Latif was at the scene in an instant, accompanied by two amazingly beefy guards. These latter pulled Hans and Hamilton apart effortlessly even as Latif bellowed, "What in the one hundredth name of Allah is going on here?"
Ling glided over to stand in front of Hans. "He must have been fed something bad to drink," she said, lifting her head defiantly. And you don't want to get in trouble for feeding alcohol to a janissary, do you?
The whoremaster nodded. No, as a matter of fact I don't. Yet this will come out of your hide before it comes out of mine. "Take him to your quarters," he commanded Ling. "And don't let him out until he's sober." To one of the guards he said, "Assist her."
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. Yes, he's interested in her.
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?"
Pity it isn't the chippie that he offered. Still, the two look like they work together so this may be useful. But be a Boer, Hamilton thought. Bargain.
"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 loved being a mother.
"Not that I want to do the whole thing over again, mind you," she said to Amal while changing the baby's diaper. And isn't it funny how your own baby's poop doesn't really stink? "You are quite enough for me and if your father will only come to his senses, I'll have everything I want."
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?"
I suppose there's no sense in trying to hide it now, she thought.
"Ummm . . . the baby. Your baby . . . errr . . . our baby."
"And you didn't fucking tell me?"
"I didn't want to trap you," she said, softly, less certain at the moment that she'd done the right thing. "Or to seem like I was trying to trap you."
Mahmoud, on the other end of the line, sighed heavily. Gabi could almost see him nodding in his fatalistic and accepting way.
"Okay," he said. "What now?"
"I don't know," she answered. "I still won't go to the United States."
"And I won't live in Europe."
Chapter Twelve
Certain persons have been begging me for the past five years to write about war against the Turks, and encourage our people and stir them up to it, and now that the Turk is actually approaching, my friends are compelling me to do this duty, especially since there are some stupid preachers among us Germans (as I am sorry to hear) who are making the people believe that we ought not and must not fight against the Turks. Some are even so crazy as to say that it is not proper for Christians to bear the temporal sword or to be rulers; also because our German people are such a wild and uncivilized folk that there are some who want the Turk to come and rule.
—Martin Luther, "On War Against the Turks," 1528 AD
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,
1538 AH (21 October, 2113)
"You'd never been drunk before, had you?" Ling asked.
Hans, a study in misery, just shook his head and said, "That's the second kind of virginity I gave to you. I much preferred giving you the other kind. Much."
"I'm sure," Ling said, grinning widely. She hadn't known she'd been his first and that was . . . warming. That he remembered and appreciated was much more so.
Find out, if possible, why he attacked your contact, said the little voice in Ling's head.
She asked.
She asked and was surprised as such a torrent of hate and loathing poured out of Hans as she had never heard before. Not just hate for Hamilton, whom Ling only knew of as "De Wet," but Hans also felt deep hatred for the Corps of Janissaries, for Moslems, for all slave dealers, and for the Caliphate. He hated the boys who'd raped Petra, the dealer who had auctioned her, and the bastard tax gatherer who had taken both the siblings away from their home. Hans hated the laws that had made him crucify a priest. He hated everything.