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Pierre LaRue paced the length of his opulent foyer, his wife Claudette watching in amusement. This was his debut into Atlanta society and he was nervous beyond belief. Ever since he fled the color caste restricted hierarchy of New Haiti for the true liberty of Freedonia he'd worked long and hard for this moment. His cocoa complexion wouldn't stand the scrutiny of Haitian high society, but in Freedonia he was truly among equals in every sense.
Claudette grabbed his arm as he passed by her for the eleventh time.
"Calm down, Pierre!" she urged. "It's just a party. Everyone coming knows you and loves you."
Claudette's beautiful smile eased his tension. She looked like an angel in her stunning gown. He's sent her personally to Paris on a chartered airship to find it for he wanted everything to be perfect. He held her gloved hands in his then kissed her cinnamon cheeks.
"I know, I know mon cheri, but still I am nervous. You are used to such things. I'm just a carpenter's son.”
Claudette cupped her hands around his cheeks. "You're more than a carpenter's son. You're an intelligent handsome man that I love very much. With the exception of your hair you look magnificent."
Pierre ran his hand over his processed mane. "This is all the rage in New Haiti!"
Claudette rolled her eyes. "When this is over I'm shaving you bald myself."
Their laughter was interrupted by Horace, their butler. The tall stout man waited until they calmed.
"Monsieur et Madame, the guests are arriving.”
"Thank you, Horace." Pierre said. The handsome couple inspected each other one last time before following Horace to the foyer then then taking their proper places. The two took a welcoming pose as Horace opened the grand door, greeting each couple and dignitary as they arrived with platitudes and smiles. Pierre's apprehension disappeared as he assumed the role of host. This was his forte, the innate talent that won over the New Haiti aristocracy and lifted him from obscurity to become the leading purveyor of fine furniture in the kingdom. Unfortunately no amount of money or prestige would open the doors of Haitian society a man with such humble origins. Despite his marriage to Claudette Dubois, daughter of General Claude Dubois and confidante of the current king, Pierre was still refused recognition. His own father-in-law disdained him. He agreed to the marriage only because Claudette threatened to cut herself off room the family if not allowed.
Frustrated by his situation, Pierre brought his aristocratic wife and fortune to Freedonia in hopes of repeating his success. What he created exceeded even his grand dreams.
Pierre was about to shake hands with Atlanta's police chief Martin Turnipseed when an arresting sight caught his eye. A man entered the door, a tall man whose head was covered in a red turban. Elegant robes cascaded from his broad shoulders to his fine leather boots. He held an invitation in his left hand, an elaborate wooden box in his right.
"My, my, who is this exotic guest?" asked the police chief's daughter. Mary Turnipseed was a tall, willowy woman who made up for her thin frame with an effervescent personality.
"I must admit I do not know," Pierre said.
Horace led the man to Pierre and Claudette.
"Monsieur and Madame, may I introduce Famara Kieta, ambassador of Mali."
Pierre had to cover his mouth less he squealed with joy. Claudette's eyes widened.
"Bonsoir, Pierre and Claudette," Famara said. He shook Pierre's hand then kissed Claudette's. "Thank you for inviting me to your lovely home."
The couple looked at each other dumbfounded. Pierre didn't remember inviting any foreign dignitaries, but wasn't about to turn away such a pleasant surprise.
"Thank you for coming, ambassador," he finally said.
Famara raised his hand. "No formalities tonight. I am simply Famara."
"We're so happy you could join us," Claudette said. "You're French is perfect."
"We have some experience with the French in my country," Farama said. "Mostly bad."
Pierre hooted. "It seems Haitians and Malians have much in common."
Famara extended an exquisite box decorated with intricate carvings. "A gift for the lady of the house. It is a special coffee from my homeland. I hope we can share it with your guests after dinner."
"Of course!" Pierre said. "Horace, take this to the kitchen and have it prepared immediately."
Pierre was beside himself the entire evening. The guests danced enthusiastically, and the only person that outshone his beautiful Claudette was the gregarious and handsome Famara. His stories of his country and the Sahel were riveting; the ambassador was the perfect segue way for Pierre's surprise.
After a few vigorous rounds of dancing the guest retired to the sitting parlor. Claudette touched Famara’s hand for his attention.
"Farama, Timbuktu is located in Mali, is it not?" she asked.
The ambassador's eyes gleamed. "Yes it is."
