George Mills Part 40

"Tventy-two stone. A good eater. He vas alvays a good eater."

"Indeed," Peterson said.

"Vell," the amba.s.sador said, rubbing his hands together, "you boys come a lung vay. You're ready a little lunch?"

"I know I I am, Mr. Amba.s.sador," I said. am, Mr. Amba.s.sador," I said.

"Dot's nice," Moses Magaziner said affably. He indicated Peterson. "Your mate, the langer locksh, langer locksh, the skinny merink, he's also ready a nibble grub?" the skinny merink, he's also ready a nibble grub?"

"At your convenience, sir," Peterson said.

The strange diplomat shrugged the large, fringed prayer shawl that fell like a scarf about his arms and shoulders and clapped his hands twice. "Mrs. Zemlick," he told the maternal-looking woman who appeared in the doorway, "tell Gelfer lunch for three. The state dining room." The woman smiled at us, nodded and left. "Very pleasant, very refined. A doll," Magaziner said when she'd gone, "a regular baleboste. baleboste. I vish only the best for Yetta Zemlick." He sighed. "Listen," he said, "a heppy steff is a busy steff." I vish only the best for Yetta Zemlick." He sighed. "Listen," he said, "a heppy steff is a busy steff."

"She seems quite cheery," I said.

His Highness's representative shrugged. "A vidow. A vidow voman finf finf years. I vould like to arrange maybe a years. I vould like to arrange maybe a shiddech shiddech vit her and the tchef. Don't be shy, hev a fig." Magaziner held a bowl out to us. I accepted but Peterson declined. "You don't like figs?" Magaziner said, "try a date. Sveet like sugar." vit her and the tchef. Don't be shy, hev a fig." Magaziner held a bowl out to us. I accepted but Peterson declined. "You don't like figs?" Magaziner said, "try a date. Sveet like sugar."

"I'm afraid I should ruin my appet.i.te," Peterson said coolly and Magaziner looked as if he were surprised to discover that Peterson possessed one.

"He's had a rough time with his stomach, Mr. Amba.s.sador," I said. "The voyage."

"Oh yes," he said, "the woyage." Mrs. Zemlick reappeared in the doorway and waited till she caught the amba.s.sador's eye. "Lunch, Mrs. Zemlick?" He turned to us. "Vell gents," he said, rising, "soup's on."

In the state dining room Moses Magaziner recited Hebrew prayers over each course that the servant, Eli Nudel, set before us. Peterson and I looked down at our laps.

"You don't got an eppet.i.te for brisket, Mr. Peterson? You hardly touched."

Peterson mumbled something that was difficult to hear.

"He says he filled up on soup," Eli Nudel said. "He says he's all shtupt shtupt from from cholleh. cholleh."

"Eli," Magaziner said, "bring me vat Mr. Peterson don't finish, Gelfer Moonshine's feelings shouldn't be hurt." Then he turned to us as he sopped up gravy with his bread. "Don't feel bad, young man," he told Peterson. "If you ken't you ken't. Oy, everybody's a prima donna. I'm not referring to you, Mr. Peterson. I can tell, you are an angelface. It's Gelfer Moonshine, my tchef. He's a pick-of-the-litter, vorld-cless, A-number-vun tchef but he gets depressed if a person don't eat up everyting on his plate. I tell him, 'Gelfer, it's not you. Sometimes ve got a guest his stomach ain't accustomed to traditional cooking.' I tell him, 'Gelfer, cheer yourself, sometimes a fella's hed a woyage didn't agree mit him.' " Eli Nudel had been serving the coffee and was standing now beside Peterson, who seemed oblivious to the man.

