Beloved Gomorrah

by Justine Saracen

  “Ugh. What is it about men that makes them want women to be submissive?”

  “Because we’re stronger, period. There’s a reason we’ve always run things—corporations, armies, countries. If you want to know why men are in charge, just try arm-wrestling with one.” He unbuttoned and pulled off his soiled shirt and rolled it into a ball. “Has Jibril done the laundry recently?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been paying attention. You can ask him.”

  Bernard dropped the ball of shirt onto the floor and scratched the patch of hair at the center of his bare chest. His pectorals were getting flabby, she noted.

  “Anyhow, next time, make sure he gets all my shirts,” he said, his tone softening. His expression, too, became gentler and he approached her. “Look, this thing with Joanna. I don’t know how she managed to get her hands on you, but it’s over now. Things are back the way they’re supposed to be. Starting next month, the big checks will start coming in again, and you’ll see that this flirtation happened because you were bored.”

  He slid his arm around her waist. “You know, seeing you two together was a shock but also a turn-on. I’ve got a nice hard one right now, so let’s go celebrate your new movie with a little male dominance. I’m so horny I could do it twice.” He pressed against her from behind, his erection obvious. Arguments, especially the ones he won, always aroused him. They also made him stink, and she pivoted away from him. “I don’t think so.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I could force you.”

  “You’ve already forced me, by tying my cooperation in bed to my career. It’s as if I’ve been on the casting couch for twenty years. I’ve always given you what you wanted, even when it was rough or strange. Come to think of it, it’s been strange from the beginning, and I’m fed up with it. You can jack off tonight, as rough as you want. I’m sleeping in the guest cabin.”

  She took the first step down the spiral staircase and looked back over her shoulder. “And I’m not signing the contract.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Joanna assembled her tools, made lists, cleaned her worktable—anything to block out thoughts of Kaia and Bernard.

  “Hello?” Someone called from the open doorway of the workshop. An Egyptian in a suit. Nice looking with a full head of graying hair and, like so many Egyptian men of his age, a well-trimmed mustache. Omar Sharif plus thirty or so pounds. The man stepped inside and held out his hand, first to Charlie, then to her. “Rashid Gamal. Pleased to meet you. I’m from the project committee.”

  Joanna brightened. “Are you here to assign us another site in place of the one that disappeared?”

  “Unfortunately not. The committee is still working that out. You see, the Ministry of the Interior issued a specific area of the reef for our use, and now that a portion of it has collapsed, we have to request additional space.”

  “What!?” Charlie expressed the anger they both felt. “You mean we still have no place to exhibit just because one of your engineers was clumsy enough to destroy a part of the reef?”

  Gamal raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “There is no need to be upset, Mr. Hernie. Your own piece is already installed, as you know. As for relocating Miss Boleyn’s fountain, you must be patient. The committee extended your deadline, so I suggest you simply complete the work, and by then the matter will have been settled.”

  Joanna was not reassured. “Is that what you came here to tell us?”

  “Uh, no. In fact, it is my job to, shall we say, monitor the displays to ensure their, um, political and religious neutrality.”

  Joanna frowned. “But the designs were reviewed months ago. Everything was approved.”

  “Yes, I know. That was on the basis of their suitability for the exhibit. But we must still determine whether they give the right message.”

  “Message? Excuse me, but what does that mean? The message of the fountain is ‘Fountain.’”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. But please understand. One of the purposes of this exhibit is to help bring Egypt into a cosmopolitan worldview without destroying its Arabness. There is Western influence all over Egypt—modern hospitals, universities, businesses, and hotels. But the countercurrents of conservatism are powerful, and we must be sensitive to them.”

  Joanna set one fist on her hip. “You really think that your bearded Islamists are going to put on wetsuits and dive down to scrutinize the political correctness of each piece?”

  Gamal chuckled patiently. “No, but they will see pictures of them in the newspapers, and they will hear about them in the mosques. We just do not want to step on any toes.”

  “The Brotherhood’s toes, you mean.”

  “If you must put so fine a point on it, yes. But Egypt has several conservative religious groups, and they all fundamentally demand the same thing, that Islam be respected.”

  “Well, the committee has already seen my designs, but I’ll show them to you again.” She fetched the rolled up drawings from under the worktable and laid them out. “Two basins, with a pipe in the center leading to a reservoir beneath. There will be a valve here,” she pointed to a spot slightly below the emerging pipe, “that will prevent a backflow of water into the reservoir. An intake pipe will emerge just here,” she pointed to a spot on the lower basin, “that will allow divers to blow air into the reservoir. When the pressure is sufficient, bubbles will emerge from the fountain.”

  Gamal tapped a finger on the drawing. “Clever idea. What about the statues?”

  She drew out two more sketches and laid them side by side. “These are the female figures that will be dressed in generic drapery. As you can see, two of them will be sitting at the fountain, and the third and fourth will be standing nearby. A male figure will be involved, but I haven’t finished positioning him.”

  “Gamal nodded approval. “Women around a fountain. Very nice. Biblical almost.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Would that be a problem?”

