Then the abaaya was removed. Blinking, she looked and saw, sitting across the table from her. Laila.
"Oh, my dear sister." Laila said, her eyes brimming with tears. "What have they done to you?"
Florence reached across the table and took Laila's hands in hers. Laila looked gaunt, hollowed out, aged, yet still beautiful. Her eyes, once gay and impertinent, looked hunted, if not defeated.
"And how are you, dear sister?" Florence said, and with that, they both burst into tears.
"This is hardly becoming," Laila said, brushing her tears away. "They'll say it's true—that we're a couple of desert dykes."
Florence smiled. The expression felt strange on her face. She realized that it had been a long time since she had smiled.
"So," she said, "we're still alive. How did we manage that?"
They were alone in the small room, though almost certainly being observed and tape-recorded.
"Do you know anything that's happened?" Florence asked Laila.
"I gather someone tried to kill Maliq."
"Yes." Florence nodded. "I'm to ..." Her voice trailed oil'.
Laila's face turned fearful. She shook her head. "No, Firenze, don't do it."
"Have they asked you to confess to anything?"
"Corrupting Gazzy."
Florence smiled. "You always were a bad influence on him. In return?" The two women stared at each other. "A hundred lashes," Laila said.
"Oh, Christ, Laila." It was a death sentence. Did she know that?
"It's no worse than some of the schools I was sent to. They'll deport me after. I imagine." She forced a smile. "I'm hoping for the South of France, not some lugubrious sub-Saharan country. What about you, Firenze? What is to happen to you?"
"Deportation," Florence lied. "It seems I've finally worn out my welcome."
The door was opening. The guards entered.
They clasped each other's hands tightly. They both understood.
"See you in the South of France, then," Florence said.
"In the South of France. We’ll get roaring drunk on champagne."
"Go with God."
"With God, darling. Allah maa'ek yehfathek. Eshoofek biheer."
DELAME-NOIR WAS INFORMED over the phone by an icy voice in Paris that he was to return without delay. A jet was standing by, and this one the Mataris had granted permission to land. Delame-Noir understood.
He leaned forward and asked his driver for a cigarette. A good thing he was in the Middle East. Everyone smoked. He himself had not had a cigarette in over forty years, when he was overcome with shame at having pressed the burning end of one into the chest of a recalcitrant pied-noir prisoner in Algeria while trying to extract critical information. He lit this one and inhaled and leaned back in the leather seat with the serenity that comes from accepting defeat. He decided to place one last call, to Prince Bawad in Kaffa, more out of curiosity than anything.
Bawad immediately began to excoriate Delame-Noir in the harshest terms. Delame-Noir let the torrent of abuse go by him along with the passing desertscape. He was intrigued by Bawad's fear—it was so palpable.
"And what is the decision with respect to the women?" Delame-Noir asked, exhaling a lungful of smoke. How good it felt. What a pity he had given it up for so long.
"He's going to kill them tomorrow!" Bawad shrieked. "You should be pleased, mon prince. After all. it's what you wanted for so long."
"Don't you see—this will only make things worse. Much worse! His Majesty is furious!"
"So why don't you do something?"
"The maniac has sealed the borders and expelled everyone. We can't do anything!"
"Where there are no alternatives, there are no problems. Do you know who told me that saying? De Gaulle himself. I knew him well." "This is all your doing!" "How is it my doing?"
The only reason he’s going to kill the Florence woman is because you kept talking him out of killing her.' And now he hates you so much, he's going to kill her just to spite you!"
"It's true I always thought that to kill the women would be a terrible public-relations mistake. I know how you people love nothing better than to chop off a head every now and then. So now you can enjoy your national sport." Delame-Noir exhaled another lungful of Turkish tobacco smoke. "I think you are going to find yourself in a very big pit of quicksand, mon prince. Give my regards lo the king. Au revoir."
Delame-Noir pressed END. Rarely, he reflected, had it felt so satisfying lo hang up.
