Florence of Arabia (12 page)

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"Her actual name is F
atima." Rick said as the film rolled. The hostess of the show walked out onstage fully veiled, to the applause of the studio audience.

"They're all named Fatima," F
aila said, exhaling s
moke. "And the rest are named L
aila."

"The focus group lapped it up with spoons," Rick said. "I've never seen a Q. factor like we got."

The ve
iled figure walked onto the set,
which was arranged in the manner typical of a morning talk show. She walked right into the coffee table, pitching head over heels, in the process revealing beautiful legs in sheer stockings as well as a flash of lovely thigh and garter belt. The soundtrack exploded in female laughter.

"We had to add that after the fact." Rick said. "The actual audience didn't know what to m
ake of it. But once they got it,
oh did they get it. It was like this release of a thousand years of repression and—"

"Shall we just watch. Rick?"

The name of the show came up in letters:
Cher Azade.

"We tested," Rick said. "Most of them got it right away that it's French, that it means 'Dear Azade,' a play on Scheherazade, the chick from the
Arabian
Nights
story."

"Chick. Rick?"

"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 gr
oped 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 N
ights."

"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. L
aila?" "Oh, yes."

Rick said, "Now here'
s the beautiful part. They can't touch her,
technically. George found this loophole in the
Book of Ham
ooj.
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," L
aila said.

Rick went on. "The
Book of Hamooj
is wh
ere 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 .. ."

"I
t's called a clitoridectomy." L
aila said. "The genital mutilation of young women, to encourage chastity by depriving them ol sensual gratification. One of Islam's prouder achievements."

"Right. The
mu
kfelleen.
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 fuck
ing 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 bac
k to like the fourteenth century Some H
amooji 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 squee
ze 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.

L
aila 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

T
V
Matar went
on-air at sunrise on the day of the new spring moon.
Advertisements had
been taken out in the W
asabi 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 wif
e in today's society." The ads fl
ew 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
thob
e.
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
phon
es
rang
at the Ministry of th
e 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 M
e: 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 f
inger 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 l
ive 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 voi
ce. "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 i
ntroduced to Gazzy's harem by h
is 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, undist
urbed, 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 Ta
llulah himself." It wasn't every
day 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 Am
o-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 plea
sed look came over his face. He grunted, "Hah—good. Well, tell Azz
im to look into it and make a
report But
Fetish
?" "My lord?"