Florence of Arabia (23 page)

A television reporter thrust a microphone at her and said. "Flor-ents. will you now announce an end to the sexual jihad by Matari women?"

"To the what?"

"You did not know?"

"I have been locked in a cellar for live days."

"'The
women of Matar made jihad on your behalf. Against the men of
Matar
."

"H
ow did I hey do this?"

"After y
ou were taken, the sheika Laila went on the television and called upon the women of Matar not to make relat
ions with their husbands until y
ou were returned. There are many men in
Matar
grateful for your return."

Florence was digesting this when she heard sirens. A forty-foot-long while limousine bearing the royal crest and accompanied by a motorcycle escort arrived.
Fetish
, the emir
's man,
was inside, all greasy smiles
. "Praise truly be to Allah that
you are returned lo us safe!" Then it was off to the palace.

After being given a room to clean up in and fresh clothing, Florence was admitted to the emir's ceremonial chamber. As she wa
lked in. there was a fl
ash of light that caused her to flinch. An official photographer. The emir stood— that
was
unusual—and walked over to her. He embraced her and kissed her tenderly
on the forehead as the camera fl
as
hes continued, bathing them in f
licker
y strobe light. L
aila looked on.

"Dear
sister!" he said, "what a time you have had,
and how worried we were!" He continued to pose for a few more pictures. Then
Fetish
waxed and the photographer was gone and it was just the emir, Florence and the sheika. There was tension. Florence noted, between husband and wife.

"How are you feeling, dear Florence?" he said. "I am appalled, appalled that this could have happened. And yet"—he lowered his voice to a gentle lecturing lone—"you were very naughty to do what you did. This is not the American Super Bowl, where you can put just anything on television. You have no idea, no
concept,
of what trouble you caused me with my neig
hbors. They moved tanks—tanks!—t
o my border. Your own government was most anxious.
Most
anxious. T
hey were no doubt thinking.
O
G
od, not
another
Kuwait.
There were
many
conversa
tions between Washington and Kaf
fa and Amo-Amas. I don't want to look at my phone bill. Well, it's all fixed. For now. Sit, sit, for heaven's sake. Do you want some tea? Something more than tea? Whiskey? I could use one myself. Thank God for the diligence of Colonel Boutros."

Florence looked at Laila, who gave her a glance, as if to
say
, Just
play
along.

"Yes," the emir said, straightening slightly. (Always sit up straight while lying through your teeth.) "It was his men who found you. And just in time. God knows what evil things they had planned for you."

Florence said. "Thank God for Colonel Boutros."

"Were you able to see their faces?" the emir asked solicitously. "We will hunt them down. They will know no peace.
Or perhaps they have already fl
ed across the border."

"My captors—they were ... Wasabi?"

"Of course. No Matari would do something so barbaric."

This brought a grunt from Laila. The emir stiffened. He said, "Laila was very concerned for you. As were we all. She went on television and told the women of
Matar
t
o withhold... normal marital relations until you were found."

"It worked for Aristophanes" Laila said tartly.

The emir grinned. "It certainly gave us inspiration to find you. All of Matar—especially the males—rejoices in your return.
Which must, alas, be brief under the circumstances. I
think it would be best if you departed
Matar
.

I shall be sorry to see
you go, Florence. How you have enlivened our drab little kingdom by the sea. But before you go, one or two matters."

"I would have thought at least three or four, sire."

"Eh? Ah, your terrible ordeal has not dulled the wit. Excellent, excellent. Now, if you would make a little statement." "That's what my captors wanted me to do."

"Oh, nothing like that." the emir said rather too quickly. "Just something to make peace between me and the women. You see," he said with a tight glance at Laila, who was viewing him with distinct coolness, "the impression was given that our government was insufficiently concerned by this terrible abduction. Of course, nothing could be
further
from reality. You will correct this impression before you leave?"

Florence eyed the emir coolly. "As Your Grace commands."

"You are very
simp
at
ico, Florence. It's the Italian in you. I have always
adored
the Italians, though they were very naughty under Mussolini. So you will make peace between me and the women. Good, good. Well then, I must
t
ake my leave of you. How can I repay what you have done here? You must come back and visit. Oh, I almost forgot, a present."

The emir clapped his hands.
Fetish
appeared holding a black box. The emir opened it. It was a medal, lushly done in enamel and gold in the shape of a lion's head, above two drawn swords, the emblem of royal
Matar
.

"The Order of the Royal Lion of Matar. First Class." the emir said proudly, putting it around her head. "This is the first occasion ever it has been given to a woman."

