By Helga Hewston
Prologue
The following fictional tale is conjured up from a few true events.
In 2008, Condoleezza Rice, then US Secretary of State, visited Libya and was a guest of its leader, Colonel Moammar Gaddafi. During her state visit, Rice was presented with gifts from the Colonel – a diamond ring, a lute, and a locket containing his picture. After Gaddafi’s death in October 2011, a photo album dedicated to Rice and showing various flattering pictures of her, was found in his compound in the Libyan capital. Gaddafi made no secret of his infatuation with the former Secretary of State and referred to her as “my beautiful, strong, African woman.” The sentiment, however, was not returned.
Dr. Condoleezza Rice currently teaches political science at Stanford University, and in 2010, became a faculty member of the Stanford Graduate School of Business.
The personality traits of all the characters in this story are entirely fabricated.
Chapter One – The Sting
Sirte, Libya, 20 October 2011
Curse you, ungrateful scum – I spit on your cowardice! What is more, I say: nik-ummak! Screw your mother! Yes, my faithless friends, this is Moammar Mohammed Abu Minyar Gaddafi speaking, your beloved leader and martyr for my country! Note my words well and remember I was brave to the end, with the sartorial courage of a lion! A thousand times: kul khara! Eat shit, you sons of whores! Kul khara for all eternity…
Colonel Moammar Al-Gaddafi
Stanford, California, September 11, 2018
Professor Condoleezza Rice began the short drive home from work in a foul mood. She was seething of course because her hipflask was drained dry and she was desperate for a drink. But worse – during her political science class, some idiot student named “Mitch” had labelled her favourite bad boy actor, Paul Newman, a philanthropist.
Frankly, Professor Rice did not appreciate being reminded of Newman’s off-screen fall from grace (what kind of bad boy donates profits from a pasta sauce?) and much preferred his on-screen persona as a grifter in the movie, The Sting.
As she recalled the actor’s splendid bourbon-drinking character in the film, and the admirable traits of conmen in general, the doctor decided that as soon as she was home, she would treat herself to the Jack Daniel’s 1954 Gold Medal whiskey, the same special brand her former boss, George W. Bush had once donated as a raffle prize to the Houston Alcoholics Anonymous Fundraising Ball. Memory of the prank caused Dr. Rice first to smirk and then to snigger. Better! Her next decision – to humiliate Mitch-whatever-the-hell-his-name-is, with a D-minus – further uplifted her spirits.
“Ha! Just what that little shit deserves, she addressed her reflection in the car’s rear-view mirror, “while YOU honey-lamb, deserve a D-plus for Daniel’s.”
By the time she approached the entrance to her Palo Alto home, Dr. Rice was entertaining a rather pleasant thought: Mitch’s crushed demeanor when she informed him – in front of the entire class naturally – of his failing grade. Quite cheerful now, she began to hum Scott Joplin’s ragtime tune from The Sting and was still humming by the time she reached the main drinks cabinet in her spacious dining room. Her first duty was to open the commemorative bottle of whiskey and pour herself a triple-on-the-rocks. Yes, her day was definitely improving, and more treats to come, she reminded herself.
On this particular afternoon, Professor Rice’s ‘treat’ required her presence in her bedroom’s very large walk-in closet – a hallowed annex that doubled as a shrine to both her high-heel shoe collection and her sole model – Imelda Marcos. But no time to worship today. Carrying her whiskey glass and hell, why not?– the bottle, Dr. Rice entered the vast sartorial space, where she stopped in front of a portrait of US President number 43 reading My Pet Goat to hapless school children. But Dr. Rice was not here to salute her hero – she was fixated on the wall-safe hidden behind George’s picture. With a lick of her lips and a glorious trembling of her fingers, she opened the metal door, reached inside and commenced her most preferred activity – caressing its cold, shiny inhabitants.
She announced to her diamonds, “Here’s Mommie!” followed by: “Ooh, did my babies miss me?” The diamonds signaled that they had indeed missed her, by twinkling seductively from the shadows.
Half an hour later, a satisfied and inebriated Condoleezza Rice, was seated at her beloved piano about to embark on her second most preferred activity. There was no question of what she would play – it would have to be Joplin. The piano – a Steinway & Sons Imagine Series black grand and a re-gift from Daddy Bush – took up an entire corner of her main sitting room and was polished frequently and lovingly with a mixture of lightly moist chamois leather strips, Murphy’s Oil Soap and Steinway’s own brand of wax called Furniture Care Supreme.
Dr. Rice began playing The Sting’s theme music, but just a few minutes into the melody, something extraordinary occurred. In the gleaming wood of the piano’s frame, to the right of the of the sheet music holder, features of a human face began to appear, slowly and by degrees. First to materialize was a pair of eyes, which ushered the way for dark and tangled eyebrows. The nose followed and finally, a mouth that worked itself into a thin line, before curling up at both sides in an expression of triumph.
