Florence of Arabia

by Christopher Buckley

  "I never slept with a lesbian." Bobby said. "Wanted to, just never quite got around to it."

  They made love again. Afterward. Bobby stood by the balcony looking out over the square. It was early evening. The lights of the town were coming on. " 'Bout time to go, Flo."

  Florence smiled. She was wrapped in bed linens and very happy. It had been a long time since she had made love. "Do you have to call me that? Call me Flor-ens."

  Bobby looked back at her over his shoulder. "Knew that was gonna go to your head sooner or later."

  She couldn't take her eyes off him. He reminded her of Steve McQueen, blond and coiled and dangerous. His pistol was on the bedside table.

  "Tell me how you found me," she murmured.

  "Already told you."

  "Tell me again. I like being rescued."

  "I've got... Aw. I can't tell you this stuff, Flo. Come on, time to get dressed now."

  "More love first."

  "We'll do it on the plane."

  "Is it a nice plane? Is there a bed? I want to make love all the way home. How did you find me? I'm not leaving till you tell me."

  "Could make you leave."

  "I'll chain myself to this bed."

  "Thought you'da had enough of chains by now."

  "Tell."

  Bobby looked at her, love-warm in bed, the sheet draped over her as if on a marble statue, he sighed, a gesture first experienced by humans a hundred thousand years ago when the first man gave in to the first woman.

  "Fetish," he said.

  "Anything, darling."

  "No. Fetish—the emir's guy. I got to him." "Got to him how?"

  "He works for the French. I found that out and told him if he didn't tell me where they were holdin' you. I'd tell the emir. He coughed it up real quick. I got word to Boutros. He and I... That's how."

  "How did you find out Fetish works for the French?"

  "Can we talk about him on the plane? The French girl in Um-beseir, Annabelle, real dish, joined the harem just about the time of Maliq's religious conversion? She works for the French. I got to her."

  "Got her or got to her?"

  "Whatever."

  Florence threw a pillow at him. "I'm sorry you had to go through such hell finding me."

  The explosion knocked Bobby backward onto the bed. His instincts took over instantly, and he covered Florence's body with his. Half the ceiling came down on them.

  Florence's face was pressed against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding.

  "Get dressed now," he said. He slipped on his trousers, took his pistol and approached the balcony, crouching. The flames from the street below reflected on his bare skin.

  "Looks like your revolution's started. Flo."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Florence crawled to the balcony and peered over the rail with Bobby "Car bomb." Bobby said. "Big mother."

  "Laila." Florence said. She dialed on Bobby's cell. The building shook From another explosion, smaller, more distant. That was Followed by a half-dozen more around the city. Boom. boom. boom, boom—nearly identical intervals.

  "It's coordinated." Bobby said.

  Laila picked up. "Florence? Something's happening. Thank God I got Hamdul out."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Just scratched up. The windows blew out. We're on fire. Needless to say, no one is trying to put it out. They're too busy running around shrieking uselessly. Where are you? Your place?"

  "Yes. There are explosions all over the city. Bobby says it's coordinated."

  "Get out of there, fast. There's shooting on the grounds. Wait. Hold on, I hear something."

  Florence heard rotor blades.

  "It's the helicopter," Laila said. "The one you gave him. Nice of him to tell me we're leaving."

  "You better go." Florence said. The sound of the rotor blades became louder over the phone.

  "Florence!" Laila sounded stunned. "I'm here."

  "They're leaving—they've lifted off! I can see him. He's sitting next to the pilot!" The rotor blades grew louder. "That pig! That fat, adulterous, odious, cowardly—"

  There was an explosion.

  "Laila? Laila? Laila?"

  "What's going on?" Bobby said.

  "Laila!"

  Bobby took the phone from Florence and listened. He disconnected. "Time to go." He handed her the orange abaaya that had been his disguise at the rally. "Put this on."

  She looked at the garment.

  "Flo, it's not a fashion statement."

  She put it on slowly. It smelled of him. Bobby yanked the sheet off the bed, took out his spring knife and cut a slit in it and threw it over his head. "Trick or treat." he said. "Come on."