Magaziner went on. "I tell him, 'Gelfer, all right, maybe she's too old to hev any more children, and all right, maybe she ain't ain't a beauty, but n.o.body could deny Yetta got a smile on her a beauty, but n.o.body could deny Yetta got a smile on her punim punim could light up the could light up the shabbes shabbes candles. And what about you, Gelfer Moonshine? You got it in your head you're the Supreme Being's gift to the ladies? You're fifty-one years old, your bek aches, your feet get sore, you got a constipation could choke a horse. A nice person like Yetta could be a comfort to you. That time her son and son-in-law came to the emba.s.sy mit the grendbabies ven the candles. And what about you, Gelfer Moonshine? You got it in your head you're the Supreme Being's gift to the ladies? You're fifty-one years old, your bek aches, your feet get sore, you got a constipation could choke a horse. A nice person like Yetta could be a comfort to you. That time her son and son-in-law came to the emba.s.sy mit the grendbabies ven the mumsers mumsers ver making a pogrom, you saw for yourself. Like horses they ate, may the Lord, blessed be His name, make His countenance to shine upon them.' Two tiny little girls, Mr. Mills, Mr. Peterson, couldn't be seven years old, eight tops, and they ate for a regiment. Vat dey couldn't finish Gelfer made up to ver making a pogrom, you saw for yourself. Like horses they ate, may the Lord, blessed be His name, make His countenance to shine upon them.' Two tiny little girls, Mr. Mills, Mr. Peterson, couldn't be seven years old, eight tops, and they ate for a regiment. Vat dey couldn't finish Gelfer made up to shlep shlep in a beg. You'll take a cup coffee, Mr. Peterson?" in a beg. You'll take a cup coffee, Mr. Peterson?"

"What? Oh. Yes please. I don't seem to see the--Would you have such a thing as cream?"

Moses Magaziner looked at him. "Dairy mit brisket, Peterson?" he asked sharply, then abruptly changed the subject. "Vell," he said softly, "how'd it go at the pelace? Dey taking good care you boys?"

"We had a preliminary interview this morning with the Grand Vizier's First Secretary. He told us to await further instructions."

"Ah," Moses Magaziner said, "further instructions. You speak the lingo, Mr. Peterson?"

"Sir?"

"Turkic. You hev Turkic?"

"Guidebook Turkic. Nothing more. Nothing as fine as I'm certain yours is, Mr. Amba.s.sador."

"Me? I talk Yiddish to them."

Peterson raised his napkin to his lips. For some time now he had been looking quite ill. "I say, would you excuse me, sir? It seems ..."

He never finished his sentence. Eli Nudel hurried him away and Magaziner and I were left alone.

"So," Magaziner said. "So so so."

Mills grinned at him shyly.

"Yes?" Magaziner said.

"It was delicious," Mills said.

"My pleasure."

"I particularly liked the pudding. What did you call it, 'lucksh and cook'?"

"Kugel. Lockshen kugel."

"That's it," Mills said. "Lockshen kugel. It was delicious. It was It was delicious. It was all all delicious. It was my first state lunch. My friend's been off his feed." delicious. It was my first state lunch. My friend's been off his feed."

"Your friend?"

"Peterson. Mr. Peterson."

"Oh yes," Moses Magaziner said, "Mr. Peterson."

"The halvah halvah was wonderful too. With the coffee. I loved the was wonderful too. With the coffee. I loved the halvah. halvah. Is that right, Is that right, halvah? halvah? I'm very ignorant. I don't know the names of these aristocrat dishes." I'm very ignorant. I don't know the names of these aristocrat dishes."

"Halvah, yes," the amba.s.sador said. "Tell me again, Mr. Mills. King George sent you as his personal emissary with Abdulmecid's gift? The letter the courier showed me vas a little unclear." yes," the amba.s.sador said. "Tell me again, Mr. Mills. King George sent you as his personal emissary with Abdulmecid's gift? The letter the courier showed me vas a little unclear."

"Yes, sir. Queer, ain't it? Me a b.o.o.b and all."

