Haydee: Very Harem

I’m not sure if this is going where I want it to. I need research, but right now I’m laying pipe, so this is what we have.

My fingers ran over the strings, and I hit the wrong note again. My teacher looked at me sternly. I found that I was one step away from a reprimand, and so I had much vested in the idea of playing the song correctly. I took the time to slowly, carefully match my fingers to the strings. The problem seemed to be that my fingers did not span the large harp very well, and as such, I was likely to pluck the wrong string. Certainly, it happened again.

“Haydee,” said the music master. There were six of us, sitting in a semi circle around him, of various ages. All of us were pretty girls, all of us were owned by Farziz, and we were all learning the useful skills of ornamentation. Some of us were better at instruments than others, but all of us could sing, recite poetry, prepare a chibouque, drape ourselves appropriately in jewels and clothing, serve tea, all the things that were required to entertain the man who might buy us from Farziz. There were a couple of us that were considered excellent investments, myself included as the daughter of the dead Vizier Ali Tebelin.

I stood up and smoothed out my skirts. I moved slowly and carefully to the front of the class. The master took a cane and slapped the back of my offending hand. I imagined it would make the mistake easier to make. “Enough for today,” said the master. We began to put away our harps.

Fortula shook her curly black hair. “You should practice more,” she said.

“My hand will never reach to that string.”

“Then you will get a rap on the hand every day we practice,” said Teresa. Teresa was older than Fortula and I. It was already being discussed that she would be sold to the house of the Sultan Mahmoud. Her eyes were decorated with black kohl, as she was beginning to experiment with the style of makeup that marked the harems of his palace.

What happened in harems was no mystery to us. Not only were we trained to be beautiful flowers, artistic, poetic and lovely, we were also trained to love men. I was thirteen, and that was considered old enough to please a man, although most of the rarer commodities such as me were yet virgins. All of us had friends, however, who were lesser stars, and some of them had been sold to men who had a taste for younger women. Sometimes we met them again, and they would tell us of the amorous advances of men. Most of them suffered through these advances for the advantages and goods that they could garner. A few of our older friends spoke of love and duty.

I knew that Farziz had his mind on the Sultan for me as well as Teresa. I knew that I would be safe from spoilage because I would be a hallowed virgin for the sultan’s enjoyment. One night, and then stowed away into the harem just in case he might want me again. Certainly I could win his favor by being skilled in music or love. Teresa was skilled in music, but only time would tell if she could win his favor in love.

Was I bitter as a slave? If I could choose my destiny, I would not be a slave, but we do not choose our destiny. Fortula and I were fast friends, sisters almost. It was she that helped me make my peace when I first entered Farziz’s household, alone and frightened. She grabbed my hand and told me, “It is all right, little Haydee. We are still princesses in our mind. Do not forget.”

I had not forgotten. My duty now was to survive and live, and to take what opportunities afforded to me to find a way to make my father and my mother proud of me.

Teresa, Fortula, and I returned to our room. Teresa sat the two of us down in front of mirrors, and helped us kohl our eyes, since she had promised to show us. “Haydee,” you should certainly pay attention to this,” Teresa said. “I have high hopes you will be my sister in the harem.”

“And I,” said Fortula, “no doubt will rise higher than you, perhaps the attendant of the emperor himself.”

“Dreamer!” Teresa laughed.

I painted my right eye carefully. “Why shouldn’t Farziz sell us on a three for two special? Three virgins for the prince of two. Then the Sultan can have a young one, an older one, and an exotic one from another country.”

“Which one of us is the most exotic?” said Fortula. “I am Armenian, you are Greek, and Teresa is a Turk. What nationality does the Sultan claim?”

“All of them,” said Teresa. “He is the master of all of them! Still, perhaps the idea of a collection of maidens will appeal to him. There is an Arabian tale of six slaves, all of different colors, who delighted their master.”

