George Mills Part 47

"Not that, you know, I've ever actually seen them."

"They pack it away," Sanbanna said. "They wolf the stuff!"

"Even Fatima. Even Fatima's, you know, put on a few pounds since I've been here."

"She's a guzzle gut. She's a gourmand glut gobble."

"She lives high," Mills said.

"Not because it's contraband," Sanbanna said, "not even because it's cheap or plentiful."

"It's strange," Mills said, almost to himself. "He's a sultan. Any race you can think of."

"Yes," Sanbanna said.

"Every body type. Women with bones under their faces like fine welts, women with bone structures like log cabins."

"Yes."

"And their hair, hair," Mills said. "My G.o.d, their hair soft as down or rough as the stuffing in bad furniture."

"That's right."

"He's the f.u.c.king Sultan. Sultan. He wants girls, he invades countries with armies, for Christ's sake. He sends generals out with gla.s.s slippers. He has an entire empire to choose from. There's pageants and beauty contests. Miss African Village, Miss Sand Dunes. Miss Off-Sh.o.r.e Islands." He wants girls, he invades countries with armies, for Christ's sake. He sends generals out with gla.s.s slippers. He has an entire empire to choose from. There's pageants and beauty contests. Miss African Village, Miss Sand Dunes. Miss Off-Sh.o.r.e Islands."

"Yes," Sanbanna said.

"They're all fat! fat!"

"Not even to get out of it," Sanbanna said, "not even to make themselves unattractive or too heavy to handle."

"No," Mills said.

"Not even because they're bored," Sanbanna said. "But because halvah halvah and the delicatessen I'm able to bring in are the only things still available to them that tickle their palates. Who knows? Maybe the palate is the only organ they have that's still alive. Maybe that's what burns out last. Everything mortified but the nerves of the mouth, the sweet and sour synapses." and the delicatessen I'm able to bring in are the only things still available to them that tickle their palates. Who knows? Maybe the palate is the only organ they have that's still alive. Maybe that's what burns out last. Everything mortified but the nerves of the mouth, the sweet and sour synapses."

Suddenly Mills shuddered with questions. "Cheap?" he said. "Plentiful?"

Sanbanna looked at him. "Fatima shook you down?"

"I gave her my bribegold," he said and could have bitten his tongue in half. The man didn't seem to have heard. "Listen," Mills said, "I've seen them giggling, I've watched them carry on."

"Eunuchs," Sanbanna said contemptuously.

"Not the eunuchs, the women."

"I'm talking about the women," Sanbanna said.

"The women?"

"Didn't I already tell you it's a company town?"

"All right," Mills said, "good will, word of mouth. You get on their bright side. They talk up the merchandise to the Kislar Agha. They say swell things about the dry goods. Then what?"

"Come on, Mills," Sanbanna snapped, "you said it yourself. Forty by sixty. They don't even fit. What do you suppose just a contract for new sheets would be worth in this place? Wouldn't I be jumping up and down if I was who you think I am? Or are you some eunuch too? Big time Paradise Dispatcher!"

"Hey," Mills said.

"Hey yourself. Why not? Why wouldn't you be? Everyone else around here is. The p.r.i.c.kless princes and parched princesses. The favorites and novices and slaves. Who ain't ain't a eunuch? Your pal Bufesqueu? Come on, he's spoony as the rest of them. They're a loony, loopy, lovelorn lot, Mills. All the screw-loose steers, all the hindered heifers. What a picture!" a eunuch? Your pal Bufesqueu? Come on, he's spoony as the rest of them. They're a loony, loopy, lovelorn lot, Mills. All the screw-loose steers, all the hindered heifers. What a picture!"

"Eunuchs in love," Mills said.

"Who said anything about love? Lovesick ness! Sentiment. Rapture and craziness. Doting. Dottiness. Fan mail and fantasy. Coquetry, swoon, languish and yearning. Ogle. Intrigue and eye contact. The heart's round robin. Who mentioned love? There ain't enough love in this place to wet a dream." ness! Sentiment. Rapture and craziness. Doting. Dottiness. Fan mail and fantasy. Coquetry, swoon, languish and yearning. Ogle. Intrigue and eye contact. The heart's round robin. Who mentioned love? There ain't enough love in this place to wet a dream."

And Mills thinking maybe it was a part of adventure when perfect strangers told you things, when they took trouble with you. Or perhaps straight talk was only a kind of condescension. Sanbanna would never have spoken this way to the Kislar.

