The Shelter for Buttered Women

by J. Clayton Rogers

  Ari took a deep breath. "Mrs. Nabihah Sadiq?"

  "Yes. Please…" She took Yilmaz by the shoulder and drew her to the side.

  "Uh…my vehicle is blocking your passage."

  "Of course. Pull in. You can park next to the carriage house, behind that Mercedes."

  As he turned to go to his car, Ari could not resist a Parthian shot at the gatekeeper.

  "You carry that gun in case your talent betrays you?"

  Yilmaz jerked. From the way she touched her side, it was obvious she believed her handgun was hidden.

  "She carries a gun because other people carry guns, Mr. Ciminon," said Nabihah. "Please…"

  Ari got into his car and pulled up to the carriage house. In his rearview mirror, he saw Yilmaz step outside the fence and check the street before coming back inside and closing the gate.

  Nabihah came up to him as he got out, wincing as the oyster shells dug into her bare feet.

  "This…box…" She nodded at Ari's Scion xB.

  "It is my mode of transportation," said Ari, trying to hide his mortification as he slipped a glance at the Maserati in front of him.

  "It matches the carriage house," said Nabihah. "In fact, even this close, it's almost invisible."

  "I give great thought to the environment," said Ari, who had overseen the destruction of some of Saddam Hussein's oil wells, an environmental catastrophe of the first order.

  "It's made for the Zabaleen," said Yilmaz, giving the xB a cursory sniff. Ari understood. The Zabaleen were the garbage collectors of Cairo. "What is this, aluminum foil?"

  "Behave, Yilmaz. Mr. Ciminon is here to help us, I believe. I hope. Here…"

  Ari began to follow, blushing as his gaze swept across Nabihah's swaying hips with analytical pulchritude. He was not unfamiliar with public nudity. He once had important contacts in Anatolia and had spent some time in Antalya, on the southwest Turkish coast. If anyone asked, he would tell them he had come to see the historic sights, Hadrian's Gate, the Hidirlik Tower and other ruins of fumbled civilizations. But when not humping his way through the nearby Taurus Mountains to get information on Kurdish smugglers (even the Kurds had rats in their midst), Ari spent an indecent amount of time at Antalya's famous bikini-friendly beach. As at most public beaches, discarded wrappers and plastic bottles shuddered in the niches at the beach's borders. It was a popular spot for Russian vacationers who were every bit as piggish as their American opposites, with garbage dropping off them like overripe fruit. But Ari still enjoyed the sun-drenched atmosphere. He was a strong swimmer. And if, when he lifted himself above the waves, he was confronted by a bevy of comely women in full denial of the Islamic dress code, who was he to complain? More pertinently, he had been on hand at numerous fetes at one or another of Saddam Hussein's palaces, where naked women lounging at the poolside were not at all uncommon.

  Near-nudity aside, Ari was perturbed by the similarity between Nabihah Sadiq and his beloved Rana. Physically, this woman and Ari's wife were almost identical. Seeing Nabihah's dark hair floating across pale skin brought a lump to his throat. More striking was the easy manner and upper-class self-confidence. Class distinctions went against the Koranic world view, but even the most primitive societies found ways to rank their members—and Islam wasn't primitive, Christian opinion notwithstanding. Nabihah swam in privilege, both in rank and, apparently, wealth. A sultan's wife might not have the same inherent prerogatives as her husband, but she could still have you beheaded.

  Yilmaz suddenly darted ahead, drawing abreast of her employer and saying something in a low voice. Nabihah stopped, stared at her in amazement, then turned to Ari.

  "I'm sorry, but you should have been searched at the gate. Yilmaz became distracted and forgot her duty."

  "The only perfection is its unattainability," said Ari understandingly.

  "Please allow Yilmaz to make amends."

  "You mean…" Ari paused. "Frisk? You want her to pat me down all over?"

  "Mr. Lawson told me you were Italian, but you are as shy as an Arab."

  "Italian men are also averse to being groped at without invitation," said Ari.

  "Especially by women." Nabihah had a very pretty sneer. "You can come back in a few hours, then. That is when Sirdar Singh comes on duty."

  "You want me to be frisked by a Sikh?"

  "You find that as objectionable as Yilmaz?"