Condoleezza Rice, lost in the Ragtime and the caustic effects of the whisky, at first believed the discorporate face to be her own reflection, which, distorted by the afternoon sunlight beaming in between horizontal window slats, had somehow managed to disconnect from her body and defy the laws of physics. When the facial outlines became alarmingly dissimilar to her own outline and did not move or undulate in time to her movements and undulations, she decided the moment had come to question her senses. She stopped playing. Taking a generous swig of her drink, Dr. Rice glanced over her shoulder, but saw only an empty sitting room with its neat contours and collectibles from various heads of state. Her eyes narrowed as she turned back to confront the now fully formed head reflected in her favorite piece of furniture.
She called out in her sweetest and most composed press conference voice:
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?
She slurred her words defiantly at the ghostly visage. Almost immediately, the face answered back, its features becoming animated and its voice oozing familiarity.
“Leezza, My Black Flower of the White House! Are you not overjoyed to see me again?”
“Colonel?” she demanded. The voice was his, yes, but when the image, just inches away from her, sharpened into that of a young man with high cheekbones and intense eyes, she began to doubt. To give herself time to think, she repeated her earlier question.
“Uh, what the fuck is going on here?” She reached for her glass and drained its contents.
“LEEZZA! Let us not play games!”
His voice came from behind her this time, but without bothering to look round, she announced irritably,
“Well, if it isn’t my Suitor from Sirte! Didn’t you, like, DIE?!”
“Look at me, Leezza,” the voice urged.
Curiosity forced her to straighten her back and shoulders the way Mother had taught her, and she found herself swiveling around slowly to face the voice, keeping her glass upright by clasping the rim with both set of fingers. No quivering hands here. She might be shaken, but she was not stirred, and dammit, nobody was going to mess with Condi Rice in her own living room.
A figure resembling a young Moammar Gaddafi stood before her but not the ranting, petulant madman she had met ten years previously on her last official visit to the Libyan capital, where she had been shocked by his ravaged appearance. For a few seconds, she enjoyed the vision before her, of a handsome Bedouin, dressed in military khaki, with his dark skin and wide smile. His head was covered with wavy hair, neatly cut, and his North African nose was as straight as a desert highway. But it was the smile that was interesting – it showed off his arrogance, one of the more pleasing and defining traits of her former admirer. His lips were slightly raised at one corner giving the appearance of a sneer, which carried absolutely no trace of humor. Hmm…just her kind of ghost.
“What do you want, Moammar?” She used his given name, not to inject any hint of intimacy into her opening line, but to show her complete lack of respect. She had never respected him while he was alive, when she had been forced to play the diplomat game.
The Colonel’s sneer faded, and the lips settled into a pout. He threw his head back and sniffed the air, as if testing its suitability. “You are not afraid! I like that in a woman.”
“No. Now speak up or get out!”
He drew his chest in visibly and snarled at her. “Shamoota!” he cursed. Then, with less irritation in his voice, he said, “I see you are still angry about the photo album.”
“Get to the point Moammar. What do you want?”
The Colonel, though handsome, arrogant and recently dead, was beginning to bore her.
“Leezza, you amuse me – you still have what it takes.”
“Moammar, you embarrass me. You NEVER had what it takes. That album with all those pictures of me? Hell, that song you had composed – Black Flower In The White House – ha! Just another cheap stunt.”
To show her disgust, Dr. Rice stood up, deliberately turned her back to him and marched towards the drinks trolley, glass in hand and hand quite steady. This encounter, she decided, required her special drink, and she began pouring herself a generous shot of Havana Club Selección de Maestros, a Cuban rum that had been an introductory gift from that charming Mr. Putin.
“I notice Leezza, that you have collected many treasures from your years in power…”
She followed his gaze and countered, “And you didn’t? I read about your gold statues and your gold-plated gun.”
He jumped in, “Gold is a symbol of power and wealth, but – this – this?”
Assuming a sad, wistful look, he shook his head slowly from side to side, while pointing to a garish and overly-lacquered Babushka set – a cheap parting gift from Madam Medvedev and just one of the many trinkets Dr. Rice had rescued over the years, from the clutches of the Office of the Chief of Protocol. Condi baby, she had repeatedly told herself, it’s your personal duty to ‘liberate’ those modest tokens of your hosts’ goodwill and generosity. In her role as Secretary of State and National Security Advisor, she had often accepted a few shiny baubles in return for bestowing political favors or for cementing business deals. When it came down to professional maneuvering, Condi had always preferred the carat to the stick. Such a comfort then, that as a result of her ‘dollar diplomacy’, a glistening horde of diamonds were securely tucked away deep inside the steel-lined nursery of her wall safe.
The ghost spoke again. “Lovely Leezza, do you still have the jewels I gave you? The lute? The locket?”
Was this apparition serious? Dr. Rice thought back to those pitifully meager pickings and that oddly shaped musical instrument that the Colonel had proudly presented to her on her last state visit.
“You know Moammar, a miniscule diamond ring and a locket with your sleazy portrait can uh, hardly be classed as jewels.”
