Chapter 11
They set out from the garden, along with a trio of women from the kitten pavilion.
They had brought shawls of fine linen, covering their necks and shoulders.
Francis was given a shawl, as was Hasim.
He watched Hasim drape the shawl just so around his head and shoulders, partially covering his lower face.
Francis wondered why and saw one of the women making a gesture of rubbing her arms with both hands and pretending to shiver for his benefit, so he presumed it was to protect against a chill, though the evening was warm with hardly any breeze.
After leading him through a private path, they came out upon a secluded exit to the palace, clearly in use by servants, and a tram stopped directly in front of it.
Now Francis understood, and he wrapped his shoulders with his shawl.
They boarded an empty carriage in the tram, this one in wrought iron, but not gold like the royal tram, and waited for more passengers to fill it up before it set off through the palace grounds.
Hasim sat next to Francis, quite close, and began to tell him a story that felt altogether more personal and exciting.
Whether he didn’t want to be overheard or simply wanted an excuse to whisper in Francis’s ear, Hasim spoke quietly as he told of a young prince that so admired the belly dancers of his father’s Harem, he stole into the city one night to seek out belly dancers who were men.
As the tram took them out of the palace grounds, cut through a lantern lit tunnel, then snaked its way into the western side of Istanbul, Francis found himself immersed in the bustling city nightlife.
The streets were cobblestoned, and the tram glided smoothly across on its own rails, passing by pedestrians of all walks of life.
Beautiful lanterns suspended overhead lit up the streets in a kaleidoscope of colour; voices both young and old called out in Turkish, haggling for prices at market stalls, or selling street food.
The smells were divine, and Francis noticed the great, sudden wafts of air piped in from side streets, keeping the air cool and fresh.
There was so much to look at and take in, and he had the joy of passively observing it all from his spot on the tram. Heaven.
“Across that square is the animal hospital,” Hasim pointed out. “The surgeons and nurses are the best in all of Türkiye.”
“I’m glad to hear the animals are taken care of,” Francis said. “But Hasim, you can’t tell me about men belly dancing then change the subject like that. Do male belly dancers exist?”
“Ah!” Hasim laughed. “Yes, yes. You wish to see?”
“Absolutely.”
“Soon,” Hasim said, his knee brushing against Francis’s leg. An accident or on purpose, Francis didn’t care, he was exhilarated all the same.
Soon the tram came to a stop deep within the busy backstreets, and Hasim gestured for them to disembark.
Francis was eager to follow but waited first for the women in their party. The three of them didn’t rise from their seats and waved their hands at Francis for him to go first, speaking in Turkish and grinning at him.
Francis looked at Hasim. “They aren’t joining us?”
“Not where we’re going,” he said with a smile, and offered Francis his hand.
Francis took it and stepped down from the tram. They both waved goodbye to the ladies as the tram pulled away, and they waved back with knowing smiles on their faces.
“Hasim,” Francis said teasingly. “Are you planning to lead me astray?”
“I was, yes,” Hasim admitted with a smirk. “But…if you prefer, we can go elsewhere?”
“No, no,” Francis said. “I’d like to be led astray. Lead on, if you please.”
* * * *
They took side streets and back alleys, vibrant with life and the constant hum of people speaking Turkish and some other languages thrown in.
Hasim led the way to an entryway obscured by a hanging carpet, guarded by a burly man with a long moustache, and a large curvy woman dressed in fine silks.
The woman showered them with greetings in Turkish and allowed them to pass. They ducked inside the barely lit passageway; the luring sound of pipes and stringed instruments caught Francis’s ear instantly.
Hasim parted beaded curtains to reveal a smoky enclosure lined entirely with soft fabric and cushions. A trio of musicians played together in the corner; an exotic lute, a long pipe, a set of bells shaken in a steady beat.
It was hazy in here, but the smoke didn’t sting the eyes and didn’t smell of the usual tobacco. Francis inhaled, trying to place the scent, and instantly became lightheaded.
It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation.
“You wish to try?” Hasim asked, gestured to the pile of cushions.
Men in linen robes and turbans sat and lounged around one central hookah pipe, puffing away on its many long arms.
It was one of those scenes where, on the surface, things appeared decent, but upon closer inspection revealed hints of indecency and queerness.
