2. Procedures

Wednesday, September 17. 6:30 PM.

Although it may seem cheesy, the truth is that upon crossing the doors, another world truly awaited. The two travelers were surprised by a reality they did not expect; behind the opaque door of thick smoked glass lay a wide and beautiful lobby clad in white marble on the walls, ceilings, and floors. Strategically placed plants added a touch of color; also white were some beautiful leather armchairs, all empty, that seemed to randomly splash strategic spots. A powerful blast of pure air conditioning enveloped everything, but after a few moments, it was not bothersome, but rather very pleasant. Soft music played through invisible speakers, and a sweet fragrance, both heavy and subtle, floated everywhere. It was evident that electricity did exist in the country, or at least at customs, and this served to reassure Jorge, although he noted that his phone remained completely dead.

They approached the counter, where an official dressed in an elegant white tunic seemed to have no other occupation than to await their arrival. Jorge greeted in his horrible English and extended his passport with the visa, while Alex waited behind him, pretending to be calm but dying of curiosity about everything around them. The customs employee read the documentation carefully and looked at Jorge over and over again with a seriousness that foretold nothing good. After a few moments, he picked up a phone and spoke to someone in a tone so moderate that even though Jorge strained his ear to the maximum, he was unable to discern even what language was being used.

“Stop, sir, please,” he said in authoritative customs language.

Jorge looked at Alex, unsure of what else to do but wait for events to unfold. Shortly after, another official appeared, also in a perfectly pressed white tunic; without a doubt, he was the superior with whom the first had spoken. He briefly looked at Jorge and smiled, a gesture that Jorge interpreted as reassuring. He quickly skimmed through the documents, opened the passport, and stamped a seal, taking care to position it correctly; it read: “TRANSIT.” He returned it to Jorge, and with another smile, said in perfect Spanish:

“The documentation for the slave, and the plane tickets to Nairobi, if you please.”

Jorge struggled to locate the documents, which he managed to pull out after several frantic searches in his pockets; he handed them to the official. There was no one else in the enormous reception area. What a bad idea they had had; it was evident that having booked two flights on different days did not support the credibility of their story, but a stroke of luck came to their aid.

“I see you are traveling on different days to Nairobi, and from there you are both going to Paris.”

By a fortunate chance, Alex was returning to Moscow via Paris, just as he was heading to Madrid; he hadn’t even thought of that.

“Yes, yes, we couldn’t get the same flight to Nairobi but we will both arrive in Paris later; you see…” he said, trying to improvise some explanation at lightning speed.

“Please, no need to explain, with the correct documents it’s enough. Everything is fine regarding you. As for the curious document of your slave, the truth is we must corroborate it, I hope you understand, it will only be a formality.”

He was going through an emotional carousel, and again felt tension after the initial words of relaxation. He tried to maintain composure and smiled while keeping the official's gaze.

“Order your slave to accompany us and cooperate with the procedures, please. I guarantee we will not harm your property; rather, we might just give it a tune-up,” he said with a broad smile.

Curious sense of humor. They had to play along.

“You’ve heard, Alex, do whatever is necessary as if I were ordering you myself. Cooperate and answer any questions without any reservation.”

“Yes, Master,” the young man said, quite nervous but trying to nail his role.

Immediately, two gorillas dressed in gray tunics and even taller than Alex gestured for him to follow. They entered through a door and disappeared from sight, although Jorge thought he noticed Alex gave him one last desperate look. Jorge was sweating profusely, despite the pleasant temperature.

“Welcome to Ketirandia, Mr. Redondo. You are our guest until tomorrow; if you wish, you can freshen up and rest in your room; don’t worry, it’s courtesy of the State. A waiter will ask you about dinner later.”

Jorge wanted to get to the airport as soon as possible, so he prepared to decline a deal that felt overwhelming, but realized he would have no choice but to accept such hospitality when he heard:

“Since you temporarily do not have a slave, we have taken care of moving your luggage to the suite, don’t worry.”

And indeed, the bulky set of suitcases and backpack that had been so difficult for Alex to move was no longer where it had been placed, on the floor; someone had taken care of relocating them.

Wednesday, September 17. 8:31 PM.

