Dancing with Kings

When she is alone in the Polish mission she goes to the internuncio’s study to look at the King’s portrait. In His presence she practises her curtsying and gentle bows of the head. She looks into his blue eyes and says things like, ‘My soul thirsts for you, Sire.’ Or ‘The light of your eyes is too bright for your humble servant, My Lord.’ She says it in her new voice, which is sweet and lingering, thick like honey dripping from a spoon.

One day as she is practising what she thinks of as her manners the internuncio surprises her. Having hidden himself behind the door, he cracks with laughter and tells her that she is ludicrous, a true spectacle.

His hand is pinching her bottom as he says that. ‘Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, Dou-Dou?’ he asks. ‘Forgetting your place? Your god-given station in life?’

‘The King,’ the internuncio says, ‘is in need of a bath attendant à la Turque.’

When she enters his study he is sprinkling sand over the letter he has just finished writing. He motions to her to sit and begins to read it out.

Massages given by men resembles torture so that one has to be a Turk or a devil to enjoy them. Those who had experienced such baths here say similar things one hears in Warsaw about male and female cooks, i.e. that the latter are cleaner and it is better to be served by them when it comes to the main dish. It is only in the company of a pleasant woman who can bathe, massage, and dry the body of her companion in so many ways, that one can imagine the delights promised by Muhammad to his faithful Muslims. I know of a girl from Phanar, sixteen years of age, who would please Your Majesty highly. I could arrange for her to travel to Warsaw as soon as I received word from Your Majesty.

Without thinking she rises and throws her arms around his neck. She covers his face with kisses. She jumps up and down with joy.

The internuncio likes being able to speak French to her. The true language of the salons, he says, of intelligent conversations. She will now take French lessons. Every day for three hours. If she doesn’t make progress, he will whip her.

‘I’ll take any punishment,’ she says meeting his eye, ‘if it comes from my master.’

‘What an eager girl you are?’ he murmurs, but she can hear from his voice that her exuberance pleases him. ‘Perhaps I should be a bit jealous?’

Jealousy, Mana says, is a good sign.

That day – when she prepares to give him his daily release – he pulls her toward him and places a kiss on her lips. A long, lingering kiss that she will remember for a long time for it tells her that – perhaps – she is not as worthless to him as he wants her to believe.

In the weeks that follow she can’t hide her excitement. When she is alone she likes to imagine herself in Warsaw, this city filled with palaces and green lawns. In her dream, the King is brought to the hammam by his attendants, but he waves them away and enters it alone. He is naked but for a thick towel wrapped around his body, a towel she will peel off. His skin is soft and perfumed, his hands slender. A bath pavilion she imagines covered with tiles. Musicians are cleverly hidden in tunnels, and they fill the royal bath chamber with delightful music. Warmed by the fire, her hands are soothing and strong. Around her she imagines jars with the scents of jasmine and musk. The King is tired after the long day of ruling. He talks to her, his only real friend. He tells her of all the people who want something from him, who make his life a misery. With each motion of her hands, she melts his tensions and soothes his sadness. She alone is different, the King says. She alone understands him, makes him laugh. She alone brings life back into his heart.