Ling glided over to stand in front of Hans. "He must have been fed something bad to drink," she said, lifting her head defiantly.
The whoremaster nodded.
Petra made as if to follow Ling until Latif held up one hand to block her. Latif glanced from the now bedraggled-looking new customer to Petra and back again.
To Hamilton he said, "Would it be considered adequate recompense, sir, for the insult you have suffered in my house if this woman is turned over to your use for . . . say . . . a week?"
"A week is hardly—"
"Two then. Surely that will assuage your honor."
"Two," Hamilton agreed, with a solemn nod.
"And the hospitality of the house," Latif said, loudly enough for the staff to hear.
"Must be something serious for Latif to give out free booze," said one of the nonhooking staff to a currently unattached girl.
"No shit," the houri answered.
Interlude
Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,
30 June, 2006
"Push," the doctor said, gently but firmly and encouragingly. "Puuushshsh!"
Gabi heard him dimly, all her senses concentrated in the white light of sheer agony with its source somewhere around her stretched and tortured vagina.
"Ohgodohgodohgooo . . . aiaiaiai! Mahmoud, you SON OF A BIIITCH!" she screamed, head thrashing wildly from side to side on the thin hospital pillow. Of course, Mahmoud wasn't there. He was in Boston from which place he still wrote regularly, all glowing reports designed—she was sure—to lure her into the embrace of the enemy.
She missed him pretty badly. Ordinarily. When she wasn't passing a baby.
Mahmoud, and how much she missed him, however, were all quite forgotten as the next wave of wracking pain, this one worse than the previous, overtook her. Once again Gabi began her "Ohgodohgod . . . you motherFUCKER, Mahmouououd!" refrain.
"Funny how few genuine atheists there are in birthing beds," muttered the doctor in attendance. Even as Gabi gasped, his skilled hands were working to catch and lift the baby, while cutting and binding the umbilical.
Her breasts were still heaving when she heard a slap and an outraged cry. And then the doctor laid her new daughter to her breast and it was all much, much better.
In many ways, art was an ideal occupation for a single mother in the Federal Republic of Germany, for not only was there a substantial social safety net, but art was, as often as not, sold "under the table" and much of the income derived from its sale was never reported. Of course, some of it was reported because Germany's social safety net benefits went up, up to a certain point, based on the normal income and contributions of the worker. It was going to be a high tight-rope walk for Gabi to eke out the most benefit for herself and the baby, reporting some income and keeping the rest to herself.
The baby was not, of course—and never would be, as far as Gabrielle was concerned—christened. For that matter, she didn't opt for a traditional name, Germanic or Christian. Instead, mindful of the baby's father and wanting her to be a part of Mahmoud, as well, Gabi chose "Amal." In Arabic, this meant "Hope."
One of the reasons, and perhaps the major one, that Gabi had always been ambivalent about motherhood was, as she frankly admitted to herself, a mix of fear of inadequacy and fear of responsibility. She was pleased to discover that both fears were groundless, that she already had everything important required to be a mother. That was one surprise, but not the biggest. The biggest was that she
"Not that I want to do the whole thing over again, mind you," she said to Amal while changing the baby's diaper.
Gabi was just finished taping the diaper in place when the phone rang, setting her to running for it even as it set Amal to crying.
"Hello?"
"Gabi, it's Mahmoud. What's that crying in the background?"
