Florence of Arabia (24 page)

"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 leavi
ng—they've lifted off! I can see him. He's sitt
ing 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. Bob
by 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 cl
osed the door and held the bar handle of the fire door,
manually
locking it.

"Wasabi," Florence whispered t
o Bobby. He looked questioningly at her. "he said h
lonek' 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.

"C
an 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. H
e 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 doo
r closed. It was quiet again, they
lay there for ten minutes. Bobby whispere
d. "You want dessert, or shall I
get the check?"

T
hev 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 Fr
ench champagne and screw
in' our brains out."

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

"We'll head for the water." he said. "Where
there's water, there's boats; w
here 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’v
e 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
Matar
i.

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 wer
e fifty or so televisions. Bobby
went behind the counter and began flipping switches. A
ll 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.

H
e 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, sit
ting 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 fro
m 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 M
aliq, 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 F
lorence. 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!" H
e 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 p
ut her on a plane. The moment it
lands a
nd 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 somet
hing else in mind. All in good t
ime. And now I must go. It seems I have a country to run."

T
he television sets wer
e 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 gla
ss counter of cell phones and G
ameBoys 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 g
lass.

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. H
aving completed her looting, she grabbed her orange
ab
aaya.
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? H
ow long do you think you'd last in the new Matar?"

"I got my veil."