  They took the stairs instead of the elevator. It was eight floors down to the lobby. He opened the door cautiously and looked into the lobby. Florence leaned back into the concrete wall, trying to get her heart to stop pounding so hard. She heard a noise.

  Four men banged through the lobby door. They wore Western clothing. They spoke. Florence caught the accent.

  They spoke loudly, in unafraid tones, and carried drawn pistols. They made for the elevator. Bobby slowly closed the door and held the bar handle of the fire door, manually locking it.

  "Wasabi," Florence whispered to Bobby. He looked questioningly at her. "he said hlonek' instead of 'shlonek.' Trust me—they're Wasabi. Probablv mukfelleen."

  They went down to the basement and found a rear stairwell. There was a small wire-mesh window in it. With his hand already on the handle, Bobby looked through the window, then quickly darted to the side and threw the bolt home, locking the door just as someone tried to open it from the other side.

  They retreated back up to the second floor and emerged into the corridor.

  There was a door at the far end that opened onto a small balcony above an alley. They stood on the balcony and looked down. There was a large Dumpster filled with garbage bags.

  "Can you do this?" Bobby said. Florence nodded. It was a twenty-foot drop into the Dumpster.

  They landed to a commotion of squeaks. Florence felt things squirming under her. Rats. She stilled a cry. Bobby beat at them with his lists. He pulled garbage bags over the two of them until they were concealed. Florence lay there, rodents stirring under her. The garbage had been there for days, putrefying in 110-degree heal. Bobby reached over and held her hand. He whispered. "Best way to get to know a country."

  The balcony door above them banged open. They heard two voices. Florence held her breath. The door closed. It was quiet again, they lay there for ten minutes. Bobby whispered. "You want dessert, or shall I get the check?"

  Thev hauled themselves out of the Dumpster and made their way toward the waterfront, trying to stay in the shadows. The city was alive with the noise of explosions and small-arms fire. Bobby and Florence came to a grassy public square and ducked into a clump of trees at the corner.

  "If we get stopped." Bobby said, "act hysterical, like you're scared shitless."

  "Not a problem. Where are we going?"

  Bobby thought. "Airport's out. The harbor."

  "Is your water taxi operating?"

  "You bet. In an hour, we'll be in our own submarine, drinking French champagne and screwin' our brains out."

  She didn't believe him, and then it hit her—he'd come back for her on his own. He was operating solo.

  "We'll head for the water." he said. "Where there's water, there's boats; where there's boats, there's gettin' the hell out."

  "You came back on your own, didn't you?"

  "We're gonna be fine. I've been through more Middle Fast coups than you’ve had hot breakfasts."

  They came to a corner. Bobby looked around it and jerked his head back. The street was blocked by an armored personnel carrier with a mounted machine gun. The markings on it were Matari.

  They moved along Soames Street, parallel to the waterfront. Bobby again peered around a corner and motioned her back. All the streets leading to the harbor were blocked. />
  "They don't appear to be encouragin' visits to the waterfront tonight." he said. "Time to find out what's goin' on."

  They continued along Soames until they came to an appliance store with television sets and microwave ovens in the window.

  "Keep an eye out." Bobby produced a tool and fiddled with the lock. It clicked open. He pushed the door open gently, listening for an alarm to go off. They entered.

  Against a wall were fifty or so televisions. Bobby went behind the counter and began flipping switches. All fifty sets flicked on, bathing them in blue screen glow.

  "Be a good place to watch the Super Bowl." Bobby said. He began flicking several remote controls at once, causing blizzards of pixels.

  "Channel Forty-five." she said. The TV Matar channel.

  He flicked. Normally, at this hour, TV Matar would be showing Mukfellahs, the situation comedy about the inept crew of religious police. Instead, there was a grim-faced announcer, a man, sitting behind the news desk. They knew instantly what it meant. The announcer was dressed in the clerical garb of a Matari moolah, and he was speaking Matari, not English. The first words Florence could make out were "criminal." then "infidel," then "provisional," followed by "Imam Maliq" followed by "God be praised." None of these buzzwords was reassuring. Again she was struck by how incongruently malevolent "Allah the merciful, the compassionate" could be made to sound coming from human lips. Then she heard her own name mentioned, and hot as she was under the abaaya, Florence felt a chill. She learned from the television that she was at large somewhere in the city, that all decent citizens should be vigilant, for she was dangerous, an enemy, an agent of Satan.

