Girls of Yellow

by Orest Stelmach

  The Hungarians who didn’t flee to Christendom had resisted Muslim conquest mightily. Previously, they had survived occupations by the Soviet Union, Nazi Germany, and the Islamic warriors who had comprised the Ottoman Empire in the sixteenth century. Ultimately, however, they had neither the numbers nor the nuclear weapons to prevail.

  Florence was among those who stayed, after he returned from Dubai, despite his dhimmi status, out of pure love for their country. Ali joined him at a solitary table in the private loft where they always sat, out of sight and earshot of the other patrons. Ali ordered bottled water and the risotto. Florence opted for a cup of cheese soup and the goulash.

  “Twenty times we’ve been here, and twenty times you’ve ordered the risotto,” Florence said. “You know, I never told you this before. You may think it’s delicious but it’s not risotto.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Most definitely not.”

  Ali was aghast. “What is it then?”

  “It’s just a plate of veal and rice masquerading as a sublime culinary invention. Risotto’s an Italian dish made with a short grain rice like arborio—the best in the world. The ingredients are cooked to creamy perfection in a broth, which in this case, would have included the veal.”

  Ali shrugged. “Well, I guess I’m just another filthy Arab with poor taste.”

  “That’s not fair, Major. I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is what I’m saying, and that’s just my opinion. Heck, we’re in a Hungarian joint. The locals would agree with you, not with me.”

  “If you never told me this risotto was a fraud before, why are you telling me now?”

  “Because I have a feeling this lunch is going to be about the truth.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Florence dropped his gaze for a moment before looking up again. “Because they’re talking about you at the station, Major.”

  Ali shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, really? And what are they saying?”

  “That you’re not well,” Florence said.

  “What do they say is wrong with me?”

  “They say you’re suffering from amnesia. That you forgot who you are.”

  Ali chuckled because he didn’t know what else to do. If everyone was talking about him, that meant Zaman was likely plotting his payback, which implied that Ali had little time before he was formally removed from the case.

  “They say you woke up out of a coma thinking you really are the Dhimmi Lover,” Florence said. “That this murder case has your mind all twisted.”

  “Well, we know that part’s true. But as for loving dhimmis ….”

  “As long as the dhimmis are lying dead at the bottom of the ocean, right?”

  “You’ve been talking to Ismael,” Ali said, referring to his friend from CSI and his warped sense of humor.

  They shared a laugh, or rather, something masquerading as one. Then a bead of sweat trickled out from Florence’s hairline onto his forehead. In all the years they’d exchanged information—Ali might warn Florence that a truck of haram alcohol and tobacco products was going to be intercepted, while Florence might tell Ali where he could find a stolen police vehicle—Florence had never shown any signs of being nervous.

  “I need the name of the priest that belongs to Saint Matthias,” Ali said.

  Florence remained stone-faced. “I like your choice of verbs. The priest who belongs to Saint Matthias.”

  Ali shrugged. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? It’s not like he conducts services there on Sunday, or any other day for that matter.”

  Churches were, in fact, symbolic in their importance. Thugs targeted Christian priests for beatings and assassinations so the latter had taken to leading prayers and services in private residences, catacombs, and the wooded outskirts of major metropolitan areas throughout Eurabia. It was the only way the priests could preserve their anonymity, because the Dhimmi Contract gave all Muslims the legal right to demand entry into any dhimmi home, including churches. That right effectively exposed every priest who dared conduct a service in a real church.

  Chef Florence shook his head. “What kind of Christian would I be … what kind of man would I be if I betrayed the person who’s a conduit to my personal God?”

  “What kind of man will you be if you don’t help me figure out who murdered Greta Gaspar?”

  Shock sprang to Florence’s face and his voice fell to a whisper. “Christ, Sami. You really are serious. You know her name.”

  “That’s twice in ten seconds that you’ve used the word ‘Christ’ in public. I cut you slack because we’re friends, Florence, but do you have to push me?”

  “Won’t happen again.” Florence narrowed his eyes. “Why do you suddenly care, Major? What’s this all about? What is it about this girl? ”

  “She was my first crush,” Ali said. He’d rehearsed his answer in case the subject came up. Part of his story was true, the other part a complete fabrication. “First girl I ever kissed. She was … I don’t know … fourteen or fifteen. I was sixteen. She was the housekeeper’s daughter. My parents forbid me to see her. Her parents forbid her to see me. Her step-father was abusive. I was her protector until the one day I didn’t get there in time and she took her own life.”

  Florence sat quietly for a moment. “I thought you’d tell me … I just assumed that because you had a daughter …”

  “No,” Ali said. “Greta Gaspar happens to be the spitting image of a girl from my past. That’s why this case is so personal. I didn’t do right by the first girl. I’m not going to let this one down, too.”

  Florence paused again. “I guess this is a lunch of truths.”

  “It is. What’s the priest’s name?”

  Florence shook his head. “I can’t help you, Major. I wish I could. Anything else. Anything … But not this.”

  “Then you leave me no choice,” Ali said.

  Florence froze.

