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Florence
of Arabia by Christopher Buckley Rating: ••• (Recommended) |
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Amat The
best-read and best-educated readers will laugh loudest with Christopher
Buckley’s latest novel, Florence
of Arabia. Almost every proper name Buckley creates links to something
that makes the usage even funnier. Few targets remain unscathed by the end of
this novel: the status and rights of women in the Here’s an excerpt, all of
Chapter 10, pp. 66-74: TVMatar went on-air at sunrise on the day of
the new spring moon. Advertisements
had been taken out in the Wasabi 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 wife
in today’s society.” The ads flew 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 thobe. 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 phones rang at the
Ministry of the 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 café 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
Me: 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 off the phone so he could
return to watching. “What inspired you to
write this book?” “It’s hard to put my
finger 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 live in that such abominations go on—every day?” The studio audience
applauded. “Thank you for sharing
that. The book is Stop, You’re A phone rang in “It’s time,” said the
voice. “The moment has arrived.” “I think so, too.” In Num-Besir, 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 The sheika’s
new television project had so preoccupied her time that Gazzy
was once again free—God be praised—to refresh himself, undisturbed, 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 proferred the phone and whispered, “It is King Tallulah
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 of ten 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,
childrearing, baking pastries, that sort of— Ah? Eh? Oh. Um. Well, I’m sure
there’s some explanation. Of course I will look into it. Yes, yes. Urn-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 Amo-Amas, lord?” “Certainly not. The old
son of an Egyptian whore acting the king with me. Matar
is not a “My
lord?” “Tell
Azzim—no hurry, eh?” The
emir chuckled to himself. He looked out past the silk tent folds toward the
palm-fringed lagoon, where the women loitered bare-breasted in the waist-deep
shallows, like the three ladies of “Will
my lord be taking a swim before lunch?” “Well,
if you’re going to chase after me with telephones, Fetish, there would be no
point. I mean, would there?” Fetish
smiled and bowed. “I am confident that my lord will receive no further
interruptions.” “In
that case”—the emir sniffed— “I will take my refreshment in the lagoon. Then
I will take my lunch. We’ll have the lobsters and the caviar with the crème fraiche. To make our Russian guests feel at home. And
then the Sultani orange and myrtleberry
sherbets.” “Excellent,
lord.” So
picturesque, the girls, the way they arrayed themselves in the lagoon like
natives in the Gauguin painting, their skins glistening with oils in the
sunlight shafts that pierced the palm canopy. “Fetish,
when you present the sherbets, place a large pearl
atop each mound.” “The
cultured pearls, or the natural Gulf pearls?” The
emir considered. “The Gulf. It’s a special occasion, Fetish. Really, what a
terrible miser you can be.” “As
my lord commands.” Uncle Sam called “Wait
till you see next week’s prime-time lineup.” “I’ll
be watching. Now, you watch out for yourself, young lady. There are snakes in
that desert. Keep a low profile. Pay attention to your man Thibodeaux.” It was tricky,
conducting polls in a country like Wasabia. This
fell to George, who was naturally inclined, inasmuch
as the State Department’s standard approach to any problem was to study it
until it organically expired. He hired a Dutch firm in George presented the
results to “They seem to be eating
it up,” George said. “We’re basically number one in Wasabia.” “If there’s such a thing
as ‘must-see TV,’ this is it.” “Good job programming, Renard,” Rick nodded. “How are we doing with
the men?” “Not great among the
conservatives. A lot of TV sets are being turned off or tossed out into the
street. Good news for Sony. The younger men seem to be rather fascinated.”
George looked up from his papers and sighed. “This isn’t terribly scientffic. I’d have preferred a more longitudinal study
over—” “We don’t have time.
What else?” “Four fifths of women
said they want her to take off her abaaya
on-screen.” “I don’t think we’re
there quite yet,” Laila said. “Azade
is a blossom that we ought to let bloom gradually.” “Two thirds want fewer
recipes,” George continued, “and more sex, and an
overwhelming majority want Britney Spears on to talk about her navel piercings. I don’t know how that question got in there.
I didn’t put it in. I’ve never really gotten the point of Britney Spears.” “How’s Yasmeen’s book doing?” “Gangbusters. We’re
giving it away, of course, since women can’t have credit cards. Sending it
from “Thank you, George. Good
work.” “We’ll do another survey
next week, after the new show.” The new show was Chop-Chop
Square, a prime-time soap opera about a royal family living in an unnamed
country that looked uncannily similar to Wasabia.
