22

“Well well! No longer the naturist, m’dear!” jeered the Director, as Ana was sheepishly escorted back into the room by Bezaffa whose arm was firmly round her waist.

“Don’t mind Mr Madir,” said Khedra soothingly, frowning at her colleague. “We’re both very grateful that you have agreed to come back. This won’t take long. I’ve just been setting up a video for you to watch, so make yourself comfortable in the sofa next to Bezaffa and we can watch it.”

“Video?” wondered Ana, obediently sitting down and thankful for Bezaffa’s continued support and reassurance. She glanced at the video disc player underneath the television where an open plastic case lay by the carrier bag Khedra had brought along with her. The television showed a blue screen, blank except for a little number in the bottom right-hand corner.

“A training video,” Khedra explained. “We show it to all our new recruits. It’s part of the training routine and not normally shown to the public...”

“Although export sales are very healthy!” the Director remarked with a grin.

“Export sales?”

“Yes, Ana,” Khedra continued. “The Brothel is proud to be able to sell its products abroad. We are happy for institutions like ours to benefit from our high quality of training product...”

“And not just brothels,” interjected the Director. “The private market is very healthy.”

“And indeed it is,” agreed Khedra, “but Ana isn’t here to learn about the Brothel’s export initiatives. This video, and others like it, should reassure you that the services the Brothel provide are of a professional nature and we take a professional’s pride in proper training, employee care and customer satisfaction. This video is called A New Life and it will show you what the life of a working girl, whether full or part time, can be like.”

She picked up a remote control and pointed it at the video player. The disc began to whirl and the screen crackled into a chaos of interference. After a few seconds, the screen reorganised itself into an image of a smiling woman in her early thirties wearing an elegant jacket and skirt, carrying a briefcase and with the title of the film appearing over her head.

“A New Life,” she echoed. “And that is the exciting challenge you have chosen. A life of great rewards - both material and social - but one which needs to approached in the right way. And that is what this film will help you do, by outlining how to get the best out of your new career and at the same time provide your clients with the satisfaction they crave.”

The video continued in this vein, as the woman, Muhathila Idrus, explained such important aspects of a prostitute’s work as Courtesy to the Client, Being Prepared and Proper Hygiene. In all of this there was little to hint as to the actual nature of the service the prostitute provided. The only suggestions were the dress the prostitutes wore and the fact that all their clients seemed to be men: ones, in fact, astonishingly courteous, well-dressed and surprisingly good-looking. Ana had rarely seen clients such as these in the foyer of the Brothel when she came to work in the morning or when she went home. Most clients she saw were unprepossessing: badly dressed, often overweight, frequently balding and most often middle-aged. They were usually far less courteous or thoughtful than those in the video who would unfailingly shake hands with the prostitute and smile in a welcoming way that made it seem as if it was the client who was providing the service rather than the prostitute.

The advice provided gave no insight into the concerns Binta expressed. Indeed it seemed more like common sense than anything else. The novice prostitute was advised to shower herself after every client’s visit, tidy herself up and remove any off-putting odours that might trouble the next clients.

“After all,” said Muhathila, standing by a shower with a girl wearing a towel quite as large as the one Ana was wearing, “your next client doesn’t like to think that he isn’t the first to have made your acquaintance that day. It’s only courtesy. And as we have said before, courtesy is critical for success in your new career.”

The video finished after nearly half an hour, with Muhathila once again repeating the film’s key points. The Director looked extremely bored, preferring to thumb through the promotional literature rather than view the film itself. Khedra had a fixed expression on her face. She’d obviously seen the video many times herself, but kept a watchful eye on Ana.

“So what do you think?” she asked as synthesised incidental music twiddled over the credits. “You can see that the profession is really not so bad at all.”

Ana sighed. “I know what it’s like. I’ve spoken to people. I know people who work as prostitutes. It’s nothing like what the video says it is.”

“Of course, it is, Ana dear,” Khedra insisted. “All the points made in the video are absolutely valid. As a prostitute you’d be a fool not to follow them.”