  Bobby was standing by the door with his pistol drawn, in the event the alarm was silent and an enraged Mr. Mohammed Dera'a, whose name appeared on the sign above, was on his way to reassert proprietorship of his goods.

  The moolah continued his announcements. The holy soil of Matar was— praise God—under new rule. The decades of corruption and decadence so vile in the eyes of God the merciful, the compassionate, the wise, were over. A new dawn was proclaimed (though technically, it was only eight P.M.). A revolutionary Islamic republic was proclaimed. Praise God. Citizens should remain indoors until the last vestiges of the former regime could be "cleansed"— another sunny word made sinister.

  Up on the screen came Gazzy's face. He was in sunglasses, grinning and waving at the photographer. The picture had been taken in what newspaper captions like to call "happier times."

  "The imam makes the following announcement. The emir Gazzir Bin Haz. blasphemer, betrayer and tool of imperialist infidels, is dead. Allahu akbar. He was fleeing the royal palace like a coward when his American-provided helicopter stuck a tree and crashed. The former sheika ..."

  Florence held her breath.

  "... is in custody. Already she is repenting of her crimes against God the mighty and the people of Matar. Long life and blessings upon our glorious beloved imam Maliq, beloved of God, sent by God, savior of Matar’s holy soil."

  Florence began dialing.

  "What you doing?"

  "It's the Middle Fast. I'm trading."

  Bobby sighed. "Baby, you're not bein' part of the solution."

  She dialed the main palace number. A voice answered, authoritative.

  "This is Florence. Do you understand who I am?"

  "Yes."

  "I wish to speak with the imam Maliq." "Impossible."

  "I have something he wants very badly."

  "Speak."

  "I will convey that to the imam," she said sharply. "Put him on the telephone. Do it now, or you will feel his anger upon your back." In moments of drama. Arabic tended toward the archaic.

  Bobby mouthed the words: "They're tracing the call."

  Florence paced back and forth in front of the TV screens.

  "Flo." Bobby hissed. "What the fuck you doin'?"

  "I'm responsible."

  "Aw, jeez, dammit, girl!" He banged his hand against the glass door. "You're always responsible! You want to be a martyr? Why don't you just strap on some explosives and go blow up a damn bus!"

  "Fuck you."

  "This is the imam Maliq." said a startled voice, "and fuck you, madame!"

  "Not you. It's Florence calling."

  "What do you want?"

  "To trade. Me for the sheika."

  "Why should I trade? You will be dead or captured before dawn."

  "Just put her on a plane. The moment it lands and I see her on TV, getting off. I'll turn myself in. I'll confess to whatever you want."

  Maliq laughed. "You will confess in any event."

  "Look. Maliq, you're bringing the veil back to Matar, Yes?"

  "Certainly, but what does this have to do with it?"

  "There are two and a half million women in Matar. How long will it take you to look underneath every veil to find me?"

  "There is no rush. My days of racing are over. Cod be praised."

  "Come on, Maliq, do you really want to wait that long before chopping off my head?"

  "Imam Maliq, if you please." he said almost flirtatiously. "Cut off your head? No, no, I have something else in mind. All in good time. And now I must go. It seems I have a country to run."

  The television sets were showing file footage of Maliq addressing a crowd. He looked rather stylish for an Islamic religious leader, but then his clerical garb had been designed in Paris.

  There was a long glass counter of cell phones and GameBoys and other electronic items. It was locked. Florence found a metal bar by the cash register for threatening robbers. She picked it up and began smashing through the glass.

  Bobby watched. "Flo, what are you doin'?" "Launching the counterrevolution."

  She gathered all the cell phones into a plastic shopping bag. She pointed to another locked glass display case full of video equipment "Break that, would you, please?"

