. I was not an ignorant village girl; my father, rare among the men of our culture, had insisted that his daughters possess some learning. I had been taught to read, and had been given books deemed suitable for a girl of my age and station. But my intellect, once let out of the bottle, was not so easily contained, and I had stolen some moments in my fathers library, perusing other, more lurid and erudite works. I was aware there were other lands than our own, whose people were not all black haired and brown eyed as we were. But never in my life had I imagined there could be such a diversity of femininity as I now saw before me. There were women like me, dusky and dark-haired, but they were greatly outnumbered by the others. Dark women from Africa, fair-skinned women from Europe, some with dark hair and eyes like mine, but others with hair like flax or burnished copper, and eyes like lapis lazuli or jade. There were women from China, with black hair and skin almost yellow in tone, and narrow eyes even darker than mine. Other women seemed to fit into no pattern I recognized, perhaps a mixture of cultures or from one I had no inkling of. And they were all nude--every one! They lounged around the seraglio, chatting or playing with one another as if totally oblivious to the fact that their bodies were completely exposed. Many wore various bits of jewelry, but there was not a single shred of cloth- ing I could see. As I looked over the room, I realized something else. All of them, without exception, were breathtak- ingly beautiful. I was too young then to be truly vain, but I had grown proud and spoiled, thinking myself among the prettiest of girls, certainly more beautiful than any of my sisters or the girls I knew. Yet none here were less pretty than I, and there were many whose beauty was so incandescent it made me ache to look upon them. And then I saw one who outshone even these last, whose face and body were so flawlessly formed that I felt myself physically wilting before her. She was European, like Greta, but while Greta was a shining jewel, this one was the most perfect gem in Creation. She seemed older than most of the others (though none here were even as old as my mother, who was then per- haps in her early thirties), but if time had robbed her of any of her loveliness, she must have once been truly blinding. As I looked on her, I felt a flush spreading over my body, and an unfamiliar heat growing between my legs. I feared her, this daughter of the gods, but I also desired her. It would have been impossible not to. "That is the Mistress," said Greta. "She is the First Concubine. You will meet her soon enough."