“Some of them lie down next to you and don’t do anything but chew khat,” they tell Goat Foot. “In the end, khat leaves them impotent. They don’t care, they keep chewing, and so do we. Here, khat is the only affection and the only paradise.”
The ones who ply their trade at home are called dhillos.If they work the streets, they’relupas.If they’re in inns or lodges, they’remozas,and if they’re in the cemetery,basturias.
Licia, basturia by trade, a nocturnal moth, pale as death, offers to teach the young woman from Sheba the art of warbling weepy songs while prowling cemeteries.
“With sweet moans and laments,” she says, “you cast a tearful spell over some sad widower who’s just buried his beloved wife, and you console him right there, on the grave, on the freshly moved dirt. Once you have more experience, you can play dead. All you have to do is stay naked and still, with two copper coins over your closed eyes; some men pay well to fornicate with your warm corpse in a mausoleum.”
“I could do that,” says Goat Foot. “I’m still the color of death and still have its bitter trace in my mouth, and since I live in mourning for my own life, it wouldn’t be hard to satisfy some fan of fake corpses.”
“Don’t do it, Goat Foot, beloved Sheba,” begs the chorus of alaleishos. “Don’t do it! It’s a dirty, dangerous game, you’ll getstung by scorpions and some men will try to kill you so they can rape the real thing.”
Goat Foot weighs the range of opinions. Among them, the least demanding and most convenient seems to be laboring for merchants and travelers in the inns downtown or the plentiful lodges along roads.
“Come with us,” say the mozas. “You’re pretty, and aside from that foot, you seem healthy too. You could work at the Three Crows, the busiest inn.”
“Is it far from here?” asks Goat Foot.
“A little far, yes, but the muleteers take us there on their animals’ rumps in exchange for a blow job, and we return the same way.”
“Do you barter at the inn too?”
“You have to take shifts as a maid. You refresh the straw in the mattresses, air out the blankets, wash the chamber pots, fill the basins with clean water, mop the halls, care for the horses, and attend to the guests’ wishes. It goes better if you adorn your hair with flowers and perfume yourself with lavender water. Are you a virgin?” they ask, and she replies yes. “Then you’ve got a treasure between your legs.”
Virgins are sought after by rich merchants who come from the high northern mountains with pouches full of gold. If, in addition to being a virgin, a girl is not ugly, and knows how to please them, she can earn scraps of gold to send back home. Once virginity is lost, she’s worth the same as the others.
Every once in a while, the innkeeper makes them wash their private parts with water and vinegar to prevent infections, and he inspects their hair and clothes for lice and fleas. They prefer foreign clients, as they’re known to be generous and practice coitus from behind, which is better for preventing pregnancy.
Suddenly, Hayi Esahira erupts. There’s noise on the streets, the neighborhood explodes with fury, and women pour from all the yellow doors, shouting. A client tried to split without paying, the victimsounded the alarm, and now they all chase him, catch him, and give him a good beating. It looks like the man is just getting punched, but in fact the metal bracelets the dhillos wear on their wrists are making deep wounds. The young woman from Sheba takes advantage of the commotion to escape. This place is not for me, she says as she leaves.
A stench invades the road, accompanied by the tinkling of bells. It’s from the red hats on the people approaching her, one very tall, the other extremely short. Their hats are comical, over-the-top, reminiscent of a circus or carnival, the brims strung with little bells that jingle with each step. Other people keep their distance, in fear. Only Goat Foot stays where she is, because she doesn’t understand. The two figures hide their sores with rags and wraps and emit a scent of rot.
“I’m Marcabrún and she’s Marcabruna,” says the tall one, in a rough voice, gesturing toward his companion. “Aren’t you scared of me?”
“Why should I be?”
“Because I am leprosy.”
Goat Foot walks with them for a while. People mutter, “The living dead!” and back away.
“Do you want to live with us?” Marcabruna asks. “We can offer you food and shelter if you promise to wash our sores, cook our soup, and console us during our long nights of suffering.”
The three travelers have paused to take respite from the sun in the shade of a tree by the name of dragon blood, in the shape of a high umbrella. The girl from Sheba considers the offer she’s just received.
“Yes, I could do that,” she replies. “I’d feel at home among the living dead.”
“But there are other requirements that might be harder,” Marcabruna warns. “As you walk the streets, you’d have to wear a red hat lined with bells, like the one I’m wearing, and people will back away from you with disgust. Children will throw stones at you.”
“I can’t wear a red hat with bells on it, nor keep children away or have them throwing stones.”
“That’s not all. For us lepers, dyed clothes are forbidden. We can only wear coarse tunics made from raw wool. You won’t be able to walk the roads alone, like you did today; from now on you’ll travel in a pair. And you should know that sooner or later your blood will turn black and muddy, and sores will consume your skin. Which will mean you’ve been infected. But perhaps that’s already happened. Could it be leprosy that deformed your foot?”
Goat Foot answers that it’s a birth defect. She wants nothing more to do with Marcabrún and Marcabruna, and she says her goodbyes, careful not to touch them, wishing them patience and resolve to endure their illness.
Al-Basateen becomes small in the distance, like an apparition that disappears.
Chasing the Chimera
You unlatch, you rise, you escape, and I, Bos Mutas, end up in love with air. Tell me who you are, Lady of Saba. You, of thegreat dark eyes deeper than the mystic caverns.1 Why do you illuminate others while keeping yourself in shadows? Why do you make yourself visible in the light of the mind, but invisible to the light of day? You’re a dream without a dreamer. You are all message, yet I can’t decipher you.
