“Your meddling is going to land you in some pretty big trouble one day,” my mother told me. She said it often and gladly, and usually added a few sighs to Allah.
She was wrong.
The trouble certainly wasn’t one, and I don’t know of any that were a bit pretty.
Like right now, with a nice sharp knife pressed against my throat and lots of other sharp knives and swords and sabres all around. That’s in case I somehow manage to wriggle out from under the throat of the thug who grabbed me and is now screaming that it’s going to cost me, darling. And life is just one of the possibilities.
Sure, it’s called trouble.
But I think it was my mother herself who got me into the most trouble. When she died and I was sold into slavery. I was twelve, standing naked as pink oyster meat in the slave market, and someone told me to show him my working tool, and I offered my hands.
Imagine the oyster open.
As a young house slave, you don’t think much of gold, even if you might have the time. You’re more likely to be sent shopping around town with a few silver dirhams, and only when there’s perhaps a larger feast coming up or a master has guests he wants to honour do you spot a gold dinar.
Until recently, a few dinars were all I saw behind the word wealth.
Not anymore.
That room full of gold would impress anyone.
And even though I knew what it looked like, even though I knew the story of those chests full of gold and gems and precious fabrics and just everything that makes your head spin and you don’t know what to touch first, even though I’d heard the story so many times. But no dream, no idea is so brilliant, so shimmeringly clear, as when you stand there, mouth probably wide open, and think about every piece, every golden brick and ring and coin, everything that your eyes linger on for a moment before immediately sliding to something else. That’s when you might overlook someone reaching for your neck, a sharp knife in their hand.
Ten dinars, that was the most I’d seen together so far, and at that moment it seemed like a fortune. It was two Ramadans ago.
The Lord sent me to please his guest that day. Abdullah must have been over fifty years of age, and was as swollen and greasy as a bellows with oil, and after he had drunk a jug or so of wine, he flashed a misty eye at me and took a golden dinar out of his pouch.
He said that as many coins as I can hold in my shell, if we stay with the oyster picture, that’s how many I can keep. You can buy a lot for one dinar. Two nice dresses with embroidered sandals, or even just one really splendid robe in which you wouldn’t be afraid to appear before the Sultan himself. Two dinars will buy you a donkey, five a fine horse, seven a camel and harness, and you’ll still have enough left over for perfume to cover up that unpleasant smell.
Abdullah put ten gold coins in front of me. He stacked them neatly in a neat little tower two inches high and at that moment, everything looked so easy. But if you’ve ever tried it, maybe even had someone suggest that stupid bet to you, you probably know it’s not that simple.
I’ve tried to keep the coins in every way possible.
I straddled the dinar and then wanted to lift myself up. I managed to do that too, only the coins to one remained on the table. Then I lay down on my back, pressed my knees to my chin and nicely put the coins in one by one, about like you put them in a piggy bank – though it probably doesn’t get cold here. Then I carefully rolled over onto all fours, only all ten coins had slipped out of my piggy bank so far.
But in the end, I succeeded. I rubbed the coins with an old ointment for the anal sores my master suffered from. The gold coins stuck together beautifully, and then it was just a matter of holding the roller long enough for me to be able to stand up with them. I had such a grip over the months of training that I could shake your hand if you’re into those European ways, and still get your bracelets and rings off.
But I never got the pleasure of laying my hands on those shiny gold dinars. The jerk just laughed heartily – you can easily imagine that when you poke a little bit into the oil bellows to make it splash. Then Abdullah simply tucked the money back into his pocket and sent me away.
I haven’t seen him since, but I heard that his heart pump went off just as he was trying to get a dinar out of somewhere with his tongue.
That Abdullah’s got a son, or so they say. Little Yusuf is supposedly his, though that’s just a rumour—the truth is, the old perv’s got no blood ties to the boy, and the mother’s been out of the picture for ages. From what I’ve heard about her, it’s probably for the best.
Yusuf spends his days wandering around town, doing odd jobs like fetching water or scrubbing pots—whatever folks need. In exchange for a roof over his head and a bit of bread, he’ll work hard enough to make it worth your while, I can promise you that. My mum always said, ‘Allah smiles upon those who help the needy.’
This morning, the master told me to grab two donkeys, three mules, and as many empty bellows as I could find, and sent me off to the cave. I was pleasing Allah on the way.