She hissed this last word and compared Gaddafi’s paltry gifts with the stunning gems and diamonds that other Middle Eastern royals had insisted she keep. She taunted her former admirer by adding, “Hey Moammar honey, when it comes to jewelry, size DOES matter. And shit, yours didn’t matt-”
The fiery ghost of a youthful Moammar Gaddafi did not allow her to finish. “Clever princess! But what if I tell you where I have hidden a part of my treasure – cut diamonds – all from Africa! Beautiful and valuable enough to make even your dark heart sing.”
Condi Rice turned a haughty gaze towards the Colonel, while not really seeing at him at all. But she betrayed her interest by licking her lips, which had suddenly become quite dry. This was better. Of course, THIS was why he was here – a dead man in her living room. He still carried a torch for her.
“Uh, so this is why you’re here.” She spoke up now, quite sure of herself.
“The reason I am here, beautiful African, is to make sure the world hears MY side of the story.”
Dr. Rice, took a deep breath, shut her eyes and allowed them to roll upwards. But instead of light or shadow, thoughts or images, the word “DIAMOND” flashing in her mind’s eye, was as enticing to her as a Siren to a Greek sailor. Only one particular song could adequately capture this moment. With the ghostly form of a young Gaddafi standing so solidly in her living room, Condi walked over to her piano, positioned her talons over the keyboard, and, with the enthusiastic glee of splendid blings to come, hammered out Jerry Lee Lewis’classic tune, Great Balls of Fire.
Chapter Two: The Proposition
When Tripoli falls, I vanish from sight. For years, German engineers have been working on constructing secret tunnels beneath my palaces and villas. I have many hiding places – tunnels, sewage pipes, secret vaults, even hollow museum pieces, and I use every trick – including body doubles and rumors – to confuse my enemies. By the way, I REFUSE to call them rebels, that rabble of donkeys-fuckers, because that title is mine alone! Those shamootas call themselves rebels merely to get a mention on CNN! Well, Airie Fiik – Fuck You, Pretend Rebels! –MG (Colonel)
The day after the visitation, Professor Rice called in sick, and spent the entire morning at home, rummaging through the contents of her wall safe and jewelry boxes. The sapphire petal necklace: check. The ruby earrings with encrusted diamonds: check. The matching platinum and diamond necklace and earrings: check, and so on, until she had completed her inventory. She was convinced somehow that the Colonel would return if she played The Sting. Yes, Joplin for his entrance and Jerry Lee for his exit, since he had so conveniently dematerialized after her rendition of Great Balls of Fire. Perfect. She was left with the delicious knowledge that the Colonel wanted something from her and was willing to pay for it in a currency that she, his “beautiful, strong, African woman” considered worth her while.
She prepared for his next visit by pouring herself a glass of Château Lafite Rothschild. The vintage wine, a gift from Jacques Chirac, was to have helped celebrate her second term in office as Secretary of State, but was, at the end of that victorious election day celebration, replaced by a cheap bottle of standard White House Côtes Du Rhône, Blancs de Blancs.
She began playing The Sting and the Colonel appeared, without the medium of her Steinway. He was in a different outfit – again a military khaki jacket, but a more formal style on this occasion, with a row of colorful medals, plus an oversized plastic badge of the African Continent pinned to his breast pocket. He looked older, more arrogant but far less solid – like a shimmering desert horizon. As she surveyed his face and uniform, one thought crossed her mind: find out what the hell he wanted before his dementia set in.
“Uh, what do you want Moammar?” she began.
He matched her succinctness:
“Beautiful One, I want you to go to Libya, to my home village of Sirte. Go to the place from where I was planning my victorious return to Tripoli, before I was sold out by treacherous scum, may Allah roast their bones in the burning fires of HELL!”
“And do what?” she pushed him now, worried he might make a nasty scene on her Afghan rug, a gift from that country’s president and fashion icon, Hamid Karzai.
“Hidden in a sewage pipe, near the cursed spot where I was martyred, you will find two diaries – mine, and the diary of my driver, Rafik, who writes the true account of my torture and death by that cursed rabble!”
“Uh-huh, okay, yep… torture, death, cursed rabble,” Dr. Rice couldn’t hide her irritation. “But uh, what about the erm…?”
“Patience, my Greedy One! My treasure will be yours as soon as you take the diaries to the old -”
Wait!!” She started to protest. “Uh, hold it right there, Colonel! Did you just say SEWAGE PIPE? My uh, fees, have just gone up big-time!”
