An Ancient Affair

We Build the pyramids.

We use sleds, wheels, ramps, rope, giant rolling pins, levers and vitamin supplements. The foreman hates us. He thinks we are dogs with slow reflexes, and he uses his whip generously, especially on me. Says it hurts him more than it hurts us. A comedian. It bothers us that he holds a position of power. We secretly plot against him during coffee breaks, and one day he finds himself in the shadow of a falling obelisk. A shame, we say, gravity strikes again. But a new foreman, Max, arrives, with an even more gruesome demeanor. We secretly plot against him in the locker room after company aerobics class.

The Pharaoh visits every Wednesday. Each week a new Rolls-Royce of a different color. Or maybe he just repaints the old ones, the strutting bastard. He is an old man of vision: "I picture a promenade lined with boutiques and palm trees," says he, "and glorious fountains spouting pink water in a majestic oval pool with a mosaic by LeRoy Neiman on the bottom, all leading to the pyramid's southern face, on which a sun deck, two thirds of the way up, will feature an Astroturf floor and an endless view of the valley with sunsets selected personally by me from the impressionist catalog." His secretary nods and writes it down on monogrammed papyrus.

Nudge, hey. Pharaoh's wife, the lean teen queen in designer jeans, looks us over, cool jewel that she is. Inspecting the troops. Her bosom heaving. She longs for a man with clear eyes and a strong back, so naturally, her gaze lingers over me. I smile cordially, and nonchalantly flex every muscle in my body. She pretends not to be impressed, but I can hear her start to purr. "How would you like to move up in the world?" she says, undressing herself with my eyes. She and the Pharaoh climb back into the Rolls and depart in a cloud of dust.

Days pass. We pyramid builders move stones and sweat a lot. I can feel the muscles in my back getting stronger. The blood courses through my veins, singing robust ethnic folk songs. From the porch of her condominium, the queen watches me through her refracting telescope. She waves to me with her left hand, and with her right hand she waves her panties. I feel a bond growing between us. Adrenaline shoots through me, and I absent-mindedly lift a four-ton block of limestone by myself. "Where do you want this, Max?" I ask the foreman.

"Quit fucking off," says Max in an unusually expressive moment.

My friend Lenny can tell I'm in love, but he urges caution. "She'll use you, chew you up and spit you out," he warns.

"Those lips, those eyes, those nose," I sigh in response.

Lenny shakes his head; this produces a rattling sound that attracts the attention of Max, who used to be percussionist for the Hop Tuit Jazz Ensemble. Max drums on Lenny's back with a branch.

Days pass again. The queen does not call. The pyramid climbs higher. "In fifteen years you should have this baby finished," laughs Max. His whip cracks. We groan and struggle, a chorus of pain and effort. In this endless labor we find neither hope nor satisfaction. We receive neither reward nor thanks. Gosh, I think, an affair with the queen would be a swell change of pace.

My work output diminishes. Max threatens me with his new whip with the titanium handle. The fat beast of a man raises it high. "Do you have anything to say before being made an example of?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "Physicists tell us that all matter, even apparently solid objects, is mostly empty space. Take your head for instance, Max. To us it seems extremely dense. But at the atomic level it is merely a confusion of inscrutable particles whizzing about without purpose."

Hundreds of men laugh. I laugh. Max laughs. Max decides I will be torn into pieces by unruly horses.

He fetches six powerful stallions and long cords of rope. I am stripped naked and forced to the ground. He ties my left wrist to Stiff Drink, facing east; my right wrist to Burning Sensations, facing north; my left leg to Hot 'n' Bothered, south; my right leg to Amazing Race, west. Then he ties my neck to Yo Momman and my penis to Ringmaster. Max's goons lead the horses outward until the ropes are taut. The restless animals shift and snort.

Max positions a blowtorch behind each horse. Each torch is connected by cable to a master control board where computer circuits ensure precise timing.

A substantial crowd gathers.

I prepare mentally, anticipating a Zen experience.

Max mans the control board, ready to scorch Equus' bottom and rip me to bits. He sneers at me. "Whaddaya think now, smartass?" he screams.

"Please," I say, "let's not spoil this moment with words."

The queen appears on her porch and blows me a kiss. She shrugs to indicate her inability to intervene. She weeps and eats chocolates.

Max bellows like a madman and ignites the torches. The horses bolt. The crowd gasps.

The first five horses begin to overpower me, threatening to tear my head and limbs asunder. The sixth horse is no problem.

