Egyptian Music by Loreena McKennit

Just to get me back into a KoC mood! Look out for a post or two...

L'Affaire: A Guest for Madame

I was sweeping the grate in the Madame’s drawing-room. Sweeping the grate was horrid work—to be done properly, it took an inordinate amount of time—and it also made a ridiculous mess of one’s clothes. After collecting the build-up of ash with a brush, the tiles on the hearth had to be scrubbed with a dampened sponge. Then, the new firewood must be laid in place. All this while on one’s hands and knees; the task was not one I eagerly anticipated.

Madame Gagnon had specified that the pleasure of sweeping the grate was to be mine that afternoon, however, and without perceptible complaint I proceeded to the drawing-room. The drawing-room was the pride of the house, and all to Madame’s personal credit. It was a rectangular room with more or less equal sides. Each tall wall was covered in a delicately patterned silk of a muted blue, chosen to complement the gilded mirror and furniture. The settees were covered in a plaid fabric of feminine colours. The fireplace was white, and a good quantity of light came in through the two large bay windows. Yet, though impeccably tasteful, the drawing-room could not conceal the symmetry of its parts and the formality of its air. It was an intimidating space, so perfectly faultless that it felt cold despite the inviting arrangement of chaises and lounges. Madame certainly intended it to be her peaceful retreat (Monsieur would never have allowed gold gilding and plaid anywhere else in the house), but her own dauntless propriety and the uptightness of her character prevented her from achieving this object in any of her endeavours, and the design of her drawing-room reflected this shortcoming.

Kneeling by the hearth, I reflected on the curious nature of the room while Madame reclined on the chaise-longue, concentrating on her migraine. Little Fifi sat on the carpet near her mama’s feet, undressing her newest doll, Madeleine, to bring her into a similar state of dilapidation as her older dolls. Fifi was the darling of the family, born some three years ago. Madame had sworn she would be the last child, at the time of her birth, and since then I had been watching her tightly-corseted abdomen for any sign that she had reneged on her vow. As I rolled my sleeves further up my arms, leaving dark ash smudges on my white chemise, I began to ponder Madame’s curious relationship with Monsieur.

Monsieur Bisset was a solicitor of the successful variety. The nature of his work, I was led to believe, was so that he could spend only the barest minimal time of the night in the home, and on many days of the year, not at all. My only experience of his presence was late, on an occasional night, when he would walk from the library to his study, or from his study to his bedroom. As such, I could barely remember what he looked like. His wife, however, I could confidently say was a very attractive woman, in her mid-thirties, who cared very much about her face and figure. She had given me one of her old gowns the previous year, a morning gown of pink taffeta, and the alarmingly narrow waist made me more conscious of watching my own.

I was thus engaged in reflections about the Bissets, when the door was opened by Madame Gagnon. In her usual gruff tone, she heralded that “Madame Hébert has arrived to see you, Madame.”

I turned to see Madame pull herself up, a frown marring her well-formed mouth. “Allow her in please.”

At this point, Fifi too realized that their comfort and privacy was to be invaded, and she immediately took cover underneath a nearby lounge. Her retreat was ignored by Madame, who pursed her lips, awaiting the arrival of her husband’s elderly aunt.

The guest was ushered in by Madame Gagnon promptly. My presence, as it had been before the unplanned arrival, went on disregarded.
Madame Hébert ambled forward with some difficulty. I ascertained the reason for her trouble. While her left hand grasped the handle of her walking stick, her right hand struggled with a flat, rectangular parcel, which dragged along the floor.

“Tante Augustine! To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” said Madame in greeting, with her delightful voice.

The elderly aunt held up her load, as though that would at once clarify the situation. Her effort was in vain, however, as Madame’s face remained perplexed, mine remained curious, and even Fifi under the lounge looked confused.

“I took the liberty of embarking on this visit because I have your opinion to ask upon a matter which has deeply distressed me.”

The three of us who received her words were no better enlightened. “Please make yourself at ease, Tante Augustine, and tell me what has you troubled,” she said courteously.

The old woman deposited herself on the lounge under which Fifi was hidden, and began her tale.
“I made an imprudent decision two weeks ago, to have my portrait done by an artist who a friend recommended to me, on the merit of his affordability. I received the result yesterday, and I must say that I have reasonable cause to think that I wasted my time and money!”

With this, she shook the parcel at her side. Madame’s reply was devoid of any true sentiment. “Let us see it then.”

The offending artwork was revealed. I craned my head to see it for myself. My position was such that I had to study it from an ungainly angle, but luckily the matte pastel surface repelled the glare of the two bay windows. I was able to establish that Madame Hébert’s distress was unfounded: the artist had produced a faithful likeness of her unpleasant features (I inwardly commended the bravery he must have possessed to make any study of that horrid face), and though somewhat lacking in spirit, it made up in artistic finesse.