Chapter Three: The Hook
I vanish from sight. I am in the Sahara, of course, where Taureg tribesmen give me shelter. Allah bless and keep the Tauregs and may their souls fly straight to Janna for their hospitality! I travel light – with a hundred or so bodyguards. And no, if you are wondering, not my female guards. Ha! Those over-coiffed beauties have long since returned to the families that spawned them! These men are my personal bodyguards and have promised to protect me or die at my side. To show my respect for the Tauregs, I have taken to wearing my white high-collared ‘Dr. Evil’ jacket, complete with clip-on military ribbon, and a traditional Arabic flowing cloak or bisht, in dyed peach camel hair. -MG
Dr. Rice looked around her sitting room and her eyes settled on her Asprey of London walnut and chromium-plated drinks trolley, where a solid silver corkscrew, courtesy of the Sultan of Brunei, was propped up on the top shelf, waiting to drill open the next bottle of vintage wine. She had already decided on the Premier Cru Château Margot, which she would savor as soon as the visiting apparition of Moammar Gaddafi had gone. But the Colonel showed no sign of leaving, and she was anxious that even after playing Great Balls of Fire, he would not do the decent thing and disappear.
“Leezza”, he said, following her trail of vision, “you have beautiful trinkets, but my treasures will outshine them all.”
“Colonel, don’t bullshit a bull-shitter! Dr. Rice fumed. “Now, uh, what am I supposed to do with those ridiculous diaries?”
The Colonel addressed her slowly, as if speaking to a child: “My sweet viper, do not worry your pretty head now – I will instruct you further the night before you leave on your rescue-mission.”
“And why give me – your ‘beautiful, strong African women’, the task of uh, hacking my way through a filthy, stinking sewage pipe…”
“My Gentle Flower, you are the only one voracious enough for the task.”
“…in a hostile country?”
“Dear lady, you have done worse things during your time in office.”
Gentle Flower started to protest, but the ghost continued with a sneer: “Everyone I trusted is now dead, captured or in hiding. The treasure is yours, when you allow the world to hear my story.”
Dr. Rice noted with relief that the flickering outline of the Colonel seemed to be on the wane, even without the help of Jerry Lee.
“Let me think about it,” she snapped, and, licking her dry lips, marched across the room to the baby grand, where she hit the keys and belted out:
You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain
Too much love, drives a man insane
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Colonel disappearing…
You broke my will, oh what a thrill
Goodness Gracious, Great Balls of Fire!
Chapter Four: The Journey
We could easily escape across the border into Algeria, and some of my offspring have already scurried there like desert rats, waiting for me to join them. COWARDLY CURS!! They are no longer my children!!! My people still love and need me, so I make the decision to return to Sirte, my birthplace. Whatever the outcome Allah has in store for me, I am determined to become a martyr and symbol of defiance for my country. Today, I have chosen the red silk cargo pants, coupled with the purple, brocade shirt I wore for my London debut. And of course, my (green) Africa badge.
-MG
On the plane to Tripoli and carrying a false Canadian passport under the name Jamila Hasbini, aged 45, born in Sudan, Dr. Rice rummaged inside the hidden pockets of her customized black abaya, for the hipflask filled with rum. She had decided to travel with Abdullah, one of her Sudanese business school students. Hell, she had reasoned, some unsuspecting fall guy would be needed to smuggle the booty back. She had picked Abdullah, as he was desperate for a passing grade, easy to manipulate and, best of all, a fan of the most groveling kind. She had discovered this last quality when she had once humiliated him in front of his fellow students, and he had waited for hours after her classes had finished, to thank her personally.
“Doctor Rice,” piped up Abdullah from the seat next to hers, “May I say, once again, how truly honored I am that you have chosen me to escort you on your cultural visit to Libya.”
Dr. Rice was forced to answer, “Abdullah, SHUT the fuck UP! And, uh, don’t call me Doctor Rice. It’s Auntie Jamila, got it?”
“Yes, Auntie. Thank you, Auntie!” He meekly obeyed, shut the fuck up, and turned to his computer games for the rest of the trip.
Their journey, via Beirut, had required a few bribes but she had promised herself to make up for any lost outlay, with some serious diamond-digging. During the flight, she set to work, studying her maps and notes, drawn up and scribbled down during the last visitation from her ghostly admirer.
“Leezza”, the Colonel had pitched, the night before she traveled, “Can you see how beautifully the diamond star cluster will glow against your divine African skin?”
Once the plane had touched down, Jamila Hasbini suffered an attack of hiccups and almost choked on the peppermints she kept handy to mask any alcohol fumes. Already, her non-crease abaya was giving her trouble, scratching against her skin and almost tripping her up in the plane’s narrow aisle. She reflected on the absurdity of her situation, but her sparkling babies in their steel cradle needed company, and it was her duty to fill the coffers.
“If you are uh, leading me up the garden path,” she heard herself say to Gaddafi’s ghost at their last meeting, “I will exact my revenge. You know I have the goods on you…in fact, uh, dirtying your reputation would be kinda fun.”
“Leezza, Leezza, I ADORE the way your mind works!” the Colonel had gloated, before explaining exactly where the sewage pipe was located.
