Free Florence of Arabia by Christopher Buckley

So there it is."
    "Thank you, Bobby," Florence said. "Extremely useful."
    "Shouldn't we study this further before we proceed?" George said. His lower lip was crusted pink from dried Pepto -Bismol.
    Bobby stared at him. "You mean spend six, seven months draw in' up a feasibility study? With lots of tabs?"
    "Well, if you'd rather just rush in pell -mell ..."
    matar was liberal in the matter of women's dress; nonetheless, Florence took care to observe the formalities. She wore a matching pantsuit of turquoise and purple shantung silk, and over her hair an Hermes scarf. According to Bobby, the emir liked to give these scarves to his mistresses. "If they've been good—really good—there'll be a diamond bracelet inside. And if they've been really, really good, a red Ferrari outside."
    Florence was ushered into t he audience room. The door was fl anked by two bodyguards in ceremonial dress and swords.
    "Salaam alaikum." Florence said without accent. "Sherefina. somow ‘kum ."
    The emir's eyes brightened, and not just at his guest's flawless Arabic. He took her hand and bent and chastely kissed it. Florence blushed at the attention. She continued in Arabic, remembering that in Matar , conversation with the emir required use of the third-person address, not altogether e asy for Americans, who want t o call everyone "pal" or "bub" or "honey" after five minutes.
    They sat. Florence noted that the Louis XVI chairs were a few inches lower than the emir's Louis XIV chai r. At not quite live foot six. Emir Gazzir Bin Haz—"G azzy" to his family and intimates—was not a tall man. Exactly the height, i t occurred to Florence, of T. E . Lawrence. What large things small men have accomplished.
    H e was impeccably accoutred, in an immaculate white thobe garment, his head covered with a gut ra. the triangular folded cloth tied with the traditional gold-rope agal Four of his plump fingers, she observed, were adorned with rings. His goatee was perfectly trimmed, his lips oyster-moist from a lifetime's contact with the greatest delicacies t he world had t o offer, from caviar t o Dom Perignon to foie gras. H is face radiated contentedness; and why not? The Emir might just be the happiest camper on earth.
    "Your Majesty is most welcoming." Florence said with a slight bow.
    "It is a trait with us. " he said, switching to English. He was, like most highborn Mataris, an Anglophile —they sent their fut ure emirs to Sandhurst—and enjoy ed displaying his excell ent command of the language. "Eve n the humblest Matari will open his door to a stranger and shar e what he has." H e smiled. "Not that you will find many humble Mataris, mind you. This, too, is a trait with us. I fear."
    "Your country is truly blessed to have such abundance." "Our fig oil is second to none." "Justly famous throughout the world."
    "It h as many , many applications. Perfume, industrial—do you know that it is used as a lubricant on Chinese rockets?"
    "I was not aware of this fact. But how marvelous."
    The emir leaned forward intently. "It lowers cholesterol. Rather, it increases the good cholesterol. In time, the medical studies will e stablish this beyond question, G od be praised."
    "Matar is a river to the world."
    They looked at each other.
    "Shall we c ease with the bullshitting?" He smiled. "His Majesty is too gracious. I was about to run out of conversation about fig oil."
    "I've never used it myself," the emir said, taking a cigarette from a gold box in front of him. A servant dressed to match t he drapery appeared like a swift ghost. He lit the emir's cigarette and disappeared back into the folds with a soil rustle of silk. "Ghastly stuff. I prefer walnu t oil, ground by four-hundred y ear-old millstones in the Dordogne. I have it flown in. Anyway , who cares about cholesterol. I have my blood changed every month by Swiss doctors. I donate the old blood to the hospital. It is quite sought after, apparently. Now. Florence—and why don't I just call you that, since I