The Caliphate, André Gallo [best books to read ever .TXT] 📗

     After the speeches, Steve found Kella in the crowd.

     “Well, what do you think? There are some important issues to discuss.”

     “You didn’t give up; I’m glad,” Kella said with a laugh.

     Steve and Kella left together through the security barriers, and walked to the Crillon Hotel nearby on the Place de la Concorde.

     “We’ll be lucky to get in,” Kella said. “This is a favorite hangout for movie stars, kings, presidents and their coteries, as well as the paparazzi they love to attract.”

     More parasites, Steve thought.

     A waiter stopped them at the entrance to the bar. “Do you have reservations?”

     Steve looked over his head and could see that the room was crowded.

     “Yes, Ambassador Hastings’ office called … from the American Embassy,” he added. “That must be our table there.”

     He pointed to a small table in the back being cleared by another waiter. The waiter delayed until Steve slipped him a Euro note and they sat at a table for two in the wood-paneled bar.

     Kella smiled and asked, “Do you always get what you want? What are you going to do in Morocco?”

     “I had a bright idea, trying to capture part of the Moroccan market. Be careful what you wish for. Now I’m a one-man posse to bring back a contract. But what about you? You have a fascinating background.”

     “I lived in Northern Mali as a little girl, around Timbuktu. Our people rebelled. Tuaregs have never gotten used to the restrictions of borders. Maybe it was like when fences went up in the American West.”

     “You’ve come a long way, from Timbuktu to receptions at the Ambassador’s Residence in Paris! How did you do that?”

     “During the fighting, the Malian Army killed many civilians, including my parents. The Hastings adopted me from an orphanage run by Catholic nuns in Timbuktu. Jack was posted to Mali during the rebellion.”

    “I’m sorry about your parents. Are you legally French, American or Malian?”

     “My adoptive mother is French, her maiden name was Joulet. Her father is…” she hesitated, “with the French Government. I’m a dual national. Actually I’m probably a triple national,” she laughed. “I spent a couple of years in the States. My stepfather insists that I am an American and that my English should be as good as my French.”

     After another hour, Kella sat back in her chair and said, “You’re on vacation but I have an eight o’clock seminar on the administration of the DOM-TOMs. In French that’s the Departements d’Outre Mer-Territoires d’Outre Mer. In English, the Overseas Departments and Territories. I think I had better go.”

     She paused and added, “But only if you’ve finished all your questions.”

     Steve acted as if he hadn’t caught the slight sarcasm in Kella’s tone.

     “Just the name of that seminar is giving me a headache. Wait, I do have one last question. What about the markings on the back of your hand?”

     He gestured to four small black dots arranged in a diamond pattern on the back of Kella’s right hand.

     “Okay, but this is the end of the interrogation. It’s the Southern Cross, a small constellation between Centaurus and Musca. In the Southern Hemisphere, it will help you locate the South Pole. I’ve had this tattoo since I was very young. My mother had the same one. It also has something to do with high authority and status in the tribe and a symbol of the Tuaregs’ mastery of navigation in the desert.”

     “In my tribe, we have the same thing.”

     Pointing to the watch on his right wrist, he said, “It’s called a Suunto X-Lander. I got it at the PX in South Korea.”

     Kella giggled. “It has so many dials and buttons—can you actually use it to tell time? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like it.”

    “It has an altimeter, a thermometer, and a compass. Now you could get one with a GPS.”

     He raised his right wrist and glanced at his watch.

     “Directly north of you there is a tall American named Steve with whom you’re going to have lunch tomorrow.”

     Kella’s laugh was brief.

     “Well, I’m not sure. I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

     “Oh-oh, a boyfriend on the horizon,” he said in mock alarm, surprised at his own words. He hadn’t had that concern about anyone for a long time.

     “Nothing like that,” she smiled at his concern. “I have classes in the morning and I promised to meet a friend in the afternoon. She lives in St. Denis. Troubles with her father. I’m not sure that I’m doing the right thing but I want to try to help her. Her father is super-conservative, super-Islamist. He sounds like he wants to go back to another century. Although Faridah lives in Paris in the twenty-first century, he expects her to behave as if she lived in eighth century Mecca. In Algeria, where female genital mutilation is not widely practiced, her father had her cut before she was five years old.”

     Female genital mutilation was the last thing Steve wanted, or could, talk about.

     “St. Denis, the Basilica, where all of the French kings were buried. It’s on my list of things to do in Paris. We could meet there after you visit your friend. But first, we’ll have lunch. You have to eat lunch somewhere, right?”

     “I don’t think that’s going to work. If you want, we could go to St. Denis together. Then, while you go to the Basilica, I’ll go with Faridah. And we can meet at the Basilica later.”

    Before she got in a cab and disappeared into the swirling night traffic of the Place de la Concorde, they had agreed to take the Metro to St. Denis together