In a shared taxi to Sirte, Jamila Hasbini emitted a smell of sweat, Cuban rum, and Murphy’s Piano Oil Soap, an interesting odor, which no amount of deodorant or peppermint could hide. The journey was long – three hundred miles from the capital, Tripoli, but her abaya, which covered her entire body, apart from her eyes, helped her blend in and avoid any unwanted scrutiny from her fellow passengers. Underneath the hot, itchy swathes of her gown and facemask, Auntie Jamila, was restless and fidgeted in the dust and the grime of the decrepit old Mercedes taxi. There was nothing smooth about their drive. Every time the taxi stopped in front of a makeshift checkpoint, which was often, jubilant gangs of untidy youths, ordered her to produce her fake passport, but when she handed it over with her usual impatience, they hardly glanced at her, or her traveling companions. Throughout the trip, her newly acquired nephew was mercifully silent. Good boy! She considered Abdullah house-trained.
Chapter Five: The Smelly Unknown
Curse the infidels for their bombs, which fall, day and night, on my beloved Libya!! Our journey will not be easy, but in my home village of Sirte, my men will fight bravely, and I shall be able to restore my dignity by wearing fashionable clothes. Wearing rough camel-driver clothes is, for a great leader like me, UNACCPTABLE! Today, I am teaming my crimson brocade pants with a black, leather, flying jacket. And to protect my eyes from the desert sand? Well, it can only be the Oakley A-frame ski goggles in matte white, with persimmon lens. –MG
Jamila and Abdullah, auntie and nephew, arrived in Sirte five hours after leaving Tripoli. Night had fallen but there was a full moon. Perfect. But this place! Dr Rice looked around in disgust at the crumbling village, while wild dogs howled from the nearby desert. They ate hurriedly in a dingy hotel dining room, the forlorn building’s lobby barely standing, amid piles of sand-colored rubble. No alcohol on the menu, but she still had some rum left in her hipflask and a bottle for later that she had packed inside Abdullah’s luggage without his knowledge.
In her room, Jamila Rice sipped the hipflask’s last dregs and went over the Colonel’s checklist, but not before inwardly cursing his deranged instructions:
“My Beauty, when you reach the sewage pipe, you must crawl on your hands and knees, yes, crawl, little lady –haha! And nevermind, it is dry! You will find the diaries – mine, and Rafik’s – twelve meters from the south exit, lodged behind a fake cement pocket in the ceiling. Take the diaries to the old street musician whose name and address is written inside. My Flower, before you ask, yes, it is written in English. In exchange for the diaries, he will give you the key to my safe hidden beneath the statue of Minerva in the Byzantine room of the National Museum. I will leave it to your deviousness, my dark angel, to smuggle the booty back home.”
She had decided that night, over a glass of Montrachet ’89, to travel to Libya with the Colonel’s hideous banjo gift, and smuggle the jewels in its bulbous, wooden body or perhaps in its hard, leather case. And if her plan went wrong, well, Abdullah could be thrown to the wolves. In fact, she reasoned, a short prison term might even improve his grades.
Cheerful now, as she recalled her smuggling plan, Dr. Rice found herself licking her lips, in anticipation of her precious babies, and at the memory of the wine. But now, to work! She changed out of her abaya and into something more suitable for sewer crawling – jeans, t-shirt, sneakers, and a black and white checkered keffiyeh to bind around her head. Loading a backpack with a flashlight, a map, a pair of thin leather gloves and a nail file from her manicure set, she sneaked past the hotel concierge and into the north-African night. A tune was playing in her head – Shirley Bassey’s Gold Finger…If she could just focus on the diamonds, this unpleasant business of the sewage pipe would be over in no time.
When she arrived at the pipe, she was disappointed by its size. It was long and low and narrow. Damn you Colonel! She replaced the Gold Finger song, with Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain. Holding her breath, Dr. Rice put on her leather gloves, switched on the flashlight, took out her measuring tape and, on all fours, began her slow advance into the smelly unknown.
Chapter Six: The Diaries
We are in Sirte, yes, but far from safe. To avoid any stinky-assed betrayers, we are forced to keep on the move and sleep in a different place every night. One of my biggest problems is lack of a full-length mirror. This is intolerable! Oh, and another thing that makes my blood boil? I have not been able to shave in days!! Shameful that a great and defiant leader like myself should have to look like an ill-groomed peasant. Today, I am coordinating my black wool kaftan trimmed with gold brocade, with the camouflage silk cargo pants. Yes, it’s taking a risk, but isn’t that what fashion on the run is all about? -MG
Condeleezza Rice, former US Secretary of State and lately, IN a state, crawled and inched her way through the darkness of a Sirte sewage pipe, on her hands and knees, without the help of a hipflask. Around her, the cement structure was littered with cans – opened and sealed – cigarette butts, pills of various shapes and colors, and other kinds of stinking debris that she did not care to analyze. Islands of rotting food dotted the length of the pipe, but the rest of the floor was dry – dusty in fact, which caused her to sneeze. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she recognized a family of cockroaches, shiny and scurrying, and no doubt breeding quite happily, beneath a rusting tin of hummus. She was prepared for rats, but none appeared. Too damn well fed, she thought. She had fixed the start of the measuring tape at the south entrance, and with the aid of her flashlight, was counting out the distance from the opening. After five meters of crawling, tiny shreds from her leather gloves began sticking to the rough cement and sharp edges of the metal containers lining the sewage pipe floor. Leezza, honey, no-one deserves a paraffin wax manicure, as much as you do, she repeated to herself, as she edged her way through the tubular hell-hole. When she had counted out twelve meters, she raised her hands above her head and gingerly felt for the cement pocket promised by her deceased admirer.
