Garden of Venus. Eva Stachniak

home. The carpet on the floor is soft and thick. On the bed a golden throw glitters in the candlelight.

      ‘Come on, my sweet wisdom,’ the Princess says and pats the spot beside her. She is not wearing her pantaloons, but a loose dress. Through the slit of the dress Sophie can see her leg. White, smooth skin that she does not want to touch.

      The Princess removes the smallest of her rings and extends her hand. ‘Take it,’ she says. ‘I want you to wear it.’

      The ring is too big. It will have to be resized. The jeweller will be summoned first thing in the morning. For now, Sophie can wear the ring on a string around her neck.

      Sophie casts her eyes down. Thoughts abandon her. Her body shudders, each movement is an effort.

      ‘Lean on me, my child. I want to feel your warmth.’

      It is not cold, she wants to say but doesn’t. On her way here the silent servant ushered her into a latticed room and opened a large coffer. Inside there was nothing but a silk belt. The servant gave her a curious look and mimed strangling her own throat.

      Sophie closes her eyes when the Princess’s hand caresses her cheek, her neck, her breasts. A hot, heavy hand, burrowing its way into her body. Is this what Mana knew would happen to her?

      What a fool she was to dream of the Sultan’s love.

      Someone walks by the Princess’s chamber, something rustles, something falls to the floor with a thud. The hand that touches her freezes, but only for a moment.

      In this moment Sophie closes her eyes and tries to imagine this is the hand of a rich foreign diplomat, the man of the world who will teach her to dance and tell her stories of foreign lands. Stories in which women have carriages and beautiful jewels. Where their hair is piled up and adorned with flowers and birds and strings of pearls. Where men whisper sweet words into the women’s ears.

      ‘How soft your skin is, my sweet wisdom.’

      ‘Come closer. You are not afraid of me, are you?’

      Is this what fear does? Freezes the heart? Stops the mind from dreaming?

      She lets the Princess hold her hand. Mana has taught her how to give pleasure. Each body has its own desires. She knows how to press a muscle, gently first, then harder, and harder, until the pressure inside it is released. She knows how to dissolve the knots of tension, to bring relief.

      A smile is pasted to her lips, a contortion of flesh. It makes her mouth quiver. The Princess calls her an angel, a sweet, beautiful child. A temptress. Sophie will lack for nothing. Ever. Sophie will be like a queen.

      ‘Kiss me,’ the Princess says, pointing at her lips.

      ‘Not like this. Harder.’

      There are bruises on her thighs and arms, but she has not felt pain. Her own body feels as if it belongs to someone else, to another woman she can see from above. A woman whose face is covered with kisses, whose body is pinned to the bed. Whose clothes are prised away from her and whose hands clutch to her naked breasts. This other woman has stopped fighting her fate. She is lying motionless in the soft bed, with her eyes closed. She is trying to sink so deep that no one would find her. She is trying to close herself to the touch that yanks her from her dreamlike state. Nothing is happening, she repeats to herself. This is nothing. Nothing.

      ‘What is done once,’ the Princess whispers, ‘cannot be undone. What is felt once, will never be forgotten. You are mine, now,’ she whispers. ‘My own little wisdom.’

      In the darkness Sophie prays for time to hurry, to go faster. Her lips are sore where the Princess has bitten them.

      ‘I am making you happy. You cannot hide your own pleasure from me.’

      ‘Say it!’

      ‘You are making me happy. I cannot hide my own pleasure from you.’

      ‘I am your mistress. There is no one else but me.’

      ‘You are my mistress. There is no one else but you.’

      ‘Ever.’

      ‘Ever.’

      The bed is crumpled and moist with sweat; pillows have fallen off, to the floor. Silk-covered pillows, soft and smooth. The Princess is still holding her arm, making her lie there. There are other kinds of wisdom, she says. Many crave it, but few are chosen. Only to the few it shall be revealed. Wisdom that speaks of the true delights of love, of secrets common women are not meant to know.

      ‘Listen, my little wisdom. With me you will know it all.’

      These stories speak of mysterious journeys across parched deserts; of abandoned inns where, in spite of the worst fears, sumptuous meals await an exhausted traveller; of crossroads where the hanged long for the mercy of the burial; of old hermits who know the way. It is enough to close her eyes to see the deep dungeons where hatred and envy rule and the fragrant gardens where beauty and love meet in secret. In search of their fate, the travellers of those tales fight hunger and thirst, battle false desires—the phantoms that drive the soul away from its dream.

      ‘Such are the stories of the night,’ the Sultana whispers. ‘They are all for you, my sweet wisdom.’

      For there are more stories. Stories wrenched away from the possessed. Stories from forbidden books, stories of women who know as much as the men, but who guard their secret knowledge with their lives.

      ‘I know them all, my sweet wisdom,’ the Sultana says. ‘And soon, you too will know them.’

      But then, a moment later, she is snoring, her arm heavy on Sophie’s shoulder. For a long while Sophie tries to wriggle out from under this arm. To stand up, gasp for breath. Her stomach churns and the coffee she has drunk rises up her throat. For a brief moment of despair she considers standing on the edge of the window and throwing herself down, into the paved courtyard underneath, but she doesn’t want to die.

      She lets the tears flow, silently, until sleep comes. In the morning, she will think of something. Luck will not abandon her like that. Without warning, without giving her another chance. Luck may have played a mean trick on her, but Sophie has not lost her faith.

      ‘I’m worthy of a king’s bed,’ she thinks, just before sleep comforts her, just before she remembers the smell of jessamine and honeysuckle; just before she forgets the silk belt in the black ebony coffer and the cold anger in the servant’s voice.

      The Greeks are but our slaves, she hears, their race a perfect example of what happens when the men are not separated from the women. No work ever gets done, because with all these women running in the streets men only want to have fun. Idleness and lies rule them. And deceit.

      But the Russians, she says in protest, do not separate the women. Or the French. Or the English. No one heeds her words. What does she know, a plaything that has caught the Princess’s fancy. Clanging bells on her arms so that her arrival does not go unnoticed.

      The Harem, she hears, is a woman’s blessing. Without it, a woman would be exposed to curious glances in the streets. To prying eyes, to jeerings from the passersby. Here, a woman has everything she may ever want. Why would she want to venture outside? What is it that she lacks?

      When she laughs, the women say: ‘Don’t laugh too much or you’ll cry soon.’

      It is in the small courtyard, by the fountain, that the women gather: odalisques, servants, and slaves. On low tables the slaves have laid clays, dried pomegranate peel, nut bark, saffron, dried roses, myrtle, orange flowers. There are fresh eggs the whites of which will be rubbed with shebba to make the thick lumpy mass that will cleanse the skin. For it is with the skin, they say, that you touch the world.

      The women, their faces covered with gooey masks, sit patiently and talk. Things have to be done right, the way they were done before. Only the conceited believe one could discover a better way than the one practised for generations. A better way of embroidering or preparing