Pru fastened the long-sleeved, ankle-length caftan and arranged her headscarf. Her Tai Chi practice had been, of course, in the privacy of her parents´ courtyard, since she was always naked or nearly so when she practiced. Now, after a shower and a leisurely breakfast, she guessed she´d timed her exit from her parents´ house correctly when it was clear that Friday morning prayers were over. Small groups of men and a few women wove through the narrow streets on their way to other things. She walked toward the souk, the central market area of the little Moroccan town.
She and her friends here in the village of Qalta took pleasure in occasionally re-creating the old modes of dress and public behavior. They were otherwise women of their time; one where equality and tolerance were the rule and religious strictures were viewed in an un-dogmatic way. The long garment sheltered her somewhat from the hot sun, one of the original, practical reasons for the style. As she walked, she noticed the men looking at her, most surprised and some approving to see the old-style garment she wore. With a grin, she would look down demurely in the old Arab style. Some of the women who saw her frowned; it had taken almost a century to escape the rigid codes, and they really didn´t want to go back.
In the souk, Pru saw Jazira looking over the selections at a fishmonger´s stall. Her friend wore the more modern kilt with a loose cotton shirt against the sun and her head bare except for a sun hat. Her earring announced that she was married. Pru went over and touched her, and the smaller, darker-skinned woman shrieked a greeting, embracing her.
The market was in the main square of the village, stalls of vendors shaded along the perimeter of the square by awnings and in the center of the square by open-sided marquees. Wares were displayed to catch the eye, and the stall keepers were vigilant for buyers. Except for bits of technology and the eternal evolution of things on offer, the market had not changed in places like this for thousands of years. There were, however, few thieves because the ever-present scanners sensed the CIDs of visitors, and could note when something had not been paid for.
They went the rounds of the market buying various things Jazira needed, for which, even here outside the Controlled Area she paid with a quick scan of the CID implant in her forearm. Towards noon, they settled at a coffee shop for snacks and tiny cups of dark, sweet coffee.
“Tell me how you are,” Jazira said to her friend. “And, how long you´ll stay. And, why you wear that awful stuff? The Wars are over, by the grace of Al´lah.”
Jazira referred to the Hadith Wars of the late 22nd century, several generations of sometimes-bloody strife. They had ended with the acceptance by nearly all Muslims that the Koran should be interpreted in the light of contemporary mores, just as it was when it was revealed to the Prophet. The sweeping changes had included not only interpretation of the Koran and of the Hadith – the sayings of the Prophet – but a New Rationalist approach to all the various means of interpreting the teachings and religious laws of Islam. The result was a reduction of the usually unspoken strife between Sunni and Shia as well as other schismatic sects. Only a reduction, of course, but most Muslims had eventually recognized that continuing the divisive hatreds stemming from something that happened in 643 C.E. did not support the Prophet´s goal of ever-widening acceptance of Islam.
At the heart of the changes, of course, were the women. As more women became educated, and as birthrates leveled off, women gained more influence. More and more women became sheiks and imams and in general began to exercise a moderating influence.
It had taken many years to reach a coherent resolution. The change had not been peaceful: the Hadith Wars had claimed many lives. Only the most obvious of the changes Jazira referred to was the position of women in society and the definition of modesty in dress.
Pru responded selectively, “I´m just fine, and I´m here for a couple of weeks. I´m changing jobs and I needed some time off before I start a new one. And, you know as well as I do that a caftan is practical in this climate.”
Jazira ignored that, boring to the real issue. “And what is it this time? A new business, a start-up?” she asked. She was the one who now operated the medium-size logistics company her husband, Zahlman, had begun before their marriage. They owned a number of freight lifters, and employed quite a few people to help deliver goods to and produce from local OC farmers and the long-established seaports to the Tangiers-Ceuta CA. The company´s growth in the past year or so had largely been her doing.
“I´m going to work for a running and successful training company with locations in 15 countries,” Pru said. “I´ll be taking the training for a few weeks – an intensive course – then I´ll try to be Chief Operating Officer. The company‘s about three times as big as my old one, and I´m excited.”
They talked for a half-hour, then, carrying Jazira´s parcels in their net bags, walked through the narrow streets toward her home.
The aged wooden gates opened into a small courtyard paved in stone. An ancient, gnarled tree stood at one corner of the building, with well-tended beds of local grasses and plants at the foundations. Near the entrance, a pool of water, fed by a constant inflow of water over a small channel, glistened. A few carp moved lazily in the shade of a strategically placed bush.
They crossed the sun-warmed paving to enter the old-style stucco and stone residence. Inside the thick walls, the rooms were high, dim and cool with wide, well-shaded windows, furnished with rugs and sofas and chairs in the Moroccan fashion of a bygone era. But, it was all tasteful, clean and new. Only the concept spoke of another age.
Jazira took off her hat, shirt and kilt and hung them on a hook near the door. Typically, she did not remove her knife. Pru hung up her caftan and headscarf. Underneath she wore only a short, sleeveless, scoop-neck shift that barely covered her. She had found the undergarment served to absorb the sweat caused by the relatively heavy traditional garb. Her knife hung at the back of her neck, since the caftan restricted access at the sides. She re-fastened it at her waist. Few people went anywhere without these conventional, though deadly, weapons.