“But I’m not a prostitute. And I never will be!” Ana insisted.

The Director sniffed. “She’s right, you know,” he said to Khedra. “It’s not all like that. Show her some of the harder stuff.”

Khedra glared at Mr Madir. “Not yet.” She turned back to address Ana. “Life as a prostitute isn’t all work, you know. There are plenty of fringe benefits.” She walked over to the video player, removed the video disc and replaced it in its case. “And you will be making a lot of money.” She selected another video disc from her bag and slipped it in the video machine. “This will tell you about the career prospects and advantages of the profession.”

“But I already know about them...” Ana protested.

“No harm in hearing about them again,” smiled Bezaffa, squeezing Ana’s arm affectionately. Ana nodded, but still believed she would feel happier when this ordeal was over and she could go home.

Khedra sat back on the sofa next to the Director, pointed the remote at the video disc and let it play. This one was called In The Money and featured another smartly dressed woman, this time in her early forties and with a habit of pulling documents out of an attaché case she carried around with her. Amongst other things, this video featured information on the classification system used in the Brothel, and how prostitutes could progress up to higher grades and better pay by paying sufficient attention to their appearance and performance.

A very pretty girl was featured in the Brothel gym practising on the equipment and then turning obediently to Mrs Zhunia, the presenter, to explain how through exercise, skin care and Brothel-sponsored surgery she had enhanced her rating from a Gamma Plus to an Alpha Minus, and how much difference it had made not only to her income, but to her self-esteem. Ana had never seen this girl in the Brothel and didn’t believe she was an actual employee, but even so she doubted whether it was humanly possible to make such a leap in one’s PAR. The general pattern was more often downwards through the grades, rather than upwards. Part of her function as a secretary was to forward complaints from prostitutes bitter at dropping a grade or so, and demanding reappraisal.

Other advantages of working as a prostitute were the facilities at the Brothel (“Free to employees but so expensive elsewhere!”), the pension scheme, staff discounts and favourable mortgage loans. Each one of these advantages appeared to give Mrs Zhunia a frisson of delight: “I really can’t understand,” she remarked at one stage in the video, “why I hadn’t chosen this career myself!”

Ana was pretty sure, or felt she was sure, that she knew why she’d never opt for the career. The video made no reference at all to the kind of work the prostitutes did to deserve such good remuneration, and those featured were dressed in ways that were more appropriate for working in an office or walking in the park. The nearest suggestion was Mrs Zhunia’s occasional reference to “working hard” or “not giving up”, which implied that there was indeed some effort involved in attaining these lovingly specified luxuries.

“Well, did you learn anything from that?” asked Khedra hopefully as the video disc slid out on its drawer.

“Not really,” admitted Ana, hoping that this was the last of her ordeal.

“What do you expect?” scoffed the Director. “She knows all that stuff. Show her the real thing, for goodness sake!”

Khedra sighed, but selected a video entitled A Loving Profession. “The Training Services Division of the Brothel tries to do the best for its trainees and part of this is to provide practical training for its recruits. We don’t believe in just sending out our working girls with no practical knowledge of what is expected from them. Much of this training is necessarily theoretical, particularly for those who are intact as you are, Ana dear. Videos are an invaluable tool for this, though of course we also provide demonstrations and some class work. This video is one of those we use to demonstrate techniques of customer care and is, I warn you, rather explicit.”

At first, Ana wasn’t too sure what Khedra meant by this last remark. The video began very much like the last two except that the woman presenter was an anonymous figure who wasn’t seen at all, but had a gruffness that suggested that she was neither young nor inexperienced. This time the prostitutes were featured in the kinds of work clothes Ana was more familiar with: a bizarre collection of underwear, stockings and lace. The clients were again untypically young and handsome, and when they bared their torsos, which they did fairly early on, revealed a musculature which few actual clients could ever lay claim to. It came as a shock though when the video proceeded towards its actual subject matter, as the clients removed all their clothes and the prostitutes removed their knickers and opened their legs.