Where was that damn hiding place? She felt nothing.
In every direction, the cement ceiling felt smooth to her touch and her upturned flashlight showed no visible crevices or cracks. Dr. Rice was becoming furious, courtesy of the dead Colonel, but never mind, she could take out her rage on the living. Abdullah would do nicely.
She tested the cement one last time and took off a tattered glove to trace her bare fingers over the curved walls, before suddenly and triumphantly making out the thinnest of cracks, not above her head, but at eye level.
Yes! Colonel, I want to KISS you! The thought flashed through her head, but was immediately followed by a yawn.
Half an hour later, she had rescued both diaries from their cement prison. Dr. Rice dusted herself down and began to hum Shirley Bassey’s Big Spender, but as she started loading the diaries into her backpack, her flashlight dropped from her grasp and landed on the floor, casting a large and familiar shadow on the concave wall, which flickered and grew in the semi-darkness. She was forced to call out. “Colonel, uh, is that you?” She thought she heard a muffled sneer, but it was just a box of pills, which had been dislodged by the fall.
In the early hours of the morning, in a flea-pit hotel, in the decimated town of Sirte,
Abdullah Qasim, failed business student and Play Station enthusiast, was woken up by sporadic peals of drunken laughter, punctuated by loud hiccups, coming from his professor’s room. He rose quickly, knocked on her door and called out:
Auntie Jamila ma’am? Are you ok?”
“Get the fuck –hic- back to sleep, you nerdy little D-grader freak- hic! she shouted back her answer, in a voice hoarse from alcohol.
Abdullah smiled and retreated back to the quiet of his own room, where he sighed contentedly and lay back down to sleep.
Chapter Seven: The Statue
Everywhere we stay, my driver, Rafik, carries my five-piece leopard-skin luggage set. Inside, I keep my photos, important letters, and my favorite collection of medals. Some infidel newspapers have reported that in these very suitcases, I keep a huge amount of Viagra for my personal use. THIS IS A LIE! I have NEVER needed that kind of western aid, as I have the stamina of ten thousand camels! Women are not in my thoughts at all, because, they are all shamootas! There is only one woman I respect, apart from my mother, and that is the US Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice. When this magnificent African woman came to Tripoli, I wore something special to honor her visit – a yellow brocade bisht with a matching gold-plated bandana – and I wear it now, while writing this entry. -MG (Colonel)
At the National Museum of Tripoli, Dr. Rice waited until the last visitor had gone from the Byzantine room, before approaching the life-size marble statue of the goddess Minerva, circa first century AD, which was displayed on a tall circular podium. Dr. Rice had the key, given in exchange for those tiresome diaries, which would open the safe concealed inside the marble stand. She was dressed once more in her abaya with the secret pockets, but in case she needed muscle and a scapegoat to help hide the jewels, Abdullah was outside at the ready, with the lute and its hard, black leather case. A guard in military uniform, and carrying a rifle, passed by the entrance, but she darted behind a column, and he walked on. Quickly now, she ran up to Minerva, felt around the marble base, and at once identified a square outline at the back of the podium, the size of a small bathroom window. But however hard she tried to prize open the flap, using her fingers and nail file, nothing budged. Damn!
“Come on Leezza baby,” she whispered encouragingly to herself, while looking up to
Minerva as if pleading for divine intervention. “What the hell has a girl gotta do?”
Minerva answered her back instantly, by sending her a stark mental image of a rubber plunger. Brilliant! But where to find one, apart from a toilet or kitchen? Abdullah! she remembered, and raced off to find him.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back at the museum with a plunger and she resumed her task in the Byzantine room by fixing the rubber cup to the back of the podium, pulling gently on the long handle and suctioning out the marble flap. With her hand shaking, she removed the marble square and peered inside the podium, where she could just make out the safe’s metal door, gleaming in the dark.
Her baubles were so close now. And in her head, Shirley was singing:
The minute you walked in the joint….
She began turning the key in the lock…
I could see you were a real big spender
Inside, dozens of small cardboard boxes were stacked together…
Good looking…. so refined!
She pulled out the nearest box out, shook it, and what sounded like hundreds of tiny stones colliding into each other, set her tongue sliding over her dry lips in anticipation.
Now wouldn’t you like to see, what’s going on in my mind?