“You´ve put on a little weight,” Pru observed. The other woman´s body was brown and taut, with only a hint of roundness in some of the most attractive places.
“Only about two kilos. Zahlman likes it. You haven´t.”
Once the parcels were put away, they went into the main room with glasses of juice and settled down to a more serious chat.
“Tell me how it is with Zahlman,” Pru asked, after more urgent matters had been covered.
Jazira´s mood darkened. “All right, I guess. We´ve been married a year now, so I guess things are sort of settling down.”
“What is it, Jazz? And, where is Zahlman, anyway? You two used to be almost inseparable.”
Jazira shrugged. “Yes, we were.” She looked across the room at nothing visible. “He´s off with his friends in the country. It´s Friday afternoon and we´re closed until Sunday.”
“And what does he do with these friends, Jazz? Is he drinking or is this a football thing?”
Like all the local men, Zahlman was a football fan. Even Jazira had been an enthusiastic player in local women´s football leagues, and Pru had often watched her, clad in briefs and a sports bra, leading swift and skillful attacks against the opposing goal. It was a sport she loved and as time went by, she had begun coaching local youngsters in her spare time.
“Not football; damn it. He´s off in the hills – do you remember the Wadi Felucca?”
It was a ruined, abandoned town deserted since the migration to the Controlled Areas throughout the area.
“Yes, I remember. We used to go there and play hide and seek with our boyfriends.”
“That was a long time ago, and we did more hiding than seeking.” She leered briefly, but quickly sobered. “No, Zahlman´s out there with some friends of his. He spends most of his spare time there lately. I´m pissed off and I´m worried.”
“Why worried?”
“Well, they´re doing scary stuff. They go out there and they play war games. Zahlman´s got a toy that looks just like those old slug-throwers we had in The Yemen. Only it shoots paint pellets. You get hit; you´re supposed to play dead. This weekend, they´re staying out on an ‘overnight exercise´. That´s what he called it.”
Pru frowned and looked at Jazira. “Have you looked at this ‘toy´ of his?”
“Yeah, from what I can tell, it won´t take much to turn it into a real slug-thrower. I mean, it really is a slug-thrower modified to shoot paint. He says it´s just a toy, but I know a weapon when I see one.”
Pru knew this was true. “Have you told anyone about this?”
“Who´s to tell? Zahl´s been kind of quiet, too. Distant.”
“Not paying attention to you?”
“I´m not getting what I need, Pru. He´s away too much, mostly with the business of course, but now this. I don´t seem to hold his attention. And, I miss him, Pru. We were always closer than this.”
“Is it political, Jazz?”
“I think his friends may be. He´s not. He´s talking a lot more about Islam, though – the old-style Islamist stuff. I´m concerned, Pru. I mean, I´m a Muslim too, but not in the old-fashioned sense.” She smiled and pointed to a book on the table. “I even have one of those Syriac-Aramaic versions of the Koran. It´s really different than the official version and they used to say it was heresy. The Wars really changed things, but Zahl seems to be forgetting that.”
Pru knew Jazira was a liberal thinker. She thought for a moment. “Some people are good at appealing to tradition, even when it no longer relates to the real world. And, a lot of other people fall for it without thinking too much. You need a way to re-direct his attentions. I never knew a man you couldn´t do that for. You used to have them standing in line.”
“Well, I need to do something. I don´t want him in trouble, and he´s naïve enough to fall for some line or other. Besides, I love him. We decided on a traditional marriage for our first contract term, and I´m happy with that. So is he, but if things stay the way they are, I´ll be looking for modification when the five years are up.”
“Let me think about it. Meantime, tell me about your mother.”
They talked for some time, and Pru´s thought processes ground away behind the chatter.
“Jazz,” she said finally. “Something interesting happened just before I came out here.” Jazira looked at her. “I met a man – I´m sure you guessed that.”
“You certainly look as though you´ve been enjoying yourself.”
“Yes, well, this is a little different, and a little strange. The first time I was with him, I nearly went out of my mind… no, wrong metaphor. I had an experience like nothing I´ve ever had with a man. I came out of it as high as if I´d been smoking that hubble bubble of hash we used to share. He says it was because of a new approach to sex that he teaches.”
“You went to a sex counselor? What the hell do you need one for?”
“No, he´s not a counselor. He has this philosophy of sex; it´s called Neo-Tantra. One of the things it teaches is how to get high on orgasms and how to get your partner high with you. That´s what happened to me. You wouldn´t believe it.”
“You´re right. I don´t.”
“Well, look, Jazz. This outfit, Neo-Tantra, has an office in the Ceuta Sector; I told you they´re all over the world. How about tomorrow, we go there and see what they have to say?
“That´s your new job, right, Pru? This guy got you singing, and now you´re going to run this company that teaches fucking.”
“It´s a good job, Jazz, a real one. I´m sure of that because I´ve seen the numbers. As for how the sex stuff works, I´ll learn more about that when I take the course. What do you say; shall we go and see what the pitch is? I´m kind of curious, myself.”
“He hasn´t given you the pitch?”
“No, just the high.”