Free Garden of Venus by Eva Stachniak

whispers. ‘My own little wisdom.’
    In the darkness Sophie prays for time to hurry, to go faster. Her lips are sore where the Princess has bitten them.
    ‘I am making you happy. You cannot hide your own pleasure from me.’
    ‘Say it!’
    ‘You are making me happy. I cannot hide my own pleasure from you.’
    ‘I am your mistress. There is no one else but me.’
    ‘You are my mistress. There is no one else but you.’
    ‘Ever.’
    ‘Ever.’
    The bed is crumpled and moist with sweat; pillows have fallen off, to the floor. Silk-covered pillows, soft and smooth. The Princess is still holding her arm, making her lie there. There are other kinds of wisdom, she says. Many crave it, but few are chosen. Only to the few it shall be revealed. Wisdom that speaks of the true delights of love, of secrets common women are not meant to know.
    ‘Listen, my little wisdom. With me you will know it all.’
    These stories speak of mysterious journeys across parched deserts; of abandoned inns where, in spite of the worstfears, sumptuous meals await an exhausted traveller; of crossroads where the hanged long for the mercy of the burial; of old hermits who know the way. It is enough to close her eyes to see the deep dungeons where hatred and envy rule and the fragrant gardens where beauty and love meet in secret. In search of their fate, the travellers of those tales fight hunger and thirst, battle false desires – the phantoms that drive the soul away from its dream.
    ‘Such are the stories of the night,’ the Sultana whispers. ‘They are all for you, my sweet wisdom.’
    For there are more stories. Stories wrenched away from the possessed. Stories from forbidden books, stories of women who know as much as the men, but who guard their secret knowledge with their lives.
    ‘I know them all, my sweet wisdom,’ the Sultana says. ‘And soon, you too will know them.’
    But then, a moment later, she is snoring, her arm heavy on Sophie’s shoulder. For a long while Sophie tries to wriggle out from under this arm. To stand up, gasp for breath. Her stomach churns and the coffee she has drunk rises up her throat. For a brief moment of despair she considers standing on the edge of the window and throwing herself down, into the paved courtyard underneath, but she doesn’t want to die.
    She lets the tears flow, silently, until sleep comes. In the morning, she will think of something. Luck will not abandon her like that. Without warning, without giving her another chance. Luck may have played a mean trick on her, but Sophie has not lost her faith.
    ‘I’m worthy of a king’s bed,’ she thinks, just before sleep comforts her, just before she remembers the smell of jessamine and honeysuckle; just before she forgets the silk belt in the black ebony coffer and the cold anger in the servant’s voice.
    The Greeks are but our slaves, she hears, their race a perfect example of what happens when the men are not separated from the women. No work ever gets done, because with all these women running in the streets men only want to have fun. Idleness and lies rule them. And deceit.
    But the Russians, she says in protest, do not separate the women. Or the French. Or the English. No one heeds her words. What does she know, a plaything that has caught the Princess’s fancy. Clanging bells on her arms so that her arrival does not go unnoticed.
    The Harem, she hears, is a woman’s blessing. Without it, a woman would be exposed to curious glances in the streets. To prying eyes, to jeerings from the passersby. Here, a woman has everything she may ever want. Why would she want to venture outside? What is it that she lacks?
    When she laughs, the women say: ‘Don’t laugh too much or you’ll cry soon.’
    It is in the small courtyard, by the fountain, that the women gather: odalisques, servants, and slaves. On low tables the slaves have laid clays, dried pomegranate peel, nut bark, saffron, dried roses, myrtle, orange flowers. There are fresh eggs the