19. Lakua

Wednesday, October 8. 6 PM.

Jorge longed to leave an indelible mark, so he gathered with Eukario and Yusuf to finalize every last detail. The first thing was the outfit. He felt fortunate, as the colors chosen for his house were not only beautiful but also flattering to his figure, and all his garments were impeccable since they were completely new.

Although orange was the dominant hue in his palette, he opted for a daring linen tunic in a blend of white and turquoise that fell to just brush the floor. The vibrant orange boldly outlined the sleeves, hem, and collar, adding a touch of warmth without losing the freshness of the ensemble. On his feet, he wore black sandals, and a simple white belt cinched at the waist completed the composition with understated elegance.

However, the distinctive element was an ethereal piece of jewelry: a small crown made of two fine parallel hoops of 22-karat gold, separated by a succession of finely set gemstones. The turquoise and polished amber inlays paid homage to the colors of his estate, while tiny white-enameled flowers interspersed served as subtle dividers between the semi-precious stones.

This delicate accessory was made in just one day due to the simplicity of its design, and its effect was captivating: a majestic and refined elegance without falling into ostentation, ideal for presenting himself before the dignified hostess, who occupied a higher position in the social hierarchy. Thus, Jorge managed to express his power and exquisite taste without overwhelming the presence of that woman, always preserving the delicacy and protocol that the occasion demanded.

The lord of the Tharakos estate immediately noticed that Asier's grande house towered like an authentic palace, while his own, in contrast, seemed rustic and even somewhat coarse. It was no surprise, as he lived in a place that catered to Benassur's preferences. However, from that moment on, he committed himself to gradually transform his dwelling, investing money and energy in its renovation, without falling into the grotesque ostentation that often characterizes new wealth.

At the appointed time, the protocol officer of the estate appeared to announce that the Very High Lakua Asier would receive the guests from the Tharakos estate. Following the ketirí etiquette, the official offered her arm to Eukario; behind them, Yusuf walked on the left and Jorge on the right. Jorge concentrated on not stepping on his tunic, trying to walk upright to avoid it.

They crossed several thresholds, all guarded by guardians in elegant functional uniforms, predominantly green and yellow, representing the Asier estate. These outfits combined honor swords with light automatic weapons slung from their shoulders. Finally, two doors adorned with peacock reliefs of a bright green hue opened before them, and they entered the hall where the hostess, surrounded by her honor retinue, awaited them.

—Sharos, Uchchatári Lakua Asier —said Jorge clearly, bowing with his hands together before a woman who stood serenely on a platform in the center of the room.

—Sharos, Uchchatá Jorge Tharakos —she replied, returning the gesture without altering her posture.

Jorge realized that he had not been informed beforehand about this woman's appearance. Upon seeing her, he experienced a mix of sensations. He estimated her age to be between forty and sixty; in reality, Lakua was seventy-two, but her bearing favored her. Small in stature, slender, and strong, she barely surpassed one and a half meters, although the platform made her seem taller. She wore a fitted metallic outfit that resembled pure gold and covered almost every part of her, except for her arms. Her hair was jet black, and her brown skin had a soft tone with no visible blemishes. She wore a charming white headdress that suited her well, as well as some golden bracelets. Although she didn’t fit traditional beauty standards, Jorge immediately sensed her energy, elegance, and strength. He felt dazzled and, although surprised, recognized that Lakua Asier's first impression on him was extremely positive.

The conversation unfolded through interpreters: Lakua spoke, Eukario translated for Jorge, he responded, and finally, the translator deciphered the reply for the lady.

—Welcome to my estate, Spaniard —Lakua said in ketirí with a measured and cold voice, exuding the authority conferred by her position.

—I thank you from the bottom of my heart —replied Jorge, bowing as a sign of respect—. Although Spain is the nation of my birth, I had the immeasurable honor of receiving ketirí nationality, a distinction I accept with absolute loyalty to our common homeland.

—I understand —Lakua continued— that the Gurión estate has transformed into the Tharakos estate, which now occupies the place of my friend Benassur, and that you have disregarded his tastes, even going so far as to reject his slaves.

Jorge offered a faint melancholic smile and replied:

—Everything I am and possess is the result of the generosity of the High Benassur Gurión, something I will never forget. However, I believe he sensed that whoever came after him should govern the estate in their own way; that is precisely what I intend to do. I know he was a friend of this estate, and I hope, in the not-so-distant future, to be able to say the same.