  Bobby went to the display and smashed it with a single blow of his pistol butt. Florence pulled out several video cameras and put them in the now bulging bag.

  "That one. too." She pointed.

  Bobby obediently broke another case. "Mr. Dera'a isn't gonna be real happy."

  Florence gathered up some battery-operated televisions. Having completed her looting, she grabbed her orange abaaya. She kissed Bobby on the cheek. "Goodbye, baby," she said.

  "What are you talkin' about?"

  "Bobby. A man, a Westerner, blond, wanted for killing one of the new ruler's men in a garage? How long do you think you'd last in the new Matar?"

  "I got my veil."

  She smiled and stroked his cheek. "You'd do me more harm than good."

  She put on her orange abaaya and picked up the bulging shopping bags. She looked like any Muslim woman who'd spent the afternoon at the mall.

  Florence put her head out the door, looked both ways, cast a backward glance at Bobby and left.

  He gave her a head start, then put on his own abaaya and followed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The coup in Matar, or, as the State Department was calling it, "the developing situation in Matar," had taken the United States government completely by surprise. The White House gamely asserted that it had been aware "for some time now" that a violent takeover had been in the offing, and they had been working "behind the scenes and around the clock" to avert crisis. This, however, was a souffle that refused to rise.

  On Capitol Hill, the cries of "Who lost Matar?" grew louder and louder. Senators pounded their podia, demanding answers. The president declared that he, too, wanted answers. The CIA said that although it would have no official comment, it, too. perhaps even more than the president and the senators, wanted answers. The secretary of state said that there might in fact be no answers, but if there were, he certainly would be interested in hearing them. The secretary general of the United Nations said that he was reasonably certain answers existed, but first the right questions must be asked, and then they would have to be translated, and this would take time.

>   There were those who urged caution, and those who urged that now was a time not for caution but for boldness. Then there were those who urged a middle course of cautious boldness. 'There were extremists on both sides: the neo-isolationists, whose banner declared. "Just sell us the damned oil." and the neo-interventionists, who said, "Together, we can make a better world, but we'll probably have to kill a lot of you in the process."

  Privately, the American president was said to be torn—between dispatching an aircraft carrier (perhaps the most dramatic gesture available to a president, short of actually landing on one); and dispatching a nuclear submarine. A distinguished naval historian pointed out on public television that submarines are every bit as lethal as aircraft carriers, but, being underwater, are harder to see and therefore "less visually impactful." It was, as another historian said on public television, "a time of great ambiguity." And yet about even that much, reasonable people differed. One fact, however, asserted itself stubbornly, insistently, over and over, until it could not be ignored or swept or channel-surfed away: that nearly one third of America's imported oil. without which there would be much shivering in January, now flowed through a country ruled by— as one more historian put it on public television—"a race-car driver turned ayatollah, installed by France." On this point, there was little ambiguity. The question was, what to do about it? France had played her cards with elan and panache, savoir faire and a heaping helping of je ne sais quoi.

  Within days, snippets of film taken in the late Gazzir Bin Haz's "summer" residence at Um-beseir had made their way onto the Internet and television, Canal Quatre in Paris aired a documentary about the emir's harem that would have made Casanova, the authors of the Kama Sutra and. quite possibly, the Marquis de Sade blush. The film had been (apparently, since no one would take credit for it) shot by some hidden camera. (Annabelle had been a busy girl, indeed.) In one particularly riveting sequence, the emir of Matar was seen spooning beluga caviar onto the breasts of a pair of (admittedly delectable) Russian ladies named Tatiana and Svetlana, and then gobbling it up, pausing only to take puffs from a hookah that seemed to contain more than mere tobacco, and gulps from a bottle quite clearly labeled "Southern Comfort" while periodically shrieking, "God be praised1." True, every man worships God in his own way, but such vignettes made it somewhat difficult for the exiled noblesse of Matar, now dug into their bunkers in Cannes, Gstaad and Portofino, to assert convincingly—between swigs of Chivas and Cristal—that the late emir had been guided by a decent respect for the opinion of mankind.