The Exile Kiss (18 page)

And then the wind died, just as we emerged from the Budayeen onto the boulevard beyond the wall. Suddenly everything was quiet and calm again. The sky was still overcast, and the moon was a pale glow behind a silver cloud.
I turned to look back at the eastern gate. I don't be-lieve in prescience or premonitions, but I do recall the disquiet I felt as Kmuzu and I headed toward my cream-colored Westphalian sedan parked nearby. Whatever it was, I said nothing of it to Kmuzu. He is in every situation almost repellently rational.
"I want to get home quickly, Kmuzu," I said, waiting for him to unlock the passenger door.
"Yes, yaa Sidi." I got into the car and waited for him to walk around and get behind the wheel. He tapped in the ignition code and steered the electric car north on the broad, divided street.
"I'm feeling pretty strange tonight," I complained, leaning my head back against the seat and closing my eyes.
"You say that almost every night."
"I mean it this time. I'm starting to feel very uncom-fortable. Everything seems different to me now. I look at these tenements and I see they're like human ant farms. I hear a scrap of music, and suddenly I'm listening to some-body's cry of anguish lost in the void. I'm not in the mood . for mystical revelations, Kmuzu. How do I make them stop?"
He uttered a low-pitched laugh. "You could sober up, yaa Sidi."
"I told you, it's not that. I am sober."
'Tes, of course, yaa Sidi."
I watched the city slide by beyond my window. I wasn't up to arguing with him any further. I did feel sober and wide-awake. I felt filled with energy, which at four o'clock in the morning is something I hate a lot. It's the wrong time of day for enthusiasm. The solution to that was simple, of course: a largish dose of butaqualide HCL when I got home. The beauties would give me a few min-utes of delicious confusion, and then I'd fall out for a good night's sleep. In the morning, I wouldn't even remember this unpleasant interlude of clarity.
We rode in silence for a while, and gradually the weird mood left me. Kmuzu wheeled the car toward Fried-lander Bey's palace, which lay just beyond the city's Christian quarter. It would be good to get home, stand under a hot shower for a few minutes, and then read a little before going to sleep. One of the reasons I'd been staying in Chin's until closing time every night was that I wanted to avoid running into anyone at the house. At four o'clock, they'd all be sound asleep. I wouldn't have to face them until morning.
"Yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu, "there was an important call for you this evening."
"I'll listen to my messages before breakfast." "I think you ought to hear about it now." I didn't like the sound of that, although I couldn't imagine what the trouble could be. I used to hate answer-ing my phone, because I owed money to so many people. Nowadays, though, other people owed me money. "It's not my long-lost brother, is it? He hasn't shown up ex-pecting me to share my good fortune with him, has he?" "No, it wasn't your brother, yaa Sidi. And even if it were, why wouldn't you be glad to—"
"I wasn't serious, Kmuzu." Kmuzu's a very intelligent guy, and I've come to depend on him quite a lot, but he has this huge blind spot where other people have a sense of humor. "What was the message, then?"
He turned from the street into the gate to Papa's man-sion. We paused long enough at the guard's post to be identified, then rolled slowly up the curving driveway. "You've been invited to a celebratory dinner," he said. "In honor of your return."
"Uh huh," I said. I'd already endured two or three of those in recent days. Evidently, most of Friedlander Bey's minions in the Budayeen felt obliged to fete us, or risk having their livelihoods stripped away. Well, I'd gotten some free meals and some decent gifts out of it, but I thought all that had come to an end. "Who is it this time? Frepchy?" He owned the club where Yasmin used to work.
"A man of much greater significance. Shaykh Reda Abu Adil."
I just stared in disbelief. "I've been invited to have dinner with bur worst enemy?"
"Yes, yaa Sidi."
"When is this dinner, then?" I asked.
"After evening prayers tonight, yaa Sidi. Shaykh Reda has a busy schedule, and tonight was the only possible time."
I let out a deep breath. Kmuzu had stopped the car at the foot of the wide marble stairs leading up to the ma-hogany front door. "I wonder if Papa would mind if I slept late this morning, then," I said.
"The master of the house gave me specific instructions to make certain you attended him at breakfast."
"I'm definitely not looking forward to this, Kmuzu."
"To breakfast? Then eat lightly, if your stomach is still upset."
"No," I said with some exasperation, "to this dinner party with Shaykh Reda. I hate being off-balance. I don't have any idea what the purpose of this meeting is, and it's fifty-fifty that Papa won't see fit to tell me about it."