  “I shouldn’t imagine. Obviously we can’t have gods and saviors and crucifixes and madonnas. And of course there must be no representation of God or Mohammed. That would certainly stir up trouble.”

  “What about the Egyptian gods?” Charlie interjected. “One of our colleagues has a sculpture of the weighing of the heart in the underworld, with three or four gods.”

  Gamal chuckled again. “There are plenty of those all over the country, aren’t there? I’m sure a few radical imams would like them to go away, but this is Egypt. It’s who we are. No one’s going to object to Miss Zimmerman’s statues.”

  Joanna was pensive for a moment as she rolled up her drawings. “Would there be a problem if a scene were obviously and intentionally biblical?”

  “To the extent that the scene is a general message of morality, one that is common to both our traditions, that would certainly be acceptable. Who would ever object to that?”

  “Exactly,” Joanna said. “Who would ever object?”

  “Well, I am glad we have that settled,” Gamal said, and brushed imaginary dust off his hands. He straightened his jacket and gave a brief nod, suggesting a bow. “It’s been a pleasure. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.” Smiling, he let himself out of the workshop, passing Marion in the doorway.

  “Interesting,” Joanna murmured as the one departed and the other arrived.

  “What’s interesting?” Marion asked.

  “Assuming that Bible stories are always moral.”

  Marion looked nonplussed. “They’re not?”

  “Never mind that.” Joanna’s thoughts were elsewhere. “Charlie, have we got a drill bit for the sander?”

  “Of course we do. I did nothing but drill all the while you were recovering. What do you need it for?”

  “You’ll find out. But now let’s start on the first figure. Are you ready to be cast, Marion?”

  “Sure. As one of your girls?”

  “A goddess, actually.”

  “Fantastic!” Marion beamed. “Finally, someone who
appreciates me.”

  *

  “Everything taken care of?” Joanna asked.

  Marion counted off on her fingers. “Let’s see. Pee pee, ja. Hair in plastic, ja. Vaseline on skin, ja. Tubes hanging out of nose, ja. Everything is good.”

  “All right, then. So sit down here and be prepared to be imprisoned for half an hour inside a mask of goo. But listen. The dental alginate mixture will dry very quickly. We’ve got a window of opportunity of about ten minutes to apply it, but it will start to dry even while I’m working. Once we start, you can’t move at all.”

  “Fine. So less talking and more spreading.” Marion closed her eyes.

  Joanna dipped a spatula into the creamy concoction and laid the first smear over her forehead, then another over her eyes.

  “Scheisse. It’s cold.”

  “Hush. You can’t move your face muscles. You can only moan or grunt, okay? Moan for something bad, grunt if you agree.” She slathered another strip over Marion’s mouth, troweling it up with the palm of her hand toward her ear.

  “Uhn,” she grunted, apparently in agreement.

  Once the first thin layer was applied and there were no evident holes or bubbles, Joanna laid a netting of sisal over both cheeks to support the next layer.

  “How’s the breathing? You still alive in there?”

  “Uhn.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Joanna said. “So let me explain. Charlie made up the cement mixture we’re going to use for the actual casting. It’s the usual type-two marine cement, but he’s added a little sand, micro-silica, and fiberglass. Then we’re going to polish it smooth,” she added, laying on the creamy compound until Marion’s entire head was encased.

  “Sit still now. It’ll take about twenty minutes to set all the way through.”

  She’d turned to gather up the mixing tools when someone called from the open doorway, and she looked up, annoyed, as George Guillaume sauntered in.

  “Looks like you’re back to work again,” he said. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Joanna picked up the scratch knife and wiped it clean with a rag.

  “I just wanted to stop by and take a look at the competition.” George wandered around the shop, examining tools, poking at packages of materials.

  “Competition? We’re not competing, George. We’re all in the exhibit now. We’ve all won.”

  “Some people seem to have won more than others.” He held up a concrete sander. “Nice tool. Did you bring it or buy it here?”

  “Charlie bought it while I was recovering.”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “Not much. About 240 Egyptian pounds.

  “You were robbed. You should have asked me. I know how to deal with these people. You have to be tough with them or they’ll screw you. Don’t buy anything else until you’ve checked with me.”

  Joanna tapped gently on the drying cast on Marion’s head. Another few minutes and it would be ready. “Thanks, George, but I don’t need any help buying from Egyptians. Charlie and I do just fine.”

  “All right, then. Go ahead, keep on paying double. I don’t care. You seem to have enough friends here to help you, so maybe it’s worth it.”

  Joanna ignored him, focusing on inscribing a line with the knife along Marion’s neck past her ear and over her head to the other side. Marion twitched slightly when the rod passed her ear.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t nick you. I just need to make a cut where the mold will separate.”

  “Uhn.”

  George persisted. “No matter what you do, someone bails you out. I wish I had your connections.”

  Joanna turned around to face him directly. “George, what are you here for?”

  He scowled for a moment. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Ask me what? As you can see, I’m pretty busy.”

  George leaned his hip against the worktable, examining the sander. “Well, Gil said you asked the committee for a postponement and for a new site, and they gave it to you.”

  “Only the postponement. We still don’t have a site. Why are you asking?”