I studied Madame’s features to perceive her reaction. Her face remained expressionless as she assessed the evidence her aunt presented. It was clear from the occasional movement in her brow that she was conflicted as to how to state the obvious truth without offending the deluded old woman. In the end, she decided not to tell the truth at all.

“Quite poor indeed, Tante Augustine, it looks nothing like you.”

“I knew it! Dearest Esmé, what do you suggest I do?”

Presented with another difficult request, Madame’s face once again became inhumanly still. “There is not much which can be done, I am afraid. Who is the artist?”

“Fantin-Latour.”

“You’re quite sure? I thought you said he was affordable?”

“Ah, you’re thinking of Monsieur Henri Fantin-Latour. It was Monsieur Frédéric who I commissioned, his younger brother.”

“Oh,” said Madame, and the conversation had reached an impasse, with neither side in any way motivated to continue it.

I continued my work, thinking about Madame Hébert’s portrait. I acknowledged to myself that I knew almost nothing about art—no, not almost nothing, plainly nothing—but Madame had observably agreed with my notion that the portrait was quite satisfactory. Soon enough, however, I became engrossed with my task, and I gave up thinking entirely.

KoC: Forewarned

Jamila dismissed the maidservants as they entered her private chambers. Casting an anxious eye around her surroundings, Hayrünissa noticed the glowing lamps in the wall-sconces, which gave the room a rich, if somewhat ominous, glow in the receding light. She had seldom entered the Sultana’s rooms; Jamila preferred to spend time outdoors, seated upon an airy balcony, or managing her affairs outside the Harem. Hayrünissa was somewhat surprised to note that the room was rather lacking in the luxury which a Sultana might lavish upon her interiors: the furnishings were well-made, but simple, the decoration minimal. Damask throws of blues and browns afforded one of the few embellishments, along with silver bowls filled with rosewater.

The Sultana made a sitting gesture as she unwound the fabric binding her hair, letting her dark tresses fall loose to her shoulders. Hayrünissa obeyed immediately, dropping upon a large floor cushion, while Jamila remained standing. Her expression was not one of anger, but it exuded her displeasure at the events which she had witnessed.

“Might I explain myself?” asked Hayrünissa meekly.

Jamila seated herself, arranging her legs elegantly. “There is no need. I understood what I saw.”

Hayrünissa had to words with which to reply. She looked down, uncomfortable and embarrassed.

“I also understand what you feel. It is hard to live the life you lead now. Promised to a man who you’ve never seen, and likely won’t see for some months to come. But, for your own sake, you must be patient.”

“It is too late,” Hayrünissa replied in a monotone, avoiding eye-contact in her shame. “I have been defiled.”

She stole a glance from Jamila after a few moments of silence. The Sultana’s face betrayed nothing. “That was not what I meant. Your mistake will be easily forgiven, as long as you do not reveal his identity. But you must be more careful from now on. Others will not look upon this as forgivingly.”

Hayrünissa looked up, surprised.

“I doubt that any quantity of forewarning from me will discourage you. If you feel you must risk continuing your attachment, then be more discreet.”

“I have no intention of ever seeing him again,” replied Hayrünissa truthfully.

“I do not think that it would be wise to cut him off completely. Men make foolish decisions when they’re scorned. For the sake of your reputation, you must continue the relationship—”

“Else he will have his revenge by confessing.”

“He would not implicate himself, but he could accuse someone else of his crime. You must be careful to keep him loyal to you, at any cost.”

Hayrünissa could barely believe her ears. The thought of keeping Hassan’s affection out of fear of his retribution was absurd to her. But she knew to do otherwise would risk everything.

Rearranging herself, Jamila smiled at her. “It is not much to ask, is it?”

Hayrünissa looked down. The task would have been easier if she loved him, but she wasn’t altogether confident of that. “Of course, Sultana,” she said, and the dreadful conversation was over.

KoC: In Disguise

Kaif buttoned up the grey servant’s tunic while the Teacher held up a torch so that he could see what he was doing. He fastened them with clumsy fingers, barely seeing in the dim light. To think that once he had servants to do up his buttons for him…

“You are taking too long, al-Dimashqi,” his companion stated sternly.

“Just a moment,” Kaif muttered, as he finished struggling with the last of the troublesome fastenings. “All done, sir.”

“Good,” came the murmured reply, and the Teacher turned around, taking the torch with him. Kaif’s moved almost involuntarily after him, trying to keep up with the only source of light. “We will enter now. Saniyah knows her way around the castle, but we do not. We will need to locate the woman’s room on our own, and as you know well, al-Dimashqi, I hate to be rushed.”

“Indeed you don’t,” Kaif mumbled under his breath, his voice nearly edged with malice. He checked himself in time. It wouldn’t do at all to have the Teacher suspicious of his true loyalties. Whatever those are… thought Kaif. Lately he was having trouble understanding the intricacies of his complicated position. He reminded himself to be more careful, especially around the Teacher, who reported directly to Rashid ad-Din Sinan, who had the power of life and death over all of them.