"Well?" said the halvah halvah trader. trader.

"Gee, Guzo," Mills said, "you know the part I don't get?"

"You? You don't get any of it."

"Who made you candy man?"

"George Fourth," Sanbanna said.

Mills stared at him. Moses Magaziner returned his gaze. "Oh no," Mills said, "no no. This isn't the way a world works. No no. You can't get me me with that stuff. What, there's magic in the moonlight? No no. Look," Mills said earnestly, almost severely, "sometimes things happen and you'd have to give long odds. Sure, and throw in a point spread just to get someone into position where he can't afford not to take your bet. Freaky things. Not just coincidence but coincidence called. with that stuff. What, there's magic in the moonlight? No no. Look," Mills said earnestly, almost severely, "sometimes things happen and you'd have to give long odds. Sure, and throw in a point spread just to get someone into position where he can't afford not to take your bet. Freaky things. Not just coincidence but coincidence called. In In expectation! Jolts and starts and thunderclaps, percentage and probability not just caught unaware or caught napping but caught napping unaware with its pants down. I mean out-of-the-blue-you-could-have-knocked-me-down-with-a-feather stuff, things so improbable as to be imponderable. Junk, you know? A fire at the ball game or an earthquake in the park. So farfetched and implausible it would be like spitting in G.o.d's eye. One chance in a million would be a dead cert, foolproof, sure thing, safe bet, lead pipe cinch next to what I'm talking about. Or expectation! Jolts and starts and thunderclaps, percentage and probability not just caught unaware or caught napping but caught napping unaware with its pants down. I mean out-of-the-blue-you-could-have-knocked-me-down-with-a-feather stuff, things so improbable as to be imponderable. Junk, you know? A fire at the ball game or an earthquake in the park. So farfetched and implausible it would be like spitting in G.o.d's eye. One chance in a million would be a dead cert, foolproof, sure thing, safe bet, lead pipe cinch next to what I'm talking about. Or not not talking about. Because what I talking about. Because what I am am talking about you talking about you can't can't talk about. Because if you could," and he was weeping now, "because if you could, you could talk about everything, think about anything. Lovely things would happen, spectacular things. Friends like women who love you. Like lawyers who can save you or doctors that can heal. Everything would work out. The world would come true. I don't mean G.o.d or saying your prayers. I don't even mean hope. h.e.l.l, you could make a wish over a lousy birthday candle and it wouldn't even have to be talk about. Because if you could," and he was weeping now, "because if you could, you could talk about everything, think about anything. Lovely things would happen, spectacular things. Friends like women who love you. Like lawyers who can save you or doctors that can heal. Everything would work out. The world would come true. I don't mean G.o.d or saying your prayers. I don't even mean hope. h.e.l.l, you could make a wish over a lousy birthday candle and it wouldn't even have to be your your birthday and the candle wouldn't even have to be stuck in a cake. s.h.i.t, it wouldn't even have to be birthday and the candle wouldn't even have to be stuck in a cake. s.h.i.t, it wouldn't even have to be lit! lit!"

"All right," Moses Magaziner said, "you wanted to see me, see me."

"All right? Yes? All right? Didn't you hear anything I said?"

"All right," Magaziner said.

"Why?" he asked. "Why you? you?"

"You're the believer," the Jewish British amba.s.sador dressed like a street Arab said. "You're the hopeful one. What do you believe? What do you hope?"

"That you're a spy, that you work for our king. I don't know, that your eye is on the sparrow."

"All right," he said, "I'm a spy, I work for my king. Sure, sometime. Sometime my eye is on the sparrow."

"I get it," Mills said. "Good will. Word of mouth. The harem's best-kept secrets traded for candy."

"Schmuck," Magaziner said, "have you never measured any despair but your own? Why not not candy?" candy?"

"Why not? Because they don't have have secrets." secrets."

"They sleep with the Sultan. What's the matter with you? You never heard of pillow talk? Look, I'm busy. I'm a man of affairs. It's already midafternoon. I've got a courier waiting and I still haven't looked at the diplomatic pouch. Tonight Yetta Zemlick and I are entertaining the Spanish emba.s.sy, and if I don't get back soon to approve the arrangements Gelfer Moonshine is going to have conniptions. So don't hock me me about likelihoods and probabilities. What do you want?" about likelihoods and probabilities. What do you want?"