Jorge occupied the luxurious suite, but he was not enjoying its comforts, consumed as he was by anxiety; first, about whether they would really let him fly to Nairobi the next day, as they had promised, and second, because he was worried about Alex’s fate. The suitcases were meticulously arranged in a wardrobe, almost like another independent room, that attentive hands had expertly unpacked, placing the clothes perfectly on hangers, and even the pajamas on a bedside table and the toiletries in the spacious bathroom. The backpack, on the other hand, was on the floor, apparently intact.

In reality, if the charade could hold for one day, or less, until the departure of his flight, he could consider himself satisfied. If later Alex was considered a spy or a liar or whatever, that would be their problem, but he would be safe. This was now the moral dilemma he faced; would he be able to leave Alex in the hands of the authorities of this strange country? And the truth was, the more time passed, the more he became convinced that he could: enough of acting the fool, enough of saving someone who didn’t deserve it, a boy who would spit in his face without hesitation if he knew he was gay. And all for him to end up with his Sonia. On the other hand, what if Alex was unmasked before he could leave Ketirandia? He was lost in these thoughts when there was a knock at the door. Upon opening it, he discovered it was not a waiter asking about dinner, as he had supposed.

“Good evening, Mr. Rodríguez,” said the visitor. “I am the bactani of the Silver Hotel, your host we could say. Is everything to your liking, do you need anything?”

“No, no, everything is perfect, thank you very much. I was about to take a shower, and then I think I will sleep, although I don’t know if I can ask you if I will be able to see Alex.”

“Does your slave go by that name?”

“Yes, that’s right, my… slave.”

“I understand they are still with him at this moment,” said the bactani in correct Spanish but noticeably worse than that of the customs chief. “But naturally, we can provide you with public slaves, whichever you need for your satisfaction.”

For a moment Jorge considered the possibility of asking for a couple of service boys; what kind of services would those be? Would they be handsome? But it was the typical lustful thought that is discarded in a fraction of a second, like when you are on the subway and see a guy you would passionately kiss: you think about it but don’t do it.

“No, it’s not necessary. I will wait for Alex… for my slave.”

“As you wish. But I have also come to announce the visit of a very special person, an honor for you.”

Jorge felt all alarms starting to go off inside him.

“In half an hour, the very tall Kamar Abumón, usher of Justice of the country, will visit you. And it would not have been polite not to inform you; we do not want to interrupt any activities.”

What does one say in such a case? Is that good or bad? Of Justice... ugh... who knows what this one will want. And so much kindness... Jorge felt like Hansel and Gretel in the witch’s house eating sweets only to end up being cooked in the oven.

“Half an hour, understood. I will shower and prepare to receive him, thank you very much.”

Wednesday, September 17. 9:02 PM.

He used the toilet, shaved, showered, and groomed himself in the record time of half an hour: very little for his habits. Then he thought that surely the visit would be delayed, and that punctuality was not a thing of these latitudes; but he was mistaken. There was a knock at the door and he found himself face to face with someone who inspired both sympathy and seriousness equally.

“Kamar Abumón, at your service,” said the newcomer with a slight bow of his head and extending his hand.

“Jorge Redondo,” he managed to say while shaking it and then stepping aside to let the visitor enter.

Jorge had no idea how to treat someone so exalted, so he tried to yield all initiative. Kamar sat in an armchair opposite a round table, and Jorge occupied the other armchair. Kamar wore a wonderfully simple tunic, with embroidered details on the neck and sleeves, and a kind of very fine belt that appeared to be made of golden leather. His hair was black, as were his eyes. He left a small portfolio by his side and seemed to be waiting for something. There were two knocks at the door and it opened to allow a waitress with a cart carrying a complete tea service. She was the first woman he had seen in this country.

“Would you like to have tea with me? Perhaps coffee? It is before dinner, I know, but it’s the Ketiri custom with an honored guest.”

“Thank you, of course I would happily have that tea, but I don’t think I deserve such regard. As you know, I am just a simple Spanish tourist in transit.”

He intentionally emphasized the word “Spanish” as if in that way some virtual shield could protect him from harm. The waitress served the tea, left the cart aside, and went away with a graceful bow; she was very young and pretty.

“That is precisely what it’s about. You may or may not be a tourist in transit. First of all, you have a slave, and that is something totally unusual for someone who is not from the country.”

“I understood that it was something completely legal in Ketirandia.”