The amba.s.sador waved off George's self-deprecation and questioned him further. He seemed particularly interested in the circ.u.mstances surrounding their meeting, and when Mills began to repeat what the King had told him of his relationship with Maria he stopped him at once. "Skip all that," he said. George a.s.sumed it was because it was gossip with which the man was already familiar and was at a loss as to what else to tell him. "Vat did you you say? Vat did you told say? Vat did you told him? him?" Mills recounted his reasons for coming to London, mentioned the useless letter of recommendation his squire had sent with him but did not go into detail because he was still ashamed for the proud man he had so conscientiously pursued with respect, waiting each day for the cabriolet (which he still thought of as the squire's carriage) to pa.s.s, planting himself beside the road those two furlongs before it not because he was afraid he'd miss it but because he enjoyed watching it, seeing it come. Not telling Magaziner any of this either, burdened by his queer guilt for the squire's failed liaisons and a.s.sociations.

So he told him what he had told the King, blocking out for him a general idea of Millsness, what he had been rehearsing not since he'd first heard it, since what he'd first heard he had no need to rehea.r.s.e, had remembered, would always remember, but what had happened since, describing the circle, his ring of the wood, the tree, going over it-Magaziner was impatient, waving him quickly through certain pa.s.sages, slowing him down at others, actually leading Mills's story like a conductor, directing it like traffic-as even now, speaking to the amba.s.sador, he was at once telling the tale and living some new part of it, the telling, living, remembering and rehearsing additional increments he knew it would have made him dizzy to contemplate if he had dared. (He didn't need to dare. The strange pressures and weathers of his life had already acclimatized him to conditions and practices that were no longer even second nature but something actually biologically autonomous.) Magaziner stopped him. "Forty-third? He called you Forty-third?" Mills nodded. "Go on." George backed and filled, telling the story randomly, stumbling a little, not permitted to do it as he'd rehea.r.s.ed it in his head but forced by Magaziner to improvise, by Magaziner who interrupted him, conducted him, taking him forward to the voyage, the practice sessions in the cabin, Peterson's silence at table, the courier calmly taking food into his stomach that moments later he would give up to the sea. Redirecting Mills another time to what George had said to the King, what the King to George, but always refusing the gossip, not as much shocked by it as bothered that it should have come up at all, asking George what he'd he'd said, whether he'd encouraged it, Mills swearing he hadn't, insisting his own embarra.s.sment to Magaziner. "Yes?" Mills nodded. "Go on." George related some more details. Magaziner raised a finger to his lip. Mills stopped. " 'There you are,' he said? 'It would seem you're one of us? said, whether he'd encouraged it, Mills swearing he hadn't, insisting his own embarra.s.sment to Magaziner. "Yes?" Mills nodded. "Go on." George related some more details. Magaziner raised a finger to his lip. Mills stopped. " 'There you are,' he said? 'It would seem you're one of us? It would seem you're one of us then, George? It would seem you're one of us then, George?'

"Ah, Mr. Peterson," the British amba.s.sador to the Ottoman Empire said, "fillink better?"

"Yes, thank you, sir."

"Dot's nice. Dot's terrific."

In the morning he accompanied George and the courier to the government carriage that had been sent for them. Peterson climbed in first and George handed the golden package in to him to hold for a moment before he got in beside him.

Just as he was about to do so, as he was raising one foot onto the carriage's metal stirrup, the amba.s.sador briefly embraced him and almost imperceptibly slipped something into his jacket pockets. It was halvah halvah wrapped in two of the fine linen napkins from the emba.s.sy service. wrapped in two of the fine linen napkins from the emba.s.sy service.

So it was the height even more than the length.