The jet was wailing. It was his own jet they'd sent for him, with all the comforts. There were two men inside, instead of Celine, the lovely woman who usually served him. Delame-Noir greeted them cordially, he was aware that everything he said, every action, every gesture, would be a topic of conversation the next day in various offices in Paris—indeed, for many years—and he was determined that these conversations would be conducted in tones of admiration and reverence.
"Come on." he said, "let's have a drink." He found the bottle of forty-year-old single-mall Scotch that Celine kept for him. poured drinks for his subdued guests, and as the jet lifted into the sky and headed out over the sparkling blue Gulf before turning west, he lifted his glass and said. "To the New Matar!"
The obituary appeared in Le Figaro two days later: Dominique Laurent Delame-Noir, seventy-four, army veteran. Croix de Guerre, Legion d'Honneur. widower, assistant subdirector of Near Eastern Affairs within the directorate of the Bureau des Affaires Etrangeres, died of an embolism while walking his dog near his home in Brive-la-Gaillarde. Service and internment private.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Florence was pleased that it was not to be done at a mall
All afternoon she had been tormented by the thought that she would have her head chopped off at a mall, and that her last earthly sight would be a Starbucks. There was no dishonor in dying, but she did not want to die in the middle of a 30 percent-off sale on women's shoes.
The vehicle stopped. She looked out the window and saw that she was in a town square. It looked like Randolph Square, now Yasgur Square. She used to go shopping here. There was a stand that sold wonderful peaches.
A crowd of several hundred had gathered around the scaffold, mostly women. They were moaning and whimpering softly in the manner of Arab women being forced to watch yet another abominable act. A moolah with a megaphone was haranguing them, educating them about Florence's villainy and godlessness and perfidy in attempting to kill the great imam, Allah's blessing be upon his mutilated body.
Florence looked nervously to see if Laila was there. She asked the officer accompanying her if the sheika was to be dealt with here as well. He told her no, that was happening at—the mall. Florence winced. But at least Laila would not have to witness her death; nor would Florence be required to watch them beat Laila to death in front of Starbucks. God is truly merciful.
A murmur went through the crowd as the executioner, a tall Matari of the Qali Sad tribe—Matar's traditional executioners—moved through the parting sea of abaayas toward her, escorted by a moolah and a pistol-bearing captain of the Department of Public Health.
Executions in this part of the world, being commonplace, are not elaborate. Other nations and cultures like a bit of pomp and circumstance on the scaffold—a final statement, the blessing of a priest, the offer of a hood or blindfold, a cigarette (no longer allowed now, for reasons of health), a drumroll. The executions Florence had witnessed had been swift, business-like affairs involving no more ceremony than the chopping off of heads at the chicken market, except for the obligatory complimenting of God for His greatness. This suited her. No point in prolonging it. The more quickly it was over, the less chance there was that she might lose her nerve and make some undignified show. She so wanted to make a good death. But she could feel the fear fluttering in her like a dark moth.
'The headsman took her firmly by the arm and led her toward the scaffold. His attendant stood there, holding the sword. Florence prayed it was sharp. She had been troubled by anoth
er thought—that of an incompetent headsman, hacking away like a drunken butcher. It happened. One time in Chop-Chop Square, after eight or nine feckless strokes, a soldier finally pushed the executioner aside in disgust and finished the business with his pistol. She wished she had something of value with which to tip the executioner.
The moolah was still haranguing them through his megaphone. The crowd of women moaned. He took her to the center of the platform and pushed her to her knees. The attendant moved to blindfold her, but she shook him off. She had spent enough time under a hood. She would not have her last view in life be of the inside of a dark stinking doth.
She knelt upright and looked at the crowd and smiled. Women began to wail openly. Florence looked down at the fresh wooden planks of the scaffold and saw, brightly outlined, the shadow of the executioner raising his sword to strike. She closed her eyes and tried to relax her neck muscles.
Then she heard gunshots, and she opened her eyes. The executioner went over backward, his sword falling with a clank onto the scaffold, nearly cutting her in the calf. She spun her head toward the crowd and saw, scattered throughout the crowd, dozens of women, their abaayas lifted, firing weapons al the police and guards. In the next instant, she felt herself being picked up and rushed off by two men. She was tossed into the back of a van. The doors slammed shut, and it roared off.
