One of them sat behind Sibylla and massaged a paste made of salt and fragrant honey into her back.
“Ouch, that hurts!” she complained.
“Pardon me, Sayyida, but your back is harder than the bench I’m sitting on. You have too many worries,” the slave explained as she kneaded Sibylla’s muscles with expert hands.
“That may well be,” she mumbled, thinking about the mysterious break-in three weeks earlier. She and John had made inquiries, but to no avail, and the uncertainty was weighing on her.
“Just let her do her job, Mrs. Hopkins,” Lalla Jasira, sitting on an adjacent bench, interjected. “She will help you feel better. After all, a visit to the hamam should enhance not just one’s beauty but one’s health as well.”
“I don’t know how I ever lived without this pleasure,” Sibylla agreed. “It is like heaven on earth.”
“And the perfect way to end a successful business transaction, don’t you think?” Lalla Jasira added with satisfaction.
She had sold Sibylla a consignment of silk pillowcases for a very nice commission. Her nephew Sultan Sidi Mohammed’s three hundred wives had embroidered them with pearls and gold cords using ancient techniques.
Sibylla had been delighted when Lalla Jasira had shown her the samples. She was sure to get an excellent price for this charming work.
More than a public bath for women, the harem hamam represented a world of seclusion. The only way a little bit of light could enter was through the solitary window in the dome. Sibylla, Lalla Jasira, and all the concubines and wives, small children, and slaves melted like shadows in the warm, foggy steam.
The slave standing behind Lalla Jasira was holding a thin loop of thread she used to swiftly pluck her mistress’s eyebrows into gently curved wings. Meanwhile, the slave tending to Sibylla had filled a wooden bucket with warm water, and began to rinse her back in gentle, even motions.
Sibylla looked up when a eunuch opened the door leading to the antechamber of the hamam, where the women undressed. Wahida came in with a very young, strikingly beautiful woman. As soon as she clapped her hands, two slaves rushed over to her.
“Here, cleanse and wash this kitten from top to bottom and in all orifices. I want my son to discover a fragrant flower in his bed!” Her shy young companion cast her eyes down as Wahida pushed her forward.
Wahida had been emancipated ever since the death of Qaid Hash-Hash and, as the mother of the reigning governor, was the highest-ranking woman in his harem. She took her role very seriously and controlled not only her son’s love life but also his wives and concubines.
“We have heard you and will obey, Umm Walad.” The slaves took the young woman to lie upon a large oven, the top of which was covered in smooth marble and overlain with sparkling quartz stones. They got out a bowl with fragrant lather and sponges made of palm fibers and began lathering the concubine from top to bottom.
“That’s Bahar, our lord’s new favorite,” Lalla Jasira informed Sibylla in a low voice. “For three weeks, he has wanted only her in his bed. That worries some of the others, especially Sukalina, the mother of Rami, his favorite son.” She sighed. “I thank God that those days are behind me. It was stressful, having to contend for the lord’s favor all the time. And I don’t envy Wahida for being in charge of the harem. I appreciate my peace, my poetry collection, and my business. Oh, here comes Sukalina with little Rami. Just look at her face, how she resents Wahida devoting her attention to the new favorite and no longer to her!”
Sukalina strode into the room like a queen, followed by her entourage of slaves and allies. Her jewel-studded clogs clacked provocatively. Throwing an angry look at Bahar, she slid her sublime body on the warm oven top and snapped her fingers. A slave rushed to her side.
“Where is the soap?” Sukalina hissed. “Why do I have to wait?”
The slave stammered an excuse and scurried away. Sukalina’s son, three-year-old Rami, toddled up to Wahida with a happy squeal. She bowed down to him and smiled. “Hello, my little prince, have you come to see your grandmother?”
“Rami, come here!” Sukalina commanded from the other side of the oven.
“That sounds very familiar,” Sibylla muttered. “Wahida has my deepest sympathy.”
A slave came over with a tray full of colorful glasses containing an ice-cold delicacy called sorbet, a mixture of pureed fruit and crushed ice. Lalla took two glasses from the tray and handed one to Sibylla. “What aggrieves you, my honorable friend? Certainly not the conclusion of our business, I trust?” she inquired with a smile.