“Then I shall paint myself black,” said Fortula, and Haydee can be brown.”

I looked in the mirror at the unevenness of the kohl on my left eye. “I have already started to paint myself black,” I said. I rubbed away the kohl with a soft cloth, determined to make another attempt. Teresa had taken the stick of kohl and was lining Fortula’s eyes.

Our slave came to see us, bowing obsequiously. There were slaves, and there were slaves. This woman came from an African country, and she was far from home. She was helpful to us. She braided our hair, helped us dress, and served us our food. When I first arrived, she stayed with me at night while I cried myself to sleep. Her name was Luban, and when I was tired, she magically found a way to prepare my bath, or when I was beaten for not learning quickly enough, she would apply medicine to my back so I would not scar. She did not know it, but I loved her, not the same way I loved Fortula and Teresa, who were my equals, but I loved her because she knew what it was like to be lost from everything that mattered to you. She did not know that I had often seen her crying as well, you see, and though I did not have the opportunity to comfort her, I understood her heart.

“The master wishes to see you all,” she said. “He is visited by the Sultan Mahmoud.”

We were not prepared, and so we were to be prepared. For the next hour we bathed. Lubna weaved flowers into our scented hair, and dressed us in some of the finest clothes that Farziz had supplied us with. My hand had swollen because of the harp lesson, but Lubna suggested that I wear long sleeves. She reddened our cheeks, darkened our eyes, and crimped our hair. Finally, we were worthy of visiting with the Sultan, to feed him sweet meats, to give him his pipe, and to flatter the old man with our dulcet tones.

Lubna turned us over to the eunuch that guarded the chambers of the girls trained for harems. A eunuch was still considered a necessity, given that we were all young beautiful young women, and our virtue was also that which would fetch the highest price. In Farziz’s most elaborate chamber were several men who sat on cushions on the floor, watching us enter. Most of these men belonged to the Sultan Mahmoud, and they came in every shape, size, and age. Mahmoud himself was a bejeweled man of perhaps fifty, paunchy, but solid, with a black beard peppered with gray. Farziz sat beside him. He pointed out the virtue of various of our number, and I noted that Mahmoud’s eyes did in fact settle on Teresa, and she coyly turned her head so that the angle of her face the Sultan saw showed Teresa to her best advantage.

I was young, around thirteen, and I must admit to not being interested in the Sultan. I imagined my time to be bought and sold had not yet come, and so I spent my time looking at the various men in their various shimmering raiment. At first, I didn’t notice that one of the men was French. He was older, his face hardened, but as I stared at the face, I noticed it was the face of a Frenchman, the nose and features of a Caucasian. I stood close to Fortula. I had no fond memories of Frenchman, and preferred to hide from them.

The men laughed among themselves. Farziz clapped, and we were encouraged to visit various of the men to make tea. Farziz directed myself and Teresa to Sultan Mahmoud, so while Teresa skillfully directed the making of the cup of tea, I offered the Sultan sweets. The Sultan took one of the clusters of nuts, and he asked me my name.

“I am Haydee, your magnificence,” I replied as softly as I could. Teresa slid the cup of tea in front of him, and he took the dainty tea cup in his massive hands. The Frenchman walked to the Sultan, bringing a cushion. I offered him the platter of desserts. He at me as though he was trying to remember what I looked like, so later he could write a poem about me. He did not stare at Teresa nearly as intently. I tried to will myself invisible under his gaze.

Teresa laughed quietly at something the Sultan said, and he seemed delighted. I caught Fortula’s eye across the room as she stood up from pouring tea. She rolled her eyes to let me know what she thought of the man she was hostessing, and then she returned her doting attention to him, all sweetness.

Farziz wandered about the men, making sure none of them were wanting for drink, refreshment, or entertainment. With a clap of his hands, some of our more skilled in number played harp. I joined the singers, a skill I was passable in, but not skilled in. Fortula sang like an exotic bird in the emperor’s aviary.