She lay there, heart beating madly, for a while and then lifted her head toward the front of the van.
"You want to keep your head down, Flo? Y'almost lost it back there."
IT WAS DARK by the time they stopped. When he opened the rear door, she burst out and hugged him.
"Come on," Bobby said finally, "checkout time. Look out for snakes. Whole country's crawlin' with snakes."
She walked across the sand on bare feet toward the water. She wondered whether Maliq's bureaucrats had gotten around to renaming Blenheim Beach. They waited, ankles in the lapping surf. Bobbv watching, holding a machine gun.
Ten minutes passed. Headlights approached from the road. "Bobby!" Florence called out.
He signaled with a small flashlight. The headlights blinked twice, then once more. Bobby sprinted up the beach toward them. A minute later, he returned, supporting with one arm a female form hunched over in evident pain.
Florence embraced Laila.
"Not so hard, darling." Laila winced. "The bastards got in ten lashes before all hell broke loose. I could use that drink now."
The three waited. Then there was the sound of an outboard engine, and they saw men in a boat with blackened faces and weapons.
Florence had never been in a submarine before. She expected to hear Klaxons and men shouting "Down periscope!" Instead, an attractive, unhurried officer in khaki smiled and said. "Ma'am. Your Royal Highness, welcome aboard." Then Florence heard over a loudspeaker. "Prepare to dive." and a moment later, there came another sound sweet to the ear, a cork being propelled from a bottle of champagne, though officially, alcohol is not served on U.S. Navy vessels. But under the circumstances ...
EPILOGUE
Following the Arab Women's Uprising, Matar was plunged once again into turmoil, though not for long. Having cut himself off from his former Wasabi and French patrons. Maliq found himself isolated. Since politics, like nature, abhors a vacuum, Colonel Nebkir of the Special Prefecture—assisted by his patrons. Bobby's people—moved swiftly to fill it. Within a week. Maliq was forced to flee. There was karma in the manner of his departure: the race-car driver being driven into exile, cursing, in the back of a pickup truck. His present whereabouts are not precisely known. Some say he found refuge in Yemen; others. Mogadishu. It is not an especially heated topic of conversation.
After the Restoration, Laila returned to Amo-Amas with her son, Hamdul, who—God willing—will someday assume the throne. In the meantime, Colonel Nebkir administers the country, to the evident satisfaction of most Mataris, though it must be admitted that the promised elections keep being postponed for this or that reason.
TV Matar nourishes again under Laila's leadership, broadcasting with flair and humanity into the darker recesses of the region. The once again enormous advertising revenues go to the fund for Arab Women, administered in Washington by a woman who bears a certain resemblance to the woman known as Florence Farfaletti. If it is true, as the eminent University of Chicago anthropologist insists, that many Arab women do not want to be "liberated." so be it; now, at least, many of their sisters have more of a choice in the mutter.
France once again found herself sans naval bases and discounted crude oil, but still and forever ineffably, irresistibly belle.
Wasabia found itself once again cut off from the sea and having to pay Matar the hated Churchill tax, now double the previous rate. King Tallulah blamed the dismal reversal of his Country's fortunes on his nephew Foreign Minister Crown Prince Bawad. Under an obscure provision of Hamooji law, the disgraced prince was stripped of his wealth and prettiest wives and internally exiled to a region of Wasabia inhabited mainly by baboons (the country's only tourist site of any note). Vans stop, and the guides, shouting above the din of baboons, point out that the lowly mud hut in the distance is the dwelling place of Prince Bawad—yes, "that" Prince Bawad. It is said that his howls can be heard at night even above the baboon din, but this may be an exaggeration. Even Wasabis have a sense of humor.
George and Renard went into business together. Their Firm, Renard Phish Strategic Communications, is one of Washington's top public relations firms, with clients all over the world, in one of those distinctly Washingtonian ironies, they were retained by the Royal Kingdom of Wasabia to improve the kingdom's image in the United States, an image in much need of repair. The two of them are so busy that George complains he is working far too hard: but then George is never really happy unless he has something to be unhappy about. In such free time as he has, he oversees the painstaking renovation of Phish House, which he purchased from the estate of his late mother. Already there is talk of a ghost.
