“Never.”
“Call me if anything else comes up. Sorry to leave you with this mess.”
She chuckled, her good humor once again restored. “I think it was all part of the package when I signed on with Indiana Jones-Harvard edition.”
Smiling, Jon said good-bye, then reported the conversation to Shannon. “I can’t believe this thing has gotten so out of control.”
Shannon gave a wry smile. “That’s what you get, darling, for being so famous.”
“As the Brits would say, ‘Balderdash!’”
Jon turned on the wide-screen TV and watched in growing horror-high-definition horror-the Muslim riots across the world. The BBC showed footage from London of a papier-mache Jon being hanged in effigy from a lamppost in front of the Nelson monument at Trafalgar Square. In Paris, a similar Weber dummy was ceremoniously hurled from the top of the Eiffel Tower. In Madrid, he was gored in a mock bullfight, and only Germany provided a bit of grim humor when the Weber figure was drowned in a bathtub full of beer-though Muslims there insisted others had poured the amber beverage, of course.
Jon shook his head. “This is beyond all belief!”
His cell phone chirped, and he lunged for it. It just had to be Osman al-Ghazali. He was not disappointed.
“We were in Poughkeepsie, Jon, at our daughter’s graduation from Vassar,” he opened, “and I didn’t get the news until late last night, or I would have called you immediately.”
“All right, Osman. I’m listening.” It was not the friendliest response, Jon knew, but his translator deserved it. Unless he had some reasonable explanation for his now-notorious gaffe, Jon was ready to throttle the man.
“I… I can’t find the words to express my concern… my shock,” al-Ghazali said, “and you have my profound apologies for what happened, Jon. The typesetter in Cairo must have made the error, of course, but I should have caught it… I should have caught it.”
Jon said nothing, so al-Ghazali continued. “I just can’t believe I didn’t catch it, since radi – evil -sounds nothing like tahaddi – challenge, as you well know. Well, they rhyme, but…”
“That could be, Osman,” Jon finally replied, softening. “Have you called our publisher in Cairo?”
“Even before calling you. I made them repeat the correct term for ‘challenge’ three times, and they’ll e-mail me proofs before going back to press.”
“Good, Osman. What in the world ever made the typesetter in Cairo do that- if he’s responsible? He’s not a Coptic Christian, is he?”
“I don’t really know. But I’ll find out.”
“In any case, you should also have a few words with him-to say the least.”
“You bet I will.”
“More than that, I think you’ll have to do a careful proofing again of the whole Arabic edition to make sure there are no other errors.”
“I’d already planned to do that.”
“Good. Oh, one more thing: word about the translation error seems to be a deep, dark secret as far as the media are concerned. I worry most about Al Jazeera. If they don’t report that it was all a mistake, rioting will rage on in the Islamic world.”
“Ah! Good that you tell me. I have a friend or two there. I’ll call Al Jazeera immediately-the start of my long journey back into your good graces, Jon.”
“Fine, Osman. Be sure to keep me posted.”
Shannon, who had been listening intently to Jon’s side of the conversation, seemed relieved and sighed. “I do hope that’s the end of this bizarre business. How it can ruin a beautiful spring!” It was obvious that images of her husband being hanged in effigy had done very little to boost her spirits.
They turned off the TV, put on walking shorts, and headed down to the Atlantic shore. Perhaps a long stroll along the beach and many breaths of fresh sea breezes would clear their minds.
Jon and Shannon returned from their seashore promenade eager to check the progress of Jon’s story. “What was it Mark Twain said?” Shannon asked. “‘A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth even puts its boots on’?”
“Yes,” Jon replied. “I guess it’s a corollary to Murphy’s Law that wrong information-particularly of a sensational nature-gets front-page treatment in the press and opening-story status in the broadcast media, while the truth, by way of correction, shows up later with only the briefest coverage on page 6 of section D in the papers or as a small afterthought on TV.”
Gingerly they turned on the television evening news, flipped through the networks, and were happily surprised. Diane Sawyer of ABC, Katie Couric of CBS, and Brian Williams of NBC all opened with a story on the error in the Arabic text of Jon’s book, while CNN even showed footage of a perspiring Osman al-Ghazali heaping blame on himself, but even more on the typesetter in Cairo.
Later in the telecasts, however, Jon felt the clutch of concern return when the news programs shifted to reports from foreign correspondents. A firebomb had been lobbed into the first floor of Jon’s publisher in Cairo, scorching much of the reception area until the blaze was extinguished. Footage from Lebanon showed a long column of Hezbollah marching through downtown Beirut, clad in green and white and demanding revenge against “Web-air,” as they chanted the name again and again. In Tehran, where the offending sentence had been mistranslated into Farsi with an even stronger term for evil, enraged mullahs were preaching about possible jihad, while rioting in Pakistan had actually left five dead on the streets of Islamabad.
Jon held his head in his hands and muttered, “People getting killed? For nothing? Nothing? Good grief, it’s Salman Rushdie all over again! How many died in those riots after Ayatollah Khomeini put a fatwa on his head?”
“Not just Rushdie,” Shannon added. “There were dozens of deaths in the riots that followed the Danish cartoon of Muhammad with bombs in his turban. And the same after the pope’s address in Germany at Regensburg.”
The phone rang-inconveniently, since the evening news had not yet ended.
“Just let it ring,” Jon said.
Shannon paused, then shook her head and lifted the receiver. “Weber residence.” She listened for a moment before handing the phone to Jon.
“Yes?” he said into the phone, with a questioning look at his wife.
“Professor Jonathan Weber?”
“Yes…”
“This is Morton Dillingham, director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“The CIA? Right! And I’m Alex in Wonderland.”
“No, Professor. This is the CIA, and we have very serious matters to discuss. Are you free to speak?”
“Yes,” Jon replied, meekly, in case the call was authentic after all.
“Is your phone line secure?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Is anyone else there?”
“Yes, my wife.”
“No one else?”
“No. And by the way, how did you get this phone number? It’s unlisted.”
“We convinced your secretary that it was in the national interest and for your own personal safety.”
“Okay. Sorry about my levity.”
“Not a problem. Now, Professor Weber, here’s the situation. Our operatives in Tehran have just informed us that the grand ayatollah in Iran, Kazim al-Mahdi-their Supreme Leader-in consultation with his Shiite clergy, has just declared a fatwa on your head because of that Arabic translation business.”
“Ridiculous!” Jon nearly shouted into the phone. “Don’t they know about the translation error? And it’s in Arabic, not Farsi. In fact, do you even know about the error?”
“Of course I do-the CIA also watches the evening news! But no, evidently they don’t know about that mistake in Iran. And they decided to exploit the translation error for their own purposes, even if it was in another language.”
