London's Playboy

"Love, you're just beautiful!"

"And you're just broke," she retorted darkly, her throat throwing her into a convulsion of coughing. Another morning. Another man. And, from the looks of it, another day without breakfast.

The Englishman jittered his foot pensively before jerking as if with sudden thought. "Oh, broke is such a nasty word..."

Her eyes were yellowed, and bloodshot. Some old wife or another had said she wasn't getting enough red meat. She turned her gaze manevolently to his, silencing him with a glare. She cleared her throat hoarsely, feeling the tickle of another coughing spell against the roof of her mouth. She cleared her throat again, saving it for another time.

"Nasty word?" she whispered difficultly. "How about 'starving'? Or 'dying'? Or 'whore'?"

He winced slightly. "Oh, those are some nasty words, aren't they?"

She snorted, allowing herself to fall back against the mattress. Some joint was aching horridly in her back. She could feel his thoughtful eyes running over her a moment; could sense the guilty grimace that jerked the corner of his mouth. He was comparably sympthatic, when one considered the other men who paid her. And maybe all this would amount to something. She knew was a pathetic case; if not for her white skin, her hourly rate would be considerably cheaper.

Finally, "Well, how about this?"

"Jonathan..." she groaned, allowing her eyelids to fall over her gaze.

"No, really, love. Just give it a shot. Sit up now--" His hand enclosed her wrist and drug her to a sitting position. She stared at him blankly. "There's a good girl. Now. How about you hold onto this as a sort of...leverage."

Carefully, he withdrew an octogonal box engraved with hieroglyphs and apparently wrought of ancient gold. Almost reluctantly, he placed the heavy trinket in her palm. Her eyes glanced over the article, unimpressed.

"What the hell is it?" she demanded darkly, prepared to heave it across the room should he try to play pawner.

Jonathan exaggerated a shrug. "How should I know? It's just...heavy, and...and shiny...and I should like to have it back some day."

Her lazy eyes lifted to his. Had she the energy, she would have scowled. "And how does this buy me breakfast?"

"Well I should think it wouldn't, since you're keeping it for me while I get you your money."

None of this appeared to be registering any understanding in her, so she resolved to stare at him blankly until he explained himself. With an exasperated sigh, the Englishman tipped her chin so that he could look her squarely in the eye.

"I'm leaving to get money. To pay you. And just so you know that I'm not trying to trick you, I'm leaving this...whatever it is for you to hold until I get back."

She shrugged, nodding slowly. "Alright. But I really do want to eat this morning, so could you come back quick?"

A victorious grin spread over Jonathan's face, and he bobbled his head convincingly. "Of course, of course! I'll be back in a jiffy. Just don't lose that box, love."

She rolled her eyes, allowing herself to collapse into bed again. She heard the scuffle of expensive leather shoes on the floor, and the friendly slam of the door behind him as he left. For a while, until the sounds of him disappeared down the hall, a whistled drinking hymn floated to her ears. Her eyelids dropped, and she was encompassed in the darkness of her mind. Vaguely, her fingers traced over the engravings of the trinket in her hand. She hoped the damned thing was worth a lot to him.

Jonathan Carnahan was a vexing, if entertaining sort. The last time she had seen him, he was overwhelmed with money to spend; this passed night, he came empty-handed. He was a gambling, drinking ne'er-do-well, with nothing to smile about and an endearing grin. She wondered what mother, or sister, or wife was stuck harboring his tendencies, and if the said woman was insane. He was the type that would drive a woman insane, if she didn't love him.

But she didn't think often on love, specifically because she was in the business of it. She didn't think love was stupid, or had any bitter feelings regarding it--she simply didn't think about it. Thinking about love, too often, involved thinking of another person, and she didn't have time for another person. She'd been suffering the same coughing ailment for a week now, and she'd only recently developed an appetite again. She was grateful for that. Hunger meant she was still well. It was the times--the days over days--when she wasn't hungry, when she had to force her own food down, that frightened her. Just yesterday, she'd begun to notice those itching warts creeping up on her again. She snorted her irritation at the heated light that floated through her window. That was the last time she took business from Beni Gabor.