One dog, a scruffy, pale, ugly dog, had a thorn stuck in his paw. I say don’t worry, dog, and I gently tug, and the animal runs off happily. Because even helping such a creature is a pleasure to Allah.
Then I meet a snake. It hisses its way across the road and impales itself on a thorn I threw away a moment ago. I dutifully jump up and put the poor reptile out of its misery, because even this slimy slithering abomination will score me a few points with Allah.
That thorn is now in the middle of the road and someone else could get hurt by it. A baboon is running through here, but he avoids it smoothly. Just behind it runs another, and then another, and they all dodge deftly, so deftly that I can’t help pushing the thorn closer to the bush. Where the shadow falls on it.
And soon one little baboon is whining and grabbing at its paws, its tail twisting painfully around its body and squealing, you little bastard. He doesn’t look where he’s stepping, and then he makes such a racket.
But even this wailing beast is actually a creature dear to Allah, so I go and pull the thorn out of the animal. Before that, I have to hit it over the head with a stick a few times to calm it down. You wouldn’t believe how such a baboon can wriggle, and I don’t have all day to take the thorn out.
Then I will also tear the thorn out of the turtle, the leopard, the snake and once more from the baboon. And then from a pretty small scorpion, and let me tell you, I couldn’t hit this poisonous turd with the thorn at all.
As I approach the cave, I slowly feel a religious rapture. How close I am to Allah, how much pleasure I have given him. Helping all these creatures is so wonderful. And that I was groomed from the age of twelve to be able to please.
Outside the cave, I look around cautiously, as my master instructed me to do. I hide the donkeys and mules in front of the entrance, and then I say the password. Remember, it’s sesame, not barley or wheat!
Then I’m standing in the cave and the entrance is closing behind me again, but you would hardly notice it at that moment.
All you see is gold. Lots of gold.
A chest overflowing with gold dinars, literally. You tread on these coins, you wade through them as you go from one chest to another, from one basket to another, from one bellow to the fifth, the twentieth. And the gold clinking, scratching and sliding under your feet.
You put on the rings, you put enough of them on each finger until you can’t bend them at the knuckle. You thread your hands through massive bracelets that make your sleeve almost to your shoulder. Necklaces and pearls and chains around your neck, cashmere and silk and velvet and brocade over your shoulders. You almost can’t move and your throat burns from the laughter that won’t stop bubbling up there.
Then you’ll shed it again and keep just a few rings. The most beautiful ones. And the most amazing necklaces.
You take the inlaid boxes in your hands and admire the delicacy of the carving. A strange chain of little monkeys winds around, one wedged into the other with its limb, until you find the beginning and there is one upright monkey with an upright giant peg, the likes of which I wouldn’t want to see with my own eyes or body holes.
And a vase with a dancer dressed only in jewels and a beautiful knife with an ivory blade.
Choose.
You want to go hunting? Want to buy a house? Do you want to give something beautiful to each of your wives and something even more beautiful to each of your lovers? Lovers? Do you want to leave your mistress and you don’t want her to get someone who will send you to Allah for a few pieces of silver?
Help yourself.
I don’t know if it was the pearl-inlaid musket or if I was just fondling one of the diamond-encrusted jewellery boxes with accessories. Maybe I was sprinkling gold in my hair or wrapping my face in the finest silk. It’s hard to say.
It happened and I didn’t hear anyone shout “Sesame, open up”. Suddenly the cave was full of robbers. I don’t really know if there were forty of them, but they smelled like at least a hundred bandits. Add to that the fact that the camels and mules on which they had brought their other shiny cargo didn’t smell right either, and you must know that your eyes don’t sting from all the glitter around.
And a knife, of course.
Probably beautifully decorated, or at least carved, but pretty sure a hell of a sharp point stuck in the skin of my neck. But I think I’ve already mentioned that. And because I’m clever and cunning, if I haven’t made it clear enough, I’ll figure out right away that this bank is closing right now.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” growls the ugliest of the robbers. That must be their leader. I don’t know why, but every leader growls.
“Have mercy,” I say. I say it because they expect me to, and I’m not going to lie to you. I could use a little mercy right now.
The tip on my neck digs in a little deeper. What runs down my skin is warm and sticky.