Kmuzu shrugged. "Your judgment will see you through, yaa Sidi. And I will be there with you."
"Thank you, Kmuzu," I said, getting out of the car. Actually, I felt better about having him around than I did - about my judgment. But I couldn't very well tell him that.
I'll always remember it as "The Day of Three Meals."
Actually, the meals themselves were not memorable— in fact, I can't remember much about what I actually ate that day. The significance comes from what happened and what was said across the three tables.
The day began with Kmuzu shaking me awake a full half hour earlier than I'd planned to get up. My alarm-clock daddy was set for half past seven, but Friedlander Bey had moved up the breakfast hour by thirty minutes. I hate getting up, whether it's bright-eyed, high-stepping, and resentful thanks to the chip, or sluggish, yawning, and resentful thanks to Kmuzu. I figured if Allah had wanted us up that early, He wouldn't have invented noon.
I also hate breakfast. Lately, however, I'd been shar-ing an early morning meal with Friedlander Bey about four times a week. I imagined that things would only get worse, as Papa loaded me with more and more responsi-bility.
I always wore conservative Arab dress to those meet-ings. I spent more time in a gayebeya than I did in blue jeans, work shirt, and boots. My former standard of dress hung on a hook in the closet, and silently reproached me every time I glanced that way.
The jeans were a constant reminder of what I'd given up since Papa'd tapped me with his magic finger. I'd traded away much of what I formerly called "freedom"; the irqnic thing was that every one of my friends would pay that much and more to have the luxuries I now en-joyed. At first, I hated Papa for the loss of my liberty. Now, although I sometimes still had twinges of regret in the dark night, I realized that Friedlander Bey had given me a great opportunity. My horizons had expanded far beyond anything I might have imagined in the old days. Nevertheless, I was acutely aware that I could decline neither the luxuries nor the new responsibilities. In some ways, I was the proverbial bird in the proverbial gilded cage.
The money was nice, though.
So I showered and trimmed my red beard, and dressed in the robe and keffiya that Kmuzu had chosen for me. Then we went downstairs to the small dining room.
Friedlander Bey was already there, of course, tended by Tariq, his valet. Kmuzu seated me at my usual place, and then stood behind my chair. "Good morning to you, my nephew," said Papa. "I trust you arose this morning in well-being."
"Il-hamdu lillah," I said. Praise be to God.
For breakfast there was a bowl of steamed wheat ce-real with orange peel and nuts; a platter of eggs; a platter of breakfast meats; and, of course, coffee. Papa let Tariq serve him some eggs and roast lamb. "I've given you sev-eral days to relax, O Excellent One," he said. "But now the time for rest is over. I wish to know what you've done to advance the datalink project."
"I believe I've got an excellent agent in my friend, Jacques. I did a favor for him, and now I think he's willing to do a small favor for me in return."
Papa beamed at me as if I were a prize pupil. "Very good, my son!" he said. "I'm delighted that you're learn-ing the ways of power so readily. Now let me show you K the datalink terminal you'll be using—rather, that your friend will be using." Tariq left the room and returned shortly with what appeared to be a hard-sided briefcase. He placed it on the table, snapped its latches, and raised the lid.
"Wow," I said, impressed by the compact design of the terminal, "that's a little beauty."
"Indeed," said Friedlander Bey. "It has its commlink built-in, as well as the conventional datalink printer. To save on cost, this model doesn't accept voice commands. Everything must be keyed in manually! I expect, however, that the datalink project will earn out its set-up expenses within six months to a year, and then we can begin replac-ing these terminals with voice-activated models."
I nodded. "And it's up to me to sell the owners of every bar, nightclub, and restaurant in the Budayeen on the idea of renting one of them from me. I don't get it. I don't see why people will pay twenty-five fiqs for an infor-mation service that's now provided free by the city."
"We've been contracted by the city," Tariq explained. "The amir's special commission decided that it couldn't afford to run Info any longer. Within weeks, all the free Info terminals will be replaced by our machines, inshal-lah."
"I know that," I said. "What I meant was what do I do if the bar owners flat-out refuse?"
Friedlander Bey flashed a cold smile. "Don't worry about that," he said. "We have specialized technicians who will persuade those reluctant proprietors."
"Specialized technicians." I loved the euphemism. All of Papa's technicians have names like Guido and Tiny and Igor.
Papa went on. "It would be best if you and your friend worked as a team for a few days, before you send him off on his own. When we have the whole Budayeen covered, we can begin to exercise even closer control. We can tell who is using the service, and what questions they're ask-ing. Because they have to use an official identification card to log on, we can monitor the dispensing of informa-tion. We could even prevent certain information from get-ting to some individuals."