"Well, old buns, it was more than eiver acherly. Dere I was den, weren't I? A great green nineteen-year-old gawm what never got no closer to de movers an' shakers 'n a trooper's widow to de mighty King of Spine. What never till dat day in Putney"-Mills telling a small circle of his intimates in a corner of the kitchen, near the tripe barrels and offal buckets, speaking their language, the broken brogue of barracks and parade ground, a sort of Ottoman-Persian-Yiddish he'd picked up from his mates in the year to year and a half he'd been there, a dialect (and of course of course it would be low, bits and pieces of what the locals had brought with them from Tripoli and the Crimea, from Hungary and Mesopotamia, from Crete and the Balkans, from Thrace--places, some of them, Mills would not have been able to locate on a map, not because he was such a poor geographer but because, except for his thoroughgoing knowledge of his own antecedents, he was such a rotten historian, the nations and kingdoms having changed hands and names since the great days of the Ottoman Empire, the Empire itself having rearranged if not the lands themselves then their borders, so that what he spoke, had learned to speak, was a lingo of the disinherited and misbegotten, a patois which finally proved tougher than those old arbitrary state lines of demarcation themselves, the nations and kingdoms having been reabsorbed elsewhere, restaked, changed like partners in a dance, taken like trumps in bridge) which still retained neologisms centuries after the countries that originally contributed them were no longer required (some of the more gung-ho among them would have said "permitted") to serve. He couldn't have held up his end of a conversation either in Turkic (the official language of the Court) or in Farsi (the language spoken by most of the people). What he spoke, if poorly, was an elitist tongue: Janissary. A language (which he would actually attempt to render, if a sworn celibate like himself ever got the chance to get them, to his progeny in a chipped pidgin, some bent bloopered, crooked c.o.c.kney) the now greatly reduced but still fierce force shared (perhaps five thousand men could speak it), no matter their mother tongue, only among themselves--a grammar like a pa.s.sword, a syntax like a signal-" 'ad never e'er even seen a king much less haddressed one. Who now 'ad saw not only 'is first king but a certificated courier too, as well as a hamba.s.sador in a hemba.s.sy and most of 'is hoficial 'ouse'old staff an' not only dat but a first secretary to a grand vizier (an' you may throw in too, if you'd haccount for my toney turnout, a Savile f.o.o.king Row tailor). An' caught a glimpse in de far off, an' just as I was bending to my Prostration Walk, of de Hemporer of de Hottoman Hempire an', by 'is side, Abdulmecid, de G.o.dkid, de Hemporer in Whiting. It was ever so much more den a poor boy could bear. it would be low, bits and pieces of what the locals had brought with them from Tripoli and the Crimea, from Hungary and Mesopotamia, from Crete and the Balkans, from Thrace--places, some of them, Mills would not have been able to locate on a map, not because he was such a poor geographer but because, except for his thoroughgoing knowledge of his own antecedents, he was such a rotten historian, the nations and kingdoms having changed hands and names since the great days of the Ottoman Empire, the Empire itself having rearranged if not the lands themselves then their borders, so that what he spoke, had learned to speak, was a lingo of the disinherited and misbegotten, a patois which finally proved tougher than those old arbitrary state lines of demarcation themselves, the nations and kingdoms having been reabsorbed elsewhere, restaked, changed like partners in a dance, taken like trumps in bridge) which still retained neologisms centuries after the countries that originally contributed them were no longer required (some of the more gung-ho among them would have said "permitted") to serve. He couldn't have held up his end of a conversation either in Turkic (the official language of the Court) or in Farsi (the language spoken by most of the people). What he spoke, if poorly, was an elitist tongue: Janissary. A language (which he would actually attempt to render, if a sworn celibate like himself ever got the chance to get them, to his progeny in a chipped pidgin, some bent bloopered, crooked c.o.c.kney) the now greatly reduced but still fierce force shared (perhaps five thousand men could speak it), no matter their mother tongue, only among themselves--a grammar like a pa.s.sword, a syntax like a signal-" 'ad never e'er even seen a king much less haddressed one. Who now 'ad saw not only 'is first king but a certificated courier too, as well as a hamba.s.sador in a hemba.s.sy and most of 'is hoficial 'ouse'old staff an' not only dat but a first secretary to a grand vizier (an' you may throw in too, if you'd haccount for my toney turnout, a Savile f.o.o.king Row tailor). An' caught a glimpse in de far off, an' just as I was bending to my Prostration Walk, of de Hemporer of de Hottoman Hempire an', by 'is side, Abdulmecid, de G.o.dkid, de Hemporer in Whiting. It was ever so much more den a poor boy could bear.

