35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

118
EMPIRE OF THE SOUL
Debbie might be out. As I did, a voice from within the villa shouted
that it was coming.
Ray had clearly just woken up, his eyes dazed and puffy, one side
of his neat beard flattened like a cornfield after heavy rain. He wore
a gold Rolex, a thick woven gold chain around his neck, and a floral
sarong that emphasised the slight stoop his slender brown frame
was developing. One word from him and the dogs slunk back
grumbling into the shadows. The rest of us exchanged hugs and
greetings.
We were shown inside. It was dark, the shutters all closed, and
the overpowering smell of hashish wafted over us. When my eyes
adjusted, I found an Indian Aladdin’s cave all around me. We sat at
a long carved wood table just outside the kitchen, from which we
could see the other rooms. Big spacious rooms full of Turkish-style
cushions, embroidered and mirrored wall hangings, mirrors in
impossibly ornate frames – one more than five feet square and carved
in ancient ivory that looked like the finest lace – bronze and painted
wood statues, low antique lacquer tables littered with eggs and other
objets d’art in jade, ivory, gold, silver, and marble. Twenty antique
muskets, their stocks inlaid and filigreed, all of them more
ceremonial than practical, formed a row down one wall. Decorating
another was a wheel of ancient swords of similar opulence, the work
of masters, some featuring gimmicks like built-in pistols or a catch
that transformed one sword into two. These were definitely not so
ceremonial: serrated edges on some guaranteed that the wound they
inflicted would never heal; on others, dual grooves facilitated the
quick withdrawal from flesh, channels to allow the blood to run
away and down. Fine old kelims and huge silk palace rugs were
strewn over the floor’s large red tiles.
Hanging all over this dining space we were in I saw carved
wooden masks from Bali – this was long before they’d ever reached
the West – and there were dozens of Indian miniature watercolours
in frames, old ones, too, not copies. On closer inspection, I found
each of them featured some scene from the Kama Sutra: turbaned
men sipped sherbet daintily, their formidable penises partially
embedded in the shaved vaginas of women wearing much jewellery
and make-up and little else, who also sipped from golden goblets.