Ana became aware that she was watching film of actual sexual intercourse. She had never seen videos which even featured nudity: the Alif government had made pornography illegal and possession of it was a serious offence. The display of genitalia or breasts was explicitly banned and even the hint of nudity would be excised from any film that dared to include it before it reached the cinema. Now Ana was seeing not just nudity but sexual acts which were explicit and graphic, filmed from angles that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Curiously enough the prostitutes themselves could hardly be described as naked. Throughout the filming they retained their stockings, even their shoes, and it was rarely that their breasts were revealed. But the breasts were not the main object of the camera’s attention, as groins were pushed together in repetitive, even monotonous, thrusts.

There was a soundtrack over the top of this activity as the anonymous presenter explained exactly what was going on, how the prostitute was achieving certain effects and the results this provided for client satisfaction. Ana hardly heard it at all. Her eyes were transfixed at the horror at what she was seeing. At least it was horror when she first saw these images. So, that was what men and women did together. She was even more determined never to participate herself. However, after a while, she became inured to the sight of such physical sex. It was tedious, predictable and not at all erotic.

Bezaffa squeezed her arm tenderly. “See, cherry, there’s nothing to it!”

Despite Ana’s original disgust, she found she was beginning to agree with Bezaffa. There really didn’t seem very much to it. She could even envisage herself, lying back, with her eyes closed, gritting her teeth and thinking about other things (just as Binta sometimes described it), while from a remote distance a man whom she might not even have to look at would do his humping backwards and forwards, until he lost his ability to continue and then leave. Perhaps, she thought with contempt, her fears were rather exaggerated. It was probably nowhere near as painful as she’d imagined, although the video didn’t suggest to her that she’d ever actually enjoy it however much the women in the video seemed to be, by the evidence of their loud cries and simpering grins.

The Director watched the video with a disgusting leer across his face, clearly enjoying specific moments such as when a woman was first penetrated or took the client’s organ into her mouth. Khedra wasn’t even watching the video, being more interested in reviewing a list of video titles she had on her lap. Ana looked round at Bezaffa, who grinned conspiratorially at Ana.

“It’s great fun, isn’t it? Don’t you think?” she said, hugging Ana affectionately across the shoulders and looking more at Ana than the current scene of oral sex filling every part of the video screen.

“Tempted now, m’dear?” asked the Director with a leer when the video finished, lighting the cigarette in his holder with his lighter.

Ana looked at Mr Madir contemptuously and shook her head adamantly. “Not at all!”

“But there’s nothing to it!” Khedra remarked. “There really isn’t! Just think how much you’ll be earning for really no effort at all.”

“It’s just not something I ever want to do! It’s horrible! Can’t I go now? I’ve seen more than enough. I just don’t want to do it!” She faced Bezaffa. “My clothes must be washed now. Can’t I just put them on and leave?”

“They’re still wet, cherry. You wouldn’t want to catch pneumonia. And anyway I’m sure that Khedra has more that she wants to show you.”

“I don’t want to see it. I haven’t changed my mind at all. All I want to do is go home and forget all these horrible things I’ve seen.”

The Director sighed loudly. He drew on his cigarette holder and emitted a large cloud of slightly bluish smoke. “I told you, Khedra m’dear, that soft sell wouldn’t work on our little virgin. We’ll have to switch to harder sell. A stick may work where a carrot fails.”

Khedra nodded, and knelt in front of her carrier bag where she pulled out a video tape. She turned on Bezaffa’s videotape player and slid the tape in. With a series of clunks and whirls it adjusted itself and the screen reorganised itself into the view of a prostitute’s room, very similar to the one Binta lived in. There were no introductions or synthesised music. There was just a view of a woman whom Ana vaguely recognised with a client who in terms of age and physical attractiveness much more closely resembled those who actually came through the Brothel doors.