After listening to his interpreter, Lakua's voice became slightly softer, laden with severe protocol:

—In honor of his memory and in respect to our traditions, we celebrate this evening. I will accept the decisions of the Council, but you must know that I opposed your naturalization, that is, granting you our citizenship. Today you are welcome in my home, although I wish you had not been received in Benassur's.

While Lakua maintained her impassive face, Eukario conveyed her words to Jorge, who seemed to carefully weigh his response. After a moment's pause, he declared in a calm voice:

—My estate may be the largest in the country, but I consider myself the humblest among the lords who govern. I do not implore your trust, for I have yet to have the opportunity to deserve it. However, I assure you that I will earn your esteem; friendship and personal affection may be unreachable goals, but honorability, honesty, and upright conduct are not. The day will soon come when I am not seen as a Spaniard who came to take advantage of the goods of the High Benassur Gurión, but as a worthy compatriot.

At that precise moment, Jorge noticed the impassive expression of Lakua softened, revealing a slight smile, just before the translator began to articulate the response for her lady. A suspicion settled in Jorge's mind: the hostess must understand Spanish, or at least grasp the essence of his words.

The atmosphere then became a bit more relaxed. Lakua addressed Yusuf with greater friendliness, and they exchanged phrases in a kindly tone; meanwhile, the evening had begun to decline, and lamps were being lit, although Jorge noticed that part of the lighting came from strategically placed LED lights to avoid clashing. The hostess descended from the platform where she was situated and headed to the adjoining room, where a beautifully prepared rectangular table awaited for dinner; about a dozen diners were anticipated. Lakua sat at the head and indicated to Jorge with a smile to take a seat at her right. The rest of the guests were women from the Asier house, except for course Yusuf and Eukario, who also took seats near the hostess to accompany their lord in this celebration.

In Ketiris, an evening can be quite long because it is not just about dining; it is an occasion to chat and even laugh and enjoy oneself; drinks are served, conversations flow without much shyness, and the courses are actually served at the end.

Lakua proved to be a skilled comedian, always speaking in ketirí but undoubtedly following the conversations in Spanish among Jorge, Yusuf, and Eukario. The guests were inevitably the center of interest, and the other ladies frequently addressed them to ask all kinds of questions. Yusuf, in particular, showed much delight in these verbal exchanges with the opposite sex, and Jorge found his gallantry had an air of seduction; however, his charms seemed to have no impact on the other guests, who instead openly flirted among themselves and, while being polite, did not seem too sensitive to his charms.

Desserts became a vibrant showcase of the island's exotic fruits, which Jorge found refreshingly delicious; some, so unusual to him, seemed pulled from a dream. In that festive atmosphere, an attendant approached the lady of the house quietly and, through a prearranged signal, communicated something to her. Lakua responded with a subtle approval, and in the blink of an eye, three beautiful personal slaves, young and undeniably beautiful, appeared to entertain the select audience. They were completely naked, adorned with large silver hoops piercing their shaved vaginas as well as smaller ones on their nipples; the impression was that they must have been quite uncomfortable with them, but the truth was that during their performance they acted as if these rings did not affect them at all. With agile movements and the grace of bodies sculpted by effort, each of them ignited two torches and, like in a fire ballet, played with them: they exchanged them daringly from hand to hand, tossed them into the air to catch them at the last moment, performing jumps and pirouettes with astounding precision. Although some of the torches brushed the edge of danger, the performance always remained clean, impeccable, and surprisingly free of damage. The audience cheered every act, and although initially limited to applause, there were increasingly enthusiastic displays. In the end, the women attendees howled and delighted in the contortions of the three girls, showering them with spicy phrases and expressions, but always maintaining the decorum due to both the occasion and the fact that these beauties were the exclusive property of the lady of the house. Eventually, she signaled for them to withdraw, which they did, sweaty and panting; they kissed their owner's feet one after another and disappeared smiling amid applause. At that moment, Jorge received another even greater surprise, for Lakua leaned over his ear and began to speak to him in perfect French:

—Monsieur Tharakos, le dîner fut des plus agréables, n'est-ce pas? Permettez-moi de vous proposer de poursuivre notre conversation en privé. Je vous invite à me suivre dans la salle attenante, où nous pourrons savourer un café à l'abri des regards.

She was inviting him to have coffee in private! Jorge hurriedly accepted, delighted.

—Madame Lakua, je suis agréablement surpris de vous entendre parler en français sans intermédiaire. C'est un plaisir inattendu, et je serais honoré de vous suivre dans ce moment d'intimité.