“Oh, goodness, no. Please don’t worry.” Sibylla gloomily poked at her sorbet. She had been thinking of Emily again. She missed her terribly. It was almost a year since they’d seen each other. Was she well? Did she miss her mother sometimes? And most of all: When was she coming home?
“Lalla Jasira.” Sibylla turned to the other woman. “May I ask you a question?”
“But of course.” Lalla Jasira signaled the two slaves, who had begun combing their hair, to leave them alone. “Now we are undisturbed, my friend.”
Sibylla took a deep breath, struggling to find the words. “Am I a woman who cannot forgive?”
Lalla Jasira pensively ran her fingers through her long silver hair. “I am not in a position to judge that. What I do know is that we are all capable of change—perhaps from a person who does not forgive to one who does.”
“But are there certain things that are too grave to be forgiven?” Sibylla probed.
Lalla Jasira looked at her with her dark, kind eyes. “Only God can decide how grave a transgression is. Only He knows the innermost nature of all human beings and their deeds.” She tapped her pearl-studded wooden clogs. “I can sense that your heart is weeping, honorable friend. If you will allow me, I will tell you a story about forgiveness.”
“Ouch! By all the saints!” Bahar’s scream shattered the air. Qaid Samir’s favorite concubine was completely washed and rinsed and lying on a silk rug. A slave had spread a paste of sugar and lemon juice all around her genitalia. Once it had dried, the slave pulled off the crust together with the undesirable pubic hair.
Sibylla could sympathize. She remembered all too well the burning pain of her first hair removal. Back then, she had been in Morocco only a short time and had had no idea of what went on in a hamam. She had been horrified when the hamam worker had busied herself with her most intimate body parts—a ritual that she now would not do without.
“Now, now!” Wahida calmed the young concubine. “You must be able to suffer a little pain. After all, you don’t want to go before your lord like a hairy bear!” She sat next to Bahar and sniffed at the different perfume bottles being offered on a silver tray. “Musk,” she decided. “We’ll take musk for Bahar. My son is like the Prophet: he loves prayer, women, and fragrance.”
Sibylla turned to Lalla Jasira again. “I would very much like to hear your story, Princess. Please tell it!”
Lalla Jasira placed her sorbet glass next to her on the marble bench. “Many years ago, two young women lived in the harem of a powerful man. One was a noblewoman from the ruler’s house, raised in luxury and wealth and destined to become the man’s chief wife. The other was a poor slave, kidnapped and forced to leave behind her family and her faith. Both women were beautiful and both were determined to win their master’s favor. Initially, the man was just. He divided his attention between them and summoned them to his bed an equal number of times. Before long, the slave became pregnant. The man was overjoyed. Over the years, she bore him more sons and daughters and he loved her more for each child she gave him.
“But the chief wife’s womb remained empty. She sought the advice of doctors, sages, and witches, made pilgrimages—all to no avail. She became sad and embittered. The angrier she became, the less frequently the lord summoned her, until, at last, he ignored her altogether. In her sorrow, she became angry with God for trying her so severely, and slowly her bitterness turned to hatred. Hatred against herself, her husband, and against the slave who had risen to become the lord’s favorite wife and who had everything she herself desired.
“When she had lost all self-respect, God took pity on her. He came to her in a dream and said, ‘If too much pressure is exerted on you, you become hard like dry wood that splinters and breaks. Be like a reed that gently sways in the wind and you will regain your happiness. Follow my example, for I, the Eternal One, am also forgiveness and reconciliation.’”
Lalla Jasira fell silent and her gaze was lost in the bath’s twilight. Sibylla looked over to the two slaves who had begun making up Bahar’s eyes with crushed green malachite and black kohl. Sukalina sat glowering on the opposite side of the hamam, smoking a water pipe.
Sibylla thought about Emily and André, about Victoria and Sara Willshire. The number of people she resented had grown over the years. And for the first time, she began to consider the possibility that there were, likewise, a good many people whose forgiveness she needed. She sighed. “Thank you for telling me this wonderful story. It’s quite complicated, isn’t it?”