Chloe

originally posted February 27, 2006

Every city has them. In some cities, they are celebrated. Large, open establishments. Girls in painted wooden placards advertise the food, drink and, of course, themselves. You might see choreographed entertainment in such places. Women performing the dances of every corner of the world. It is not odd to see the Love Dances of Southern Tor performed far north in a city such as Ko-Ro-Ba or Thentis. In Ar, I have seen Belt Dances and Whip Dances and even the Dances of Panther Girls, the girls garmented in pelts with dirt streaked across their brows. In Port Kar, several years ago, I sat behind a low table and saw girls of the Delta Marshes perform their secret dance for pirates and cut-throats and, of course, myself, a Poet of Ar.
Other cities are less inclined to advertise such places. You might wander about the smooth stones of her thoroughfares and be completely unaware that behind the facade of pastel paint and propriety lay the steamy realities of the nature of men. Little does the richly brocaded, many veiled free woman know that behind a mere foot of stone, behind a heavy, non-descript door, her sisters are in bondage. As she sups on crisp pastries and fragrant tea at a street side cafe, half a block away a woman, once free, rushes to pour the paga. She must be quick. She must not spill a drop. She must not be concerned that another girl is had on the table, screaming and moaning, thrashing her head from side to side. This is her life. This is her reality.
Chloe works behind a green door. Once there was golden lettering, proclaiming the name of the establishment on that door. Now the gold is rubbed into the wood, what is left of it, the rest lashed away by rain and wind and the sweating hands of men looking to slake their thirst. I gather her master has seen more prosperous days. I sat behind a low table and ordered food and drink. Chloe brought me tabuk, roasted. It was dry, unimaginatively spiced, but hearty. Too, there were leafy greens. The wine was not good. One does not expect much by way of sublime vintages when one sups in a paga tavern. Still, it washed the food down. The women with me; Sandal, Samantha and She, watched the girl serve. It was not hard to see that she was lonely in her toils. Happy, and genuinely so, to bring food and drink to a man. She must scrub the floors and wipe down the tables. Her master keeps his eye on her that she not slack for even an ihn. It is good for women, I think, to see the depths others in bondage might be held. Whether they are empathetic to her or haughty matters not, truly. They have seen her. They will look upon their own garments, if they have them. They will consider the conditions they live under. Chloe was given silk, but it was soiled. Stained in places. The color might have been red once. Or orange. Frayed, rent at one hip, it was hard to say. Her hair needed washing. It was a dull, mousy brown shade. Chloe would have benefited greatly from a bath. Still, I found her memorable. Beautiful even.