Mary broke out in a giggle. "There's no such thing as Timbuktu!"
A look of dread came to Pierre's face. The silly woman was embarrassing. He expected an angry tirade from his guest but instead Farama smiled.
"As much as I hate to disagree with such a lovely woman, I must insist that Timbuktu is very real. I have visited many times. It lies not far from the banks of the Niger. It is an old and great city."
Mary's eyes widened. "Really?"
Farama moved closer to the naive debutante. "Yes, really. At one time it was the most important learning center in the world. Its libraries contained thousands of books."
Pierre’s took his queue. "Speaking of libraries, I have something to show you all that will confirm Farama's words."
He jumped from his seat. “Follow me please!”
Pierre led his small group to his library, picking up a few more curious guests along the way. They sauntered between towering shelves filled with leather bound books to a marble pedestal in the very back of the room. There, resting open was a book of obvious antiquity. Farama's attention was completely captured.
"Is this what I think it is?" he whispered.
"Yes it is, my new friend. This is a book from the library of Timbuktu!"
His guest gasped in unison. Claudette came to his side and clapped.
"Well done, my husband."
"You are a lucky man, indeed," Farama said as he continued to study the book. "How did you obtain it?"
"That I cannot share," Pierre replied. "All I can say is that nothing is beyond the grasp of money and determination."
Horace entered the room. "Excuse me, everyone. Dinner is served."
Pierre gestured toward the dining room. "Shall we?"
The guest followed Horace, with Pierre and Claudette leaving last. As they chatted and sauntered to dinner, Farama took one last look at the Timbuktu tome.
The dinner was an elaborate display of food and imagination. Again Pierre spared no expense, presenting a menu fit for every taste. The guest indulged in southern, Haitian and Creole cuisine washed down with the best wine France had to offer. For a moment he worried about Famara, but one glance at his Malian guest proved him in good hands. Ms. Turnipseed sat beside him, explaining every dish and practically putting the food in his mouth with her dainty hands. If the man wasn't careful he'd leave with a Freedonian wife.
After dinner they indulged in another round of dancing.
Mary grabbed Famara’s hand then attempted to pull him toward the floor.
“Come, show me the dances of Mali,” she said.
“I’m not a dancer,” Famara replied. “My duties don’t spare me much time for recreation.”
Mary kept tugging. “Then I’ll show you. I’ve been told I’m a good teacher.”
Pierre stepped in, pulling Mary away and spinning her onto the floor.
“My God girl, don’t be so forward!” he said. “It’s unbecoming.”
Mary stuck her tongue at him. “He’s an ambassador and I’ve always wanted to travel.”
“Patience, young lady,” Pierre advised. “Patience.”
The second round of dancing ended sooner than the first. Pierre led his guests to the parlor. The amazing aroma of Famara's coffee wafted throughout the house.
"If this coffee tastes half as good as it smells my life will be complete," Pierre remarked.
"It is very good coffee," Famara replied.
Martin Bush, Atlanta police chief, finally spoke. "I thought Mali was mostly desert."
Famara nodded. "A large portion of our country is desert, however along the Joiliba, I'm sorry; the Niger River there is much fertile land."
The police chief still looked skeptical, but that was his way.
Horace and the other servants finally appeared with the coffee. They distributed cups and saucers among the guests then filled them with practiced precision.
Pierre took a sip and his mouth exploded with earthly pleasure.
"My God this is outstanding!"
"Here, here!" Martin shouted in agreement.
Famara nodded.
"Horace, make sure you and the others have some of this exquisite brew as well."
Horace nodded. "Of course, monsieur." He and the other servants hurried back to the kitchen to indulge.
Claudette walked up to Pierre then, to his surprise, sat in his lap.
"This had got to be the best party I've ever attended! You've done a fabulous job, husband."
Pierre looked at his bride. Her lovely face blurred for a moment.
"Yes, yes it is." He shook his head but the blurring worsened. Claudette laid her head on his shoulder then he felt her full weight press against him.
"Mon cheri?" He lifted her slightly; she was fast asleep. Pierre craned his head around. The other guests were asleep as well, some stretched out on the floor. He tried to stand but dizziness pushed him back into his chair.
"What is going on?" he slurred. "What's happening?"
His eyes became heavy as lead. The last image he was before sleeping was Famara leaving the parlor, heading in the direction of the library.