Around the World in 50 Years Read Online Free Page A

you.” He pointed to Barbara, blonde, full-figured, and glowing. I didn’t blame him a bit for wanting her, but we had to get out of this predicament without pissing him off, because a man who’d killed 15 pieds-noirs wasn’t going to think twice about shooting us dead if he felt he had been insulted by an American.
    â€œHow much will you pay for her?” I asked, emulating an ancient Arab custom in which wives were purchased.
    â€œHow much do you wish?” he countered, also following the custom, and I could see we were in for some hard haggling. And I could see that Barbara had stopped glowing.
    I asked him what he thought a fair price, and he offered 1,500 U.S. dollars, cash or gold.
    â€œWell, that’s a good start,” I answered. “But only for an average woman. It’s not enough for her. Barbara here is exceptional.” Exceptionally pale at the moment, I noticed.
    â€œHow much do you want?”
    â€œWell, we just couldn’t part with her for less than three thousand dollars. She’s no ordinary woman. Shining hair, nursing skills, nice disposition, and…”
    â€œAnd lots of meat,” the commissioner smirked. “All right, I give you two thousand. It’s too much for a woman, but since you’re my good friend, I’ll give it to you.”
    â€œI’m sorry, but we just couldn’t take less than three thousand, even from a good friend like you. We turned down twenty-seven hundred for her in Marrakesh from the Sultan’s half-brother. We have to send part of the money to her mother.”
    â€œYou do not bargain, Monsieur.”
    â€œThree thousand dollars is a bargain for a beauty like Barbara.”
    â€œAs you wish. All right. I take her.”
    We were astonished! My ruse had failed. I couldn’t conceive of anybody paying three thousand dollars for a woman outside of divorce court, but here it was. Barbara looked about ready to faint, when I recovered with, “But there’s one thing I forgot to mention, dear friend. You see, we’d planned to sell these women as a group. They all go together. And because you are our friend, you can have the other two at a big discount, only two thousand dollars each, seven thousand dollars for all three.”
    â€œNo, I do not want the other two. They are too skinny. Look,” he said, pinching Liz, who screamed. “No meat. All bones. Like a sick camel. I could not even get two hundred dollars for her from the nomads. I only want the big one.”
    â€œBut, you see, we have to sell them together. The one you prefer is the prize of the flock. You have excellent taste. You can understand why we need her to help us sell these other two miserable ones. Nobody will buy these scrawny chickens otherwise. Come on, special for you, as our friend, only seven thousand for all three.”
    We all held our breath while he thought it over.
    â€œNo,” he said finally. “No deal.”
    And so, with a collective sigh of relief, our group drove on to Algiers, the Kiwis sitting in the back of the Land Cruiser singing, at the top of their lungs, “Máori Battalion March to Victory.”
    Algiers buzzed with activity, none of it conducive to a pleasant visit. Under President Ben Bella it had become a center of anti-American propaganda and policies. We’d picked up its radio programs denouncing Americans as “imperialists, exploiters, fascists, and colonialists.” Ben Bella had opened Algiers to international revolutionary groups. Its streets teemed with young rebels from the Mozambique Liberation Front and the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola. The city was plastered with signs and billboards extolling sacrifice, praising Socialism, saluting the Soviets, thanking Red China, and damning America.
    Behind the flags and slogans, we detected unrest and discontent. High prices, low wages, half-empty stomachs, and disillusionment were rife. As were guns