  Ari recalled the many times American soldiers had patted him down in Iraq. In their dread of hidden bombs and guns, they sometimes pressed so hard that he half expected to find palm prints on his skin. The idea of another foreigner rumbling through his privates with rough fingers stirred his inner tiger. A Sikh! With a dastar on on his head and an ever-ready kirpan in his belt. The tiger growled….

  "You want to know if I am armed. I am. I have under my bespoke jacket a 9mm Glock."

  Nabihah and Yilmaz stiffened.

  "Jad?"

  "Yes, I'm serious."

  "Would you hand it over, please?" said Nabihah.

  "A great struggle would ensue if you tried to remove it," Ari asserted. "Madame, your house is beautiful, but my desire to ogle it is overcome by my repugnance. I am not of your husband's cohort, if what I have heard about him is true. I want only to assist my friend, as well as help you get your due reward from the greedy insurance conglomerate. I have my own very cogent reasons for wanting to keep my weapon close at hand. Allow me to listen to your repartee, or allow me to depart in my feeble vehicle."

  "Yes," said Nabihah, raising a wary hand. "Please do. Depart."

  As Ari turned, Yilmaz bounded around him and planted herself between him and the driveway.

  "You're afraid of a little girl?" she mocked.

  "Your mistress has advised me of your karate credentials. I would be foolish to ignore them."

  "Okay, forget the gold medal. It's because I'm female. You can't stand to be touched unless you do the touching. Right?"

  "My wife touches me with great regularity. I find it a privilege."

  "Oh," Yilmaz scowled. "That's really…sort of unusual. But the old rules still hold when it's a strange woman."

  "When it is a strange woman wearing a black belt over her jilbaab."

  "I'm not wearing…anyway, I said forget about that."

  "It is of little consequence," Ari shrugged. "I have dealt with a karate master before."

  "Oh?" Yilmaz grinned. "And how did that turn out? Bet it left a lasting impression."

  "On him, it did."

  "You beat him?"

  "I shot him."

  "Yilmaz!" Nabihah cried out. "Let Mr. Ciminon go on his way!"

  "What happened to him?" Yilmaz asked tensely, staring up into his face.

  "After the bullet pierced his heart? Not very much. He fell down. He might have grunted a little, but there was no thrashing or—"

  Yilmaz was very fast. Her fist was directed at his heart, which might have been a crippling blow had Ari not caught her an inch from his chest, instantly prying open her hand and levering her middle finger backwards.

  "Yilmaz, don't—" Nabihah began.

  Yilmaz's leg began to flex up. Turning sideways, Ari increased the pressure on the finger. With a small cough, she lowered her leg. She masked her pain beautifully, her wince barely registering on her thick features. She was rather plain, Ari thought unkindly.

  "You are very quick for an old man," Yilmaz said. Ari considered pressing the finger back even more. He recalled Pastor Grainger's remark that he was pretty good on the mountain bike trail, considering his age. Breaking this girl's finger would be a suitable (if indirect) revenge.

  Yilmaz read his mind.

  "I've had broken fingers before," she said calmly.

  "I thought I detected an anomaly in your joints," said Ari.

  Ari caught sight of a large man coming down from the house. My God, Ari thought—he is wearing a kirpan in his belt. As well as a ridiculously huge .50 cal. Desert Eagle. Made in Israel, Ari thought sourly. A Sikh with a Jewish handgu
n. What a world.

  "Sirdar Singh lives on the premises?" he asked over his shoulder. "That is irregular."

  "He was working in the back yard. He lives in the guest house. He was off duty until I pressed my panic button."

  "I did not see you wearing…" Ari sighed. Nabihah was wearing an egg-shaped Allah pendant, gold with emerald backing. A custom-designed panic button. "You take your security very seriously."

  "You'll find out how seriously if you don't let go of Yilmaz," was Nabihah's threatening response.

  "He's not bothering me," Yilmaz said courageously.

  "What is this?" Singh demanded. Ari felt the ground shake at his approach and decided it would be best not to press the issue. He let go of Yilmaz, prepared to reach for his gun if she tried to hit him again—Singh's Desert Eagle notwithstanding. Still, Lawson might take it ill if Ari killed two employees of the woman he had been sent to interview. Singh was nearly seven feet tall, with a massive scowl to match. The furrow in his brow knocked against his orange dastar. A fight appeared imminent. Ari needed to employ his most potent weapons: his tongue and brain.