"What do you think think I want, Moses?" Mills cried. "I want to get out of here! I want you to part those eunuchs like the Red Sea!" I want, Moses?" Mills cried. "I want to get out of here! I want you to part those eunuchs like the Red Sea!"

"Nah," he said, "too risky. I'm a foreign national. We ain't allowed to interfere in the domestic affairs of other empires. Here, have some halvah. halvah. No, go ahead, there's plenty more where that came from." No, go ahead, there's plenty more where that came from."

Mills stared after him as the old man walked off. At the door to the laundry Magaziner turned. "Listen," he said, "it's a long shot, longer than you think, not the sure thing, shoe in, when-you-wish-upon-a-star c.r.a.p you were talking about. His Majesty don't want you. He wouldn't authorize air from petty cash to get you back. He still thinks you're some Pretender or other. Maybe he's right. He don't need subjects like you. So it's a long shot. So long it ain't even mathematics. But if you ever do manage to escape, drop by the emba.s.sy, why don't you? Maybe I can get you on a ship."

"I figured it out," he told Bufesqueu an hour later. "We can make our break. Be ready after dinner."

"What, tonight? I was going to see Yoyu tonight. Everybody's going to be there. They say even the Valide Sultan may put in an appearance. They're expecting me. Why don't you come too, George? The women are going to play cards. The girl with the lowest score has to take her veil off for ten minutes."

"I think we can make it. Watch me. Do what I do."

"Gee, George, it sounds like a nifty plan. It really does. I wish you'd spoken up sooner. The eunuchs have been telling me about this game. It's supposed to be really something to see."

"We can get out of here," Mills said. "The odds are a little tight, but I think we can make it. We just have to be careful not to panic."

"Hey," Bufesqueu said, "you didn't say anything about odds."

"Forget the odds, Tedor. What were the odds when you took Constantinople? Why do I say Constantinople? You took the whole entire Ottoman Empire that day. What were the odds against that?"

"You know that novice, Debba Bayuda? You know--the tall one. The one they say is this far away from becoming a favorite lady. Well the morning line on old Debba is that she's almost as gorgeous as she is rotten at cards."

"How long do you think they'll leave us alone? Sooner or later they've got to castrate us."

"Yeah," Bufesqueu said. "In a way you can't blame them."

"Are you coming with me?"

"Hey," Bufesqueu said, "I really wish I could."

Mills looked at his friend. "If I make it," he said, "they'll cut your b.a.l.l.s off."

Bufesqueu, embarra.s.sed, looked down at his shoes. "Yeah, well," he said shyly, "it's like part of their dress code."

Inside the Valide Sultan's residence Mills squared his shoulders and knocked on the big door in the rear hallway. Beyond it was the short pa.s.sageway that led to Yildiz Palace. He knocked on it five times rapidly, paused for as long as it took to recite the invocation to Allah that began the evening prayers, then rapped again, slowly, eight more times. Straining, he was just able to make out voices, then, moments later, footsteps. He adjusted his regimentals, the full-dress Janissary uniform laundered now and clean as it had been on the day it was issued.

A large man dressed in a fantastical costume was standing on the other side of the big oak door. The Palace Invigilator. Two armed guards stood behind him, their rifles pointed at George's chest.

Mills held up his empty hands and turned in a slow circle.

"You're a Janissary," the Invigilator said.

"These are my campaigns," Mills said. "Khash, Bejestan, Krym and Inebolu. Victories at Khash and Krym, wounded in Bejestan, taken prisoner at Inebolu."

"Where are your ribbons?" the Invigilator demanded.

He looked at the citations st.i.tched on the guards' uniforms, the medals and chains of ent.i.tlement that hung from the Invigilator's neck.

"Burned 'em," Mills said. "Burned the ribbons and buried the medals when I disgraced myself at Inebolu by being captured instead of outright killed."

"Escaped or ransomed?" the Invigilator said.

"Exchanged," Mills said, "for thirty-seven lads from the enemy side."

The guards murmured to each other. The Invigilator hushed them and turned back to face Mills. "You came through the doorway of our Sultan's mother," he said harshly.

" 'As did my father, so does his son,' " Mills said, quoting the proverb.

The Invigilator nodded. "State your business," he said with some kindness.

"Mind yours!" Mills shot back.

"Put up your rifles," the Invigilator commanded the guards. "I'd better get the Imperial Chatelain," he told Mills.