It debuted in the eight P.M. prime-time slot and was being denounced from
five hundred mosques by dawn the next day. The Wasabi
Information Ministry called it “an abomination before God.” Bobby, looking more
sleepless than usual, reported that the grand mullah of Muk,
Wasabia’s leading religious authority—and certainly
no cream puff, he—was preparing to issue “the mama of all fatwas.” “Well,” Laila said, drawing on another cigarette, “that’ll melt
the wax in Gazzy’s ears.” The emir had said, “What
are you and that American woman doing, in the name of God the most merciful?
Tallulah himself has called me—thrice.” “He called here first,
darling. I told him you were at Um-beseir.
Unwinding from the rigors of your duties here.” “There’s no need for
that, madame. You might have informed me about the
content of this—this television station of yours. By the prophet’s holy
beard, Laila. What are you and this American woman
doing? I hear things about her.” “She’s a very shrewd
businesswoman. Would you like to see how much money you made last week? I
have the figures. Here.” “Urn. Are these. . . true?” “These, darling, are
only the beginning. Has it not escaped my lord’s notice—” “Will you please not call me that?
What has gotten into you?” “Perhaps it’s what you have gotten into.” “Have I taken more
wives? No.” “Is that your definition
of fidelity?” “Laila,
you are giving me pains in the chest. You must stop. Do you want Hamdul to be fatherless?” It was the emir’s practice to
fake chest pains whenever he found himself cornered. “Shall
I summon the royal cardiologist?” Laila said. “It’s
passed. Not that you’d care.” He studied the sheet of paper with the
figures. “I must say, these are impressive.” “So
is this.” Laila handed him a clipping from Al-Ahram, the Pan-Arabic newspaper. The headline said,
IS THE “PUDDING OF MATAR” THE NEW SALADIN? The
story had been written by George and placed by Renard
and paid for by Bobby. TVMatar, the new satellite television station
based in Amo-Amas, comes with a bold agenda and is
causing speculation throughout the region that Emir Bin Haz,
until now thought to be merely content to rake in his Churchillian
riches and disport himself at his “winter palace,” has a heart that, contrary
to reports of faintness, appears to beat strongly indeed. “Hmm,”
said Gazzy, frowning. “My
lord is not pleased?” “‘Pudding
of Matar’?” “Darling,
they’re calling you the new Saladin, for heaven’s sake. Accept the
compliment.” “Well,”
Gazzy said, tossing the clipping to the floor,
“this is your thing, not mine.” “By
all means, come aboard, dear husband. Join me.” She stroked his cheek
tenderly. “It has been a very long time…” “Hmm…” “Darling?” “Yes,
darling?” “You
have been busy, and I don’t want to catch something.” “Really,
Laila!” “You
are not the offended
one, Gazzir. Don’t have a Potemkin
tantrum with me. I am making a hygienic point.” “You
certainly know how to spoil the mood.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Hamdul is more mature. And he’s ten years old. All I’m
asking for is a blood test. Hardly unreasonable. You have your blood changed
every month as it is.” “Never mind. Now, what
about this television?” “What about it?” “It’s got Tallulah in a
temper.” “Darling, you detest
Tallulah and the Wasabis. And ‘this television’ is
going to make you one of the richest men in the gulf, not to mention ‘a new
Saladin.’ If there’s a problem, I’m not getting what it is.” “I’ll have to discuss it
with my ministers.” “I’m sure they’ll be
full of wisdom, and you will emerge wiser than ever.” “God be praised,” the
emir said, “there are times when I wonder if I mated with a she-devil!” “You used to say that to
me in bed. Our first night at the He wanted her badly, but
he was not about to lower himself to having a blood test. He stomped off to
continue his growling in private. Yet he was also tempted to smile, for this
projected advertising revenue stream was indeed like a gush of sweet water in
the baking sand of the desert. And it was pleasant enough to be called the
new Saladin, even if he was not quite clear who the infidels were. While
not quite as hilarious as Buckley’s earlier novel Thank You For Smoking, Florence
of Arabia will lead readers to regular laughs, even at those times when
we know we shouldn’t be laughing. Steve
Hopkins, November 26, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the December 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Florence
of Arabia.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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