Caliphate

are destined to be fulfilled, and that those who don't heed them suffer for it. He tells me to look to the number of Germans who are leaving Germany, the number of French who are leaving France, the number of English that are leaving England, and then to deny that this prophecy will be fulfilled. He says to look to the birthrates and tell him that this prophecy won't be fulfilled.

As if there weren't already too many people in the world for the world to support. Why should we make even more of them?

Not that we haven't done our own little part. I haven't told him yet but the doctor told me last week that I'm going to have a baby. His baby, of course. If I tell him, he'll start nagging me for us to get married. If I tell him, too, he'll think it's to try to hold him here with me. If I tell him, he'll call it blackmail. And then he'll want all three of us to go to America.

As if I'd let my child be raised as an American! Never! Never! Never! Let my child be imbued with atavistic, virulent nationalism? Raised in a place so violent and lawless people keep guns? Never!

It's in everything they do. Six weeks ago Mahmoud made me go to an NFL Europe American football game, the Cologne Centurions playing the Frankfurt Galaxy. Our football allows for ties, it even prefers them. Not American football, though. They insist on fighting it out to the finish, with nothing but winners and losers. It's so wrong. And so typical.

Well, I have to run now. There's a demonstration scheduled by the Falterturm to remind the British that decent minded people will not tolerate them discriminating against their Moslems merely because some of those Moslems, prompted—I have no doubt—by racism, fought back.

I hope Mahmoud begins to see sense soon. My life would be blighted without him. I hope he knows that.

Chapter Nine

The open society is not threatened, it is in a state of dissolution. The date on which the unconditional surrender was announced can be exactly identified: It was the day that the fatwa was issued against Salman Rushdie and the European institutions and governments did NOT react with an immediate break in ALL ties to the Mullah-Regime. Instead those multi-culturally oriented knowers came out and explained to us why Rushdie would have done better not to provoke the mullahs.

Europe—Your Last Name is Appeasement!

—Henryk Broder, Welt am Sonntag, 14 November, 2004

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 22 Sha'ban,

1536 AH (18 June, 2112)

'Choose me, master,' the exotic girl said, her eyes demurely downcast. 'I will make it worth your while in more ways than the poets tell of.'

'I don't know much about poetry, girl,' Hans answered. 'They give us little of it. And it seems—'

'Please choose me, master,' the girl repeated. She looked up at Hans and said it again, but with a slightly different emphasis of tone. When Hans still didn't agree, the almond-eyed houri bit her lower lip and added, 'In the name of God, choose me.'

'All right, girl, since you're so insistent. But I can't promise much from me.'

'It's not for you to promise, master, it is for me to.'

The stop by the mullah for him to pronounce a properly contractual temporary marriage was brief. The only question was, 'For how long?'

'Two days,' the exotic girl had said, explaining to Hans, 'You may tire of me after that, though I guarantee you will not before then.'

Hans had agreed. What, after all, did he know about the heavenly delights of the houris?

Hans let the girl lead him upstairs, through several ornate halls, down a corridor and into a room furnished in ways he'd never imagined before, all hanging silks and rich wood. Once in the room she'd removed the diaphanous veil she'd worn across the lower half of her face. She was very beautiful, Hans thought. No . . . that wasn't strong enough. He had to admit to himself that he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

The girl had sat him in a chair, then knelt to untie and remove his boots. The carpet on the floor felt amazingly plush and soft to Hans' march-hardened feet.

'Wait here,' the girl had said. 'I have a small surprise for you.'

Impatiently, and with some small amount of bad grace, Hans had agreed. The girl slipped out silently through a side door.

A few minutes passed before Hans heard someone, not his exotique, saying, 'No . . . I won't go . . . this is wrong . . . I said . . . '

A woman, tall and blond and, if anything, more beautiful than his temporary wife was pushed into the bedroom. She turned around and tried to push her way back but the door was blocked by the slender almond-eyed one. 'Zheng Ling,' she'd given her name as.

'Master,' she said. 'Meet your sister.'

At that, the blond girl wailed and crumpled to the floor.

'In the name of God, what's wrong with her?' Hans asked frantically, while helping Ling move Petra's inert form to the bed.

'Mostly, she's ashamed,' Ling answered.

'Of . . . oh.'

'Oh.'

'But it isn't like she did this to herself,' Hans objected.

'Does that matter in our world?' Ling asked, rhetorically.

They laid Petra out on Ling's wide bed. Ling tactfully neglected to mention how frequent an occupant of that bed Petra was.

While busying themselves with silly, ineffectual things like rubbing Petra's wrists, Hans asked, 'Why did you show her to me when she didn't want to be seen?'

'She said she didn't want to, but there are two people about whom she can never talk without love creeping into her voice. You're one of them. She didn't want to see you because she was afraid of what you would think and say . . . that, and that she didn't want you to have to endure the shame among your friends of having a houri for a sister.'

'I knew she was a slave,' Hans said. 'All else follows from that. And what does she think I am, but a slave soldier. As for which of the professions chosen for us by others is the more obscene? That I leave for God to decide.'

Ling stopped rubbing for a moment and, smiling warmly, said, 'You know, master, I think I am going to make good on the promise I made you.'

Far up in one of the towers, the one where Latif made his personal quarters, the brothel owner poured three large vodkas for himself and his two guests.

'I get it from across the border,' Latif said. 'You can get anything for a little baksheesh.'

'The Holy Koran forbids the drinking of fermented grain or grape,' Rustam objected.

Latif nodded piously. 'Very true,' he agreed. 'But vodka is made from potatoes; Allah will be none the wiser.'

'And neither will the caliph,' said Abdul Rahman.

'Well . . . as for the caliph,' Latif said, 'he prefers scotch; or so my contacts tell me. And are your boys settling in well?'

'They seem to be,' said Abdul Rahman, sipping at the frosty glass. 'They seem to be settling in very happily, indeed.'

It was a time for tears. By the time Petra was awake, and Ling left for Petra's room to leave the siblings some privacy in her own, the two were weeping onto each other's shoulders, hugging, and each trying— and failing—to get a word in edgewise.

I never knew any family of my own, Ling had thought, glancing over her shoulder as she'd left. The idea of having actual blood relatives is . . . fascinating. And strangely . . .

Ling cut off the dangerous thought, closing the door between the rooms. For her there never would be, never could be, such a thing as family.

What wouldn't I do to have a family?

A little voice in her head told her, Don't even think about it. You have your duty to your people. That should be enough.

But what if it isn't?