Brushing away the dust gathering on his shoulders, Kaif followed the Teacher like an obedient dog. Silently, they walked through the dark vault, keeping within an arm’s distance of the wall. The torch flickered uneasily, once or twice, at the breath of a draft.

Its light remained strong enough, however, to illuminate a winding, narrow flight of steps which led to the upper levels of the castle. Within a moment, they were ascending the stair, the sleeves of their tunics catching on the stone as they climbed around the narrow corners. The narrow stairwell grew quite warm with the heat of the torch, and Kaif struggled for breath in the stifling air.

Kaif raised his eyes, trying to see past the Teacher’s silhouette. A faint light was present beyond him, which didn’t belong to the torch. It spilled upon the steps before the teacher, signifying the end of the stair.

“We have arrived.” The Teacher stopped, addressing his younger companion without turning to face him. “Be careful what you say once we’re up there. Not a word now about our mission, do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“In fact…better you don’t speak at all.”

Kaif nodded, almost thankful that there would be no need for small-talk. Personally, he thought it would arouse greater suspicion to have a pair of mute servants walking around the palace, but he spoke nothing of his concerns. Truthfully, he had begun to think that the mission’s success mattered not at all to him.

KoC: The Task Begins in Earnest

Suppressing the cough rising in his throat, Kaif stood behind the Teacher, staring inertly at the motionless cellar door. The bowels of Kerak were dusty with age and disuse, and their feet had stirred the powdery dirt into the air. The passage was narrow and dark, its ceiling so low that Kaif had to keep his head down to avoid colliding with any jutting masonry. Like the shrewd Greek soldiers before the gates of Troy, the Teacher and he were waiting for their Trojan Horse to open the door. The only difference was that their horse was a flesh-and-blood woman.

The Teacher made use of his waiting time patiently, standing still, upright and composed, unlike Kaif, who had leaned on the stone wall, fidgeting uncomfortably. Being the younger and more inexperienced of the two, had prepared himself for what he thought would be a difficult and taxing mission. Now, deprived of action for the better part of the hour, he felt his blood boil.

“How much longer?” asked Kaif, clearing his throat.

“Shh!” The Teacher leaned against the ancient, brittle wood of the door. It hardly needed to be opened, thought Kaif. The Teacher’s weight alone was enough to cause it to buckle inwards.

The older man leaned away. “She is coming,” he informed Kaif, without looking at him.

About time, Kaif almost said, but he knew that it wasn’t al-Zarqa who was late. The Teacher, always a vigilant and careful man, had insisted on their early arrival. Kaif, being merely the manpower for the mission, was in no capacity to protest.

Kaif edged forward, keeping one hand on the rough hewn wall. The door opened partway, scraping the uneven dirt floor. The light of a torch cast a yellow glow on the wall, and Kaif was able to see, for the first time, that Kerak was founded upon little more than dry earth and rocks. He noted the fragile components carefully. The Sultan would want to hear of this later.

“Assalamu Alilkum Wa Rahmatulah Wa Barakatuh,” came al-Zarqa’s soft voice, beyond the door.

The Teacher was quick to respond. “Wa’Alaikumus Salam. Saniyah, my good child, you have served us well thus far. Allah bestows his mercy on those who serve him best.”

In the dark, Kaif rolled his eyes. The Teacher had a long winded way of improving his disciples’ morale. He hoped it wouldn’t take any longer.

He looked at Saniyah, whose pretty eyes were rapt in the Teacher’s presence. The two of them were the very images of piety and dedication to their divine purpose. She pushed the door open wider and allowed them in.

Kaif breathed the stale air deeply. His task had begun in earnest.

First Rant

Reeaally need to get my frustration with everything off my chest. There are three things in my life right now that cause me immense dissatisfaction. 1) My English Extension conference paper (due in three days); 2) Blogger doesn't like my dad's computer; 3) There were no decent movies at the video store today. I will address them all individually below. Prepare yourselves.

1) English Extension: When I'm writing things that even I don't understand, I'd say that's valid reason for concern. Example: "In contrast to structural semiotics, Chandler suggests that contemporary semiotics focuses on signs not in isolation but as part of larger ‘sign systems’ (Chandler, 2003), emphasising the study of how different signs communicate meaning." It took a whole essay from this Chandler fellow to define 'semiotics', and sadly, I've been learning about it for months. This situation isn't helped by the fact that Blogger, my new toy, is the perfect form of procrastination.

2) Blogger doesn't like my dad's computer: 'Dislike' seems like an understatement. They get along about as well as Hayrünissa and Maimuna--that is to say, not at all. So I can't access it from home (probably a good thing, since I need to work on my essay...)

3) Lack of good movies released on DVD right now. Probably also a good thing, this paper needs urgent help.

Back now to syntagmatic and paradigmatic analysis, signs and signifiers, and reception theory.

New blog...

Seems I keep finding more and more mediums to conquer. I hope to make this look pretty eventually!