"De courier 'ad goon to stan' next old Mahmud 'imself-may Halla 'crease 'is camels an' rise de horanges in 'is hoses-an' on an preharranged sidgnal, winkies me for'd oo, 'igh church dat was, on'y now begins to take hin wot 'igh church 'mounts to, in dis wool. Usin' de goldern packadge for balance, sendin' it hout hinches afore me as a man down de mine might send de rays huv 'is lampern. Like some bloke on an 'igh wire I was. Feelin' me way an' doin' dis piecemeal shuffle. b.l.o.o.d.y ridiclus. Me eyes on de groun', on de runner, de Horiental carpet wif its dizzy spaghetti an' red rose geometrics till I were sick at stomk an' might 'ave thrown up my own self if I thunk it would.i.n.k show. Acherly thinkink: Yar. Dat's wot dese flower arrandgements is--vomit, tummy rosettes, barf bouquets. An' navigatink by de acheral pull a gravity oo 'ad wanted to guide carriages, to 'ave the tug of bits, an' make my 'ands felt in an 'orse's mouf. The gravities loose, flowink like wind thoo a draughty house. Feelink it. Hin my nauseated stomk, hup my 'eavy leggings, hon my 'ands wot 'eld de goldern package. Hall at once. Goin' thoo me like ha dose a salts. Oo 'ad wanted de control of reins an' 'ad dem now, but transformed, see? Redistribted like. Oo pulled 'isself alorng dat runner of decorated rug by reaction, resistance to the hints of heaving, falling, dropping. So dat I was like some long, deep, earthboundried hanimal, er snake say, hor a worm, dealink with s.p.a.ce by constankly making dese adjustments of muscle, forever 'itching me pants so to speak. Wot all der time felt de high weight of de complicated ceilink threaten my neck like a guillotine. church 'mounts to, in dis wool. Usin' de goldern packadge for balance, sendin' it hout hinches afore me as a man down de mine might send de rays huv 'is lampern. Like some bloke on an 'igh wire I was. Feelin' me way an' doin' dis piecemeal shuffle. b.l.o.o.d.y ridiclus. Me eyes on de groun', on de runner, de Horiental carpet wif its dizzy spaghetti an' red rose geometrics till I were sick at stomk an' might 'ave thrown up my own self if I thunk it would.i.n.k show. Acherly thinkink: Yar. Dat's wot dese flower arrandgements is--vomit, tummy rosettes, barf bouquets. An' navigatink by de acheral pull a gravity oo 'ad wanted to guide carriages, to 'ave the tug of bits, an' make my 'ands felt in an 'orse's mouf. The gravities loose, flowink like wind thoo a draughty house. Feelink it. Hin my nauseated stomk, hup my 'eavy leggings, hon my 'ands wot 'eld de goldern package. Hall at once. Goin' thoo me like ha dose a salts. Oo 'ad wanted de control of reins an' 'ad dem now, but transformed, see? Redistribted like. Oo pulled 'isself alorng dat runner of decorated rug by reaction, resistance to the hints of heaving, falling, dropping. So dat I was like some long, deep, earthboundried hanimal, er snake say, hor a worm, dealink with s.p.a.ce by constankly making dese adjustments of muscle, forever 'itching me pants so to speak. Wot all der time felt de high weight of de complicated ceilink threaten my neck like a guillotine.

"An' knew I was close when I could ear 'em whisperink. De Hottoman Hemperor. De Hottoman Hemporer hin Whiting.

"Peterson 'eld my packadge whilst I did my salaam.

"Startink at me belly an' brinkink it hever 'igher, I spun me left hand habout an' brung it to rest wit me palm on me fore'ead.

"The two potentates, 'im wot was in power an' 'im wot was in whiting suddenly silent. Wartching me close now oo before 'ad barely give me de odd ogle. I haccepted de box from Peterson wot we'd brought all de way from Blighty an' shoved it toward Abdulmecid, oo proved to be a strapping tall spotty-faced lad, much holder in happearance dan de five years 'e was reported to be. An' me thinkin' to meself, If 'is gardfather was on'y whiting for 'im to get big ernough to be tanked for 'is gift in Hinglish instead oov Islam 'e might 'ave sent it years ago. 'e's big ernough now, G.o.d bless 'im, to say 'Thank you so very very much' in Hinglish, German, or Chinese eiver.

