Girls of Yellow

by Orest Stelmach

  Ali nodded, careful not to betray his negative bias. Salim was a man with an impeccable academic and religious pedigree and the standards in his school were undoubtedly of the highest order. But he was an old-school cleric who wanted to eradicate modern technology from the planet and return to the days of the caveman. His school wouldn’t have been Ali’s first, second or third choice. But at least the Gaspars could be certain their daughter had been fed, treated with the respect that a slave deserved by law, and provided all the health care that she needed.

  “For how long was she enrolled?” Ali said.

  “Nine months,” the mother said. “She had three months to go before she would have been put up for acquisition.”

  “But she was with you when she disappeared,” Ali said.

  “We had her for the weekend,” the mother said. “We got her one weekend a month.”

  Ali wished he could question someone at the school, but he wouldn’t dare tread on Salim’s ground. Salim was among the most powerful man in Eurabia. If Ali went anywhere near his school, one phone call from Salim could put such political pressure on the General that Ali’s own father-in-law could become his enemy instead of his benefactor. Not only would Ali’s investigation be over, his career might disintegrate, too.

  “What did Greta think of the school?” Ali said.

  The mother’s expression brightened. “She actually liked it. That was the amazing thing.”

  “She liked it for now,” the father said, “because she was a child and they hadn’t taught her all her responsibilities yet.”

  Ali remembered his romp in bed with his slave yesterday and understood what the father meant, though by law no owner could have sex with his slave until she was of proper age. Admittedly, that was a tough law to enforce, and some slave owners had their own definition of proper age.

  “What she loved most was that once she enrolled in the school, it became safe for her to make new friends,” the mother said.

  “What do you mean it became safe?” Ali said. “Was it dangerous for her to make friends before she entered the training school?”

  “For a little girl,” the mother said, “it was dangerous. Because she was taking the risk that as soon as she got close to someone, that friend might vanish overnight and never return. The dhimmi tax. It’s forced so many families to leave, and every few months they’d take one of Greta’s best friends with them —”

  “To the point where she went out of her way not to make new friends,” the father said.

  “And she didn’t have this problem at Imam Salim’s school,” Ali said, “because the girls were committed. They weren’t going anywhere.”

  “There was a chance some future owner might move to another territory in Arabia,” the father said, “but the odds were high they’d all be living in Eurabia if not Budapest when they were sold.”

  “How did she get along with her teachers?” Ali said.

  “She didn’t care for her religious studies so much,” the mother said. “It was like schoolwork and she hated reading and committing things to memory. But she really took to the domestic care studies.”

  “Cleaning, cooking, especially knitting,” the father said, voice etched with pride. “My girl was a worker.”

  “She had the potential to become a dressmaker,” the mother said. “That would have been something, if the owner of a boutique had acquired her and made her a seamstress for life.”

  “She would have learned a craft,” the father said. “It would have given her an identity above and beyond that of a slave.”

  Ali pictured Sabida learning that their daughter would be a slave who made dresses for Christian women the rest of her life and wondered which kitchen knife she would have chosen to slit her wrists at the prospect.

  “Did she have any enemies in or outside of the training school?” Ali said. “Had anyone threatened her?”

  The parents looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Was anything bothering her recently?” Ali said.

  “No,” the mother said. She was barely squeezing Ali’s muscles. The conversation seemed to have sapped her of all her strength. “Quite the opposite.”

  “What do you mean, the opposite?”

  “She was ecstatic,” the father said.

  Perhaps Salim was a miracle-worker after all, Ali thought, if he was helping young girls discover the bliss of Islam so quickly.

  “She got her class rank,” the mother said.

  “Class rank?” Ali said. He’d never heard of such a thing at a religious slave training school.

  “She was number two,” the father said proudly. “Out of sixty-six.”

  “That’s impressive,” Ali said.

  Perhaps the girl had found her true niche in domestic care, Ali thought, but he didn’t dare say so for fear the parents would be insulted or think he was patronizing them.

  When he met the father’s eyes, however, Ali could tell by the way he tightened his lips that the man had read his face and could see exactly what he was thinking. The father put his scissors on the counter and blocked the mirror so that Ali could only see him.

  “We just wanted our girl to survive,” the father said.

  “We wanted her to have a life,” the mother said. “Is that so bad?”

  Ali could detect the guilt in the parents’ voices. Their guilt was a function of forsaking their daughter’s soul in exchange for a more secure life on Earth, and for not being able to save her life. Ali was all too familiar with the latter, for he had arrived too late to save the girl who had resembled their Greta, and the red lips he’d kissed the day before had turned purple, and her porcelain skin had decayed into green and blue.

  Ali pulled the smock off his body, handed it to the mother and stood up.

  “Are you really investigating her murder?” the father said.

  Ali removed his wallet from his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

  The mother circled around and stood beside her husband. Together they looked exhausted and wounded but not entirely defeated.

  The father shook his head.

  “Just do you job, Major,” he said.

  Ali hesitated, considered leaving them a gold dinar and then decided to treat the dhimmis with the dignity he would have appreciated if their roles were reversed.