The conversation continued in equally subtle tones; Lakua rose with innate elegance and, without hesitation, Jorge followed her. With a discreet gesture, she opened a nearby door, and they both entered a small but cozy room, bathed in the dim light of LED lamps hidden behind artistic white cornices. In the center, a small table flanked by two similarly upholstered white chairs held a beautiful coffee service, arranged meticulously for each to serve themselves as they pleased. The pot was steaming, spreading its delightful aroma.

Jorge allowed the hostess to take a seat, and, suppressing a slight shyness, sat across from her, displaying a somewhat forced smile that betrayed his mix of courtesy and nervousness.

—Well, Jorge, cards on the table —Lakua said in perfect Spanish, laughing—: And close your mouth, lest flies get in!

—Lakua… you speak Spanish! —exclaimed Jorge, astounded.

—Yes, dear, my Spanish is a little rusty, but I still remember it well… Didn't Kamar tell you? It's our little secret, right?

Jorge noted that the woman had opted for the informal "tuteo," and decided to do the same, hoping not to seem rude.

—Kamar never spoke of you. Every day I spend in this country is a surprise.

—Look, I confess I like you. Maybe I shouldn't act this way, but my instincts rarely fail me; I think you are not the problem.

—Thank you for the trust. No, I don't want to be any trouble.

—Still, if you're a paid agent, I'm sure you won't tell me.

—That insinuation is absurd. I had a calm and normal life; the truth is I don't understand why suspicions about me are now arising. If Kamar hadn't pressured me days ago, I would have returned to my little flat in Madrid… sometimes I think I should just leave all this madness and go back — lied Jorge, who actually felt no remorse and certainly had no desire to leave what he now possessed.

—Is it really absurd? You just appeared to save a Russian spy from the command that was going to hand him over, and then you came with him to help him infiltrate; one could think it was an absurd move, but I always maintained it was a brilliant play, because we certainly wouldn't look for him here. Besides, he was trained to bypass our lie detector… but everything was so strange, so convenient, that it didn't fit with me. Then we have the matter of Benassur's will; we all counted on the old man adopting Yusuf, but he doesn't! And you accept to inherit it! Too obvious, too explicit. It was so easy to suspect you that I, who was the one who requested your immediate execution in the Council, changed my mind and started to defend you. You were sincere. What you did with that stupid Russian saved you in my eyes; the session in the entertainment room was beyond what can be simulated, there I saw you were truly elí, you were born to be a master; an elí like me recognizes their equal immediately, and now I know that you are one. An elí who had not had slaves until now but knows what they are and how to use them.

—Have you been spying on me all this time? Who else is watching us right now? —Jorge said with an embittered voice.

—Don't be stupid, Jorge. We don't spy on each other between estates; we had you under close observation, of course; but all that was in Sunrut, outside of this enclave we don't need to spy. In fact, you would never have reached the archipelago if we had deemed you a threat.

Jorge took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

—You’re Argentine or Uruguayan, right? Sorry if the question seems indiscreet.

—I am profoundly ketirí. But I understand you're referring to my birthplace. Yes, I was born in the province of Buenos Aires, so, originally, I am Argentine. I won’t tell you my entire story now, but I met a wonderful woman in what was then my country. I came here with her and, after some time, she adopted me; that's why I carry the surname Asier.

—What do you mean she adopted you? What exactly does that mean?

—Don't you know that? In Ketiris, our laws allow a woman to adopt another, granting her surname and inheritance rights.

—I suppose the same applies to men.

—Exactly. But a woman cannot adopt a man, nor vice versa.

—Is it possible to adopt more than one person?

—Of course. In that case, when the mother passes away, the property is divided among the daughters. The same goes for sons.

—And if there are no children, who inherits?

—That's the case with Benassur. If he left a will, his wishes are fulfilled; and in its absence —as often happens—, the state inherits.

Lakua took the pot filled with coffee and poured a cup for Jorge, who had momentarily forgotten that was the supposed purpose of their meeting. Both sipped the beverage carefully, as it was still nearly boiling. Jorge noticed that the porcelain of the service evoked the delicacy of Limoges. In his mind, questions piled up.

—But how is it possible…? What happens to the biological parents of the people? And the slaves, where do they come from?

—I thought Kamar would have already told you where the children come from —Lakua replied, with a playfully mischievous voice—. At least, Yusuf should have mentioned it to you. Talk to him; this isn't the moment.

—Okay. And now that you mention Yusuf, he explained to me that Benassur left him nothing in his will, but apparently, he was going to adopt him. Doesn't that seem strange?

—Extremely strange. The fact that he was going to adopt him is not mere supposition: old Benassur told me that a long time ago, although during his last visit —shortly before he died— he mentioned that he was weighing what to do. Maybe he changed his mind at the last moment.