I concentrate. I gather my strength and contract all my muscles, using the Martha Graham technique. The horses rage and tug. I survey my options: (A) keep pulling, (B) pray, (C) die.

I choose the first two.

I concert my efforts once again, and pray to the spirit of the Sphinx. The relentless horses seem to gain energy, and the horrible strain increases. But soon the Sphinx supplies me with a dose of his mystical cosmic power and an ethereal vision of the queen wearing nothing but a smile. These invigorate me beyond words, and I pull with a renewed strength so great as to startle the stallions. Quickly the animals tire, to the crowd's disbelief. I draw them in. The ropes slacken. The horses come to me, sniff, and lick my body, which I coated with sugar before the ordeal. The crowd cheers.

From my position on the ground, the pyramid appears upside down. It looks good that way. I consider a career as an architect.

Max stomps toward me with a homicidal air, but the crowd descends and carries him off, censuring him for his insensitivity and slovenly appearance.

The queen has fainted. I loosen my bonds, run across the desert, scale the wall and leap onto her porch. I embrace her. She stirs. She undresses me with her eyes, which is hardly necessary, as I am naked.

Melisma, the queen's slave, appears on the porch. Immediately, the queen rebukes me. I implore her. She re-rebukes me. Pretends to be in a huff. She slips me a note. She scurries inside with Melisma close behind.

Only later, in private, do I open the note for the first time.

Darling,

Meet me in the bowels of the tomb of Farukka-Hoo-Nupi when the sundial strikes midnight. I will wear a disguise as necessary.

Ah, typical Egyptian chic, Farukka-Hoo's. All-night spot for the hot to trot. Ladies night Tuesday: "Wiggle your womb in a happenin' tomb." Fun, depending on who you're with.

That night, I spend a full hour in front of the mirror, deciding on aloincloth and matching necktie. Ready at last, I venture outside and hop on Moo, my faithful bovine. The sturdy steed conveys me across the warm desert sands. Together we gaze at the beautiful starry sky.

"The stars shine with extra brilliance tonight, eh, Moo?" I say.

"Moooo," she replies. That means yes. Two moos means no, three moos means maybe, four moos means sometimes, and so on, in increasing levels of syntactical and conceptual complexity, until by the time she reaches 600 moos, she can discuss the gods, life and the meaning of existence more intelligently than anyone I know. But 600 moose--who has the patience?

She deposits me at Farukka-Hoo's. "I'll get home by myself, thanks," I say. Moo hears distant lowing. She smiles a cow smile and departs for a party of her own.

I climb through the long passageway and enter a smoke-filled tomb. The crowd, the music, the dancing, the neon greet me. The robe-check girl winks as I pass her. I scan the joint for the lean teen queen.

I saunter to the bar. The bartender is new, strange, his face an ugly caricature with big nose and three-day beard, but his hands are smooth and delicate. "I'd like a light beer in a heavy glass," I say. He stares at me unforgivingly. "What's with you?" I demand. The bartender peels back part of his face. A mask! The queen! You ingenious lass! We laugh and touch together our Captain Clever Club rings.

We repair to deeper chambers. At last we are alone. The lights are low.

"Hold me," she says.

"I want to be an architect," I say.

"Kiss me," she says.

"Not until you take off that mask," I say.

She removes the offending facade. We kiss gently at first, then more gently. I like to start out kissing gently.

We kiss again. More passionate, more probing. Rah. My skin tingles. Her skin tingles. It's a feeling I can live with.

We pause. We sit and talk. We do not immediately indulge in a wild marathon of sexual abandon. I mean, is this the queen I really want to have an affair with? Think of the scandal: the headlines, the quarrels, my castration and execution; the pharaoh will not be pleased. Perhaps I would be fonder of some other queen.

She blesses my lips with another exquisite kiss, and I file away those negative thoughts in the drawer marked Stupid Jerk.

"Tell me about you," she says regally.

I speak in warm, confident tones! "I am actually of noble birth."

"How do you know you are of noble birth?" she asks.

"This," I say. I stand and show her the emblem tattooed on my left hip.(concluded on page 145) Ancient Affair(continued from page 66)

Her eyes widen, her jaw drops.

"Ah, you recognize it?" I ask.

"You're standing on my foot," she says.

"I'm sorry."

"No. I've never seen it before," she says.

"Never?"

"Never," she says. "I don't think you're of noble birth at all."

I frown. She comforts me with a kiss on he emblem and pats the bench for me to it down again.