  “If I learn anything else that might interest you,” Ali said, “I’ll come visit you again.”

  “Sure you will,” the father said.

  Ali left the barber shop and returned to his car. He drove to the meeting place where he expected to learn the identity of the priest who belonged to Matthias Church with a renewed sense of self. Never had Ali felt so completely fulfilled. In addition to his wife and daughter, he now had a purpose in his professional life. Greta Gaspar had been an underdog, a minority with little hope whom society had deemed a second-class citizen. And then some son-of-a-bitch had gone and killed her.

  Islam was a religion rooted in support of the underdog even more than it was the religion of the businessman.

  Ali pressed the gas pedal.

  He was all business now.

  CHAPTER 8

  Elise got a call from Darby within two hours of leaving his offices. Imam Salim’s slave training school was located in his personal compound next door to Buda Castle. The latter was a recreation of the palace that had been occupied by Hungarian kings and was now the Caliph’s home. The Imam’s residence was a Baroque masterpiece with ornate decoration, a style that had been encouraged by the Catholic Church to lend the Pope a regal aura. Salim’s compound was fortress-like and impenetrable by an unannounced visitor, even one posing as the morality police.

  While most of the school’s classes were conducted on campus, some required field trips to provide the future slaves with access to the requisite equipment. Darby gave Elise the address of the Persian School of Dressmaking and told her that classes were conducted in the afternoon.

  By the time Elise got his call it was almost two o’cl
ock. She knew nothing about the school. She didn’t know the layout or have a clue as to what awaited her inside. Plus, if her credentials were discovered to be fraudulent and she were revealed to be a spy, she’d fail on both her missions. She’d neither acquire the supposed treasure for Christendom nor save her sister from a life of slavery.

  So Elise did what any self-respecting Christian woman would do.

  She got on her bicycle and pedaled toward the school with all her might.

  • • •

  She drove past a new mosque that had once been St. Stephen’s Basilica dating back to the tenth century, and into the heart of Pest’s commercial area. A sign for the Persian School of Dressmaking hung above a store that sold kitchen tools and personal accessories disguised as toys.

  Elise secured her bicycle to a lamppost and walked up to the door. An intercom was attached to the brick wall beside it. Two names were emblazoned on placards above the intercom—REZA COUTURE and PERSIAN SCHOOL OF DRESSMAKING. Above the intercom hung a camera. No doubt it had captured her image when she’d looked up, though her niqab had hid all but her eyes.

  Elise’s instincts told her to leave because if she entered the school she had no leverage over anyone who might challenge her authority. And yet she couldn’t stop herself any more than she could have slowed down en route on her bicycle.

  She pressed the intercom button until a woman responded on the other end.

  As she spoke the words she’d rehearsed during her bike ride, Elise released the intercom button in selected spots so that only part of her sentences could be heard on the other end, as though the system were broken.

  “… appointment … Persian School …”

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that please?” the woman at the school said.

  “…appointment … Persian School … Kawlah …”

  “There must be something wrong with the intercom—”

  This time Elise spoke without lifting her finger from the intercom button. “Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice.”

  The door buzzed open.

  Elise climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor. A sign above the door to the left welcomed visitors to Reza Couture, while the one to the right led to the Persian School of Dressmaking. Elise took a breath and entered the latter.

  A plain girl in her late teens dressed in a hijab that left her face fully visible sat behind a desk in the lobby. The sound of young boys shouting and machines whirring could be heard from beyond the walls. The girl stared at Elise with uncertainty.

  Before either of them could say a word, a bustling matron emerged from a door in the wall behind the receptionist. Skin hung loosely around her eyes and neck, and creases marred her expression. She wore a stylish charcoal business suit with a scarf wrapped around her head. She looked permanently stressed.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said. It was the voice of the woman with whom Elise had spoken over the intercom. “I couldn’t make out everything you said. Of course, the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue is always welcome. Did you say you had an appointment?”

  “Actually,” Elise said, “I said the opposite. I don’t have an appointment but I have a very important matter I’d like to discuss with the school’s owner.”

  The matron tensed. “My husband and I are the owners here. You can speak to me. What is this about?”

  Elise glanced at the receptionist, who lowered her head as though she’d been eavesdropping. The matron motioned for the girl to leave. The receptionist bowed and disappeared into the back of the school through the same door the matron had used to enter.

  “This is about opportunity,” Elise said.

  “What kind of opportunity?” the matron said.

  “The financial kind,” Elise said. “My cousin is a man of great importance. If I were to mention his name, you’d recognize it immediately. But for business purposes, it’s essential that his identity remain confidential for now.”

  Elise’s introduction, as expected, served only to deepen the lines in the matron’s forehead.

  “For a decade now, he’s run one of the most successful slave training schools in greater Arabia,” Elise said. “His pupils are regarded as the finest specimens who provide great service and pleasure to their masters. And now he’s thinking about developing a chain of such schools—for the glory of Islam and the benefit of society at large. And to develop such a chain, he needs partners in key locations. Budapest is a key location, and your school and your work with Imam Salim’s pupils comes highly recommended.”