The Director leered and puffed out more smoke from his nostrils. “As you know, Ana m’dear, the Brothel provides each prostitute with a two-way mirror which enables potential clients to view those who are available at any time. This mirror is connected to the Brothel’s intercom system and enables us to record the girls at work. This is invaluable in the appraisal of the girls in their work, and is a requirement by the government should there be any dispute in the award of grades. As a bonus this provides the Brothel with an additional source of export income in selling the film abroad to a market that likes to see actual, authentic footage. This video shows Jadida at work. She seems to be enjoying herself, don’t you think, m’dear?”

A cold tremor passed through Ana’s body. What did this portend for Binta and her? The film was very static, featuring none of the camera angles and close-ups which typified the previous videotape. Bezaffa grasped her more tightly, as if to prevent her leaving the room.

“Jadida’s a pretty girl isn’t she? Much your age, probably much the same grade as you’d gain, and a good example to us all. Now, Khedra, show our little friend tape of someone more familiar to her.”

Khedra nodded. She ejected the video tape from the machine, which had only a handwritten sticker to identify it. She then slipped in another tape, which when it began showed a much larger white body, with legs high in the air being penetrated by another unprepossessing client whose trousers were down to his knees and still wearing a shirt. Ana stared at horror at the client’s hairy bottom, the prostitute’s folds of fat and a face that repeatedly ejaculated cries clearly meant to express great joy and abandon. She then frowned at Bezaffa who smiled at her in a curiously conspiratorial way.

“Yes, m’dear,” the Director affirmed. “Your latest belle, Bezaffa, at play. Or should I say, at work. Watch and learn.”

Ana watched in horror, blood draining from her face as she contemplated the repeated thrusts and then the horror and disgust as Bezaffa, still apparently enjoying all that was happened lowered her head to a lower part of the client’s body and proceeded to exercise her mouth in a way that was explicit and frightening.

“How could you?” Ana accused.

“Easy!” laughed Bezaffa good-humouredly. “You ought to try it. It’s good fun! There can’t be many jobs where you get paid so well for doing something you enjoy!”

“I just couldn’t enjoy doing that!” Ana insisted. “It’s obscene! Vulgar! Disgusting!” She stood up abruptly. “Turn it off! Just turn it off! I don’t want to see any more. I’ve seen enough. That’s enough!”

“Surely not, m’dear!” the Director laughed, lighting another cigarette. “There’s so much more to see! You can’t leave us now.” He smiled cruelly, letting a cloud of cigarette smoke rise slowly from his nostrils and followed it up with a gaze. He then looked directly into Ana’s eyes causing her to blink with fear and trepidation. “Jadida and Bezaffa aren’t the only two girls we’ve filmed at work. No way! We have film of Zabba, Ketaba, even darling Khedra here. It’s totally routine you know. Every working girl is filmed at work. In fact, there’s so much recorded on video that of course we never get the opportunity to see more than the smallest fraction of it. Just what we might be interested in. Compiling export tapes is quite a tiring job I can tell you - and I’m glad it’s a duty that has never fallen to me.” The Director sucked in on his cigarette holder, the embers sparking at his inhalation. “As I say, every working girl’s every working moment is recorded and stored, even if it may never get seen. Khedra and I, we usually only get to see them when an export tape has been compiled or if we have particular reasons to review the performance of any individual girl. Khedra m’dear, show a video which will especially interest Ana. One that features a girl whose performance has recently caused us considerable concern as a result of some rather less than complimentary comments from her clients.”

Ana drew her breath in. She had a very good idea who this girl might be, but she hoped - so much! - that it wasn’t. But as the video was inserted and began, she could see that her fears were confirmed. The girl receiving the frequent and rhythmic pelvic thrusts of the paunchy middle-aged man with a large bald spot in his hair and responding with occasional gasps and cries, was immediately distinguishable from all the other prostitutes she’d seen on video in that she wore no clothes at all. Her long hair, the dark green eyes and the face, occasionally obscured by the body of the man lying on top of her, could only belong to Binta. At first Ana tried convincing herself that it was someone else: another person in the Brothel who looked like her, but Ana knew Binta too well. She knew every small detail of her lover’s body. And this was clearly, indubitably and horrifyingly, Binta.