—Apparently, Yusuf is not disappointed, but could he be pretending, hiding resentment?

—Yusuf? No, no, impossible. He is a person of simple tastes, holds an enviable position, and travels the world often; in fact, we have traveled together sometimes… his only flaw is that he looks at women with tender eyes, but I know how to respect everything.

—I’m glad to hear that everything seems good to you.

Suddenly, Lakua lifted her gaze with a fierce expression and with eyes ignited with unusual intensity addressed Jorge:

—Ketiris is on the verge of perishing! Do you think that is fine?

Jorge didn't know how to react.

—Why? What is happening?

—Israel, that's what happens! The damn Jews, that's what happens! Finally, everything is unfolding just as I always suspected and feared.

—Is Israel an enemy of Ketiris?

—Yes! They want us dead, they want us out of play. They are lurking, looking for a gap to sink their claws and take the ketirita… although I think it goes even further than that. Now I have proof. They had unsuccessfully tried to install Pegasus on our phones, but now that we have their downed drones, we know it's them, there’s no doubt. The Council had to listen to me. But they still don't believe we have someone traitorous inside; and I hope it's not you.

—I am not. And from this moment I will do everything in my power to prevent any misfortune. I have severed my ties with the outside world, with my old past, and I wholeheartedly wish to be part of Ketiris. And Jews are certainly not my favorites.

—So, you're antisemitic?

—No. I’m antisionist, which is not the same thing. I consider that the state of Israel is a monster, an element contrary to peace, that does not respect human rights, which in a moderately just world should be sanctioned and monitored. That its leaders act like thugs, who should be prosecuted and convicted by international courts. They believe they have divine right to subjugate anyone who opposes their interests, they pretend to be God's chosen people, and justify everything that way. Jews were persecuted by Hitler and suffered the Holocaust… but now they do exactly the same with their neighbors and even with their Arab compatriots.

—I see that you are clear on that. Have you ever been to Israel?

—No. I thought about it many times… Jerusalem, Bethlehem, so many places that resonate in our tradition. But no, my scruples prevented me. A country so shamefully immoral does not deserve my visit.

—The ketirita is a powerful reason for them to want to invade us —Lakua said, with the calm of someone stating an irrefutable truth—. It is the engine that keeps us alive, the key to our independence. Without it, we would be lost. And you know well: most of it is in your estate, Jorge. Be careful.

—I will. Luckily, production is quite automated. What's important is to surround myself with trustworthy people, who are alert to any shadow of suspicion.

—You can count on Yusuf for that. His advice is worth gold.

—Yes, I know. Still, there’s something about him… I can't help it. It makes me uncomfortable, as if he is judging me all the time.

—Nonsense. You don't know him like I do. Yusuf has traveled all over the world, he has even traveled to Israel several times; and I have too.

—And isn't that extremely dangerous? It seems imprudent to me.

—It depends. In my case, no. When I went, I was still living in Argentina. I was in a kibbutz, invited by an old friend. And Yusuf… he goes as a tourist. With his diplomatic passport he avoids the annoying checks. He has visited the United States, Germany, Russia, Emirates, China, Australia… Israel too. And no one has ever approached him to bother him. The day that changes, we'll know.

—Even so, I would not tempt fate so much. Better that, for now, I avoid Israel, don't you think?

—Of course, right now it wouldn’t be advisable. But don’t be naive: if the Israeli services want to contact him, they will do so as soon as he steps outside the country. He doesn’t need to go to Jerusalem for that.

There was a pause. Lakua took a sip from her cup and, without taking her eyes off the dark liquid, asked:

—Have you been to the ketirita quarry?

—not yet —Jorge confessed—. I suppose I should go. Although I imagine a cold, technological, boring place.

Lakua burst out laughing.

—You have no idea, dear! It’s none of those things.

—But I thought the extraction of ketirita was a mechanized process.

—The refining, yes. Once the raw mineral is extracted, it is taken to a specialized center. There they cut it into incredibly thin sheets and subject it to specific reagents, until a few grams of pure mineral are obtained. The magic lies in its ability to form surfaces just a few molecules thick. With very little mass, you can cover practically anything. For example, the burner you gifted me… I imagine it’s not completely made of ketirita, right?

—in that you are mistaken. They assured me that it is.

Lakua raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised.

—Then it’s a colossal gift.

—Well… But if the refining process is so sophisticated, wasn’t I right to assume that the quarry is a soulless place full of machines?

—No, not at all. What I told you happens after extraction. But before that, you have to tear the stones out and crush them.