“I am Marjana, a slave of Ali Baba,” I add. There’s a rumble, and I stop paying attention to the one who is roaring, instead searching for the source of the rumbling. I was mistaken before; this one is the ugliest. Besides, I know him. I painted that mark on my master’s house on ten other houses one night.
I heard one more sound when my name was called, and now I know who shouted it.
Little Yusuf crouches there in the corner, tied up, all bumps and cuts, and fear in his eyes. Next to him are a handful of other people, equally battered and frightened. They look like they’re about to embark on a long journey. Yusuf must have joined some caravan that would take him somewhere further, to his dream of happiness. What happened to the caravan is pretty obvious.
“Ali Baba,” growls the leader. “It’s the thief!”
“That dirty whore has to pay for what he took from us,” grumbles the guy who was playing with a paintbrush and crayons outside our house.
I don’t know whether to react to the spin or clarify the fact that, for that matter, the whore doesn’t pay, the monetary transaction goes exactly the other way. In fact, it’s clear to me that the wisest course of action is to remain silent.
The leader steps in close—so close my lice could start a master-and-slave game with his. He sizes me up, gives me a sniff like a dog on the prowl. Then, with a grin that says I don’t get a choice, he makes me an offer I can’t refuse.
I refused.
I get slapped, but that puts me further away from the knife’s edge. It’s actually the first nice thing that happened to me in that cave. So nice it moves me to tears. I wipe them away on a piece of silk that had a few pearls in it, and now they fall at my feet and roll away and disappear.
“I like a slut with guts,” the leader growls, snorting with laughter. “If you’re half as smart as you are pretty, you might even survive.”
Those dirty guys in the colourful turbans are giggling like women at the market. They pull their beards and twist their moustaches, and they never take their black, piercing eyes off me.
It’s not going to be fun and it’s not going to be enjoyable, that’s for sure. Still, how surprised are you that I agree?
“Okay,” the roar is heard again. “You’ll do a simple task. Just one task and you’ll live. Do you accept, habibi?”
“I’ll do one task,” I nod. “I’ll do as you say and then I’ll be free?”
The laughter again, the moustache tugging. Amused, exuberant.
“Do you see the prisoners?” the leader points towards the bound human bundles in the corner. “Everyone has a choice.”
I want to know what he means. And he’ll explain it to me. He spreads his arms wide, the gold crunching under his feet as he passes back and forth. And he’s growling, of course he’s growling, and in that growl I hear that the prisoners have just as much choice. The men – and that includes poor Yusuf – have the option to join them. To become robbers, rapists, kidnappers and murderers. Free training. And women, women can also choose. They can stay.
“And if they don’t want to stay?” I ask.
Laughter.
“If even men don’t want to be like you?”
Laughter. Louder. Maybe clapping, definitely a few amused stomps and scrapes of metal on metal.
“Easy choice,” the leader says as if to hug me, and I see sweaty armpits. Then he looks directly at me, raises his bushy eyebrows a little, and says, “Well?”
Easy choice.
The leader raises his hand, and at the command, as if they had rehearsed it, the terrible band forms a line, and the line runs along the cave walls. They line up next to each other in a regular circle facing me, like a ring that reveals a handful of cowering and bound people instead of a ruby or diamond at the top.
“Do you see the men?”
I won’t say they’re impossible to miss. I just keep my mouth shut.
“Some worked in the harem of the Sultan,” the leader tells me. “But no man is allowed to see the Sultan’s women, only eunuchs can. Your task is to show those who worked for the Sultan. They can be all or none. Look at each of them and point to the one you think is a eunuch.”
Rule one: you can’t touch anyone.
Rule two: they stay dressed.
Rule three: none of them can speak.
Rule four: mark more and you die.
Rule five: mark less and you die.
Any questions?
I’m looking at them. All of them dressed up in wide trousers, and from the look of it, they can be as eunuchs as each other or none at all.
I say I need music.
“Music?”
Music. Any kind of music. It won’t work without music.
“Um,” comes from the corner. One of the older women says she can strum a few tunes on the oud. She looks at me like she’s trying to help me.
Yusuf will also join in. He plays the ney and has one of these Arabic flutes in his pocket.
Soon, music echoes through the cave, and even though the two aren’t real musicians, the echo works wonders with the melody. And I start to dance.