“So, m’dear,” sneered the Director, “this is your dyke friend. Or is she a dyke? She doesn’t seem to mind it so much, does she? I’d say she was actually enjoying it, wouldn’t you? And look! She’s giving the client just what he wants with her mouth. Look at that tongue! Look at those active fingers! Just what were those clients complaining about, I wonder. Binta’s not a girl who shies from her duty, eh? And listen to those cries. They certainly suggest to me someone who’s having a good time. Maybe she’s not such a dyke after all!”

Ana stared in wordless and silent horror. It was Binta! It really was! And maybe she was enjoying it. Maybe she was pretending to, just to persuade the man to finish as soon as possible. But it appeared that she was enjoying it. That horrid, disgusting man and his filthy misshapen appendage! Could it be that Binta really did enjoy her work?

The video switched to a scene of another man, quite skinny and gaunt, enjoying her in much the same way as the first, with Binta lying on top of him, her mouth hidden as her fingers worked at his trouser top but her head bobbing up and down, suggesting attention the thought of which left a very unpleasant taste in Ana’s mouth. She turned her gaze away and looked into Bezaffa’s eyes which were fixed on her.

“Is Binta really enjoying it?” she whispered.

Bezaffa grinned broadly. “It’s impossible to say, cherry. She’s a professional. She’s got to look like she enjoys it. But I’d say, yes. She does seem to be enjoying it. Those are pretty genuine little cries of passion, don’t you think?”

Ana turned her head back to the screen. Binta did seem to be making rather a lot of noise. And it did seem to come bit by bit to a climax, the sound of which was so familiar, so achingly familiar, and one which until now she had unreservedly believed her own property and the fruit of her own endeavour. And all that strange viscous liquid that engorged itself all over Binta’s face and breasts. If Binta enjoyed it, perhaps Ana could do so too. What meaning was there to her fidelity to Binta, if her lover felt free to express her passion so freely and promiscuously? Ana’s eyes swelled with tears and her cheeks smarted as they seeped soundlessly onto her face.

“Crying are we, m’dear?” laughed the Director. “Find the truth a little difficult to accept, do you? Don’t worry, we have more to show. Much more. You see, the camera doesn’t merely record when Binta is working. Oh no! There’s no such discretion in the Brothel, - though of course generally there’s precious little of the remotest interest to see most of the time when a girl is off-duty. Washing her hair; reading books; chatting to friends; sleeping: none of these are activities which could interest us nor, it need be said, any of our potential export market. And anyway with a fixed mirror, so much is out of frame. Everything that is, except what goes on in the bed.” Mr Madir smirked. “Show Ana one of our unofficial recordings, Khedra m’dear.”

Khedra nodded. “If you think it’s for the best...”

“It is! It is!” Ana’s boss assented.

Khedra ejected the video tape while Ana wrapped herself around Bezaffa, the most comforting object in the room. How could Binta enjoy all those horrid men? Was she enjoying what they were doing to her? And what she was doing to them? Bezaffa gently stroked Ana’s back, as her tears soaked into her dressing gown and dampened her ear as it pressed hard against the breast. Khedra pushed in another video tape and Ana watched out of the corner of her eye as it jerked into action. It was then that she got another very horrid shock. There was Binta again: quite clearly enjoying the sexual attention of another person. But that other person, seen from such a strange angle, and quite as active in lovemaking as Binta herself: it was someone very familiar, but curiously not familiar at all.

Ana had never seen a film of herself before, except in the video screens of security cameras in the malls of Blad. And in those cases, she’d been fully clothed and really doing nothing more than walking past, looking to one side of the camera, as the screen would be in a quite different location to the lens. Here though was that same curious sensation of self-recognition, but this time in positions and poses she’d only briefly viewed in the same mirror which had recorded her in her sexual play. She breathed in deeply, her eyes swelling with shock and fear.