Florence's little house in Foggy Bottom was quickly overwhelmed by media and curiosity seekers. Agents bearing book and movie contracts hurled themselves against her front door. America does not make life easy for its heroes. She escaped out the back on her motorcycle. They pursued her, but she lost them in the Virginia suburbs. With Bobby’s help, she assumed a new name and identity. No useful purpose would be served by describing Florence's new looks, except to say that heads still turn when she walks down a street. The Fund for Arab Women thrives.
Following the submarine exfiltration. there was much debriefing by various government officials. They all professed ignorance, even skepticism, of the shadowy Uncle Sam figure Florence described to them. And yet the officials were forced to acknowledge that she could not have done what she did without the assistance of certain elements of the United States government. The more obvious this became, the less eager they were to pursue the matter. Could this have come from—the very top? The officials began casting nervous glances at one another. The silences grew longer and more awkward. Matar was once again the Switzerland of the Gulf, oil was flowing, America was—God be praised—spared the necessity of having to be more prudent about its gluttonous consumption of energy, the French and the Wasabis were back in their boxes. Why not call it a day and leave well enough alone?
"We're done," the chief debriefing officer said finally. He had never bothered to introduce himself. On the way out, he turned and looked at Florence and said. "Got dinner plans?"
Florence began to have dreams. Being shut up in a cell with a corpse for three days and escaping decapitation by seconds would qualify in any diagnostic manual as traumatic. She woke up trembling, though at least she could reach over and find Bobby. Lately, the dreams had featured Uncle Sam. It was bad enough to spend the days tormented by wondering who he was without having to encounter him in her sleep going, "Heavens to Betsy!" and "Goodness gracious!"
In the dream, she was driving her motorcycle at a very fast speed down the country road, and sudd
enly, he was standing in the center. She had to hit the brakes and go off the road into a tangle of briar and blazing yellow forsythia. The thick interwoven mesh of vines acted as a net. She hung there like an insect snared in a spiderwcb, and there he was, grinning, standing over her, saying, "You're going to kill yourself if you keep driving like that, young lady"—at which point Florence woke with a squeak, and there was Bobby, who had seen all the horrors the world had to offer, snoring away contently.
It was over coffee one morning, after another of these disturbed sleeps, that a headline in the business section of the Post caught her eye. It was on page three. She might well have missed it.
WALDORF GROUP GETS $2.4 BILLION IN ADDITIONAL WASABI FINANCING
She stared at the headline for a few moments and then read the story. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it. She knew all about the Waldorf Group. Everyone did. It was the Washington-based investment-banking firm with close ties to Wasabia. There were twelve directors on its board: three former U.S. presidents, secretaries of defense, state, commerce, treasury, two ex-CIA directors ...
"Son of a bitch," Florence said.
"Unh?" Bobby said, shuffling barefoot into the kitchen wearing pajama bottoms, scratching his chest and yawning, sniffing at the air for traces of brewing coffee.
THE WALDORF GROUP'S offices occupy the two top floors of a Washington. D.C., office building that, fittingly, overlooks the White House. The view from the boardroom is quite spectacular, allowing the various directors to see many of the government buildings they once ran. The conference table is of rich burled walnut, the chairs Luxuriously upholstered in Milanese leather. The ashtrays— many of the directors like to puff away on fresh Cuban cigars—are of the finest crystal. A map of the world, stuck with dozens of pins denoting Waldorf Group investment projects, seems to announce, "It's a big, big world, and it's all ours!" Today another pin would be stuck into Wasabia and, that done, the directors would enjoy drinks, a little chitchat, the latest off-color jokes—the current one involved two nuns driving through Transylvania—and then disperse variously into Secret Service-driven vehicles and helicopters and private jets. The board meeting might go a bit longer than usual, given the recent developments.
Florence of Arabia Page 25