"When 'e'd taken it from me I repeated me salaam as Peterson 'ad hinstructed me ter do, an' now de Hemperor was growling in Hottoman Hempirese.

"Peterson spoke up in wot must 'ave been the same language an' turns to me.

" 'You,' 'e shouts, 'what are you on about then, you great sc.u.mmy gonad? You press your left left hand to your forehead? Your hand to your forehead? Your left? You salute His Majesty with the same hand with which you wipe your a.r.s.e?! left? You salute His Majesty with the same hand with which you wipe your a.r.s.e?!'

"By dis time Abdulmecid has got 'is packadge hopen an' is lookin' at me wif murther in 'is 'eart, an I don' 'ave to see no Court records to know 'e ain't been five years old for nine or ten years now, do I?

" 'What?' says Peterson. 'What?'

" 'It's nappies,' Abdulmecid says, standin' arn de goldfoil wrappings. "It's b.l.o.o.d.y f.u.c.king nappies,' says Abdulmecid bin 'is perfect Hinglish.

" 'Seize him!' roars 'is dad hin 'is. 'Seize him and send him for a Janissary!'

"I look to Peterson for an hexplanation, but all 'e can do is shake 'is 'ead real sad like. 'e's got dat same look on 'is dial wot I've seen when 'e's about to come down wif the sicks.

" 'Wot?' I arsk all confused like, 'wot?'

"But I can see de guards comink. It's just the job, i'n't it? Dey grab me an' start ter 'ustle me orf ter de flowery dell.

"Peterson wot 'as run orf quick as dammit 'old.i.n.k 'is sweet linen snotrag in front of 'is mouf turns an' lifts 'is duster long ernough ter sing out ' 'is Majesty's bidness! 'is Majesty's bidness! 'is Majesty's bidness! 'is Majesty's bidness!' an' 'e's doin' twenny in a ten-mile zone ergain. But de Hemperor's lads ain't exactually takin' their time eiver, are they, an' pretty soon we've caught up wif 'im, an' I think uh oh, e's for it too, is Peterson, but dey don' evern try try ter stop 'im. 'Wot?' I arsk again as they're b.u.m's rushin' me past 'im. ' ter stop 'im. 'Wot?' I arsk again as they're b.u.m's rushin' me past 'im. 'Wot, for Gard's sake?' for Gard's sake?'

" 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are all dead, kid,' Peterson says in a white whisper an' goes all sick on the carpet."

3.

"You, Mills Mills!" cries the Meat Cut.

"Mills? Who shouted Mills?" calls the Latrine Scrub.

"Sir, I did," the Meat Cut admits.

The Soup Man watched his junior officers.

Mills was reluctant to approach the Meat Cut with the Soup Man so visible, but Paradise Dispatchers were all about the yard and had heard what amounted to a direct order. If he did not respond, one of the more eager among them might well have taken it into his head to do something about it. They resented him for a Christian, and though Mills had formally repudiated his religion over a year before and had become, if not for all the world then for all his comrades to see, a practicing Muslim, he could not, however hard he tried, keep the disgust from his face whenever he and his brothers-in-arms-an odd term, since it was the boast of the special service into which he'd been impressed by Mahmud II that they never used anything as effete as weapons, that their killing scrimmages were conducted with nothing more elaborate in the way of tools than might be found on the ordinary strangler or murderer--garotte collars and neckwrings, daggers and slingstones, bra.s.s knucks and brickbats, throwsticks and coshes, matches, fuel, the rocks in one's tunic, the hangman's fat hemps-prostrated themselves for sunrise, morning, midday, afternoon and evening prayers. The fecal stench that came through the soiled, thin clothing in the tightly formed ranks of worshippers was terrific, and, if his expression was hidden by his earth-pressed face, he could never suppress the sound of his gagging.

Bufesqueu, a not unsympathetic Balkanese of approximately his own age and tenure in the Corps, had chided him for it.

"We're most of us converts, Mills. I myself was a very devout Greek Orthodox. You know what I miss most?"

