Joke comparing Islamabad and Lufkin. (Half the size and twice as dead?)
Islam, Christianity…forces of good, communism evil (use the word godless).
America superpower but Texas the real superpower? And Lufkin soul of the real superpower? (Ask Joanne for a cowboy saying?)
Someone knocked on the door. He jumped from his seat and stood up in anticipation. Should he leave his desk, receive her at the door? Handshake? Hug? Kiss on the cheek?
General Zia knew how to greet men. No one who ever met him forgot his double handshake. Even cynical diplomats couldn’t deny the genuine warmth of his hugs. Politicians got converted to his cause with his understanding hand on their knee and a friendly slap on their back. It had taken him some time to figure out how to deal with women, though, especially foreigners. He had invented, then perfected, his own style; when he reached a woman in a reception line, he put his right hand on his heart, and bent his head as a gesture of respect. The women who had done their homework kept their hands to themselves and nodded in appreciation. Those intent on testing the limits of his piety extended their hands, got a four-finger, limp handshake and a refusal to look into their eyes.
But Joanne was different. When she had come to interview him for the first time at the Army House, she had ignored his hand on his heart, his nodding head, even his attempt at a handshake and had kissed him on both his cheeks, forcing Brigadier TM to look in the other direction. He had realised at their first meeting that he was dealing with a special person, a person to whom he could not apply his social rules about women. Weren’t there women warriors who had fought shoulder to shoulder with men in the first Muslim war? Wasn’t she an ally in his jihad against the godless communists? Hadn’t she promised to do more than the whole of the State Department? Couldn’t she be considered an honorary man? A mujahid even? At this point his logic usually broke down as he remembered her golden, blow-dried hair, the heart-shaped diamond necklace that nestled between her breasts, her voluptuous red lips and the breathy whispers in his ears that made the most ordinary exchange seem like a secret plan.
Allah tests only those He really likes, he told himself for the umpteenth time and sat down on the seat with a very firm resolve. “Yes, come in,” he said.
The door opened and a swirl of sandalwood perfume, peach-coloured silk and mauve lipstick came at him, cooing, “Your Excellency. Welcome to the fine city of Lufkin.” General Zia stood up, still not sure whether he should leave the desk, still uncertain whether to kiss or hug or extend his hand from behind the safety of the desk. Then as Joanne lunged towards him, the self-control that had helped him survive three wars, one coup and two elections vanished. He left the table that was to be his defence against temptation and moved towards her with extended arms, unable to focus on her face or her features. In her embrace he noted with satisfaction that she wasn’t wearing her high heels, which made her a head taller than he was. They were the same height without her heels. Her left breast pressed lightly against the strain of his safari suit and General Zia closed his eyes, his chin resting on the satin bra strap on her shoulder. For a moment the First Lady’s face flashed in front of his eyes. He tried to think of other things: moments from his glorious career; his first handshake with Ronald Reagan; his speech at the UN; Khomeini telling him to take it easy. The dream ended abruptly as she wriggled out of his arms, held his face in her hands and planted a kiss on both his cheeks. “Your Excellency, you need a trim.”
General Zia sucked his stomach in. She twirled his moustache gently with her fingers and said, “Texans are big-hearted people, but when it comes to facial hair they are very small-minded. Now if you’ll ask that handsome hulk outside your door to let my man in, we can take care of this.”
For the first time in his life, General Zia shouted an order at Brigadier TM. “Let the man in, TM.”
Lufkin’s only businessman without an invitation to the charity ball entered the room, an old black man with a barber’s leather bag. “Salaam alaikum,” he said. “You folks call it mooch, I know. I am gonna make this mooch sharp, Your Highness.” Before General Zia could say anything he had tucked a white towel around his neck and was clipping away at his moustache, still talking. “You gonna meet old Ronnie? Can I give you an important message? Tell him he ain’t no John Wayne. Stop tryin’. Lufkin is a fine ol’ city but some folks is still racialist. They say there is a nigga in the woods when their kids don’t eat. I tell them nigga has seen woods in Korea, nigga has seen woods in Nam. Now this nigga ain’t in the woods, nigga is here and he got a razor on your neck, so be careful ‘bout what you say.” He held a silver-framed mirror in front of him. General Zia’s burly thick moustache had been trimmed to a thin line. It was sharp, all right. “That’s gonna make your lady’s tater fry.”
It didn’t make the First Lady’s tater fry, in fact it barely got a sarcastic glance from her. “I am just trying to please my hosts. All for a good cause,” General Zia had muttered as the First Lady switched channels on the television.
“Hostess, you mean,” she had said, settling on a rerun of Dallas.
The First Lady wasn’t given to acts of rashness and her first impulse was to tear the newspaper apart, throw it away and try to forget the whole incident. He would see it and realise what a fool he was making of himself. At the age of sixty-three, with five titles before his name and a nation of one hundred and thirty million people to answer to, he was flying over floozies from Texas and then sitting there ogling their tits.
Then it suddenly occurred to her that there were thousands more out there looking at this picture: what might they be thinking? Nobody of course would be bothered about the famous foreign reporter, she guessed. She was a professional, she was an American, she could wear what she liked. If she had to wear push-up bras and low-cut dresses to get interviews with presidents, well, she was getting paid to do it. And as for him? She didn’t really know what the masses thought of him, but he was surrounded by people who’d tell him that it was all a conspiracy on the part of the newspaper, that the picture had been doctored and the editor should be put on trial in a military court for publishing obscene material.
But even if they believed what they saw in the picture, what then? He is only a mere mortal like us, people would say. Under all that talk of piety and purdah, there is a red-blooded man who can’t resist a bit of a peek. And then it occurred to her that there was another person, not in the picture, not named in the caption, who would be the real object of the nation’s ridicule. She could hear the giggles in cabinet meetings: We never knew the President likes them big and white. She could hear the sniggers in the National Command bunker: The old soldier is still homing in on the targets. Fine pair of anti-ballistics, sir. And what about those high-society begums: Poor man. Can you blame him? Have you seen his wife? She looks as if she just walked out of her village after spending the whole day in front of the stove.
The First Lady felt as if the nation of one hundred and thirty million people was, at this moment, looking at this picture, pitying her, making fun of her. She heard howls of laughter going up from the beaches of the Arabian Sea to the peaks of the Himalayas.
“I’ll gouge these eyes out,” she hissed, looking at the picture. “I’ll make mincemeat out of your old prick, you bastard.”
The duty waiter came running from the kitchen. “I am going for a walk. Tell TM’s men not to follow me,” the First Lady said, rolling the newspaper into a tight baton.