So he told him what he had told the King, blocking out for him a general idea of Millsness, what he had been rehearsing not since he’d first heard it, since what he’d first heard he had no need to rehearse, had remembered, would always remember, but what had happened since, describing the circle, his ring of the wood, the tree, going over it—Magaziner was impatient, waving him quickly through certain passages, slowing him down at others, actually leading Mills’s story like a conductor, directing it like traffic—as even now, speaking to the ambassador, he was at once telling the tale and living some new part of it, the telling, living, remembering and rehearsing additional increments he knew it would have made him dizzy to contemplate if he had dared. (He didn’t need to dare. The strange pressures and weathers of his life had already acclimatized him to conditions and practices that were no longer even second nature but something actually biologically autonomous.) Magaziner stopped him. “Forty-third? He called you Forty-third?” Mills nodded. “Go on.” George backed and filled, telling the story randomly, stumbling a little, not permitted to do it as he’d rehearsed it in his head but forced by Magaziner to improvise, by Magaziner who interrupted him, conducted him, taking him forward to the voyage, the practice sessions in the cabin, Peterson’s silence at table, the courier calmly taking food into his stomach that moments later he would give up to the sea. Redirecting Mills another time to what George had said to the King, what the King to George, but always refusing the gossip, not as much shocked by it as bothered that it should have come up at all, asking George what
he’d
said, whether he’d encouraged it, Mills swearing he hadn’t, insisting his own embarrassment to Magaziner. “Yes?” Mills nodded. “Go on.” George related some more details. Magaziner raised a finger to his lip. Mills stopped. “ ‘There you are,’ he said? ‘It would seem you’re one of us?
It would seem you’re one of us then, George?
’
“Ah, Mr. Peterson,” the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire said, “fillink better?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
“Dot’s nice. Dot’s terrific.”
In the morning he accompanied George and the courier to the government carriage that had been sent for them. Peterson climbed in first and George handed the golden package in to him to hold for a moment before he got in beside him.
Just as he was about to do so, as he was raising one foot onto the carriage’s metal stirrup, the ambassador briefly embraced him and almost imperceptibly slipped something into his jacket pockets. It was
halvah
wrapped in two of the fine linen napkins from the embassy service.
So it was the height even more than the length.
“Well, old buns, it was more than eiver acherly. Dere I was den, weren’t I? A great green nineteen-year-old gawm what never got no closer to de movers an’ shakers ’n a trooper’s widow to de mighty King of Spine. What never till dat day in Putney”—Mills telling a small circle of his intimates in a corner of the kitchen, near the tripe barrels and offal buckets, speaking their language, the broken brogue of barracks and parade ground, a sort of Ottoman-Persian-Yiddish he’d picked up from his mates in the year to year and a half he’d been there, a dialect (and
of course
it would be low, bits and pieces of what the locals had brought with them from Tripoli and the Crimea, from Hungary and Mesopotamia, from Crete and the Balkans, from Thrace——places, some of them, Mills would not have been able to locate on a map, not because he was such a poor geographer but because, except for his thoroughgoing knowledge of his own antecedents, he was such a rotten historian, the nations and kingdoms having changed hands and names since the great days of the Ottoman Empire, the Empire itself having rearranged if not the lands themselves then their borders, so that what he spoke, had learned to speak, was a lingo of the disinherited and misbegotten, a patois which finally proved tougher than those old arbitrary state lines of demarcation themselves, the nations and kingdoms having been reabsorbed elsewhere, restaked, changed like partners in a dance, taken like trumps in bridge) which still retained neologisms centuries after the countries that originally contributed them were no longer required (some of the more gung-ho among them would have said “permitted”) to serve. He couldn’t have held up his end of a conversation either in Turkic (the official language of the Court) or in Farsi (the language spoken by most of the people). What he spoke, if poorly, was an elitist tongue: Janissary. A language (which he would actually attempt to render, if a sworn celibate like himself ever got the chance to get them, to his progeny in a chipped pidgin, some bent bloopered, crooked Cockney) the now greatly reduced but still fierce force shared (perhaps five thousand men could speak it), no matter their mother tongue, only among themselves——a grammar like a password, a syntax like a signal—“ ’ad never e’er even seen a king much less haddressed one. Who now ’ad saw not only ’is first king but a certificated courier too, as well as a hambassador in a hembassy and most of ’is hoficial ’ouse’old staff an’ not only dat but a first secretary to a grand vizier (an’ you may throw in too, if you’d haccount for my toney turnout, a Savile fooking Row tailor). An’ caught a glimpse in de far off, an’ just as I was bending to my Prostration Walk, of de Hemporer of de Hottoman Hempire an’, by ’is side, Abdulmecid, de godkid, de Hemporer in Whiting. It was ever so much more den a poor boy could bear.
