Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  In the end, Florence decided on a helicopter. It was a civilian version of the U.S. Army Blackhawk, specially fitted out so the emir could sit in a 270-degree plexiglas turret in front of the pilots and shoot gazelles through an ingenious Mylar port. You can't be too thin, too rich, or own too many helicopters. The emir was delighted with his present, and Florence shortly received a summons to the royal palace in the capital city of Amo-Amas.

  The four of them were registered at the Opulent, the city's nicest hotel, overlooking the harbor. The lights of the tankers lying at anchor twinkled in the distance. In Churchill Square, the large marble statue of Matar's patron glowed in the spotlights. The present emir's grandfather had erected it in the 1920s. The face bore an unmistakable smirk. The statue faced west, toward Wasabia.

  They met in Florence's suite. George had managed to contract a stomach bug, no small feat, since most of the Opulent's room-service food was flown in daily from Paris. He sat clutching his bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

  "Enjoyin' the Middle Fast so far, are you?" Bobby said.

  "Why don't we start?" Florence said. "Are we all right having this conversation here?"

  Bobby nodded. "Only bugs in here are the crawly kind." George shuddered.

  Bobby tapped at his laptop. A photograph of the emir projected onto the wall. He tapped another button, and up came a photograph of the emir's wife. Florence studied the image. The sheika was lovely, in her late thirties, fair-skinned, with intelligent eyes and a slightly disappointed expression.

  Bobby lapped more buttons. Up on the wall came photograph after photograph of stunning women, which perhaps explained the sheika's look of disappointment.

  "What's this, the Victoria's Secret catalog?" Rick said.

  "A few of emir's special friends." Bobby said. "Mainly French and Italian. Lately, he seems to be inclinin' toward Russians. But he'll screw anvthin', includin' the dog, if there's nothing else handy."

  "Shall we try to keep it respectful?" Florence said. "Just in case the room is bugged?"

  Bobby continued his brief. "His wife, the sheika Laila, Matari mother. English father. He was an engineer, worked on the pipelines. Made a ton of money. Married up. daughter of a well-to-do sharif. Laila. she was educated at Swiss schools, Lausanne. Went to Oxford. Bright girl. She had a nice TV career goin’ in London, anchorin'—they call it presenting. Hung out with all the right people, includin' the royals. She and Prince Charles dated once or twice, but nothin' happened sackwise."

  Rick said, "How do you know that?"

  "I can't go into sources and methods. But hell. MI5, they got a whole section, all they do is analyze who the prince is bangin'. Movin' along—Laila. she fell in love with the then future emir. Gazzir Bin Haz, when he was on a visit to Royal Ascot. That's their big horse race."

  "We know." George said.

  "Never been, myself. Anyhow, he sort of swept her oil her feet, literally. Dashing sort, scrubs up good when you put him in a top hat and tails. She had the right credentials, and he brought her back to Xanadu-on-the-Gulf and made her an Arab wife." Bobby looked over at Florence. "Happens."

  "Go on. Bobby."

  "Well, everythin' was Jake connubial bliss-wise, for a while. They had a son together, Hamdul. Then, well, you know how it is. a man doesn't wanna eat at the same restaurant night after night. So he built himself a fuck palace—pardon, ma'am—a place down the coast, on the beach in Um-beseir. Got pretty much everything a man could ask for. Hell, we thought we were livin' high if we had some outdoor carpeting in the back of the pickup."

  "Thank you for the cross-cultural reference." Florence said.

  "Got a helipad and a three-thousand-fool runway, in case he's in such a hurry for the ladies that a helicopter isn't fast enough." Bobby chuckled. "Man, it's good to be the emir.

  "Anyhow, the sheika, she's no idiot. She knows all about Um-beseir. In the past, she's been willing to do the thing a lot of wives do, look the other way. boys-will-be-boys. Part of it was that when she married Gazzir, knowin' he was gonna be emir once his old man croaked, she made him agree—in writing— that he wouldn't take any more wives. This didn't play well with the local emirati and the moolahs. In this part of the world, you haven't amounted to much if you haven't left behind at least a hundred or so sons. That explains why they got forty thousand princes across the border in Wasabia. Hell, you can't spit in Wasabia without hittin' a crown prince. Not that they encourage spittin’ on the royals. But he musta been in love, 'cause he went along with Laila's demand. even got the head moolah to issue a theological ruling on it, which concluded—surprise—that it was wargat."

  "What does that mean?" Renard asked.

  "Kosher."

  "Win did she insist on monogamy?"

  "Because she wanted her son to sit on the throne. A harem full of wives doesn't make for a real relaxed atmosphere. Historically. Arab wives were always lookin' oxer each other's shoulder, poisoning each other, poisoning each other's kid so that their own would succeed. Their son. Hamdul, he's now ten years old. But the recent development that's of particular interest to us is that Laila has put her foot down, finally, about all the bangin' and sere win' down at Um-beseir. She wants it to stop. Our information is that she's been makin' life quite difficult for Gazzir lately."

  "Why?" Florence asked.

  "This is sensitive information."

  "We can handle it."

  "There appear to be two factors. One, she's worried about gettin' a sexual disease from him. She's a very attractive woman, and every now and then the emir does get amorous with her. The second factor is that young Hamdul's gettin' to the age when he might pick up palace gossip. She doesn't want him to hear from some flunky that his dad can't keep his scimitar in his pants. So there it is."

  "Thank you, Bobby," Florence said. "Extremely useful."

  "Shouldn't we study this further before we proceed?" George said. His lower lip was crusted pink from dried Pepto-Bismol.

  Bobby stared at him. "You mean spend six, seven months draw in' up a feasibility study? With lots of tabs?"

  "Well, if you'd rather just rush in pell-mell..."

  MATAR WAS LIBERAL in the matter of women's dress; nonetheless, Florence took care to observe the formalities. She wore a matching pantsuit of turquoise and purple shantung silk, and over her hair an Hermes scarf. According to Bobby, the emir liked to give these scarves to his mistresses. "If they've been good—really good—there'll be a diamond bracelet inside. And if they've been really, really good, a red Ferrari outside."

  Florence was ushered into the audience room. The door was flanked by two bodyguards in ceremonial dress and swords.

  "Salaam alaikum." Florence said without accent. "Sherefina. somow ‘kum."

  The emir's eyes brightened, and not just at his guest's flawless Arabic. He took her hand and bent and chastely kissed it. Florence blushed at the attention. She continued in Arabic, remembering that in Matar, conversation with the emir required use of the third-person address, not altogether easy for Americans, who want to call everyone "pal" or "bub" or "honey" after five minutes.

  They sat. Florence noted that the Louis XVI chairs were a few inches lower than the emir's Louis XIV chair. At not quite live foot six. Emir Gazzir Bin Haz—"Gazzy" to his family and intimates—was not a tall man. Exactly the height, it occurred to Florence, of T. E. Lawrence. What large things small men have accomplished.

  He was impeccably accoutred, in an immaculate white thobe garment, his head covered with a gutra. the triangular folded cloth tied with the traditional gold-rope agal Four of his plump fingers, she observed, were adorned with rings. His goatee was perfectly trimmed, his lips oyster-moist from a lifetime's contact with the greatest delicacies the world had to offer, from caviar to Dom Perignon to foie gras. His face radiated contentedness; and why not? The Emir might just be the happiest camper on earth.

  "Your Majesty is most welcoming." Florence said with a slight bow.

  "It is a trait with us." he said, switching to Engli
sh. He was, like most highborn Mataris, an Anglophile—they sent their future emirs to Sandhurst—and enjoyed displaying his excellent command of the language. "Even the humblest Matari will open his door to a stranger and share what he has." He smiled. "Not that you will find many humble Mataris, mind you. This, too, is a trait with us. I fear."

  "Your country is truly blessed to have such abundance." "Our fig oil is second to none." "Justly famous throughout the world."

  "It has many, many applications. Perfume, industrial—do you know that it is used as a lubricant on Chinese rockets?"

  "I was not aware of this fact. But how marvelous."

  The emir leaned forward intently. "It lowers cholesterol. Rather, it increases the good cholesterol. In time, the medical studies will establish this beyond question, God be praised."

  "Matar is a river to the world."

  They looked at each other.

  "Shall we cease with the bullshitting?" He smiled. "His Majesty is too gracious. I was about to run out of conversation about fig oil."

  "I've never used it myself," the emir said, taking a cigarette from a gold box in front of him. A servant dressed to match the drapery appeared like a swift ghost. He lit the emir's cigarette and disappeared back into the folds with a soil rustle of silk. "Ghastly stuff. I prefer walnut oil, ground by four-hundred year-old millstones in the Dordogne. I have it flown in. Anyway, who cares about cholesterol. I have my blood changed every month by Swiss doctors. I donate the old blood to the hospital. It is quite sought after, apparently. Now. Florence—and why don't I just call you that, since I am unable to wrap my tongue around all those pretty Tuscan vowels—you have given me a nice and. I must say, original present. I could show you an entire room filled with gifts I have received of the most appalling taste. The worst was a Monopoly game board done in twenty-four-karat gold, inlaid with rubies and diamonds and all manner of precious stones, with the little hotels and houses made of platinum, if you please. What did they expect me to do, melt it down? I know Arabs enjoy a reputation for vulgarity, but really. By the way. your Arabic is excellent. You are, I take it, with the government? Surely. In some capacity? CIA? It would be audacious of them to send a woman. Would they have such imagination? 1 think not. In the past, when your country has wanted something—and my dear, they always want something—the gifts have been... I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but dear, dear, dear. The sort of thing that God—praise be upon His name—would buy if he shopped at Wal-Mart. We are about to have a Wal-Mart here. Such excitement. Once I was offered a briefcase full of cash. Cash!" He giggled, waving a hand about the room, which looked as though everything in it had been dipped in gold, twice. "Do I look as though I need cash? - So"—his eyes narrowed a bit, showing Florence a glimpse of the hard-eyed coastal trailer of yore—"who are you, lovely lady? And without seeming rude, what do you want?"

  This bluntness was un-Arabic. Had she put a foot wrong?

  "Your Majesty favors me with his directness. I have come to ask your permission to approach the Sheika Laila with a business proposition."

  The emir grimaced. His face, a caramel pudding in repose, suddenly looked quite fierce. "Business proposal? The sheika? You've not come to ask her to endorse some product?"

  "No, sootnoow el-amir."

  "A cause? A children's disease? Let me guess. Land mines. All the beautiful women, they are against land mines. We don't have any here. I am happy to say. Though there have been times when I confess I would gladly plant them like flowers along my borders. But the gazelles might step on them. And we would rather shoot the gazelles, would we not? From our lovely new helicopter. So generous. Indeed, I wonder, what have we done to merit such ... generosity?"

  "1 am pleased that His Majesty is pleased. But no. I do not seek the sheika's endorsement on behalf of any skin cream or disease or against land mines. We would like to start a satellite television station here in Matar, and have her be in charge of it."

  The emir stared. "You do take us by surprise. I thought this was going to be about oil. It usually is, one way or the other. Last week some Americans were here from Texas. So often they are from Texas, or Oklahoma. One yearns to meet Americans from other parts of the country. Where are you from?"

  "A part with trees, Majesty."

  "1 low very lucky for vou. Television, you say. The sheika. I hardly think—"

  "With His Majesty's permission, I would show him some numbers."

  "No, no. The emir does not deal with numbers. There are ministers for that, for every kind of number."

  "They are interesting numbers, lord. They suggest that there are vast sums to be made. But I will take them to the ministers, as His Majesty" commands."

  "How do you mean, 'vast-'.'' The desert is vast. The ocean is vast."

  "In the neighborhood of two billion dollars per year, my lord."

  "That's not half vast."

  Florence handed the emir the single sheet of paper she had prepared. "What sort of programming?" he asked.

  "The figures are based on targeting a female audience, my lord." The emir screwed up his face. "Female?"

  "They are the ones who do the shopping. Who make the purchases."

  "I suppose. Who has the time but the women. But there are already two Arabic channels, Al Jazeera and Al Arabiya. I will say, in case you are with the CIA, that I am not in sympathy with either of their political points of view. Every time I turn them on, there is Osama sitting in front of his cave looking in dire need of a new kidney. But then one can always"—he pressed the button on an imaginary remote control—"see what is on the History Channel. There is always another documentary on Hitler. They really ought to call it the Hitler Channel. But why the sheika?"

  "Many reasons, lord. First, she is the sheika, the first lady of Matar, a respected personage of reputation and authority. Second, she has experience in television."

  "Yes." the emir said, as if warming to the concept, "she was very successful in London. Until she gave it up to marry a raghead!"

  Florence smiled noncommittally.

  "But a very nice rag. Go on. You have our attention."

  "Third, we of course require a Matari partner in this enterprise, since by law. Mataris must own fifty-one percent of any business operating here. These three factors make the sheika a natural person to lead our venture."

  "Who is 'we? Who are you?"

  "I am merely a television producer. This project is my concept. With an enterprise of this size, one has backers, investors. But we are prepared to give to you—"

  "To the people of Matar, you mean."

  "Fifty-one percent ownership."

  "Um."

  "Shall we say fifty-five percent?"

  "My hearing is not what it used to be. The years of shooting gazelle..."

  "Sixty percent?"

  "I think 1 heard you say seventy."

  "Sixty-five."

  "Let us say two thirds, sixty-six. So much easier on the accountants."

  "So it is done."

  "And the sheika's role, she would be, what, ornamental?"

  "On the contrarv. It is our hope that she would become very much involved. It was this part that worried me in presenting the plan to His Majesty."

  "How so?"

  "I fear that we might be, well, taking her away from you. Starting a television station can be a very consuming enterprise. But very fulfilling."

  "Ah. Well, that is for her to decide."

  "His Majestv's reputation as an enlightened man and husband does not do him justice."

  "We are not a backward people. Ms. Farfaletti. Unlike some in the region. I shall present your proposal to the Sheika. I must say, I have mixed feelings, for is it not written that a man who makes his wife queen ends up washing the dishes himself?"

  "But is it not also written, sire, that a man who gives his wife an occupation creates for himself an oasis?"

  "I'm not sure what part of scripture we're both quoting, but you may have something there, Ms. Farfa—Florence. Now,
if you will excuse me, my next audience is upon me. You see that an emir's life is not all fig oil."

  "I hardly see how His Majesty manages at all."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Word arrived the next morning at the Opulent that the sheika Laila would receive Florence that same day for lea.

  Florence felt oddly more nervous about this meeting than she had about the interview with Emir Gazzir. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much time going over Bobby's File. She fell she'd been prying indecently into the woman's life. She fell—yes, that was it—guilty. It was one thing to try to pull the wool over the eyes of a plump born-lucky potentate with the nickname of Gazzy, and another to deceive his long-suffering wife. All for a good cause. But still, Florence felt a kinship with the woman. They were both bright women who been swept away by princes to go live in sand castles. Florence's had simply crumbled first.

  Bobby's briefing on Laila was appalling in its detail. It spoke well of the CIA's detail-gathering, but—really.

  "No, no, I don't want to know that." she said after Bobby began to explain the circumstances under which Laila. at age seventeen, had lost her virginity: on a school trip, in Paris, to a guide at the Louvre. "It's just not relevant, and it's none of my or anyone's business."

  "It's all business." Bobbv said. "You never know what detail's gonna be the one saves you." He put the dossier down on her desk. "I'd seriously suggest you read this file in its entirety. Ma'am." And with that, he walked out.

  She sought out George, who had recovered somewhat from his stomach distress. "Why do I feel like such a shit readme this?" she asked.

  "I guarantee you feel better than I do. I don't want to agree with Attila the Hun, but he's probably got a point. Plus. I'm dying to find out if she lost her virginity in the Louvre."