She knew a thought like that was a lie. From wherever he got it, Beni retained money, even if he was a rat and tried to cheat her. He always had it, because he was too gold-thirsty to keep it far from his being. Warden Hassan was like that, too, but he was too stupid to try and dupe her. He didn't have enough foresight to think to pay less than was expected. Hairy and reeking and disgusting though he was, the warden made for one of her favorite customers. He'd never tried to leave her with a trinket as...what was it? "Leverage." There truly was a lack of customers she could call enjoyable, anyway. Oh, that American...O'Connell...his body was in good condition, and he had some charm about him, but he was just another man. After a while, they all stop being charming. After a while, there is no difference in their bodies. After a while, none is better than the others.

Was it only a year ago that she was able to look forward to some? That she could be picky and flirtish and choose the handsome ones with nice builds and straight teeth? She wasn't that pretty anymore. She didn't have the energy to be flirtish. And she didn't have the luxury of being picky. Money was money, and she didn't sleep with men anymore. She slept with dollars, and pounds, and pretty gold chains that could be traded for more dollars and pounds.

She pulled herself to a sitting position, cracking her aching back. It felt as if the joints quivered fearfully long after she had stretched, but she resolved to ignore it until Jonathan brought her money and she could see another doctor. The brothel's owner had one doctor stop in every three months to hand out medicine and cut out warts and determine pregnancy. Frequently, the Mother Superior from one orphanage or another would drop by to take any children born after her last visit, crossing herself a dozen times and sending stoney glares to the girls. She could recall...only one child of her own to be taken. A girl, as she remembered. She'd had a few miscarriages--the exact count wasn't clear--and a stillborn, but the girl was the only child taken away. She remembered the baby was very white...and the hair clinging to her scalp was a soft, flaxen blonde. And she had been relieved because that meant the girl would be adopted into a good home, and that was enough. She'd never really had the desire to seek the child out; there seemed no point in revealing how disgraceful her birth was. But it was good to know she had been so perfectly white, because everybody knew that the dark babies and the half-breeds would stay in the orphanage until they were too old to stay there anymore. Wealthy Brits don't adopt the bastards of whores and Arabic men.

She rose to her feet, finding a thin, white shift crumpled on the floor. Picking it up, she found no serious fault with it, and put it on. It was a little short, but it was relatively clean, and it covered her. She grew weary of being naked so much. Walking over to her rouge cabinet, she picked up a brush and began to work the knots out of her hair. Her eyes met her form in the mirror, and she shrugged optomistically. She looked tired and malnourished, but better, at least, than the night she had seen herself a few weeks ago. She would eat as much as she could manage today, and gain back some weight. If she wanted to make more money, she would have to be able to attract richer men.

Someone was knocking at her door. She very nearly smiled, because it appeared as if Jonathan would be going through with his word. Her bare feet graced the floor across the room, opening the threshhold expectantly. Instead of the chipper blue gaze she had been hoping for, she met the wild, anxious dark eyes of the brothel's owner.

"Hûr, prepare yourself! You look like hell!" he shouted hoarsely, black gaze darting about the room. "You have no one this morning?"

She studied him, still puzzled at his insistence. "He left...What's the matter, Ghazi?"

He looked bewildered, running his fingers thoughtfully over the tattoo on the back of his hand. His breathing was quick and nervous, and he ran an anxious tongue over his lip. Irritably, he grabbed her by the arm and drew her out of the room with all the force of his diminutive body.

"Go, bathe! Dress! Perfume! Buthainah is buying silks for your bed. Hurry!"

She scratched her head, her confusion being emitted from her gaze. "Why...?"

Ghazi's eyes blazed, and he began pushing her down the hall towards the bath closet. "Abia already drew you a bath, and it's getting cold! The Med-Jai are coming! Hurry!"

She tried to shake herself out of this odd reverie. "Who?"

The brothel owner heaved an agitated sigh, his body twitching with anxiety. "The Med-Jai! The highest of our tribe! They are collecting to pay tribute to Mohammed Bey! To the desert people first, then to the towns! Bathe, Hûr! Prince Ardeth will be here any time!"

Confusion was knitting into her brow, and she stared at him blankly a moment longer. Before she could even open her mouth to protest, she was pushed in a frenzy into the bath closet. She would have said something, but steam was rising with the inviting aroma of spices and flowers from the humble tub, and a tray of dates rest ready for her watering mouth.

Whoever the Med-Jai were, and this Mohammed Bey and Prince Ardeth, they could come any time they pleased.

Hûr: Arabic for white, especially when contrasting the white of the eye to the black of the pupil and/or iris. Not a real name.