  “Islam and Christianity,” Ali said, “They have some things in common. They agree that your Jesus was a prophet and conceived in an immaculate way. Islam parts ways when it comes to him being the son of God, but both our religions agree that he was a man. As opposed to a woman. That there are men, and there are women.”

  Florence’s face reddened.

  “Your fellow Christians down below,” Ali said, nodding at the stairs that led to the lower level, “they’ll banish you from your holy communion, your church, and never look at you the same again. Meanwhile, some of my fellow Muslims will toss you from a roof and splatter your brains on the asphalt. All for being a homosexual. Which would you prefer?”

  “I prefer neither,” Florence said.

  “That makes two of us, but that’s not an option on the table.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’m a cop.”

  Florence continued staring at him in an inquiring manner.

  “You have a tendency to look at men the way men look at women,” Ali said. “All we’re talking about is a second here and there, but it’s noticeable. And at the risk of sounding conceited, I have to admit that I’ve felt your eyes all over me in the wrong places on a couple of occasions.”

  Florence shrugged. “I could pay you a compliment …”

  Ali raised his hand. “Please, Florence. Please don’t. It’s none of my business what a man does with his own equipment. It’s between you and your personal God. But keep me out of it.”

  They sat in silence.

  “There’s one dhimmi butcher left at Central Market,” Florence finally said. “The priest is his daughter.”

  “The priest is a woman?” Ali couldn’t hide his shock.

  Florence shrugged.

  “Since when does the Catholic Church ordain women as priests?”

  “Since no man wants the job.”

  Florence told Ali that the priest had a day job and exactly where he could find her.

  The waiter delivered their lunches. Florence eyed Ali’s risotto with palpable disdain. Ali devoured three
massive forkfuls, left some money on the table and thanked Florence with a quick nod of the head. The chef, in turn, flicked his eyebrows once in disappointment. Their friendship would never be the same, Ali thought. He knew he’d never look at a friend the same way if he’d been threatened by him.

  After he left the restaurant, Ali climbed in his car and drove to the Chain Bridge to find the priestess so that he might hear her confession.

  CHAPTER 10

  Elise and Miss Mona bowed their heads as Imam Salim strolled toward them. Elise prepared to be peppered with questions. She repeated the fiction she’d concocted to justify her presence at the school over and over again. The truth was in the details. Elise had blinded Miss Mona with the vague promise of profit participation in an expanding franchise. Salim would insist on a name and force her to lie even more. The greater the lies, Elise knew, the greater her risk of exposure.

  The best Elise could hope for was to escape the Persian School of Dressmaking without contradicting herself. Valerie was sitting at a table behind her—the girl with the perfect posture was most certainly her sister. If only Elise could wheel around and steal one more glance—

  Salim arrived. He was sixty-three years old, but with his chaotic gray beard, weathered complexion and circular wire-rimmed glasses, he looked closer to eighty. Still, a palpable sense of calm emanated from the man. Each step he took spoke of an eerie self-assuredness. Here came the man least likely to promote violence in the world based on his carriage, Elise thought.

  She took a deep breath and prepared for introductions and the incisive questions that would follow.

  But Salim walked right past them.

  “Where are my finest pupils?” His voice complimented his mien, gentle to the core, born to soothe, not aggravate. “Ah, there they are.”

  Elise breathed a sigh of relief. How could she have been so stupid? She was a woman. Miss Mona was a woman. Salim wouldn’t stop to have a conversation with either of them because discussing business with women was beneath him. In his eyes, women were beneath him, period.

  As she straightened, Elise noticed that all the girls had stood up and that Salim was aiming for the table where the girl with the perfect posture was now standing. Then the female teacher who had been presiding over class clapped her hands and the future slaves began falling in line.

  Class was over. They were leaving.

  Despair gripped Elise. The girl with the perfect posture was falling in line, too. Elise wouldn’t get to see her face, not today, and possibly not ever, she thought.

  And then Elise realized that Miss Mona was still bowing and what she should have known all along—that she was screwed. Two of the bodyguards continued onward with Salim, but the third one marched right up to Miss Mona. They exchanged the traditional Muslim greeting, and then the bodyguard glared at Elise with eyes as black as coal.

  “Who is this woman?” he said.

  “She’s a friend,” Miss Mona said. “A distinguished officer of the Commission of Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice.”

  “The morality police? Here? Why?”

  “She’s not here in her capacity as an officer but as a private citizen. As an envoy, so to speak. An envoy for her even more distinguished cousin, isn’t that right Miss Kawlah?”

  “An envoy?” the bodyguard said. “On a diplomatic mission? To a dressmaking school?”

  “Forgive my choice of words,” Miss Mona said. “Not a diplomatic mission.” She turned and smiled at Elise like the smart-money bitch that she was revealing herself to be. “A business mission.”

  “Business?” the bodyguard said. “Well, given I’m the Imam’s business manager and all that goes on in this school is his concern, don’t you think an introduction is in order?”

  Elise cursed to herself. The man looked like a thug but probably had a degree in business, which meant her lies would have to sound like the truth.

  Miss Mona made the introductions. The business manager’s name was Moncef Zaid. Elise bowed appropriately, but she couldn’t help but pay attention to the shuffling of children’s feet behind her. The girl with the perfect posture was leaving and there was nothing Elise could do about it.

  “What kind of business deal are you proposing?” Zaid said.

  Miss Mona’s lips moved, but Elise answered before she could speak. If one had to lie it was best to maintain complete control of one’s side of the conversation to avoid further entanglements. Elise told him the same story she’d told the Miss Mona.

  “And who is your cousin?” Zaid said.

  “This is all very preliminary,” Elise said. “I don’t really have his permission to do anything other than explore the facility on his behalf.”

  “Actually,” Zaid said, “you have no such permission and neither does he. If either of you had any proper manners, you would have discussed this with Imam Salim first given he’s already in partnership with the school.”

  “I understand,” Elise said. “Perhaps it’s best I leave and pass on your comments to my cousin.” She started toward the exit.

  Zaid blocked her path. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  Miss Mona stepped back, alarm registering on her face.

  Then Zaid smiled. “Because Imam Salim is constantly on the lookout for new business opportunities that can expand his portfolio. And if the relationships that create such opportunities also enlarge his audience …. Come now, Miss Kawlah. If your cousin and Imam Salim share certain philosophies, perhaps this business opportunity has even greater possibilities?”

  “You make a compelling argument,” Elise said, wondering if the kids were all getting on a bus. How else could they travel to and from Salim’s campus? Did they walk for an hour to get exercise? “I’ll put it to my cousin.”

  “Excellent,” Zaid said. He grabbed her by the arm just above the elbow, with sufficient force to leave a bruise. “And what is your cousin’s name? You may have mentioned it, but during all this excitement …”

  Elise knew she wouldn’t get away without fabricating the lie she most wanted to avoid.

  “My cousin’s name is Imam Labib. He hails from the Maldives.”

  Such a man did, in fact, exist. Elise had memorized his bio just in case she needed it. She’d chosen Labib because he was stationed at the most remote region of greater Arabia and was relatively unknown. And he did, in fact, run a small but highly regarded slave training school. Last year, one of his slaves had been extracted from the capital, Malé, by a militant Buddhist uncle from Thailand. The story, recounted by a Christian spy who’d been operating in the Kingdom of Buddha at the time, had provided Elise with the final bit of inspiration she needed to begin her quest to find Valerie and save her from a life of slavery.

  A condescending grin spread across Zaid’s face. “The Maldives? I’ve heard of this place. What is the population there?”

  Elise said, “I’m not exactly sure …”

  “He has produced slaves that are among the most valued in greater Arabia? In the Maldives?”

  “Greatness does not choose its birthplace,” Elise said.

  Zaid turned reflective. “Well said. You are very wise for a woman, which may bode well for this business proposition. Here’s my business card. I’ll expect your cousin’s phone call by the end of the day.”

  “He may be on a pilgrimage,” Elise said.

  “By the end of the day,” Zaid said. He turned to Miss Mona. “A word in private?”

  “Of course.” Miss Mona glanced at Elise victoriously. “Would you wait for me in the kitchenette?”

  She pointed to a door along the same wall where the entrance was found.

  Elise looked around for the girls but they were gone. She shuffled to the kitchen instead, contemplating what had just transpired.

  Miss Mona had accomplished her goal. She’d minimized any risk of offending Imam Salim by informing his business manager of a possible new venture, discovered the mysterious cousin’s true identity, and created the possibility of a th
ree-way deal with Salim. Only a deft operator could survive as an entrepreneur in a society where women were considered undesirable business leaders because of the risk of anger management issues during their menstrual cycles.

  As Elise approached the kitchenette, a dim light reflected off the tile floor beneath the scuffed and stained door. She tried to turn the knob but it didn’t rotate, so she yanked on it instead.

  The hollow door flew open and almost escaped her grasp. Elise caught it just in time before it crashed into the wall.

  The girl with the perfect posture stood with her back to Elise, prematurely broad shoulders thrown back to form a straight line. It was the girl’s natural stance, not an affectation. Elise was certain of this because she shared the same genetic pre-disposition. She carried herself in an identical manner.

  The girl turned. She was the spitting image of what Elise had seen in the mirror when she was the same age.

  The girl was Valerie.

  Elise had found her. She’d really found her.

  Valerie held a cigarette in her left hand. An open can of Darjeeling tea rested on the counter. The door to the cabinet above the counter had been flung open. Elise guessed that Miss Mona hid the haram tobacco in a tea can and that the kids had somehow discovered it. Chatter and road noise sounded from Valerie’s right. Elise spotted the open window above a table, no doubt her means of re-entry to commit the theft that could get her dismissed from school, arrested and jailed.

  Alarm registered in Valerie’s eyes.

  Fury that Valerie was smoking cigarettes at age fourteen mixed with the sheer joy of seeing her sister. The combination rendered Elise stationary and mute. For the moment, Elise forgot about her job and her mission. Here before her stood a reason to live.

  “Are you really the morality police?” Valerie said.