Trembling noticeably now, with the proximity of her new babies, Dr. Rice fumbled with the lid of the box, trying her best to open it and reach inside. But suddenly her hand slipped, and, as she gasped in horror and looked on helplessly, its contents spilled out onto the cold marble floor, where they landed noisily before racing off unchecked, in every direction.
Chapter Eight: The Reckoning
The enemy is closing in on us, and I have been wearing the same foul-smelling Vivienne Westwood orange jumpsuit for many days. My morale is low and only photos and mementos of my former life give me pleasure. Oh, and not to forget, my personal gold-plated pistol, which is smooth and cool to the touch and which I polish constantly. Every night, I go through my suitcase, choosing one photo from my glory days where a handsome, regal man wearing his best hand-picked outfit looks back at me. Yes, I view these images now with bitterness in my heart and, because I am a humble man, I cry and sob like an innocent baby. CURSE the world! Curse my ungrateful countrymen after all I have done for them, and a scabby pox on Westerners! How have I ever deserved their shabby treatment of me? Infidels, Kafir!! Haneek rabbak – I’ll fuck your god! On a more serious note, I deeply regret that I did not purchase the same Westwood jumpsuit, in black, blue or grey.
Dr. Rice was pacing her living room, cocktail in one hand, the other curled into a tight fist, which she slammed lightly against the wall, just below the painting of a clown, a birthday gift from some forgotten third world potentate. Pacing and slamming had no effect, and after ten minutes of pointless exertion, she sat down at the piano and hammered away at the keys. The Sting failed to bring the Colonel back.
“Colonel!” She shouted, smashing down on the keys one last time, with the full force of her rage. “Explain yourself, you pathetic pers -uh -ghost!”
Nothing. She drained her glass and tried again.
“Colonel, explain why that uh, marble statue was full of VIAGRA PILLS and not diamonds!”
Not a sound. Her fury took over and she screamed at the air: “I did my bit. I waded through shit for you! Where the hell are my jewels?”
Silence. She got up to make another cocktail, took a deep breath, exhaled, and decided to change tactics. “Colonel, if you don’t get in here AT ONCE, I am going to enjoy ruining your posthumous reputation!”
The air stirred slightly. She continued, “I will let everyone know you were hooked on Viagra. Oh yeah, I have the proof remember?”
The air went back to its normal stillness. Dr. Rice made her way to the piano once more and sat at her stool. “Okay then, I will let the story leak that someone shoved a stick, in a certain place in your body, where the sun doesn’t shine. And you know where I mean, don’t you, Colonel?”
Was that a small black spot appearing on her polished piano? She couldn’t be certain. “I will let the world know about your Swiss bank accounts!”
No, it was nothing.
“And your secret donations to all those little bunny rabbits at PETA. Oh, oh, and that donkey farm!”
Still nothing. “AND, that you bought all your underwear from that cheap retailer, Walma-.”
A nervous laugh came from behind her. And then a voice:
“Leezza! You amusing lady, but you wouldn’t dare! It would ruin their share price.”
She swung round to see the Colonel standing in all his Banana Republic glory, in her living room. Good – she had him now. She went on, “Yes, it would be easy to leak the news about the great Colonel’s tacky intimate apparel, hidden deep in the palace drawer.”
“Now Leezza – be careful.” The Colonel’s medals were shaking.
“Yes, let’s see now. A cupboard full of uh, white string vests. Oh, and maybe some Y-fronts – extra small of course. And made of polyester.”
“STOP!” he commanded. He looked beaten and his lips had formed into an ugly pout.
“Ha! And REVERSIBLE!” She continued victoriously.
“STOP! You win!” He looked down sullenly at the floor. “The jewels are in the oud.”
“In the what??” She was cautious now. “The jewels are in the what?”
“The oud – you know, the lute. THE LOOT IS IN THE LUTE!” He was shouting now. “Embedded in the wood.”
She was silent, trying to recall where she had left that damned ugly banjo. Abdullah must still have it.
“How can I trust you, Colonel, when you so clearly cheat?” She pressed him now.
“Dear Lady, how can I cheat when you have the string vests and the extra small, reversible, polyester Y-fronts, hanging, as the saying goes, over my head?”
For the first time since her return home, her lips felt dry. Yes! Close again to her babies. Just call up Abdullah, she told herself calmly – he has the lute. Actually, what the hell happened to the lute? Doubts about its whereabouts were beginning to nag at her. “You mean…all this time, those jewels were in that hideous lute you gave me ten damn years ago?”
“What safer place than with you, my beauty? The diamonds smuggled out on Air Force One, ready to retrieve on a state visit by me, or one of my representatives later. Ha! You know I have a thing for you Leezza!”
“So…all that crawling in the sewage pipe, in that shit-hole Sirte.”
In a rage, Dr. Rice launched herself at the Colonel but succeeded only in clawing at the air. She could hear him though, half sneering, half laughing.
“Love You, Leezza”, he called out in his oiliest voice.
Her last sight of the Colonel was, as he was disappearing, limb by limb, in the corner by her piano, but not before he had adjusted his plastic badge of Africa, whose color this time, she noted, was purple.