“I need not tell you, m’dear, how the law of this land views such sexual transgressions as this. It’s a serious offence, punishable as you know by imprisonment or, if you are very lucky, penal servitude in the same august institution where you currently earn a living. As you can see, Khedra and I have here rather undeniable evidence of your criminal activity. That is you, isn’t it, enjoying yourself in such a disgusting if rather titillating way. And dear me! There really doesn’t appear to be any evidence of reluctance on your part, m’dear. You really do seem to be a willing party to all this behaviour. My goodness! Just look at that! Don’t the two of you seem to be having such a good time! What have you got to say, m’dear? It is you there, isn’t it?”

The naked Ana on the video tape chose this moment to look directly into the mirror, her head emerging from between Binta’s legs with a strange wild expression that the Ana in Bezaffa’s living room had never seen on herself before. Seen like this there really seemed no difference between this Ana and the women she’d seen making love to men on the other video tapes. Ana nodded, looking towards the video, squeezing Bezaffa’s chubby white hand so tightly that blue marks rose on the soft white skin.

“What are you going to do?” she asked through a voice that emerged from deep inside a hollow breast. Her heart pounded hard inside her chest and her stomach fluttered with a fear that promised to erupt into a fresh outpouring of vomit from her raw punished throat. “Are you going to have me arrested?”

The Director smiled grimly and triumphantly. “In a court of law this would be pretty well conclusive evidence - wouldn’t you say? - of misdemeanours which attract quite harsh penalties. Not just for you, of course, although I daresay your main concern is quite understandably yourself. What would an unsympathetic judge and jury think of someone indulging in such filthy behaviour with a known lesbian? But it is also of concern, of course, to your dyke friend, Binta. She would not be let off easily. A second offence committed while serving a sentence for the first. She may never again emerge a free woman. Dearie me! That would be sad, wouldn’t it, m’dear?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I’d have thought that was fairly obvious from all the hard work that dear Khedra has been putting in on your behalf. The administration of the Brothel - Khedra and I - is quite willing to turn a blind eye on your criminal transgressions, if you are ready to show yourself willing to compromise on our behalf. And Khedra has already spelt out the great advantages of working part-time in such a capacity. You really have nothing to lose by taking up our generous offer. And I really do not need to spell out the penalty of non-cooperation.”

“You mean I have to work as a prostitute? A whore? Have strange men see me every day?”

The Director smirked. He pulled a cigarette out of his cigarette case and tapped it a few times on the silver exterior. “Describe it how you like, m’dear. But essentially, yes. A little bit of effort on your behalf and we’ll never mention your criminal acts to anyone.”

Ana leaned forward, tears gushing from her eyes and her mouth forming such ugly shapes as she confronted her helplessness. “What shall I do? What can I do? Can’t anybody help me?”

Bezaffa stroked Ana comfortingly on the back, and then bent her head down and nuzzled it against Ana’s own. “You know the answers, sweetest. You really do not have any choice. Not really! And it’s not such a bad choice. Not a bad choice at all! Either imprisonment and stigma for you (and worse for sweet little Binta!) on the one hand; and riches and rewards for such little pain on the other. You really have no choice. Just say yes! Sign the forms darling Khedra has provided and you need worry no more.”

Ana looked closely into Bezaffa’s face which was so close to her: the pretty blue eyes, the smooth round face, the sympathetic smile. A sudden rush of hatred and loathing shook her slender frame, flushing her forehead with an exhilarating heat of passion.

“You betrayed me!” she exclaimed with a sudden appalled insight. “Betrayed me!”

She pushed herself off Bezaffa, throwing herself down on the length of the sofa, hardly caring as the towel fell off her breasts and revealed herself nearly as naked as the cheerful and ecstatic image of herself on the television engaged so passionately with Binta. Ana didn’t care. Her humiliation was nearly as complete as it possibly be. What difference did a little more make? Bezaffa sounded hurt by the accusation.