"No," Mills said.

"The incense."

"I miss everything," Mills said gloomily.

"It's a good thing we're buddies, Mills. Talk like that could be construed as treasonous. Anyway it would be better for you if you got into the spirit of things. When we're stretched out nose to a.r.s.ehole on the prayer rugs, pretend it's incense."

"Incense," Mills said.

"Sure incense. Certainly incense. Of a sort. Of a kind. Raging candlesticks of bowel. The guts' aromatics. Fart fragrance. The p.i.s.s perfumes and come colognes, all the body's musks and effluents. It makes it easier."

"Easier."

"The celibacy. Sometimes I whiff the great poisoned cloud of dirt and intimacy we make and I imagine myself among women, entire overwhelming harems of them, hordes, their menstrual smell, their stinky mystery. It's deep I am, deep and lost down salty holes. Down and dirty. I bite the ground I lie upon and chew the earth until it turns to mud in my mouth. And they put me down for a religious zealot because the others have risen and I'm still praying. Oh yes. Not to lose my hard-on till I've come."

"Bufesqueu!"

"Why, Trooper, you're blushing! You're actually blushing."

"You're b.l.o.o.d.y outrageous you are."

"Oh, am I?" said his friend. "You'd best brush up on those vows you took, mate. You know what they mean in this outfit by celibacy? They mean the pure, true pukka gen. Pope, Patriarch, Ayatollah and Lord Swami Guru Indian Chief. Not only can't you get it off with a woman, you can't get it off with a man or animal either. You can't pull pud or touch yourself downtown or even think think dirty jokes much less tell them. They hang for wet dreams here, and all that's left for a lad is to make them think he gets off on G.o.d. That's why I'm sopping when I rise from the rug. Incense, think incense, and make a wish, Mills." dirty jokes much less tell them. They hang for wet dreams here, and all that's left for a lad is to make them think he gets off on G.o.d. That's why I'm sopping when I rise from the rug. Incense, think incense, and make a wish, Mills."

And the odd thing, Mills thought, was that despite everything-George IV's tricks and the courier's treachery, Abdulmecid's and the Emperor's misplaced rage, his forced conscription with all its concomitant hardships-he had had got into the spirit of things. That he understood the source of his fierce loyalties, could trace them back forty-two or so generations to a strange curse delivered by a pampered young n.o.bleman in a Polish wood who, for the authority to deliver it, had only a fair approximation of his greatest grandfather's number and none at all, really, of the old man's descendants (and who, at the time, did not really believe that either of them would live long enough to get out of their sc.r.a.pe in time even to got into the spirit of things. That he understood the source of his fierce loyalties, could trace them back forty-two or so generations to a strange curse delivered by a pampered young n.o.bleman in a Polish wood who, for the authority to deliver it, had only a fair approximation of his greatest grandfather's number and none at all, really, of the old man's descendants (and who, at the time, did not really believe that either of them would live long enough to get out of their sc.r.a.pe in time even to get get descendants), mitigated not at all his dumb cheer or caused him a moment's pang. Cursed were the meek. He knew that. So be it. The last would never be first. He knew descendants), mitigated not at all his dumb cheer or caused him a moment's pang. Cursed were the meek. He knew that. So be it. The last would never be first. He knew that. that. He knew everything, his low-born essence, his unswerving blue obedience and commissionaire's style--everything. He could not help himself, would not. He was proud to be a Janissary. Proud of hardship, humiliation, his hardcore elite corps humility. So he He knew everything, his low-born essence, his unswerving blue obedience and commissionaire's style--everything. He could not help himself, would not. He was proud to be a Janissary. Proud of hardship, humiliation, his hardcore elite corps humility. So he had had got into the spirit of things. And if he was no model soldier-I'm not, he thought, I'm not even good at it-he understood esprit de corps. None better. And valued most what he'd been forced to put up with. What few men living had had to endure, what most would have rebelled against out of hand, turning them tattles, turning them traitors. But not Mills. A hero of hardship, a big shot of bane and outrage. got into the spirit of things. And if he was no model soldier-I'm not, he thought, I'm not even good at it-he understood esprit de corps. None better. And valued most what he'd been forced to put up with. What few men living had had to endure, what most would have rebelled against out of hand, turning them tattles, turning them traitors. But not Mills. A hero of hardship, a big shot of bane and outrage.