  "Do you always do lawn work wearing your Maha Vir Chakra?"

  Singh stopped short and brought up a hand to the left side of his chest, where a medal embossed with the Star of India hung down from an orange and white riband. "You know this?"

  "It is an award for great valor. I assume you slaughtered many enemies?"

  "That is correct…"

  Ari gulped conspicuously, but smiled. He estimated the man's age, then took an educated guess: "Operation Vijay."

  "I fought in Kargil, yes," said the giant, staring at him. "I was at Tiger Hill."

  "Ah, the Pakistanis." Ari proffered a small cough and glanced briefly at Nabihah and Yilmaz. "You put many Muslim women into a state of widowhood…?"

  Ari sensed he had made a misstep. Singh grimaced and began to swell. It was an impressive sight. About the only good thing at this moment was that the man's size provided shade against the intense sunlight.

  "How can you stoop to extricate weeds wearing your dagger and that gargantuan pistol?" Ari asked.

  "I have finished the yard work, Shrimati Sadiq," he said.

  "That's all right, Singh," Nabihah answered. "I shouldn't have you doing the yard work, anyway. Odiseo needed the time off. He didn't need to take his whole crew. Really, he could have brought in some of his gabacho friends to do the work. He must be afraid they'd steal his job."

  'Gabachos'. Ari guessed she meant foreigners who had immigrated to Mexico. It was not the politest of terms. There were more than a million Arabs or descendants of Arabs living in Mexico. Had Nabihah imported them north for her yard work? Perhaps they still spoke Arabic, which would make it easier to tell them which flowers to trim and which to leave alone.

  "I understand and am not bothered," said Singh, who returned his attention to Ari. "You want this black monkey to be ejected?"

  "I prefer Chitta Bander to Kalla Bander, although I'd prefer to leave out the 'monkey' bit altogether."

  Singh sucked air through his heavy beard. "Why would a pork know Punjabi? You are a Pakistani agent!"

  "This isn't Kashmir, I'm not an infiltrator and I arise from the lovely city of Syracuse, which was conquered by everyone in the world but the Sikhs."

  "My father served in the British Indian Army, 11th Sikh Regiment. He chopped Italians and Germans into curry at Palermo."

  "Singh…" Nabihah protested. "Please…"

  "I issue an imperial apology," said Singh. "This spy made me forget myself."

  Ari smiled. He liked the man. "I stand corrected. Now that I think about it, I believe I remember my father saying something about the flash of Scythian blades during the war. He must have mistaken the Sikhs for a Mongol horde."

  "Why would a Sicilian know Punjabi, then?" Singh persisted.

  "There is no mystery. My family had an eclectic diet. We often ate at the New Taj Restaurant in Catania. It was operated by a very diverse group of immigrants. They spoke Hindi, Tamil, Punjabi…"

  "And how would a Sicilian know so much about Indian military history?"

  "It is true, most Westerners know little about the regional conflicts between Pakistan and India. However, I pride myself on my knowledge of current events."

  Not to mention that one of his former jobs was to keep tabs on local brouhahas. Pakistan influenced events in Iran, which often piqued the interest of its Iraqi neighbor.

  Singh maintained his skeptical frown. Wise, but inconvenient.

  "Please don't underestimate my powerful friend here," Nabihah advised Ari. "He is not a simple brute."

  "Ah," said Ari. "A complicated brute."

  "He has a degree in Polymer Engineering from the Birla Institute of Technology in Jharkhand."

  "Polymers," Ari mused. "I have heard of them."

  "Synthetic and natural polymers hold the world together," said Singh with the vehemence of a threat. "One of my specialties was crazing, where local stress overcomes the Van der Waals forces to create a multitude of cracks in the material, such as ceramic."

  Obviously, Singh considered himself a potent local stress, with Ari no more than a vase ready for the hammer.

  "A warrior and a scientist," said Ari lamely. "I stand impressed."

  "As well you should," said Yilmaz. Ari thought he detected a trace of pride in her tone.

  "If the scimitars don't get you, the nukes will," said Nabihah with a wry grin.

  "I am not a nuclear physicist," Singh protested.

  "It was a joke, Singh."

