A Perfect Ending to the Book Tour
The book tour started two days later. South this time, toward Kazakhstan. Smaller towns. A six- or seven-hour drive between each. The cathedral was the main focus of each visit. Many of the locals were Muslim. The local priests were convinced Catherine’s message would show that Christians also understood the proper role of women. Crowds at Catherine’s presentation were smaller, but enthusiastic.
After each presentation Catherine moved to a guest house accompanied by the local priest. She and the priest had tea, her driver and guard went somewhere else for locally produced vodka. She and the priest spoke for a while, and eventually she said “yes.” The priest was grateful, the driver and guard were drunk. At sunup it was on to the next town, dust following their car in a long plume.
The last town on the schedule was Rubtsovsk. Possibly the ugliest town in Siberia. Certainly the driest. It sat just outside Kazakhstan and its endless desert. The cathedral was small, the mosques were large. Women walked the dusty streets fully covered. Catherine wondered if she should autograph her books with the little bit of Arabic she knew. The driver brought the car to the back of the cathedral. He parked. They waited until the dust had settled before getting out.
There to greet them was the largest priest in Christendom. He waved them into a small living area and offered them dinner. As they ate goat stew, he paged through a copy of Catherine’s book and pointed out elements he was sure the evening’s audience would surely appreciate.
“School children separated by gender. Of course. The local Christian school will adopt this immediately. It will make our school much more attractive to Muslims. And the vocational classes. We have many local women who could teach these classes and teach them well. I think you will have a very eager audience this evening.”
He smiled through darkened teeth mostly hidden under a wide mustache and long gray beard. Catherine smiled back and managed to eat most of her goat stew. Her driver and guard seemed to pay more attention to the vodka constantly poured for them.
Her audience was small, barely enough to fill a classroom attached to the cathedral. But the priest was right about enthusiasm. Every point the book made was attractive to them. If anything, mothers wanted girls out of school at a younger age. They could be taught women’s skills at home and be available to help their mothers with childcare. As for the boys, yes, marksmanship was an important skill. Catherine had to wonder if they would be shooting goats or Russians.
When the lecture was done, the priest went off with Catherine to a guest house, but not until after he sent the driver and guard to a different house, each carrying two bottles of local vodka. The priest left the lights off as he and Catherine entered a “house” that was really just a large room with a single bed.
“The vodka is augmented, of course. But we should give them an hour to drink it, just to be sure. While they drink, I have plenty of time to tell you about the Americans I met in Damascus and the plans we have worked out to get you over the border.”
Catherine put a finger over his lips, backed to the bed and pulled him on top of her.
“No need. I was sure the roadside bomb was bullshit. And I always knew you would come for me. Kazakhstan was the obvious entry point. And this was our last chance.”
She kissed him and wrapped her arms around his head.
“We will have thirty years for you to fill in all the details. What I want now is for you to shut up and fuck me.”
He did.
Author’s note:
The Museum of Oppression is real. The basement is largely as described in this book. The horrors of that basement are left for far better writers to describe.