The guards came to attention as Mills and the Invigilator brushed past them, Mills slightly in the lead, the Invigilator studying him from behind to see, in a final test, if he could thread his way through the complicated building to the office of the Imperial Chatelain.

Near the grand staircase-he was trading on instinct now, not only what he remembered of the palace on his single brief visit there almost two years before, and not even only what he had pieced together from the hours and hours of protocol lessons he'd attended ("I'm told that if one is observant," an instructor had mentioned in cla.s.s, "he can read the rugs as savage Indians might follow trails in a forest." Fringe, it had to do with fringe, fringe and color, Mills thought, but couldn't remember what what it had to do with fringe and color, and then, where the fringe seemed thickest and whitest, actually inspired, thinking: Of it had to do with fringe and color, and then, where the fringe seemed thickest and whitest, actually inspired, thinking: Of course! course! It would be lushest where it was least traveled), but some felt tickle in the guts and blood, his way suffused with actual magnetic essences, some lodestar ceremony of the atmosphere that pulled at the hairs on his legs and guided and tugged his bowels-he could no longer hear them behind him. It would be lushest where it was least traveled), but some felt tickle in the guts and blood, his way suffused with actual magnetic essences, some lodestar ceremony of the atmosphere that pulled at the hairs on his legs and guided and tugged his bowels-he could no longer hear them behind him.

Mills turned round. The Invigilator, halted with the guards at a crossroads of corridors, had drawn his scimitar. One guard's rifle was aimed at his head, the other's trained dead center on his belly.

"Kill him," the Invigilator said, "he doesn't know the way."

Mills closed his eyes.

(" 'Corze Oy 'uz prayn," Mills would say later. " 'Corze Oy 'uz prayn 'n' didn' evern know who I erz prayn at! at! Jeezers er Arler er de Jew Gard eiver. 'Corze Oy 'uz prayn 'n yer natchurl instink whan yer makin' yer praise is ter shut yer eyes 'corze yer don' wan' ter be lookern hat de Lord's own face when yer aksin' 'im ter save yer a.r.s.e! 'Corze dat's protcool, 'corze dat's protcool, too. Yer nose in de dirty 'n der a.r.s.e what wants savin' up hin de hair like soom f.o.o.king flame held up in de sky like han off'rin'. 'Corze dere ain't nought han athist 'n Vauxhall. Nill nought none, I don' care whatcher say. 'N it's on'y just Mum Nature's own natchurl protcool yer shoot fram yer eyes whan yer prayn yer praise. Ye loook away joost like yerd loook way from sun. 'N de protcool oov Christers de same. Kneelern, 'ead bowed, er beatin' yer t.i.tties. Jeezers er Arler er de Jew Gard eiver. 'Corze Oy 'uz prayn 'n yer natchurl instink whan yer makin' yer praise is ter shut yer eyes 'corze yer don' wan' ter be lookern hat de Lord's own face when yer aksin' 'im ter save yer a.r.s.e! 'Corze dat's protcool, 'corze dat's protcool, too. Yer nose in de dirty 'n der a.r.s.e what wants savin' up hin de hair like soom f.o.o.king flame held up in de sky like han off'rin'. 'Corze dere ain't nought han athist 'n Vauxhall. Nill nought none, I don' care whatcher say. 'N it's on'y just Mum Nature's own natchurl protcool yer shoot fram yer eyes whan yer prayn yer praise. Ye loook away joost like yerd loook way from sun. 'N de protcool oov Christers de same. Kneelern, 'ead bowed, er beatin' yer t.i.tties. All All of it protcool. Protcool ev'y time. Why Gard deigned, I guess, ter gimme 'is Sign.") of it protcool. Protcool ev'y time. Why Gard deigned, I guess, ter gimme 'is Sign.") "Hold!" Mills hollered before they could fire. "I've stripped her bed!" he told them in protocol.

"Hold your fire!" the Invigilator said, countermanding his earlier order. "Go," he told one of the guards, "check." Which was protocol too.

The guard was back in minutes. He carried his rifle, barrel pointing toward the floor. Behind him a trail of undischarged sh.e.l.ls lay scattered on the runner. He had unb.u.t.toned the flap of his ammunition pocket and was disposing of the last of his sh.e.l.ls when the other guard saw him and began to do the same. The guard who had gone to check nodded gravely, and the Invigilator lay his scimitar across the strip of Oriental carpet where he stood. Which was also protocol.