I sit close to her so that our shoulders touch. "Tell me about you," I say.

She sighs. "I was twelve," she says.

"The pharaoh won my liberty, my virginity and the rights to my father's diamond nine in a game of seven-card stud."

"A mine is a terrible thing to waste," I say, covering my mouth.

She brushes her graceful hand across my sun-bronzed cheek. I brush my hand across her cheek. What communication.

"You're so gentle," she says," and yet so strong. How do you do it?"

I've never thought about that. Is it genetics? A childhood of splitting logs barehanded while listening to bach? I find the question interesting and am prevented from putting more thought into it only because the queen has begun to take her clothes off. She rises and turns to face me. She takes her time. Each article that falls reveals tantalizing curves that surpass in beauty any I have ever imagined. I am mesmerized, trapped in observation mode. I feel a surge of passion as the blood leaves my brain and goes straight to my head. Finally, she stands naked before me, hands on her hips, her weight evenly distributed in a proud, defiant stance. She smiles daringly, tosses her head back in a play of yutyh and exuberance and shamelessly displays her delicious body. She runs her hands slowly from her shoulders to her firm breasts, across her rib cage and stomich, to the triangle of her downy public hair, which she frames with her thumbs and index fingers as her hands come to rest on her pale inner thighs. She gazes deep into me. Her mouth quivers ever so slightly, and she whispers:

"Now what do you wanna do?"

Her words are barely audible over the sound of my pulse.

The queen and I spend the next three hours raising the roof, lowering the floor and knocking out the walls. We act out our fantasies and share our secrets, making love in the way only a queen and a bluecollar worker can.

At the end of the luscious hours, we lie in a daze in each other's arms, wrapped in blankets and warm thoughts.

"I feel timeless," I say to her. "I feel blessed, transcendent, as though I have tapped a source of infinite energy and wisdom unrelated to the mundane world. Do you know what I mean, my love?"

She weighs my words thoughtfully. "I came nine times," she replies.

We hear a terrible pounding noise. Max, the foreman, breaks down the door and bursts in. He wields a giant saber and slices the air with it.

"Ah-ha!" he bellows. "I knew it."

"Good for you, schmuck," I say, already on my feet, though without a stitch of clothing to cover me. The queen cowers under the blankets.

"When the pharaoh finds out about this!" yells max.

"Get out of here, Max," I say. "You're spoiling the mood."

He lunges at me with the saber. I jump aside, grab one of the blankets and hurl it over him like a net. I miss him completely; the blanket sails softly to the floor.

"So you're gonna play tough," says max sarcastically.

"You'd attack a naked, unarmed man, max?"

"Yes!" he says.

He raises the sword and charges. I let loose the loudest scream I've ever heard and counterattack faster than max can comprehend. My fists rain down on his face; I wrench the sword from his grasp; I throw him to the floor and kick him in the ribs. Standing over him, my foot on his chest, I hold the point of the saber to his throat.

The queen is impressed.

"Now what do you have to say, max?" I ask.

Max spits straight up at my face, but he can't spit that far, and the gooey stuff falls back down and lands in his left eye.

Gravity strikes again.

•

The next day, the queen banishes max before he can get word to the pharaoh. She secures for me the position of apprentice to the court architect. I begin work on an inverted pyramid with sauna, weight room, suntan booths, indoor tennis courts, indoor golf course--for an afterlife of recreation and stunning good health.

The queen and I contemplate running away together. But I enjoy being a court architect, and she enjoys being queen of the most powerful and advanced civilization on the planet, and those two jobs would be tough to land in the next county.

We contemplate murdering the pharaoh and sliding him into that wonder-of-the-world crypt. But our hearts won't let us commit the dastardly act.

We contemplate calling the whole thing off and going back to our old roles. But then she brushes her hand across my cheek. And I brush my hand across her cheek. And we spend the night in a wild marathon of sexual abandon. Later, in the afterglow, we challenge each other intellectually by exchanging provocative view points on great works of literature. If our discussion reaches a stalemate, we can invite moo in to stimulate us with additional considerations.

Months pass. The old pharaoh grows ill. Attended by nurses, physicians and state-licensed spiritual consultants, he makes practically no demands on his wife.

The queen and I are young. We have hope, health and beautiful white teeth. And we have love. When we hold each other tight and dance the tango at Farukka-Hoo's, nothing else matters in the world.

"'I feel timeless,' I say to her. 'I feel blessed.' 'I came nine times,' she replies."