Florence of Arabia by Christopher Buckley

sought out George, who had recovered somewhat from his stomach distress. "Why do I feel like such a shit readme this?" she asked.
    "I guarantee you feel better than I d o. I don't want to agree with Attila the Hun, but he's probably got a point. Plus. I'm dying to find out if she lost her virginity in the Louvre."
    "I'll let you read it yourself."
    THAT AFTERNOON FLORENCE was ushered into the cool terrace of the sheika's apartment at the palace, overlooking an aqua stretch of beach. A hundred yards offshore, fountains shot seawater into the air in a pattern r oughly approximating the Bin H az royal crest. It had the practical advantage of cooling the air on the seaward side of the palace, though it left one's skin a bit salty.
    L aila rose to greet her guest. The chairs in this room of the palace. Florence noted, were all of the same height. The sheika was quite beautiful, though this is not an especially rare quality among wives of princes. She was thirty-seven, one of the more innocent facts Florence knew about her from Bobby's briefing. She was taller than her husband, a fact accentuated by the three-inch heels she wore, in contrast to the normally slippered feel of Arab women. She had superb cheekbones, a line nose and peregrine-falcon eyes. She could have been a model—in fact, she had been during a college summer, m ore to annoy her parents than f or the money. She wore a silk pant suit from Paris and the mer est while chiffon scarf that set off her abundant dark hair. Around her neck was the simplest gold necklace. On her f inger was an engagement diamond, admittedly a rock at eight carats, along with her wedding band. On a table behind her were two silver-framed photograp hs. One was of her and Prince H amdul: the other showed her husband in full tribal regalia. Florence t ook in the separation of the two photographs.
    "Welcome." The sheika gestured to a chair. Her manner was pleasant and hospitable, with just enough formality to prompt Florence to come to the point without dwelling too long on Matar's climate, natural beauty or the marvel of the sea fountains beyond the terrace.
    "T he emir has discussed with the sheika the ma tter on which I have come to Matar?" Florence said.
    A smile played across L aila's face, softening it like a shaft of late-afternoon sunlight in a formal drawing room. Florence blushed.
    "The matter on which you have come to Matar ? Yes, he told me all about it. Would you care for something other than tea? I sometimes have a glass of something around this t ime."
    A servant materialized out of nowhere, just as the emir's had. The sheika nodded, and the servant disappeared, reappearing shortly with phantomlike efficiency, bearing a tray of beaten silver on which were two cut-crystal flutes filled with a bubbly crimson-and-gold liquid.
    "Pomegranate juice and champagne," Laila said, handing one to Florence. "A Matari Kir, if you will. Sahte yn. Thank God we have a word for 'Sante' in Arabic. One would have thought otherwise."
    The cool, tangy-sweet bubbles went down Florence's throat and fil led her with a relaxing warmth.
    "The custom was to offer our guests fig cordials." Laila said. "Promoting our national industry. But it was so truly disgusting that I discontinued the practice."
    "The sheika seems to share the emir's views on figs."
    "Why don't we dispense with the third-person nonsense? I've never gotten used to it. I keep looking about the room to see where this person is people are refer ring to, and it's me. Call me L aila. If we do this thing you propose, you'll be calling me that soon enough. I suppose. Do you prefer 'Ms. Farfaletti'?"
    "Florence, please."
    "As in Firenze?"
    "Yes," Florence said, impressed. "My father was a proud Italian. Most are, one way or another."
    "And what are you doing here, so far from Florence?"
    "The emir did not explain?"
    "He said you wanted me to run some kind of Pan-Arab television station aimed at women." Laila leaned back in the armchair. "What a