“It is, of course. As long as the slave is legitimate property, of course. Slavery is not just our heritage; there are many slaves in the world; and also simulation games, merely sexual encounters during which two men call each other master and slave for a while, and perhaps even switch roles at some point, or simply they are while they are aroused, but then each goes on with his life. That is not what we call slavery; it may resemble it, and don’t get me wrong, terrible things can happen during those simulations; but the resemblance to true slavery is actually small. And if you wish, we can now examine the case of your slave.”

“Alex?” Jorge asked, his heart in a fist, sure that the fabrication they had woven at that hour had come crashing down.

“As you call him. Upon encountering such an unusual legal case, we had to verify it; it had been more than forty years since a foreigner had appeared at our border claiming to own an actual, absolute slave. In fact, we keep that part of the entry documentation just out of nostalgia, but we never thought we would find a new case.”

“Yeah, and they spoke with him then,” Jorge interjected, eager to know how things were concluding.

“We have done so. You’ll see, although it may surprise you, we have very good technology. You may have noticed that your electrical and electronic devices here don’t work, not even digital clocks; but this is a self-protection measure, let’s say that only devices that interest us and are authorized work. Well, through a device we might call a ‘lie detector’ (even though it doesn’t resemble at all the ones you sometimes use which, if I may say so, are nonsense to us), we have verified the truthfulness of the absolute surrender of your slave.”

“How do you say?”

“I’ll explain better. After informing your slave that we were going to determine whether his statements were true or false, we asked if it was indeed his uncoerced and fully conscious will that guided the decision to be your slave irrevocably and absolutely.”

“And with what result?”

“A certain initial hesitation, totally understandable given the fear he had, which was a lot, but then we found that he was telling the truth. You seem surprised, Mr. Redondo; wasn’t that what we were supposed to verify?”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course, all is correct.”

That Russian had undoubtedly put all his mental strength into simulating total voluntary surrender to fool the machine. What madness, what a marvel. But well, the important thing was that everything was going well. Of course...

“And didn’t you ask him about anything else?” Jorge wanted to know, somewhat anxious lest the annoying matter of the photos finally came to light.

“We don’t need anything else. Moreover, once it was verified that this slave, Alex as you call him, is your legitimate property, we are not authorized to inquire about anything else regarding him.”

Of course, they couldn't even ask him what he was going to do because he was an object with an owner. Great.

“Of course, you are responsible for his behavior; I remind you of what you signed, I’m sure there won’t be any problems with this, but always keep in mind that any possible slip or harm he may cause will be directly attributed to you.”

“Of course. But there won’t be any problems, as you say.”

Jorge cursed the young man inwardly and thought he would have to ensure he did nothing inappropriate before it was tomorrow; there was so little time left...

“Your slave will be returned to you very soon, when I leave. But in reality, I have come for another matter, one of true transcendence. A few months ago, one of our most illustrious citizens passed away, the high Benassur. He was not just any citizen, but one of the most powerful, as he was in charge of exploiting the country’s main ketirite mines, in addition to other precious metals, plantations, and manufacturing. He owned mansions, fisheries, and many other properties in his name, including countless precious items, animals, etc.”

“And I suppose many slaves too.”

“I just told you,” Kamar said, confirming Jorge’s suspicion about the exact meaning of “animals.”

“Well, I regret the death of this noble man, but I don’t understand what it has to do with my transit through the country.”

“It has to do because you might inherit his fortune.”

Automatically, Jorge remembered those emails from the Internet where an African oil tycoon had passed away and you were (surprisingly) his closest relative, so you could cleanly collect your fabulous inheritance... nonsense sometimes innocent sometimes dangerous created to trap the unwary. And he was not one of them, so he preempted the events.

“Don’t tell me now that we were relatives,” he ventured with a smile, thinking that the guy in front of him was possibly a hustler trying to squeeze money from him with tales from a thousand and one nights.

“You are distrustful, and I understand that.”

Kamar leaned to pick up the portfolio and opened it. He pulled out a bundle of documents.

“Benassur established in his will that the first foreigner who visited the country with an irrevocable slave could inherit him. And as you will see among the documentation, there is a certification in your favor indicating that you meet the required conditions. According to our legislation, acceptance of inheritances is voluntary; you can reject it and leave if you wish.”

Jorge thought quickly, trying to find the deception that undoubtedly lay hidden somewhere.

