Caliphate полностью

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."