Caliphate

Petra assumed this was so, and really didn't even notice the emptiness of the stock or the dust where no stock lay. Her town's one remaining general store had had even less.

'What was that?' Petra asked, as the reverberating sound of a human scream penetrated the shop's black-painted windows.

'The mutaween,' the shopkeeper answered. 'They become more vicious with each passing day. And if you're a poor Nazrani minding your own business . . . I'm Muslim and it still makes me sick what they do to the Nazrani.'

Petra gulped. She was both Nazrani and poor. Worse, she was owned. What would they do to her?

Besma patted her arm. 'Don't worry,' she insisted, 'I won't let them near you and they wouldn't dare touch me.'

Having had a chance to watch the household for a while by this point, Petra wasn't sure that Abdul Mohsem hadn't doted on Besma so much that she had forgotten her place in the world. After all, their burkas sat on a chair in one corner. Outside was a man who would escort them wherever they went. And she'd seen enough to know that Moslem women, if wealthier, were not even as free as the wretched Nazrani girls and women of Grolanhei.

She said nothing, though.

Besma turned her attention to the shopkeeper and said, 'My friend needs two new dresses and a pair of shoes.'

'Yes, miss. Right away.' The shopkeeper measured Petra by eye, then went to a shelf and dusted off some cobwebs. She removed half a dozen ankle length dresses in what she thought was a fair match for size and brought them to the girls.

For the nonce, Petra was able to screen out the screams and sobs coming from outside in her wonder at the fine—she certainly thought it was fine—clothing the shopkeeper began laying out on a table top.

* * *

The actual beating was over, though the victim still sobbed loudly. Two of the mutaween left, while the rest stood around smoking and, apparently, telling jokes.

'Poor bastard,' Ishmael said to no one in particular.

One of the mahram smiled, perhaps sadly, and said, 'You haven't seen anything yet. Wait.'

It wasn't long, so Ishmael saw, before the two mutaween who had left returned carrying a large bucket between them.

'Now it gets nasty,' the mahram who had spoken previously said. 'That's ice water. They're going to pour it over his feet.'

'What will that do?' Ishmael asked.

'You'll see.'

The two mutaween lifted the bucket and began to pour water over the bruised soles of the victim's feet. Within a few seconds the crystal clear water running off the feet turned red, even as the victim emitted a scream such as Ishmael couldn't remember having heard since his own castration.

'Does something to the blood vessels, the bones, and the skin,' the mahram explained. 'Regular water wouldn't do; it has to be cold.'

'Il hamdu lillah, what did he do to deserve that?'

The mahram looked on Ishmael with something like pity. 'You don't get around much do you? The mutaween probably demanded a 'donation' which he refused. That would be enough.'

Ishmael, even though he thought this an abomination, also thought it very likely as the mutaween began circulating about the square shouting, 'Donations for the defenders of the faith to continue with their holy work?'

He still had the dirhem he'd been given by Besma. When he dropped one in the cup of a mutawa, and got nothing but a dirty look in return, he decided that his feet were more important than a few bits of silver. He turned over all he had. Each tinkle of silver on silver was like a knife to his heart. That money was freedom money. And, yet, how much would the mutaween, who made a living from robbing others of their freedom, care for the freedom of a castrated slave?

There had been just enough money, after purchasing dress and shoes, to replace Petra's threadbare burka with a new blue one.

'It will match your eyes,' Besma assured her, 'even if no one but you and I and Ishmael know that it does.'

Interlude

Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,

11 January, 2004

Mahmoud stretched out on one side of Gabrielle's bed. He'd tried to cover himself partly with the top sheet but she'd insisted on full nudity for her sketch. Having moved the sheet, she'd stepped back, looked him over, then reached out and draped his penis at what she thought was an aesthetically appealing angle.

'Besides,' she said, smiling warmly, 'I like seeing you like this.'

It was a strange thing to Gabi, what she'd come to feel for Mahmoud. She was modern and western; casual, recreational sex was no big thing to her. What she felt when she was with Mahmoud was not casual. Rather, it was—though she didn't like the term— something approaching sacred.

What he felt for her? Well, he'd never plainly said. His upbringing wouldn't permit it yet. Yet in his every action he proclaimed love. He was putting up with posing for her, after all, even though he hated it.

'I still feel ridiculous,' he said, even while putting up with the pose for the sake of love.

'It's for art,' she insisted. 'You'll be famous.'

'I don't want to be famous. And my mother will have a stroke if she sees.'

'Your mother is kept in purdah, veiled and without a television,' Gabrielle countered. 'She buys no books; she can't even read. She'll never see.'

Mahmoud sighed. When an argument was lost, it was lost. 'At least turn on the television so I can keep my mind busy.'

That seemed fair. Gabrielle walked over and turned on the TV. When the screen cleared, she and Mahmoud saw what appeared to be a major protest in Paris. It soon became clear that the protest was over a recent French decision to ban the wear of hijab in schools. There were at least two German states, or Lander, that were considering similar measures.

'That's just so wrong,' Gabrielle said.

Mahmoud disagreed. Shaking his head firmly, he said, 'It's not wrong, though it might be pointless and it might turn out to be a mistake. Trust me; I know my people. Any toe in the door you give them they will exploit ruthlessly. Any concession you make will convince them you are weak and lead only to demands for ever greater concessions. Which you'll give because making the concession in the first place showed that you were weak; that, or stupid, which amounts to the same thing.

'That said, the only thing worse than making a concession is first making a show of strength and defiance and then backing down. That will convince my people that you are both stupid and weak. And I'm not sure the French will understand that . . . or understand that, once having taken their stand, they can't ever back off from it. You're making some of the same mistakes here, with your publicly funded mosques.'

'Oh, hell, Mahmoud, that's ridiculous!' Gabrielle exclaimed. 'To think that a few little headscarves are going to bring about the collapse of the Republic of France. To think that treating Turks here with some decency is going to ruin Germany.'

'It's not the symbols, Gabi, it's what the symbols do to the minds of men, how they affect the cost-benefit calculus, and where they indicate the direction of movement is.'

'I still think it's ridiculous to think that a minority population— what is it in France? Five percent? Ten?—is going to overthrow the country.'

'Probably closer to ten percent,' Mahmoud said, 'Eight, at least. But it's a population that's young and growing.' He stopped for a moment and asked, 'Gabrielle, how many brothers and sisters do you have?'

'None, as you well know.'

'First cousins?'

'Two.'

'And the typical French artiste has but few more.