—And can't machines do that?

—Of course they can, but not perfectly. Pulverizing rock, squeezing out every last microgram of mineral… it’s a job for brutish people. And besides —Lakua smiled mischievously—, it’s much more entertaining. Don’t you think so?

Jorge understood that he had an ally in Lakua. He needed to visit the quarry soon. In reality, it was something he had been avoiding, but now he desired it with unexpected urgency. He would go to the slave market later; first he wanted to test the mettle of his newly acquired brutes.

Shortly after, Lakua and Jorge returned to the main hall hand in hand. The gesture was clear: their relationship had changed ostentatiously, and everyone noticed. Amid smiles and courtesies, the visitors bid farewell to their hostess, who wished them a pleasant night in the rooms she had arranged for them, as well as a smooth journey the next day.

Jorge's room was spacious and comfortable. Álex awaited him there, clean and well-fed, as it should be. Without wasting time, Jorge relieved himself in his mouth and, before going to sleep, placed painful clamps on his nipples, enjoying the slight tremor of his body. He then fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

At dawn, an aromatic bath dispelled the last traces of rest. As steam tangled in the air, he ordered Álex to give him a massage, and only after that did he dress calmly. Upon exiting, he found Eukario and Yusuf already settled in the dining room, waiting for him to have breakfast.

The protocol indicated that the farewell had already occurred the night before, but the surprise was general when Lakua appeared at the table. Even greater was the astonishment when they heard her speak impeccable Spanish, with a marked Argentine accent. Yusuf, who had traveled with her for years and only knew her speaking in ketirí, stared at her in silence, as if suddenly seeing a different woman.

The litter again transported Jorge to the port, where his boat had awaited him since the previous day. As before, the rowers bent their backs to the rhythm of the overseer's whips, their skin marked by the harshness of labor and the violence of discipline. Every tensed muscle, every drop of sweat sliding down their shining backs under the sun, composed a hypnotic, magnificent spectacle for both Jorge's eyes and his master's libido.

Halfway through the journey, Jorge decided to put Álex to the test. With a smile of expectation, he ordered him to take the place of one of the rowers.

The change was immediate and disastrous. Álex could barely synchronize with the rhythm of the others; his strokes were clumsy, his endurance, negligible. With every stroke, his body protested with an increasing tremor, and soon his panting turned into a pitiful moan. The muscles in his arms, even though they seemed well-defined, rebelled against the brutal effort. The salt from the sea and sweat burned his eyes, and every time his back arched too much, the whip fell against his bare skin with renewed fury.

—Faster! —ordered Jorge, comfortably leaning in his seat—. Or are you already exhausted?

Álex wanted to respond but could barely utter a whimper. His dry mouth found no words, only the shivering of a body that no longer responded. A new lash opened the skin on his shoulder. Then another. And another.

Jorge watched, pleased. But the amusement didn’t last long: after a while, Álex was no longer rowing, but barely holding himself in place, trembling, his numb hands gripping the oar as if it could save him from an inevitable fate. Finally, his strength abandoned him, and he collapsed forward, hanging from the rowing benches like a soaked rag.

—Useless —Jorge muttered, clicking his tongue. He signaled, and the rowers yanked him aside, letting him fall to the bottom of the boat.

When they arrived at the port of Tauride, Jorge wanted to test him one more time. This time, he would take the place of one of the bearers of his litter.

The boy stood up as best as he could, unsteady. His breathing was still erratic, his skin burned from the lashes, and every muscle in his body seemed on the brink of collapse. But he had no choice.

He took the first steps with the load on his shoulders, stumbling with every advance. His vision blurred, his legs weakened. It lasted no more than a few minutes. When he fell, he did so with the full weight of the litter, nearly tipping it over.

Jorge immediately stood up, fury marked on his face.

—Lift him!

The slaves tried to raise him forcefully, but Álex could barely hold himself on his knees.

—Lash him!

The whip whistled through the air and crashed against his back, once, twice, ten times. Each blow tore a new cry from him, more desperate, more broken. His skin opened in several irregular lines, and soon blood slid down his waist, his thighs, and his muscular bottom. But his body had nothing left to give.

Jorge sighed, exasperated.

—Carry him on your backs.

The slaves carrying the heavy bundles obeyed the order without complaint. They lifted the battered body of Álex as one would pick up a sack, and carried him into the house, ignoring him, paying no attention to his faint sobs.

Jorge remained comfortably in his litter, enjoying the stimulating sight of the muscular slaves carrying him, trying to ignore the agony of pain in their wounded shoulders.

—He’ll learn.