The Exile Kiss (19 page)

About half an hour before I planned to have lunch, Kmuzu announced that I had visitors. They were Indihar and bin Turki, the Bani Salim youth.
"Morning of well-being," I said to them.
"Morning of light, husband," said Indihar. "I hope we're not interrupting your work."
I indicated that they could get comfortable on my couch. "No, not at all. It gives me pleasure to see you. And I was going to knock off for lunch in a little while, anyway. Is there something you need?"
"I bring you words of greeting from your mother," said Indihar. "She wonders why you've only visited her once since your return."
Well, the truth was that she still made me uncomfort-able. She'd arrived in the city several months ago, looking brassy and blowsy. She'd been a hooker for most of her life, but I'd taken her in and given her a suite of rooms in the eastern wing, and she'd worked hard to tone down her style and be acceptable in Friedlander Bey's house. We'd talked at great length and finally reconciled, but she still embarrassed me. I understood that was my problem, not hers, and I'd tried to overcome my feelings. I wasn't all the way there yet, despite the good works my mother was doing in the city, using my money to establish and run ^soup kitchens and shelters. Her behavior was certainly laudable, but I couldn't erase the memory of how shocked I was to see her after a long time.
"Tell Umm Marid that I've been very busy trying to catch up with all that happened while I was gone. Tell her that I'll come to see her very soon. Give her my love and ask her forgiveness for my inattention."
"Yes, husband," said Indihar. I don't think she was satisfied by my response, but she said nothing more.
Bin Turki cleared his throat. "I have much to be thankful for, O Shaykh," he said. "Every day brings won-der upon wonder. I see things that my brothers would not believe, even if I told them myself. Yet I wish to be free to explore your world as I wish. I have no money, and be-cause of that I have no liberty. We Bani Salim are not used to imprisonment, even under such pleasant condi-tions as these."
I chewed my lip in thought. "You really think you're ready to step outside these walls? You've learned enough already to protect yourself against the well-dressed wolves of the city?"
The young man shrugged. "Perhaps I don't know how to keep out of trouble, but I claim the right to learn for myself."
Then I had a sudden inspiration. "You will need money, as you say. Would you consider doing some work for me, for which I'll see that you're rewarded with a moderate weekly salary?"
Bin Turki's eyes opened wider. "Certainly, O "Shaykh," he said, his voice trembling. "I thank you for the opportu-nity."
"You don't know what I want yet," I said grimly. "Do you recall the story of our kidnapping and transporting to the Rub al-Khali?"
"Yes, O Shaykh."
"Do you remember how I spoke of the unnecessarily cruel sergeant in the town of Najran? How he beat the old shaykh for no reason?" ' "Yes, O Shaykh."
I opened my desk drawer and took out the suborbital ticket. I pushed it across the desk. "Here, then," I said. "His name was Sergeant al-Bishah. You can leave tomor-row morning." That was all.
Indihar's hand went to her mouth. "Marid!" she ex-claimed. She'd guessed what sort of mission I was sending the young man on, and she was clearly shocked.
Bin Turki hesitated a moment, then accepted the ticket.
"Good," I said. "When you get back, there will be five thousand kiam for you, and a weekly allowance of two hundred kiam. With that you'll be able to rent a house or an apartment and lead your own life as you wish, but you'll always have the gratitude of Friedlander Bey and myself."
"That is worth more to me than any amount of money," murmured bin Turki.
"Indihar," I said, "would you mind taking our young friend under your wing? Help him find a place to live, and give him advice to keep him and his money safe?"
"I'd be happy to, husband," she said. Her expression was troubled. She hadn't seen the new me before.
"I thank both of you," I said. "Now, I have work to do."
"Good day to you, then, husband," said Indihar, rising.
"Yes, thank you, O Shaykh," said bin Turki. I pre-tended to be engrossed in some papers, and they left qui-etly. I was shaking like a newborn lamb. I hadn't seen the new me yet, either.
I waited for five minutes, for ten minutes. I was wait-ing for my sense of moral outrage to make itself heard, but it never happened. One part of my mind sat aloof, judging me, and what it discovered was unsettling. Appar-ently, I had no moral qualms at all about dispatching peo-ple on grim assignments. I tried to work up some sense of sadness, but it was impossible. I felt nothing. It wasn't something to be proud of, and I decided it was not some-thing I could tell anyone about. Lake Friedlander Bey, I had learned to live with what I had to do.
I told my data deck to quit, and when the screen of the monitor went dark, I began to make plans for lunch. I'd seen Jacques since I'd been home, but I hadn't run into Mahmoud or Saied. I knew they'd probably be sitting on the patio of the Cafe Solace, playing cards and gossip-ing. Suddenly that seemed like just what I needed. I called Kmuzu, and told him that I wanted to be driven to the Budayeen. He nodded wordlessly and went to get the Westphalian sedan.
We parked on the Boulevard il-Jameel, and walked through the eastern gate. The Street was filled with day-time tourists who would soon regret the fact that they'd ignored their hotel manager's advice that they should avoid the walled quarter. If they didn't leave soon, they'd be hustled for every loose kiam in their pockets and purses.
Kmuzu and I walked to the Solace, and just as I sus-pected, I saw my three friends sitting at a table near the patio's iron railing. I went through the small gate and joined them.
"Hullo, Marid," said Jacques in a dull voice. "Hullo, Kmuzu."
"Where y'at, Marid?" said Mahmoud.
"I been wondering what happened to you," said Saied the Half-Hajj. He'd been my best friend at one time, but he'd betrayed me to Shaykh Reda Abu Adil, and since then I'd kept a close eye on him.
"I'm fine," I said. "I suppose you've all heard the story."
"Yeah, we heard it," said Mahmoud, "but we haven't heard it from you. You were snatched, right? