Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  "Whatever."

  The line below the title came up in Arabic: The Thousand and One Mornings.

  The hostess picked herself up off the floor and bumped into one of the chairs. The audience roared. She groped her way to her seal and sat down. "This new veil," she said, "I can't see a thing..."

  The audience howled with laughter.

  Rick said, "I Love Lucy meets The Arabian Nights."

  "Don't tell the religious police," Azade the hostess said, "or it will be thirty lashes. And that's just for showing an inch of ankle!"

  The audience laughed.

  "Well," Florence said, "that'll gel their attention. Laila?" "Oh, yes."

  Rick said, "Now here's the beautiful part. They can't touch her, technically. George found this loophole in the Book of Hamooj. where they get all these bullshit rules from."

  "Rick, please don't use that language in front of the sheika."

  "I can handle it. Florence," Laila said.

  Rick went on. "The Book of Hamooj is where all the religious rules are, about what women can and can't do. Which basically includes everything, including having an orgasm, assuming they didn't cut out the ... uh .. ."

  "It's called a clitoridectomy." Laila said. "The genital mutilation of young women, to encourage chastity by depriving them ol sensual gratification. One of Islam's prouder achievements."

  "Right. The mukfelleen. the Wasabi religious police—the ones who go around with whips beating women on the spot if so much as an inch of flesh is exposed—are the ones who shoved the young girls back into the school that was on fire because they weren't covered. What a fucking country. But theoretically, they can't complain here because it was technically an accident that she tripped. George—he knows all this shit—he found this clause in that book where, if you reveal your flesh accidentally, you get a free pass. It goes back to like the fourteenth century Some Hamooji princess fell off her camel and went ass over teakettle. Everyone saw her legs. It was this huge scandal. The whole caravan had to stop while they debated whether to stone her or cut off her head. Someone finally said. 'Wait a minute, this is the caliph's favorite squeeze we're talking about here. He's waiting for her in Kaffa, and we're going to bring him her head in a basket'.'' Fuck that." But the religious cops had to save face. So they wrote it into the law that you can't be punished if the flesh was revealed accidentally. From a religious point of view, they can't lay a hand on us."

  "They're going to go absolutely ballistic." Laila said.

  Rick smiled. "Isn't that the whole point?"

  They watched the rest of Cher Azade's debut.

  Laila said lo Florence. "It would seem Matar now possesses the atomic bomb. I can hardly wait lo set it off."

  "Should we preview it for the emir?" Florence asked.

  "Win don't we not bother him with it? He's so busy these days with his affairs of state."

  CHAPTER TEN

  TV Matar went on-air at sunrise on the day of the new spring moon. Advertisements had been taken out in the Wasabi newspapers and magazines, alerting women to a new station: "Just for you!" and full of "delicious recipes" and "advice on everything from raising a family to being a good wife in today's society." The ads flew under the radar of the Wasabi censors, who assumed it was just another of those shows where you learn how to make zesty hummus and to properly starch your husband's thobe. How surprised, then, were the ruling males of Wasabia to hear the shrieking peals of delighted female laughter as Cher Azade was beamed into homes from Wanbo to Kaffa to Akbukir.

  "My next guest—not that I can see her—are you there. Farah?" "Over here, Azad!"

  "God be praised. Now. Farah, I understand you have actually driven a car?" "Yes! A Mercedes."

  "It's too exciting. What's it like, driving an automobile'.''" "Thrilling—thrilling beyond words." "Did you hit anything?"

  "Just some mukfelleen religious police who were chasing me. So I backed up and ran them over again."

  "Oh, dear." Azade scolded. "That will earn you a good beating. What did you do then?"

  "I kept on going till I got to the border. The car is outside. I left the motor running. Would you like to go for a drive?"

  "Only if we can run over religious police. Now, don't go away, even if you do have a car, because we're going to have a commercial for some lovely perfume. And don't you go away—we have a wonderful program for you, including a self-defense instructor who's going to give us tips on how to cope with cranky violent husbands and boyfriends during Ramadan."

  THE PHONES RANG at the Ministry of the Enforcement of Religion in Kaffa, headquarters of the mukfelleen. There wasn't much they could do immediately, other than go about smashing and confiscating television sets. Their trademark purple sedans careened through the streets, screeching to a halt at the sight of a television in a cafe or store, disgorging enraged, whip-wielding mukfelleen in their distinctive black and blue thobes.

  "We're back, praise God. That was very useful, what the self-defense instructor showed us. wasn't it?"

  "Most helpful." said Azade's co-hostess. "Now I might actually look forward to Ramadan."

  "I'm going to get a big brass tray with handles so I can use it as a shield. Now, our next guest has written a book." "How exciting."

  "Needless to say, you won't find it in the stores. But we'll put a number on the screen, and if you call, you can buy it over the phone, and they'll mail it to you in an undetectable wrapper."

  "What's the book called, Azade? You make me eager to read it already."

  "It's called Stop. You're Killing Me: The Repression of Women in Arab Societies and What You Can Do About It."

  "God be praised. What's it about?"

  The studio audience laughed.

  "It's not a cookbook. I can tell you."

  THE WASABI FOREIGN MINISTER telephoned Matar’s ambassador to Kaffa. It vexed him to hear the program playing in the background of the ambassador's house as he excoriated him. "This is a hostile act." he growled.

  "I shall inform my emir. Your Augustness." the ambassador said, eager to get oil the phone so he could return to watching.

  "WHAT INSPIRED you to write this book?"

  "It's hard to put my finger on it. Azade, but probably when the religious police pushed those girls back into the burning school because their heads weren't covered. I thought, What kind of barbaric society do we live in that such abominations go on—every day?"

  The studio audience applauded

  "Thank you for sharing that. The book is Stop, You're Killing We. By Yasmeen Khamza. I want everyone listening to buy two copies. Plus one copy for each of your husband's other wives. We'll make their heads spin, sisters. Thank you, Yasmeen, for being with us this morning. Now we're going to have another commercial, and then we're going to have a fashion show. Just because we have to wear these ghastly sheets over our heads doesn't mean we can't look our best."

  A PHONE RANG in Paris.

  "It's time." said the voice. "The moment has arrived." "I think so. too."

  In Um Beseir, the emir's Xanadu-on-the-Gulf, his chief of staff, Fetish, was reluctant to disturb his master, inasmuch as the emir was ensconced in his satiny bower with three ladies. Two of the women were spectacular new talents from Kiev and St. Petersburg. The third was a Parisian, also talented. She had been introduced to Gazzy's harem by his brother Maliq, of all people. What a devil. He'd met the girl, Annabelle, on one of his trips to France to get new racing cars. The emir was most grateful to his brother, and was coming back to thinking that in matters of love, as in food, the French ruled supreme.

  The sheika’s new television project had so preoccupied her lime that Gazzy was once again free—God be praised—lo refresh himself, undisturbed, in the loamy fields of Eros, to take his pleasure without distraction by the crystalline shores and turquoise waters.

  "My lord?"

  "Really, Fetish—this is no time—"

  Fetish preferred the phone and whispered. "It is King Tallulah himself." It wasn't every d
ay that the king of Wasabia called Gazzy. "What's he want?"

  "Lord, he did not tell me. His manner is not pleased. Indeed, he sounds wroth."

  "Give me the phone, then. Honestly. Darlings," Gazzy said to the three women, "go and have a swim, eh? Hello?" The emir struggled to clear his head of the champagne. "Majesty? You honor me greatly with this call. May you be in good health and have the strength often men half your age. What is the nature of this urgency that I am summoned in the midst of prayer? Television? No. no. no. it's Laila's—the sheika’s—enterprise. Women's business—recipes, clothes, child rearing, baking pastries, that sort of— Ah? Eh? Oh. I'm. Well. I'm sure there's some explanation. Of course I will look into it. Yes. yes. Um-hum. And the prince, your brother, he is well. God be praised? And the forty thousand crown princes? God is truly abundant and merciful. Absolutely. You have my word upon it. Before the sun has kissed thy western borders, thou shall hear from me. Be assured of my word. My best to your good wives. And the little princes. Salaam."

  He clicked off and tossed the phone at Fetish, who, from experience, was adept at catching phones tossed in disgust.

  "Shall I alert the pilot royal that we will be returning to Amo-Amas, lord?"

  "Certainly not. The old son of an Egyptian whore acting the king with me. Matar is not a province of Wasabia. last I looked at a map. It seems that the sheika's new television program does not meet with his royal approval." Gazzy considered. A pleased look came over his face. He grunted, "Hah—good. Well, tell Azzim to look into it and make a report But Fetish?" "My lord?"

  "Tell Azzim—no hurry, eh?"

  The emir chuckled to himself. I le looked out past the silk lent folds toward the palm-fringed lagoon, where the women loitered bare-breasted in the waist-deep shallows, like the three ladies of Baghdad, braiding one another's hair.

  "Will my lord be taking a swim before lunch?"

  "Well, if you're going to chase after me with telephones, Fetish, there would be no point. I mean, would there'.-'"

  Fetish smiled and bowed. "1 am confident that my lord will receive no further interruptions."

  "In that case"—the emir sniffed—"I will take my refreshment in the lagoon. Then 1 will take my lunch. We'll have the lobsters and the caviar with the creme fraiche. To make our Russian guests feel at home. And then the Sultani orange and myrlleberry sherbets."

  "Excellent, lord."

  So picturesque, the girls, the way they arrayed themselves in the lagoon like natives in the Gauguin painting, their skins glistening with oils in the sunlight shafts that pierced the palm canopy.

  "Fetish, when you present the sherbets, place a large pearl atop each mound."

  "The cultured pearls, or the natural Gulf pearls?"

  The emir considered. "The Gulf. It's a special occasion, Fetish. Really, what a terrible miser you can be." As my lord commands."

  UNCLE SAM CALLEDD Florence, sounding delighted. "Goodness, goodness, goodness, did you ever kick up a sandstorm. They're having meetings about it at the UN. The Wasabi delegate demanded an apology from the Matari delegate." "Wait till you see next week's prime-time lineup."

  "I'll be watching. Now. you watch out for yourself, young lady. There are snakes in that desert, keep a low profile. Pay attention to your man Thibodeaux."

  It was tricky, conducting polls in a country like Wasabia. This fell to George, who was naturally inclined, inasmuch as the State Department's standard approach to any problem was to study it until it organically expired. He hired a Dutch firm in The Hague (a writable geographical synonym for inoffensiveness) to conduct a Trojan-horse phone survey of Wasabi households. Most of the questions had to do with imported vegetables.

  George presented the results to Florence and Rick and Laila. Bobby was not there, occupied as he was of late with security matters, or what he called "proactive pre-emption."

  "They seem to be eating it up." George said. "We're basically number one in Wasabia."

  "If there's such a thing as ‘must-see TV,' this is it." "Good job programming. Renard." Florence said. Rick nodded.

  "How are we doing with the men?" Florence asked.

  "Not great among the conservatives. A lot of TV sets are being turned off or tossed out into the street. Good news for Sony. The younger men seem to be rather fascinated." George looked up from his papers and sighed. "This isn't terribly scientific. I'd have preferred a more longitudinal study over—"

  "We don't have time. What else?"

  "Four fifths of women said they want her to take off her abaaya on-screen."

  "1 don't think we're there quite yet." Laila said. "Azade is a blossom that we ought to let bloom gradually."

  "Two thirds want fewer recipes," George continued, "and more sex, and an overwhelming majority want Britney Spears on to talk about her navel piercings. I don't know how that question got in there. I didn't put it in. I've never reallv gotten the point of Britney Spears."

  "How's Yasmeen's book doing?"

  "Gangbusters. We're giving it away, of course, since women can't have credit cards. Sending it from Holland and France. The Wasabi customs agents have been confiscating about half of them. We're having to get creative in the packaging and mailing origins. We've been labeling the boxes Tulips' or "Chocolate' and marking them "Perishable.- But we'll have to shift strategy, probably. FedEx is being difficult."

  "Thank you, George. Good work."

  "We'll do another survey next week, after the new show."

  THE NEW SHOW was Chop-Chop Square, a prime-time soap opera about a royal family living in an unnamed country that looked uncannily similar lo Wasabia. It debuted in the eight P.M. prime-time slot and was being denounced from five hundred mosques by dawn the next day. The Wasabi Information Ministry called it "an abomination before God."

  Bobby, looking more sleepless than usual, reported that the grand mullah of Muk, Wasabia's leading religious authority—and certainly no cream puff, he—was preparing to issue "the mama of all fatwas."

  "Well." Laila said, drawing on another cigarette, "that'll melt the wax in Gazzy's ears."

  Florence noted that Laila seemed to be reveling in it all. She ascribed this not so much to the “fun" TV Matar had unleashed among the Wasabis as to the predicament into which it had thrust her husband, the emir. Laila confided to her that there had been a rather royal scene the night before.

  The emir had said, "What are you and that American woman doing, in the name of God the most merciful? Tallulah himself has called me—thrice."

  "He called here first, darling. I told him you were at Um-beseir. Unwinding from the rigors of your duties here."

  "There's no need for that, madame. You might have informed me about the content of this—this television station of yours. By the prophet's holy beard, Laila. What are you and this American woman doing? “I hear things about her."

  "She's a very shrewd businesswoman. Would you like to see how much money you made last week? I have the figures. Here."

  "Um, Are these ... true?"

  "These, darling, are only the beginning. Has it not escaped my lord's notice—" "Will you please not call me that? What has gotten into you?" "Perhaps it's what you have gotten into." "Have I taken more wives? No."

  "Is that your definition of fidelity?"

  "Laila. you arc giving me pains in the chest. You must stop. Do you want Hamdul to be fatherless?" It was the emirs practice to fake chest pains whenever he found himself cornered.

  "Shall I summon the royal cardiologist?" Laila said.

  "It's passed. Not that you'd care." He studied the sheet of paper with the figures. "I must say, these are impressive."

  "So is this." Laila handed him a clipping from Al-Ahram, the Pan-Arabic newspaper. The headline said. IS THE "PUDDING OF MATAR" THE NEW SALADIN?

  The story had been written by George and placed by Renard and paid for by Bobby.

  TV Matar, the new satellite television station based in Amo-Amas. comes with a bold agenda and is causing speculation throughout the r
egion that Emir Bin Haz. until now thought to be merely content to rake in his Churchillian riches and disport himself at his "winter palace" has a heart that, contrary to reports of faintness. appears to beat strongly indeed.

  "Hmm." said Gazzy. frowning. "My lord is not pleased?" " 'Pudding of Matar'?"

  "Darling, they're calling you the new Saladin, for heaven's sake. Accept the compliment."

  "Well." Gazzy said, tossing the clipping to the floor. "this is your thing, not mine."

  "Bv all means, come aboard, dear husband. Join me." She stroked his cheek tenderly. "It has been a very long time .. ." "Hmm .. ." "Darling?" "Yes, darling?"

  "You have been busy, and I don't want to catch something." "Really, Laila!"

  "You are not the offended one. Gazzir. Don't have a Potemkin tantrum with me. I am making a hygienic point."

  "You certainly know how to spoil the mood."

  "Oil, for heaven's sake. Hamdul is more mature. And he's ten years old. All I'm asking for is a blood test. Hardly unreasonable. You have your blood changed every month as it is."

  "Never mind. Now. what about this television?"

  "What about it?"

  "It's got Tallulah in a temper."

  "Darling, you detest Tallulah and the Wasabis. And 'this television' is going to make you one of the richest men in the gulf, not to mention 'a new Saladin.' If there's a problem. I'm not getting what it is."

  "I'll have to discuss it with my ministers."

  "I'm sure they'll be full of wisdom, and you will emerge wiser than ever." "God be praised." the emir said, "there are times when I wonder if I mated with a she-devil!"

  "You used to say that to me in bed. Our first night at the Connaughl. Oh. what a lion was my lord," she teased tenderly, stroking his cheek.

  He wanted her badly, but he was not about to lower himself to having a blood test. He stomped off to continue his growling in private. Yet he was also tempted to smile, for this projected advertising revenue stream was indeed like a gush of sweet water in the baking sand of the desert. And it was pleasant enough to be called the new Saladin, even if he was not quite clear who the infidels were.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The gist of what Delame-Noir was explaining to Maliq, as they sat drinking coffee in the grand salon of the Palais Framboise outside Paris—headquarters of Delame's corner of the French government—was that the moolahs were key to the whole business. Maliq was impatient and uncomfortable. He did not enjoy being condescended to by the tall, elegant, exquisitely tailored man, who kept dropping knowing references to Wasabi and Matari history.