“I didn’t betray you, cherry. I didn’t. What we have done together...”

“I hate you! I hate you! You betrayed me! You used and abused me! You took advantage of me!”

“Bezaffa hasn’t betrayed you, Ana darling,” Khedra remarked, kneeling amongst the video tapes and with a touch of sympathetic emotion in her voice. “If anything, she has compromised herself. She didn’t know about these videos any more than you. If anyone betrayed you, it was you. With your naïveté and blatancy. Don’t think we didn’t notice you and Binta: always together, and you staying overnight in the Brothel. You really could have been a lot more discrete, you know. It was just a matter of time. You know that!”

“It’s not right! It can’t be right! I’ve done nothing wrong! Nothing! It’s love! That’s all! Love! We’re in love, Binta and I. Why must it be condemned? It can’t be right, when something so true and good and pure and wonderful between us ... Waaahhh!” Ana cried in helpless agony, resting her tear-strewn face on her palms, elbows supported on her knees, and the raw red wound of her face and emotions spilling drops of despair onto her breasts and the towel over her thighs. “I’ve been betrayed! Betrayed!”

The Director placed his unlit cigarette into the holder and with a grandiloquent gesture lit it with his lighter. He puffed out a large cloud which ascended into the already smoke-filled air and gradually descended in a grey-blue mist over Ana’s bare shoulders.

“Talking of betrayal, m’dear,” he commented in slow even terms, “there is more that we can show you. Your dyke lover is really no saint - not that anyone has ever accused her of being so. You really should have chosen your friends much more carefully you know.”

Ana raised her head and glared at the Director. “What are you saying about Binta?”

“Show her Khedra!” commanded Mr Madir, leaning back with a contented and malevolent grin on his face. “Show what a little angel Binta can be.”

Khedra sighed reluctantly, but obediently ejected the video tape of Binta and Ana, and slipped in another. Ana looked at the screen with sore red eyes, a trail of clear salty snot emerging from her left nostril and sneaking into her mouth. She huddled up out of reach from Bezaffa who sat in discomfort at the other end of the sofa. The video whirred and clanked into motion and then the screen flickered into focus.

It was Binta again. That Ana was sure. She’d now seen enough of Binta on video tape to be certain that it was her lover. And, again, she was with someone. And this time it wasn’t Ana. But she was making love, with the same visible passion that she’d just witnessed in the last video. And she wasn’t making love with a client. No client looked like that. Not so slender, young ... or feminine.

Or black!

There was only one black person in the Brothel. There had, in fact, only been one black person that Ana had seen in her entire time in Blad. Black people were not native to Alif and very few indeed had ever ventured in at any time in its long turbulent history. The woman who was with Binta. And enjoying her caresses. And whose caresses were being enjoyed. This woman was undoubtedly Ferhana.

Ana stared and stared. It couldn’t be. It must be an illusion. It can’t be true. But the black woman’s face rose from the garden of Binta’s beauty, as Ana’s had in the earlier video, and stared directly into the mirror. It was Ferhana. Ana’s eyes ached in disbelief and humiliation. Binta. With Ferhana!

“Now will you do the right thing, m’dear?” asked the Director kindly.

Ana stared back at the video as Ferhana and Binta stretched out on the long length of that familiar bed, their arms around each other and Ferhana’s fingers where Ana believed no other woman should ever intrude. She squeezed shut her eyes. Go away! she whispered to herself. Don’t be true! She opened her eyes, and focused through the salty film that had attached to her retina. It was still Ferhana and Binta. Together!

“What are you going to do, sweetest?” Khedra asked. “Will you volunteer to a bit of part-time work? It really won’t do you any harm.”

Ana vigorously nodded her head. Her humiliation was complete. She didn’t care that her breasts were uncovered or that her face was an ugly contorted tear-stained mess of misery.

“Yes!” she announced emphatically and despairingly. “Yes! Yes! I will! I’ll do everything you say. Everything!”