"But surely we won't do that," I said.
Papa was silent for a second or two. "Of course not," he said at last. "That would be contrary to the principles of the holy Prophet."
"May the blessings of Allah be on him and peace," I responded automatically.
Tariq laid a booklet in front of me. "Here is the com-plete set of commands," he said, "and in the back of the book is a pocket with a special ID card, so that you won't have to pay for calls."
"Thank you," I said. "I'll familiarize myself with these commands today, and tomorrow I'll go with Jacques to talk to the club owners on the Street."
"Excellent, my nephew," said Papa. "Now, as to our vengeance. It would be best if it combined the discovery of the real murderer of Khalid Maxwell, as well as the disposition of those who plotted against us. I will accept only the most elegant solution."
"What if Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq wasn't actually in-volved?" I asked. I was referring to the imam who'd given permission for Hajjar and his goons to kidnap us.
Papa flew into a rage. "Don't talk to me about that son of a diseased camel!" he cried. I'd never seen him show so much emotion. His face turned blood red, and his fists shook as his fury carried him away.
"O Shaykh—"
"The people of the Budayeen are crazy with worry!" he said, pounding the table. "All they can think about is what might happen if we're kidnapped again, and if this time we don't return. There are ugly rumors going around that we've lost control, that our associates no longer enjoy protection. The last few days, all I've done is calm and soothe my troubled friends. Well, I swear on the life of my children that I will not be weakened, nor will I be pushed aside! I have a plan, my nephew. Wait and see if that cursed imam can separate me again from the people who love me. If he is not involved, then make him in-volved."
"Yes, O Shaykh," I said.
Jeez. That's the way things worked around that break-fast table. Punishments and rewards were handed out with a blithe disregard for appropriateness. Sometimes Friedlander Bey reminded me of the whimsical Greek gods in the works of Homer—whimsical in that they often disturbed entire human nations because of some imag-ined slight, or out of boredom, or for no particular reason at all.
Even while Papa spoke about the datalink project, I could see that he was now controlled by hate, and it would continue until he could strike a deadly blow against those who'd conspired against us. Friedlander Bey's motto was "Getting even is the best revenge." Nothing else would do, no forgiveness for the sake of moral superi-ority, no intensely ironic symbolic acts.
It wasn't only the Bani Salim who demanded proper retaliation. That concept was stated explicitly in the noble Qur'an, and it was part of the Muslim point of view, something the Western world had learned the hard way on numerous occasions. Someone would die—Hajjar, Shaykli Mahali, Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq, the actual murderer of Khalid Maxwell—and it seemed to be up to me to choose whom.
Friedlander Bey frowned in concentration. "There's another stone in my shoe," he said at last. "I'm speaking of Police Lieutenant Hajjar. Fortunately, it's very simple to rid oneself of such an irritation."
"Didn't he work for you, once upon a time?" I asked.
Papa turned his head and pretended to spit on the floor. "He's a traitor. He goes with whoever offers the most money at the time. He had no honor, no loyalty. I'm glad he works for Shaykh Reda now and not for me. I couldn't trust him when he was my man. Now I know where he is, and I suspect that I could buy him back at any time, if I wished. I may do that; and then when I have him, I can empty my shoe of him at my leisure."
He was talking murder here. Once upon a time I might have been appalled at the casual way Papa dis-cussed terminating someone, but no longer. I looked at the situation as one of the Bedu might, and I knew Papa was entirely correct. It was just a matter of planning. All the details had yet to be worked out, but that was not difficult. I was only concerned that first Papa talked about eliminating the imam, and now Lieutenant Hajjar. I didn't think we ought to get into depopulating the city in our rightful wrath. A few minutes later I was in my office, tapping trial commands into the data deck. I found that I could learn just about anything about anybody in the city with that little machine. With my special, confidential commands, I had free access to information the average citizen didn't even know had been recorded. I got a dizzying sense of power as I pried into the private lives of both friends and enemies. I felt like a high-tech snoop, and the feeling was delicious. When I'd gotten proficient with the datalink terminal, I was able to get a list of all of Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq's phone calls for the last two months, incoming and outgoing. The incoming calls were identified by their commcodes only. Then I did the same for Lieutenant Hajjar's commcode at the police station. I found that Hajjar and the imam had spoken together eleven times during those eight weeks. There were probably other calls from other phones, but I didn't need to track them all down. This evidence would never have to be admitted in a court of law.