“And in the hypothetical case that I accepted, what tax payment would correspond to me?”

The question made Kamar smile, showing white teeth.

“In Ketirandia, there are no taxes; the State is financed in other ways. The acceptance of the inheritance does not entail any penalty or tax for you; but you would have to renounce your Spanish nationality and accept Ketiri nationality, which believe me, entails nothing but advantages for you.”

“It’s a very tempting offer, but of course, I have to think about it,” Jorge said, feeling the stifling sensation of being cornered.

“Of course, of course. Think about it. You will not be pressured; on the contrary. Know that if you do not accept the inheritance before the deadline, it will revert directly to the State. As you can see, we are being very honest.”

“Deadline? What deadline?”

“Sure, I haven’t mentioned it, and you haven’t been able to read the will yet. The high Benassur passed away on March twentieth and set a strict deadline of six months to determine an heir.”

“And since I’m leaving tomorrow…”

“And since you are leaving tomorrow, in practice, this means you must make a decision within a day. Or if you decide to delay your trip to Nairobi to stretch the time, we can gladly change your flight to take you to your destination later; you might even stretch it until the end of the twentieth of this month, Sunday. Of course, then you would probably lose the connecting flight to Paris.”

“It won’t be necessary. Tomorrow morning I will make my decision; tonight I will calmly study the documentation and options. In what language are the will and the rest of the texts?”

“In a Spanish that we hope will be correct for you. Anything else would be impolite.”

In reality, he was tempted to tell him right then and there that he did not want any of that fortune dropping from the sky that he didn’t believe a word of, but he did not dare.

“Well, Mr. Redondo, I will leave you in peace then. We will see each other tomorrow after breakfast.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr...” (he didn’t remember the name).

“Kamar. Kamar Abumón. In a few minutes, the suite waiter will come, possibly it’s most practical that you order dinner to be served right here.”

“Yes, yes, that will be best. Thank you again.”

“I will take my leave. Soon your slave will arrive to attend to you.”

It’s true, he had forgotten about Alex! Let’s see what that fool would tell him and how he would manage to keep him out of trouble in the following hours. He accompanied Kamar to the door of the suite and set about examining the documents he had left him, along with his portfolio.

The silence left by Kamar after his departure was oppressive. Jorge sat, immobile, while the words of the high official resonated in his head. The proposal was as absurd as it was tempting. The descriptions of the possessions of the deceased sheikh painted a picture of such opulence that he could barely conceive it. It wasn’t just wealth; it was the kind of power that could bend anyone, the absolute control that Ketirandia offered to those who knew how to take advantage of it. He got up and began to pace the suite. The luxury surrounding him no longer felt suffocating but rather a small sample of what could potentially be his. He thought of the mines, stretching under the mountains, where hundreds, perhaps thousands, worked tirelessly to extract the mineral that made Ketirandia indispensable to the world. The fields, vast and fertile, producing a wealth that only fed more power. And he imagined the estates were paradises where pleasure knew no limits, where bodies and wills bent to the desires of the Master. He had, deep down, always felt an attraction for power. It was something he had held at bay for years, in his daily life, where he had to accept social conventions and morals. But Ketirandia was different. Here, those same conventions not only didn’t exist but were inverted, allowing the darkest desires to take control. Would it be possible, he thought, that a man like him, at sixty-five years old, could take the place of someone powerful, surrounded by luxury and slaves, and rule that little personal empire?

He approached the window, contemplating the landscape that stretched before him. The gardens of the hotel, perfectly maintained, seemed endless, surrounded by hills that shone under the scorching sun. But beyond, he imagined, lay the true Ketirandia: a world where absolute control over other men was a way of life.

He had barely organized the table when there was a knock at the door. Could it be the waiter asking about dinner? Could it be Alex? He opened the door. It was Alex. How handsome. He was still wearing that kind of Greco-Roman wrestling outfit, which was actually a bit ridiculous, but it looked so sexy on him, with his torso practically bare, and the hips, ass, and package totally snug. He looked exactly the same as when he had left his side in the customs reception area; evidently, they hadn’t tortured him or anything like that, as his cinematic mind had sometimes feared. Immediately, Alex lowered his gaze, knelt on the carpet with both legs at once, hands behind him, and leaned down to kiss Jorge’s feet, who was taken aback.

“I am your slave, my Master,” he said clearly.