Slowly. That is the charm and sensuality of this dance. It’s not the first time I’ve done it, you can trust me. I used to twirl like this night after night in front of my master or his guests, sometimes even the mistress. I close my eyes so I don’t see the forty guys staring at me.
I wiggle my hips, I wiggle my ass. My naked arms make soft waves in the air. I’m speeding up. As I do, I remove my outer garment, leaving only a sheer veil over my breasts. I accelerate even more. I throw off my undergarment so that, except for a tiny strip, adorned with a delicate chain, the rest of my body is also just smokily shrouded in translucency. Accelerating. My body is warm and damp with sweat, my bare feet skittering over the coins until I tear them to blood.
Still accelerating.
This part of the movement is called ecstasy. You can only move into it gradually, it’s like swinging a weight in a circle, wedged in your finger. Eventually, the movement is hellishly fast, and then you have to slow down gradually anyway.
I am out of breath, a tiny bead of sweat covers my skin, and I go to see the harvest. It’s like dropping ripe bananas on the ground. Then you just pick them off one by one.
I’m looking at the tension in their pants and a good third of them just have urgent boners. I’m about to lift a finger. I’m almost saying: this one, this one and this one… Then I notice the look on the leader’s face and I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.
I slip out of even the rags that are still left and sticking to my body. I stagger a little and there’s another erection in the corner.
I lie down on the floor and record one coin. I curl my legs up to my chin and perform my favourite gold coin trick. The dinar is here, the dinar is no longer here.
Three more bananas to pick.
I get down on all fours and perform the narrow vase trick on these hardened rascals, only I have to break the bottom first. The vase is here, the vase is no longer here.
More bananas. Three, four, there’s a fifth.
I crawl among the coins and put a sort of ornate stick in my mouth, it’s carved and full of bumps and folds. I shove the gun up my ass to the trigger.
Again, several more were added.
I play with whatever I can get my hands on. Caressing, licking, tucking, sliding.
But no more, no more banana in the basket.
And yet one. There’s a rustle in his pants and a massive erection appears, I almost feel like I can see it stirring. But either this robber is squinting or he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Yusuf. And Yusuf is playing, blowing his flute as hard as his chest will take, while he’s turned away and let his pants slide down to his knees. Now all I can see is his bare bottom and his pants are springing all around and it’s suddenly hard to breathe in the cave.
Such a bumper crop of bananas!
I look around, and there’s still a good ten robbers left standing around, their pants not moving.
So I think it’s clear.
The woman with the Arabic lute sees Yusufka and wants to help too, but when she pulls down her dress and clumsily shoots her naked, bony ass towards us, several erections rather fall off.
But fortunately I remember the eunuchs I’ve already discovered, and my finger is ready to mark them.
Then the dog shows up. I don’t know where he came from, but it’s the ugly, scruffy poor thing that I took the thorn out of his paw this morning and came running to return the favour. Now he’s adjusting, tail aside, and loot, loot, two new erections.
And there’s the baboon and her whole family. They’re striking some awkward poses, and there’s some new bananas for me.
Also donkeys and camels and horses and all these beasts of burden are here. They offer themselves as I did a moment ago, and oh Allah, what a tension in the robber’s pants I see.
There are spiders and scorpions coming out of the holes, there’s a snake. A swarm of bats flew in from somewhere.
It rustles in those pants, and with every creature that comes to my aid, not only does the tool in pants rise, but so do my chances of survival.
I’m about to say it, “The only eunuch here, dear robber leader, is you.” But it just doesn’t sound like a sentence that’s gonna save anyone’s life.
At that moment a big black stallion appears. It is the one that the leader himself rode into the cave, and this stallion is rubbing against his master, a massive erection between his hind legs.
I’m thinking of the crow, but now I can see the leader’s response to his horse. He’s gently running his mane through his fingers, perhaps a candlestick hidden in his trousers.
“No one,” I say. “Nobody,” I roar triumphantly.
No one’s a eunuch!
And suddenly all the animals are gone, they run away, fly away, run away, crawl away, hiss away.
All those forty erections are looking at me, and I’m looking at them. Oh Allah, aren’t fairy tales supposed to have a happy ending?
Sweetheart, Why Don’t You Shower Me with Some Baksheesh? After All, This Desert Flower Deserves a Little Middle Eastern Luxury!
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