“Where is that?”
“Who,” the Vendor said, yet he pointed to a place, one with pink marble walls and naked flesh on display. “Hassan is boss of half Najmah Janoob. His office is there. Come, Janbiya will take you.” He hoisted the lockbox up onto his shoulder and started for the brothel.
Lord, forgive me, Adam prayed. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t have a choice, that it was for the greater good and that God would pardon him, that it was no different from when he and Adnihilo would look upon the whores of Amsah’s place. But that, too, was a sin, wasn’t it? Something in the pastor’s son had changed—something scarred and something awakened—and both rose in him as he followed the vendor into the five-story den of iniquity.
The odor struck him first while his eyes adjusted to the lurid, scarlet lights of the common room. It was the sweet of perfume and the salt of sweat and the tinge of liquor, meat, and sex in the air, thick and humid with banter and music as bawdy as the bare breasts and sheer skirts of the servers. Adam couldn’t help but linger as he passed, his stare as lecherous as the rest of the guests’. A hundred shades of heathens, a dozen different vices. Men, women—even children. They gorged themselves on wine and opium, on pipes of hashish and every kind of flesh. It repulsed him, but they were not the worst of it. What disgusted Adam the most was his own arousal, a sin that only quickened as he and his guide delved to the center of the den where, on the open stairwell, the sounds of deep-throated groans and skin slapping skin grew louder each step of their ascent—every floor an orgy—till they arrived at the summit. This is for Magdalynn, Adam tried to convince himself.
He and the fruit vendor stood on a threshold blocked on all sides by a ring-wall of curtains. Tapestries, the Messah realized, woven with images of the old Tsaazaari kings: Joseph, Victor, Asher, and Solomon. Adam knew them by their crowns and by the scenes in which were depicted. He stared, awestruck. They were just like in the scriptures, just as the pastor’s son imagined them to be painted upon the walls of the Temple Rock. Yet they were in a brothel. He pondered this while the vendor called out. “Hassan,” the man bellowed, then he said some words in the Tsaazaari tongue. Another voice answered, one rich with passion and authority. At the vendor’s signal, they passed under the tapestries.
For the briefest of moments, Adam believed he had stepped into a cathedral. He winced at the light shining silver-gold from stained glass windows—mandalas frost-white, violet, amber, and indigo. They illumed the whole room with an air of sanctity, brought to life statues at each of the four corners. They were busts of women chiseled from precious stone: a Gautaman girl in jade, a Hibernis maid in gray jasper, garnet for a Mephistine woman, and the last a Messah in opal. The man called Hassan must have caught Adam staring, for he rose from his desk—a masterwork of craftsmanship, crystal and amaranth, sadly bestrewn with ledgers.
“Beautiful, are they not? My late wives. May their souls rest gently in the æturnum ætherial.”
Adam nodded, astonished at the fluency of his Messaii and the candor of his mien, and of course at the affluence of his livery. His tall, plump frame was done up in violet silk woven with amethysts—robe and turban and up-swept boots—and everywhere on him was glimmering with gold. Yet it was him who bowed first to the simple fruit vendor. He spoke some words in Tsaazaari, warm and jovial tones, and the man bowed back to him, set his lockbox by the desk, and left the office smiling, whispering “Solomon’s luck,” to Adam on his way down the stairs.
“Now that we are alone, please allow me to introduce myself.” He bowed now to the pastor’s son. “My name is Hassan Fathi Ghada, owner of this establishment and many of the pavilions you surely saw on your way here. You’ve already met my former ladies; Ai, Ľubica, Ahava, and Maria; but I’d like also for you to meet my flesh and blood beloved.”
“Ashaya,” announced a feminine tenor, and the Messah turned and stepped aside the tapestries. Lounging on a down-feather couch of suede and cashmere was a dark, buxom woman, jeweled, pierced, and robed in maroon, black-brown hair flowing like a landslide from under her headscarf ornamented with gold. She glared at Adam as if she were about to scold him, then rolled onto her side, facing away.
Hassan continued, “You must forgive my weary Ashaya. She is the mistress of the house and has had an arduous time finding the right match for a difficult client.”
“Only because you offer me nothing but greenhorns!” Ashaya shouted, still facing the wall. “No, if they were greenhorns then maybe they could keep it up. They’re soggy lagana, wilting tulips, limb blades of spring grass!”
“Alas,” said Hassan, ignoring her outburst. His cheeks seemed happy, yet his hooded eyes looked exhausted. “I’ve not yet gotten your name, young Messah, nor the name of your companion.”
“Adam. My name is Adam, the son of Pastor David of the parish in Babylon. And this is… this is my sister, Magdalynn. She’s sick, but I’ve been told that the medicine she needs might be here—in the outpost, I mean.” He breathed a deep sigh to recollect his dignity. “What I mean to say is, I don’t have much time but I’m willing to work if you have anything for me.”
The purple merchant nodded and drifted toward his desk, clasped his hands together, then began sifting through his ledgers. “Yes, Janbiya mentioned you were looking for work. How long do you have?”
“Three days, counting today.”
“Not very long,” frowned Hassan. “There aren’t many jobs that’ll pay what you want. Medicine is expensive,