  “You’re acquainted with Imam Salim?”

  “Well …”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” The matron beamed. “My name is Miss Mona. Let’s discuss this wonderful opportunity in my office over a cup of tea. I have several ideas, yes, several ideas that I think you’d find very interesting.”

  The receptionist brought them tea and they spoke for half an hour. Elise fabricated a crude business plan, boasted of her imaginary cousin’s social standing and entrepreneurial success, and deflected the conversation when Miss Mona probed his identity. Money and power were respected above all else in Eurabia. Elise could see Miss Mona counting her profit if she were to double, triple or quadruple the number of students in her school.

  “My cousin is still in the preliminary stages of planning,” Elise said, “but at some point I’d like to visit one of your classes, perhaps when the students from Imam Salim’s school are here.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Miss Mona said. “And as luck would have it, they’re here right now. Come. Let me give you a tour of the classroom.”

  Elise shook off the nerves that came from the prospect of seeing Valerie for the first time in her life and followed Miss Mona into an open room the size of half a football field. Sixty-six girls between the ages of eleven and sixteen sat working at sewing machines, four to a table. They were crafting the same item of clothing they were wearing, simple black hijabs. Three schoolboys were running around the tables shouting at the girls to watch their technique or speed up their pace. They looked ridiculous. A woman, probably the teacher, stood on an elevated platform studying the classroom. She looked fierce.

  “I didn’t realize there were boys in your class, too,” Elise said.

  “There aren’t,” Miss Mona said. She arched her chin. “Those are my sons. They’ll be teachers and supervisors some day.”

  Elise scanned the girls. From her angle, she could see only some of their faces. Elise expected to be hit by a lightning bolt of recognition when her eyes finally landed on those of her own flesh and blood. After all, the blood bond was forever. A sister would always recognize her own, even if she’d never seen her before, wouldn’t she?

  The classroom was a sartorial pigsty. Dust balls gathered in corners and grime covered the legs of the tables. The walls were lined with partially broken-down boxes and cloth remnants. The air smelled vaguely of oil, and Elise found herself sweating almost immediately. She looked around for vents or windows but found none.

  “The specimens seem very focused,” Elise said. “I’m impressed.”

  “We’d like to take credit for that but they come prepared. All credit goes to Imam Salim and the education he provides.”

  “I appreciate being able to see a class in session. There’s no substitute for personal due diligence.”

  Miss Mona said something agreeable, but by then Elise wasn’t listening. Approaching the middle of the room, she’d seen a quarter, a third and then half the girls’ faces. As she circled the tables with Miss Mona beside her, the rest of the girls came into view. There was something familiar about one girl’s nose, something else about another’s mouth. But overall, neither of them struck a chord.

  And then Elise saw her. Sitting at a table with ramrod posture, guiding material along the feed dog toward the needle with expert precision, foot firm on the pedal beside the bobbin compartment. Even before the girl looked up, Elise knew. She had no
idea how she knew. She just did.

  As Elise waited for the girl to raise her chin and reveal her eyes, she realized that Miss Mona was speaking to her with enthusiasm and excitement.

  “And here is someone you know,” Miss Mona said.

  Elise couldn’t believe Miss Mona’s words. Her cover was blown, Elise thought. Miss Mona knew she was a spy, that she had a sister, and that she’d come for Valerie. It was absolutely impossible and yet it was obviously true. Elise couldn’t begin to contemplate how she’d revealed herself but inferred she’d been a fool from the moment she’d arrived in BP.

  “Here he is,” Miss Mona said, looking beyond Elise.

  Elise turned and saw a gaunt man with a white beard limping into the room from a backdoor. One bodyguard led the way, while two others trailed behind him.

  Elise recognized the man from television, newspapers, and surveillance photographs.

  He was Imam Salim.

  CHAPTER 9

  Chef Florence was the only dhimmi Ali considered a friend, and even that relationship was tainted by professional hierarchy. Still, Ali enjoyed his company more than that of any of his colleagues on the police force because Florence was never condescending toward him. Today, Ali would push the boundaries of their friendship. He wished he didn’t have to, but he had no choice. This was the nature of real detective work, and probably one of the reasons Ali had never really taken to it until now. A man had to use every tool at his disposal to solve a crime and sometimes those tools were human beings.

  Florence had taught Ali that a bowl of pasta was the equivalent of a dose anti-depressant medication. He said the food generated a chemical in the brain similar to the medicine. Since then, Ali had become addicted to pasta primavera. He’d convinced Sabida to add it to their dinner rotation by informing her that spaghetti was invented in Libya and brought to Sicily in 800 AD during the Arab conquests. According to some historians, that was, in fact, the truth.

  Ali met Florence at their usual spot in Pest, three blocks away from the Danube River and the stately Gresham Palace. The place was called Café Kor and it served delicious Hungarian dishes, including a tasty veal risotto. The open dining room bustled with young Hungarian servers, all of them men. They regarded Ali with the warmth and respect that a regular customer deserved, but Ali knew their true feelings toward him were mixed, at best.