Chapter Nine: The Loser
I am a cursed man! My fighters are deserting me, and my people have already betrayed me. There is no refuge except this hellish space from where I write to you now. NATO bombs are falling, gunfire is closing in on us, and I must find a secure hiding place for this, my diary. I feel this is the end. I have commanded my driver Rafik to stay by my side and give himself up, should anything befall me. He has been loyal, and for his service I have bequeathed him my 5-piece leopard-skin luggage set. As for my children, they deserve nothing! In these final hours, what can I say about my life? I did it my way. Yes! But did I foresee ending up in a garbage-strewn sewage pipe, on the run, and wearing last year’s fashion? ABSOLUTELY NOT! – MG
Dr. Rice tapped out Abdullah’s number with trembling fingers, inwardly cursing herself that she had been sloppy back in Libya. She had already polished off an entire bottle of Château la Tour Blancs de Blancs ’87, and its full effect hit her as she waited for her student to pick up.
“Abdullah!”
“Doctor Rice, how wonderful to-”
“Shut up and listen.”
“Of course, Doctor Rice. Whatever you say, Doctor Rice. Thank you.”
“Listen, nerd, where the hell is that ugly thing, that instrument…that lute? Bring it over right now. In its case.”
“But…but Doctor Rice. It’s not here.”
She shivered when she heard his words, despite the numbing effects of the wine….
“Where the hell is it? And why the fuck is it… wherever the hell it is?” was all she could demand.
“Don’t you remember, Doctor. Rice? In the museum that day, Doctor Rice, ma’am? I had to find a plunger? Then you called me in, and you pulled the Minerva statue apart and dropped that box. There were blue pills everywhere. You were screaming at me. Then the guard came in and we had to run.”
“Go on,” she was almost sober now, and feeling sick. “Where uh, did you leave the lute?”
“There was no time to think Doctor Rice. I just dropped the lute and the case and ran. You didn’t ask for the lute or seem to care. Doctor Rice? Hello? Is everything ok, Doctor Rice ma’am?”
She allowed herself a long moment of silence before beginning her tirade.
“Is-everything-ok-Doctor-Rice-ma’am? She mimicked his every word, before drawing in a very deep breath and screaming:
“I AM GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU LITTLE FREAK! I AM GOING TO WHIP YOUR ASS AND KICK YOU TIL YOU’RE DOWN. AND THEN I’M GOING TO FAIL YOU WITH A F-MINUS AND FILE A REPORT SAYING THAT YOU HARRASSSED ME IN THE CLASSROOM. YOUR LIFE WILL BE A MISERY! YOU’RE A LOSER – A LOSER!!”
At the other end of the phone, Abdullah Qasim couldn’t believe his good fortune. It was a bonus that he was able to record his conversation with Doctor Rice, and now he listened with increasing ecstasy as she ranted and screamed in his right ear, her voice shrill with drunken rage. He, Abdullah Qasim, had been a very bad boy and later, in the privacy of his bedroom, and as a special treat, he would replay her every insult, every curse, over and over again, at full volume.
Postscript:
The Toronto Tribune,
Monday, October 22, 2018
A Canadian woman, 45, was arrested in Libya’s capital, Tripoli on Sunday night, and charged with breaking and entering the downtown palace of former dictator, Colonel Moammar Gaddafi.
Police were alerted when the woman was discovered inside Colonel Gaddafi’s private quarters, with a suitcase full of white, string vests, as well as dozens of pairs of polyester, extra-small Y-front underpants. Stacks of unmarked boxes containing large amounts of Viagra pills were also found nearby.
It is unclear why the woman, identified as Mrs. Jamila Hasbini – a Sudanese-born housewife from Alberta – was carrying Gaddafi’s preferred brand of underwear, which, police later confirmed, came from a well-known, international budget store. Mrs. Hasbini was also charged with being drunk and disorderly, assaulting an elderly street musician, and screaming abusive words aimed at Libya’s deceased tyrant.
Epilogue
Sirte, Libya, 21 October, 2011
Rabble, listen to me! I, Rafik Abu Ahmad, want you to know – no! I demand that you know – exactly how our great leader and Libya’s supreme patriot, Colonel Moammar Gaddafi, ended up lying in the dirt like a dog, covered in blood and filth! Yes, you worms – my hatred is without end – alif air bi tizak – a thousand dicks in your arse!!
Now he has no more use for his glorious body, I will tell you the story of his ending, so you can see how it really was – how bravely he resisted and how he was betrayed by his own people, those thankless donkey droppings and those who he protected so long from the degenerate West. But wait! Before I begin, let me just say a quick ‘God Damn America’! Yes, yes, that feels better. Now, listen to my story, you filth, and feel my brave Colonel’s spirit roar from where his lifeless body has been laid to rest among the dunes, hidden away from the sight of mankind, Djinn and beasts.
Rafik Abu Ahmad Al-Mazar – Libyan Patriot
The End