In the flickering candlelight, Francis spotted one man’s hand on another man’s thigh, caressing before inching higher.
And over there, on a red silk cushion, two men engaged in a lazy kiss.
Passions Francis hadn’t felt in years stirred in him. Desire. Longing. Urgency. Need.
He swallowed past the nervous lump in his throat, for he was indeed a little nervous. It had been so long…
But as he looked at Hasim, his newfound companion, and saw the patient yet hopeful look in his dark eyes, Francis knew he would be cared for.
“Yes,” he answered. “I should very much like to try.”
Francis thought they would join the group of men on the cushions, but Hasim bid him follow to a more private spot.
Two women attendants greeted them. They were dressed in revealing silk robes adorned with golden coins that crashed together in a soft melody whenever they moved. The two women reached up to move a gauzy curtain aside, and the coins on their ample bosom jingled.
Hasim took Francis by the hand and led him inside the private room.
Inside were draped silks and the plumpest fine cushions, arranged so that two people may lay side by side.
Coloured lanterns hung from the low ceiling, the only source of light, casting shapes and patterns against the silks on the wall.
The women let the gauze drop down, cutting them off from the main room, but when Francis glanced at the doorway, he was still able to see its occupants, partial silhouettes behind the gauze.
“Archie, come,” Hasim said, seating himself on the cushions. “They will bring for us.”
Francis didn’t hesitate to join Hasim, sitting beside him and leaning back against the cushions. It was comfortable, luxurious.
Hasim smiled at him.
Francis realised how happy he was in this moment, and smiled back.
Soon they were joined by attendants, four women all in the gold coin and silk costumes, as a fifth held open the curtain for them to enter.
The women brought in a hookah pipe, placing it on the special dais, and attached two arms, and onto those attached metal mouth pieces.
Francis examined it best he could in the light. Not unlike a pipe in design, he supposed. Just bigger, and with long bits.
He watched the women load up the base of the hookah then light a part inside the vase shape.
“Hasim, what is in it?” Francis asked. “Not tobacco?”
“Some tobacco,” Hasim said, making a pinching motion with his fingers. “And then the plant. The herb.”
When the hookah was ready, he took the first puff, showing Francis how to suck on the pipe and when to exhale the smoke.
Francis had never been one for smoking, but he found this was quite pleasant.
As they smoked the hookah together, the women filtered out of the room, new attendants filtering in carrying silver trays of chai and sweet refreshments.
One of these attendants was a young man, wearing the same silk and gold coin costume as the women, but with a bare chest instead of a brazier.
His tan skin was dusted with gold leaf, and his brown nipples had gold rings pierced through them. Each ring carried two gold coins, crashing gently together when he moved.
Francis was so transfixed, he didn’t realise he had been staring until the young man noticed and grinned at him. He had a gold ring in his left earlobe, and from that several delicate gold chains swung freely.
Hasim leaned forward and said something to the young man in Turkish.
The young man turned his smile now to Hasim and replied, having a quick discussion. Their words, though Francis didn’t know their meaning, sounded playful and flirty.
The attendants withdrew, sweeping out of the room. Francis thought they would be left alone, but was delighted when the young man and two of the women returned, this time with little gold cymbals held between their fingers.
The three began to dance, the man in the centre.
They sashayed their hips to the music, jiggling the coins on their belts, and made a steady percussion from the cymbals on their fingers.
They were able to roll their bellies in such a way that was mesmerising and move their arms and shoulders with such a fluidity as to marvel at their skill.
Their dance was enchanting. Francis couldn’t look away. Only in paintings had he seen people dressed in such revealing clothing, dancing with abandon. They made him think of the classical nymphs and muses of Bacchanalia.
Something natural, carnal, and seductive.
As the dance went on, it became more erotic, limb brushing against limb, arms snaking together, faces coming in close with looks of unbridled yearning and lust. It was like watching young lovers come together and left enough room in the imagination as to stir the lust within.
Coupled with the aftereffects of the smoke, Francis felt hot under the collar, and increasingly aroused.
He pushed the turban from his head, fumbling with the scarf. He was hot.
Hasim’s hand found his, a soft but reassuring touch. His skin was even hotter than Francis felt.
Francis turned and looked at him; he was a grounding presence and Francis desired to be closer to him.