There were the free-for-alls, the battles royal construed as preparation, training. The Soup Man's cynical dictum: "Janissaries are brothers. A true Janissary will lay down his life for his brother as casually as he would stand him a beer or buy him his breakfast. If an enemy slays his colleague, even in the act of self defense, even protecting his family, deflecting a torch, say, from the thatched lean-to where his babes lie sleeping; or wrenching the firebrand from a corpsman's hands with which he'd have ignited a wife's pubic hair simply to take the chill out of the air, then the surviving Janissary is obligated by the laws of G.o.d and the traditions of his company not only to avenge his fallen comrade but to read that comrade's original intent and to atrocify and consummate even to the nth degree his chum's lewd scheme. He must perfect death and touch the bottom of punishment. He must annihilate all the friends of the family and, years later, should he meet someone in a peaceful street who, in a certain cast of light, merely resembles his cohort's killer or perhaps, by a word or gesture, so much as reminds reminds him of his former teammate, or even only of the incident, then must the veteran Janissary dispatch him at once and with the same concentrate rage and fury at his disposal as had been available to him on the initial occasion of his wrath. If the wrath is not there he must pray for it. If his prayers are unanswered then he must make indifference do, and call on reserves of insouciance and apathy to hone his cruelty and generate out of neutral nonchalance the worst usages of his imagination. We are Janissaries, on the fence, middle of the road in every cause, and patriots only to each other." him of his former teammate, or even only of the incident, then must the veteran Janissary dispatch him at once and with the same concentrate rage and fury at his disposal as had been available to him on the initial occasion of his wrath. If the wrath is not there he must pray for it. If his prayers are unanswered then he must make indifference do, and call on reserves of insouciance and apathy to hone his cruelty and generate out of neutral nonchalance the worst usages of his imagination. We are Janissaries, on the fence, middle of the road in every cause, and patriots only to each other."

And dropped his handkerchief, the signal on the day of their practical, for the recruits to attack each other. Mills, watching for the handkerchief to fall, touch the actual ground, was distracted for that fraction of a piece of a second it took Khoraghisinian, a friend, a young lad from his own barracks with whom he spoke on fire guard and after lights-out in his newly acquired makeshift Janissary diction of deep things, lost things, of home and absences, loved ones, of plans (mere desires now, simple idle longings, yearnings) and the high mysteries of the starry sky and the pungent, sacred memories of kitchen smells, the breads and sweets and savories of childhood, to drop on his neck from a tree's low limb and scratch at his eyes with its brittle, leafless, wintry sticks. Before Mills could recover, Khoraghisinian had shoved handfuls of steaming, acidic horse dung into his eyes and nostrils and smeared it across Mills's astonished mouth and tongue. Blinding George, choking him, leaving him breathless, gagging, gasping. Felling him, turning him over and, still in those split seconds it took Mills to recognize the source of the attack (permitting him to think Khoraghisinian--Khory), driving the twigs up his nose, hammering them home with his fists and frozen t.u.r.ds.

It was his sneezes that saved him. Sudden, furious, reflexive and unwilled. His entire body was behind them, some good immunological angel so repudiate to the foreign matter trapped in his face that the sneezes brought his neck and head up like the solidest of uppercuts, roundhouses and haymakers, brutally b.u.t.ting Khoraghisinian and catching him, who was already leaning over to receive them, smack in the center of his nose, between his eyes, on each temple and, stretching to evade Mills's repet.i.tive jackhammer blasts, full in the throat. Khoraghisinian's neck was broken, the bridge of his nose. His eyes had been pounded deep beneath their sockets and smashed like egg yolks, spread like jelly. Khoraghisinian had been killed instantly.

"Excellent. Good recovery, excellent," the Soup Man called from his horse. "Fine alertness, Muslim."