  "Of all forms of language, humor most escapes translation," said Ari, with yet another unfortunate lapse into affectation.

  "Have things been settled?" the lady of the mansion said.

  They looked at her quizzically.

  "I mean, has the threat of violence been cast aside? If so, perhaps I can talk to Mr. Ciminon, after all. I am very keen that Mr. Lawson should see reason and pay up on my claims. I don't care if it's highwaymen or insurance companies, getting robbed isn't pleasant."

  Singh looked as if removing the threat of violence was the furthest thing from his mind. He gave Nabihah a wary glance. Leaders, or common employers, could be so undependable.

  "Good. With Singh and Yilmaz here, I feel perfectly safe."

  "He still has his gun," Yilmaz protested.

  "It is of a part with his manhood," Nabihah shrugged. "Don't worry, Yilmaz. Are we not women?"

  And with that, she produced a howlish trill, an ululation that caused all three of them to jump. Ari found it exceptionally unsettling, coming as it did from a woman in a bikini. The traditional Arab shout of joy and celebration transformed into an inconceivable rawness.

  With a grunt of exasperation, Yilmaz jerked her head at Ari. "Yallah…"

  They followed Nabihah through the garden. Ari was no gardener, but he thought the flowers looked over-pruned. Perhaps Singh had been too enthusiastic with his kirpan.

  They forged through a rank of boxwoods. Ari saw the pool, paused in wonder and dismay, then felt the heat of Singh near his back and stepped out onto the brown-tinted concrete rim. The pool had the irregular shape of a miniature lagoon, with uneven jungle terrain and artificial boulders. The crystal blue water swooshed out at one end, only to traipse down a waterfall at the other.

  "Mr. Lawson went to a great deal of trouble explaining to me that you were Italian," said Nabihah, coasting over to a chaise lounge tucked next to a small pool that was separated from the main pool by a narrow path of lava rock. "He did not sound convinced, which made him less than convincing."

  "You met him in person?" Ari asked.

  "Oh…yes. The poor man, wounded like that. Egypt has its drawbacks, but it's not Iraq."

  "Indeed," said Ari as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. A dozen or more women were lounging at the pool's edge. Some wore bikinis, others wore what were, in Ari's estimation, one-piece suits that were scarcely more decorous. Upon seeing Ari, a few of t
hem modestly draped beach towels over their bare skin. The rest remained unabashedly uncovered. Nearly half of the women wore Lycra swimming hijabs similar to those currently outlawed on Turkish beaches. Several swam across the pool, exotic flora near the water's surface. Raising his eyes, Ari noted several terraces leading up to the house. Women in various forms of dress relaxed in various positions. It was like a magazine layout.

  "There is no need to ogle my guests, Mr. Ciminon," said Nabihah. "They have nothing to do with the matter at hand."

  "They are difficult to ignore," Ari confessed.

  "Are you offended?"

  "I am homeless."

  "I guess you mean you're at a loss." Nabihah lowered herself onto the chaise lounge with regal elegance and picked up a daiquiri from a small round table. Yilmaz gave her employer a disapproving look, but said nothing.

  "I am both, homeless and at a loss. The two often intertwine."

  "You can't go home to Italy?" Nabihah inquired, stirring her drink with a small swizzle stick.

  "I have an outstanding parking ticket in Palermo. The penalties for such a crime are severe, so I escaped to America. Sadly, the Americans are also promiscuous in such matters."

  Singh gave a deep snort. Turning, Ari detected a wide grin beneath his beard. Apparently, Ari's nonsensical response was in tune with his own world view.

  "Yes, I suppose the Sicilian police wouldn't be happy with a Nubian parked on their sidewalks," said Nabihah with a trace of meanness.

  "I am not—"

  "Have a seat, Mr. Ciminon."

  Ari sat on the edge of another chaise lounge, his knees propped about five feet from the hostess.

  "Lay back, make yourself comfortable." She held out a plastic squeeze bottle to him. "If the sun is too much for you, rub some of this cocoa butter into your skin."

  Beyond Nabihah, a woman in a perilously thin bikini was rubbing into her bronze skin ointment from a similar bottle across her legs and midriff. The streaks of cocoa butter gleamed with sensual effervescence.

  "Mr. Lawson has informed me that you operate a shelter for buttered women."

  "I'm sure he said 'battered'."