Florence looked at Laila, who was rolling her eyes. Florence bowed slightly.
"It is a great honor, sire." "Hurry back, my dear. H
urry back. Darling, will you see Florence off?"

Florence and Laila
spoke softly on the way to the car. "Sexual jihad?" Florence said.

"Don't knock it. It worked. No Mat
ari male has been laid in f
ive days. Other than my husband. Powerful incentive, that. Still,
if it hadn't been for your Mr. Thibodeaux,
you might still be in that room. He went into very high gear after you were taken." "Bobby? Is he—"

"Outside, h
e's got
himself a new identity. It's rat
her daring. Do be sure to compliment him on it."

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

F
lorence he
ard the crowd before she and Lail
a walked out the front door of
the palace. "What's this?" she said to Laila. "Your fans, darling."

There were thousands of them, mostly women. When they saw Florence.
I
hey began to ululate in the way of Arab women, though it had been rather a very long time since this tradition had been observed in progressive
Matar
. They began to chant, "Flor-ens! Flor-ens!"

To the object of this homage, standing on the marble steps, it sounded like the name of some household air freshener. They surged forward, swarming around her, touching her, grasping. She was presented with flowers. Palace security tried to push them back without success.

L
aila had seen to it that cameras were there to record it all, as well as a TV
Matar truck to feed the footage to a satellite 250 miles up and back into mil
lions of televisions. Lately; L
aila had been thinking like the producer of a reality TV show, a fact that appalled her somewhat.

"Flor-ens! Flor-ens!"

L
aila
shouted into Florence's ear, "I
think you'd belter address them, darling, or they'll never let you out of here." "But—"

"Remember to thank Gazzy, or you
will
never get out of here."

Florence blushed and swallowed, her mouth dry as dust. She felt more exhausted than triumphant, but she raised her hands to quie
t the crowd, and into her mind f
lashed, unavoidably, the image
of Peter O’Toole scampering whitely across the t
op of the dynamited Turkish tra
in. Try as she might to shake it
from her head, she couldn't. The movie wouldn't stop playing. The next image was of the wounded Tur
k firing the pistol shot into O’
Toole's shoulder. Now she looked down at the surging crowd with fear. Though most of the women wore Western dress, there were a few dozen wearing
abaayas.
Maybe the University of Chicago anthropologist was right: Perha
ps some Arab women didn't want t
o be rescued from oppression. Flo
rence weighed this terrible pos
sibility along with how simple it would be to kill her right now. How easily a gun could be concealed beneath the veil.

The fear emboldened her. She gestured forcefully for the crowd to quiet. It did. She opened her mouth to address it
and—was dumbstruck for words. It
was then that she realized tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Darling,"
Laila
said,
"do
pull yourself together."

Then Florence heard a voice, a male voice, southern-accented. It said. "Goddammit, girl, you gonna say somelhin' to the folks or just stand there blubberin' like you won the Miss America contest?"

T
he voice seemed to be coming from a woman dressed in an orange
abaaya.
Florence looked over at Laila,
who was smiling.

Florence's impulse was to leap into the arms of the orange apparition, but this was, she decided, not an appropriate crowning gesture at a moment of feminist triumph—leaping into the arms of a CIA Muslim drag queen.

"Well?" it said. "Come on. Don't got all day"

Florence raised her arms higher, and the crowd quieted

"God be praised
, sisters, I
am glad to be back with you. I am sur
e that your husbands are glad, t
oo!" They liked that, the crowd. "I am grateful to you, and to the sheika Laila."

Laila waved and said sideways,
"Don't
forget G
azzy."

"And of course t
o the emir," Florence said, "the Lion of
Matar
, the New Saladin ..." Florence tried not to burst out laughing. "Champion ... and
protector of
Arab
women ... throughout the world!"

"Aren't you laying it on a bit thick, darling?"

Florence's expression was not lost on the Lion of
Matar
, watching on television in his
office.
Bitch,
he
thought. But the crowd wa
s roaring, and that, in the end,
was what muttered. At least the bitch would
be
on an airplane in a few hours, gone for good.

The crowd was chanting,
"Flo-rens! Flo
-rens!"
The Lion of Matar took the television remote control in his plump, bejeweled hand and pressed the off button.

“
I’ve never
kissed
a woman." Florence said to Bobby.

Laila had arranged for them to be driven separately to Florence's apartment overlooking Marlborough Square. They'd have a
few hours together before the fl
ight out.

"I never slept with a l
esbian." 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 th
e town were coming on. " 'Bout t
ime 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-e
ns."

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 y
ou found me," she murmured.

"Already told you."

"Tell me again. I
like being rescued."

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