“De courier ’ad goon to stan’ next old Mahmud ’imself—may Halla ’crease ’is camels an’ rise de horanges in ’is hoāses—an’ on an preharranged sidgnal, winkies me for’d oo, ’igh church dat was, on’y now begins to take hin wot ’
igh
church ’mounts to, in dis wool. Usin’ de goldern packadge for balance, sendin’ it hout hinches afore me as a man down de mine might send de rays huv ’is lampern. Like some bloke on an ’igh wire I was. Feelin’ me way an’ doin’ dis piecemeal shuffle. Bloody ridiclus. Me eyes on de groun’, on de runner, de Horiental carpet wif its dizzy spaghetti an’ red rose geometrics till I were sick at stomk an’ might ’ave thrown up my own self if I thunk it wouldink show. Acherly thinkink: Yar. Dat’s wot dese flower arrandgements is——vomit, tummy rosettes, barf bouquets. An’ navigatink by de acheral pull a gravity oo ’ad wanted to guide carriages, to ’ave the tug of bits, an’ make my ’ands felt in an ’orse’s mouf. The gravities loose, flowink like wind thoo a draughty house. Feelink it. Hin my nauseated stomk, hup my ’eavy leggings, hon my ’ands wot ’eld de goldern package. Hall at once. Goin’ thoo me like ha dose a salts. Oo ’ad wanted de control of reins an’ ’ad dem now, but transformed, see? Redistribted like. Oo pulled ’isself alorng dat runner of decorated rug by reaction, resistance to the hints of heaving, falling, dropping. So dat I was like some long, deep, earthboundried hanimal, er snake say, hor a worm, dealink with space by constankly making dese adjustments of muscle, forever ’itching me pants so to speak. Wot all der time felt de high weight of de complicated ceilink threaten my neck like a guillotine.
“An’ knew I was close when I could ear ’em whisperink. De Hottoman Hemperor. De Hottoman Hemporer hin Whiting.
“Peterson ‘eld my packadge whilst I did my salaam.
“Startink at me belly an’ brinkink it hever ’igher, I spun me left hand habout an’ brung it to rest wit me palm on me fore’ead.
“The two potentates, ’im wot was in power an’ ’im wot was in whiting suddenly silent. Wartching me close now oo before ’ad barely give me de odd ogle. I haccepted de box from Peterson wot we’d brought all de way from Blighty an’ shoved it toward Abdulmecid, oo proved to be a strapping tall spotty-faced lad, much holder in happearance dan de five years ’e was reported to be. An’ me thinkin’ to meself, If ’is gardfather was on’y whiting for ’im to get big ernough to be tanked for ’is gift in Hinglish instead oov Islam ’e might ’ave sent it years ago. ’e’s big ernough now, God bless ’im, to say ‘Thank you so very very much’ in Hinglish, German, or Chinese eiver.
“When ’e’d taken it from me I repeated me salaam as Peterson ’ad hinstructed me ter do, an’ now de Hemperor was growling in Hottoman Hempirese.
“Peterson spoke up in wot must ’ave been the same language an’ turns to me.
“ ‘
You,
’ ’e shouts, ‘what are you on about then, you great scummy gonad? You press your
left
hand to your forehead? Your
left? You salute His Majesty with the same hand with which you wipe your arse?!
’
“By dis time Abdulmecid has got ’is packadge hopen an’ is lookin’ at me wif murther in ’is ’eart, an I don’ ’ave to see no Court records to know ’e ain’t been five years old for nine or ten years now, do I?
“ ‘What?’ says Peterson. ‘What?’
“ ‘It’s nappies,’ Abdulmecid says, standin’ arn de goldfoil wrappings. “It’s bloody fucking nappies,’ says Abdulmecid bin ’is perfect Hinglish.
“ ‘Seize him!’ roars ’is dad hin ’is. ‘Seize him and send him for a Janissary!’
“I look to Peterson for an hexplanation, but all ’e can do is shake ’is ’ead real sad like. ’e’s got dat same look on ’is dial wot I’ve seen when ’e’s about to come down wif the sicks.
“ ‘Wot?’ I arsk all confused like, ‘wot?’
“But I can see de guards comink. It’s just the job, i’n’t it? Dey grab me an’ start ter ’ustle me orf ter de flowery dell.
“Peterson wot ’as run orf quick as dammit ’oldink ’is sweet linen snotrag in front of ’is mouf turns an’ lifts ’is duster long ernough ter sing out ‘
’is Majesty’s bidness! ’is Majesty’s bidness!
’ an’ ’e’s doin’ twenny in a ten-mile zone ergain. But de Hemperor’s lads ain’t exactually takin’ their time eiver, are they, an’ pretty soon we’ve caught up wif ’im, an’ I think uh oh, e’s for it too, is Peterson, but dey don’ evern
try
ter stop ’im. ‘Wot?’ I arsk again as they’re bum’s rushin’ me past ’im. ‘
Wot,
for Gard’s sake?’
“ ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are all dead, kid,’ Peterson says in a white whisper an’ goes all sick on the carpet.”
“Y
ou,
Mills
!” cries the Meat Cut.
“Mills? Who shouted Mills?” calls the Latrine Scrub.
“Sir, I did,” the Meat Cut admits.
The Soup Man watched his junior officers.
Mills was reluctant to approach the Meat Cut with the Soup Man so visible, but Paradise Dispatchers were all about the yard and had heard what amounted to a direct order. If he did not respond, one of the more eager among them might well have taken it into his head to do something about it. They resented him for a Christian, and though Mills had formally repudiated his religion over a year before and had become, if not for all the world then for all his comrades to see, a practicing Muslim, he could not, however hard he tried, keep the disgust from his face whenever he and his brothers-in-arms—an odd term, since it was the boast of the special service into which he’d been impressed by Mahmud II that they never used anything as effete as weapons, that their killing scrimmages were conducted with nothing more elaborate in the way of tools than might be found on the ordinary strangler or murderer——garotte collars and neckwrings, daggers and slingstones, brass knucks and brickbats, throwsticks and coshes, matches, fuel, the rocks in one’s tunic, the hangman’s fat hemps—prostrated themselves for sunrise, morning, midday, afternoon and evening prayers. The fecal stench that came through the soiled, thin clothing in the tightly formed ranks of worshippers was terrific, and, if his expression was hidden by his earth-pressed face, he could never suppress the sound of his gagging.
Bufesqueu, a not unsympathetic Balkanese of approximately his own age and tenure in the Corps, had chided him for it.
“We’re most of us converts, Mills. I myself was a very devout Greek Orthodox. You know what I miss most?”
“No,” Mills said.
“The incense.”
“I miss everything,” Mills said gloomily.
“It’s a good thing we’re buddies, Mills. Talk like that could be construed as treasonous. Anyway it would be better for you if you got into the spirit of things. When we’re stretched out nose to arsehole on the prayer rugs, pretend it’s incense.”
“Incense,” Mills said.
“Sure incense. Certainly incense. Of a sort. Of a kind. Raging candlesticks of bowel. The guts’ aromatics. Fart fragrance. The piss perfumes and come colognes, all the body’s musks and effluents. It makes it easier.”
“Easier.”
“The celibacy. Sometimes I whiff the great poisoned cloud of dirt and intimacy we make and I imagine myself among women, entire overwhelming harems of them, hordes, their menstrual smell, their stinky mystery. It’s deep I am, deep and lost down salty holes. Down and dirty. I bite the ground I lie upon and chew the earth until it turns to mud in my mouth. And they put me down for a religious zealot because the others have risen and I’m still praying. Oh yes. Not to lose my hard-on till I’ve come.”
“Bufesqueu!”
“Why, Trooper, you’re blushing! You’re actually blushing.”
“You’re bloody outrageous you are.”
“Oh, am I?” said his friend. “You’d best brush up on those vows you took, mate. You know what they mean in this outfit by celibacy? They mean the pure, true pukka gen. Pope, Patriarch, Ayatollah and Lord Swami Guru Indian Chief. Not only can’t you get it off with a woman, you can’t get it off with a man or animal either. You can’t pull pud or touch yourself downtown or even
think
dirty jokes much less tell them. They hang for wet dreams here, and all that’s left for a lad is to make them think he gets off on God. That’s why I’m sopping when I rise from the rug. Incense, think incense, and make a wish, Mills.”
And the odd thing, Mills thought, was that despite everything—George IV’s tricks and the courier’s treachery, Abdulmecid’s and the Emperor’s misplaced rage, his forced conscription with all its concomitant hardships—he
had
got into the spirit of things. That he understood the source of his fierce loyalties, could trace them back forty-two or so generations to a strange curse delivered by a pampered young nobleman in a Polish wood who, for the authority to deliver it, had only a fair approximation of his greatest grandfather’s number and none at all, really, of the old man’s descendants (and who, at the time, did not really believe that either of them would live long enough to get out of their scrape in time even to
get
descendants), mitigated not at all his dumb cheer or caused him a moment’s pang. Cursed were the meek. He knew that. So be it. The last would never be first. He knew
that.
He knew everything, his low-born essence, his unswerving blue obedience and commissionaire’s style——everything. He could not help himself, would not. He was proud to be a Janissary. Proud of hardship, humiliation, his hardcore elite corps humility. So he
had
got into the spirit of things. And if he was no model soldier—I’m not, he thought, I’m not even good at it—he understood esprit de corps. None better. And valued most what he’d been forced to put up with. What few men living had had to endure, what most would have rebelled against out of hand, turning them tattles, turning them traitors. But not Mills. A hero of hardship, a big shot of bane and outrage.