  “But you do know someone on the committee, right? Someone who decided on your case. A friend of yours, maybe?”

  “I don’t know who Charlie talked to about my case, but I can assure you I don’t have any friends on the committee. What do you want from them?”

  He shoved his hands deep in his pants pockets. “My exhibit is a plane crash. I’ve got some scrap airplane parts, fuselage, wings, torn-up seats, some luggage, and I have to drop them down in a nice pattern.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “It needs a wide area. Planes don’t crash in little patches.”

  “Didn’t they know that when you submitted the drawings? They’re supposed to coordinate the works with the space.”

  “Apparently not. They’re idiots. A bunch of Arabs on the take. I specifically requested the center of the town square, and they said maybe but then took it back and gave me a shitty narrow strip on a slope. And guess who they gave the prime space to? One of their own, of course.”

  “One of their own? What do you mean?” Joanna was losing whatever faint interest she’d had in the conversation.

  “Khadija, that Palestinian woman with her little propaganda scene of women and children and Israeli soldiers. Pure anti-Semitic politics. It just makes me sick.”

  Joanna declined to comment, recalling that George had gotten an invitation to the underwater city because his father had been on the USAID committee that had provided some of the financing. Yes, it was all politics, but there were different kinds of politics.

  George was still talking. “Anyhow, since someone on the committee already gave you a break, I thought you could ask him to help me out. It always helps to be female.”

  “No one gave me a break. I was mauled by sharks, didn’t you hear? And I still don’t have my space either.”

  “Yeah, well, you got a postponement, so obviously you have some good will on the committee. I’d like to have a little myself. Or is that only for Arabs and women?”

  “George, you aren’t even making sense, and you’re getting on my nerves. I can’t see that you’ve got a problem anyhow, and coming here and insulting me certainly won’t fix it. So please, leave me to my work. As soon as I’m done with this head casting, I’ve got to do the body, so I really don’t have time to talk.”

  “If you’re going to be such a bitch about it, I’ll confront them myself. But make a note that I’m not someone who lets people walk all over him.” He dropped the sander onto the table less gently than Joanna would have liked and stormed out of the workshop.

  Joanna shook her head to dispel the thought of him and tapped Marion’s plaster-encased head. “Good news. It’s time to take this off now.”

  “Umm!”

  She ran the scratch knife again along the separation line between the front and the rear parts of the casting and began separating them. After half a dozen tugs from each side, the two parts pulled away.

  “Wuhh!” Marion said, taking a deep breath of air. “Damned hot in there. Dark and hot. So, is it good?” She peered into the negative space inside the casting at her own face.

  “Looks great. If all the castings go this well, we’ll be right on schedule.”

  “Hey, girls!” It was Charlie, arriving with a sack of concrete over his shoulder. “Did I miss anything?”

  “No, we just finished the head.” She helped him unload the sack and slid it under the worktable. “And you’re here just in time. As soon as you and Marion are ready, we can start with the body.”

  “I’m ready, if I don’t have to cover my head again. That was half an hour of my life I never want to relive.” She ran her fingers through sweat-damp hair and rubbed her neck.

  “Don’t worry, this one is just standing in place for half an hour, but your head will be free. Maybe you should make another trip to the toilet, and wh
ile you’re there, strip to your underwear and put these on.” She held out two pieces of soft canvas.

  “The smaller one ties around the waist and the larger one drapes over the shoulder, comes around the back, and tucks into the waist. I’ll arrange it when you come out.”

  “Why is it so oily?” Marion examined one of the pieces with an expression of distaste.

  “To keep it from absorbing the plaster. Trust me. I learned that through a lot of trial and error. Oh, here, don’t forget the sandals.”

  “Ja, ja. Sandals.” Marion trudged off toward the bathroom scratching tiny pebbles of alginate out of her ear.

  Joanna turned back to the worktable and set up the mixing vat. “Your mixture worked fine for the head, but I’m going to use a coarser and tougher plaster for the body mold.” She measured out water in a bucket and handed him a standard wooden spoon. “Here’s where I can use your muscle.”

  “Ah, so good when a man feels needed.” Charlie began to stir the powder-and-water mixture until it had the consistency of creamy oatmeal. At his side, Joanna unwrapped a bundle of gauze cloths and dropped half a dozen of them into the mash.

  By then, Marion had returned in her generic desert-dweller clothing. Joanna adjusted the canvas drapery to her satisfaction. “Looks fine. Come stand over here in a position you can hold for about forty-five minutes. Weight on both feet. Okay? Now, hold both hands out in a sort of beatitude.”

  Marion complied, rotating her shoulders first to relax them, and struck a generic saint pose. “This good?”

  “That’s fine. Think ‘earth mother’ and you’ll be fine.”

  “How do you want to do this?” Charlie asked, taking hold of one of the gauze squares by two of its corners.

  Joanna took it from his hands. “We need to get a rhythm going. While I’m draping one batch of gauzes on her, you soak the next half dozen in the plaster so I have a steady supply.” She turned to Marion and draped the dripping patch over her chest and one shoulder.

  “Oh, that’s cold. Your statue is going to have hard nipples.”