Because it was all all protocol. The thirteen knocks on the door, the Invigilator's protocol questions and Mills's protocol claims-his burning the ribbons and burying the medals-the fantastical man's protocol harshness when Mills said he'd been exchanged for thirty-seven of the Empire's enemies and his protocol kindness in response to the Janissary's protocol proverb. Because it was protocol. The thirteen knocks on the door, the Invigilator's protocol questions and Mills's protocol claims-his burning the ribbons and burying the medals-the fantastical man's protocol harshness when Mills said he'd been exchanged for thirty-seven of the Empire's enemies and his protocol kindness in response to the Janissary's protocol proverb. Because it was all all protocol. Mills's protocol rudeness, the protocol moment of protocol truth when they'd let Mills precede them (because an honest subject would know the way without being told), all of it, all protocol. Because you couldn't draw two unprotocol'd breaths in a row in this, or, for Mills's money, any other empire either, which was why he'd granted to G.o.d what everybody agreed belonged to G.o.d--the Sign, the providential deign-given Sign, which was only careful planning, knowing one's onions, the known onions of protocol, knowing it was tradition, going back centuries, thirteen could be, maybe more, and that the first to learn of a royal's death had the right to strip the bed, signifying not only grief but continuity too, and not only grief and continuity, but the grief part absolutely of the highest, purest order, pure because often as not removed from all consanguineous ties and arrangements, the shrill, pure grief of subjects, bystanders, citizens--good clean taxpayer grief! protocol. Mills's protocol rudeness, the protocol moment of protocol truth when they'd let Mills precede them (because an honest subject would know the way without being told), all of it, all protocol. Because you couldn't draw two unprotocol'd breaths in a row in this, or, for Mills's money, any other empire either, which was why he'd granted to G.o.d what everybody agreed belonged to G.o.d--the Sign, the providential deign-given Sign, which was only careful planning, knowing one's onions, the known onions of protocol, knowing it was tradition, going back centuries, thirteen could be, maybe more, and that the first to learn of a royal's death had the right to strip the bed, signifying not only grief but continuity too, and not only grief and continuity, but the grief part absolutely of the highest, purest order, pure because often as not removed from all consanguineous ties and arrangements, the shrill, pure grief of subjects, bystanders, citizens--good clean taxpayer grief!

Because it was all all protocol, and why protocol, and why wouldn't wouldn't Mills know about it? Since it was for people like him that protocol was invented, back doors and servants' entrances, folks on whom the protocol was piled sky high, who walked around stooped over from its weight, the burden of so much precedence and protocol turning their stances into the very image of a protocol'd people, like men and women carrying each other miles piggyback. Why Mills know about it? Since it was for people like him that protocol was invented, back doors and servants' entrances, folks on whom the protocol was piled sky high, who walked around stooped over from its weight, the burden of so much precedence and protocol turning their stances into the very image of a protocol'd people, like men and women carrying each other miles piggyback. Why shouldn't shouldn't he know? Learn? Be on a perpetual lookout for dead royals? (Hadn't Moses Magaziner himself quoted odds so long they would be outside the realm of what wouldn't even be mathematics?) Strip their beds and tell the first one he saw higher than he but still low enough in the order for it not to matter much to, someone "without" anything really at stake-and this was where the continuity part came in-the bad news? he know? Learn? Be on a perpetual lookout for dead royals? (Hadn't Moses Magaziner himself quoted odds so long they would be outside the realm of what wouldn't even be mathematics?) Strip their beds and tell the first one he saw higher than he but still low enough in the order for it not to matter much to, someone "without" anything really at stake-and this was where the continuity part came in-the bad news?

So they changed places. Mills and the Invigilator, Mills and the guards. Not physically of course, though the shoe was sure enough on the other foot, but psychologically, Mills no longer responsible by law and protocol to the guards and Invigilator-in theory the grief getting precedence now, the upper hand-just four guys, two pairs of bereaved working stiffs too shocked, again in theory, to know what they were doing, even though what they were doing was their duty. Because grief was the ultimate duty sanctioned, even ordained, by protocol.

"You'll want to let the Grand Vizier know," a guard said solemnly. (Because it was all all protocol.) protocol.) "What?" Mills said. "Oh. Yeah. Right."

"He's left for the night," the Invigilator told him sadly.

"I can't still catch him?"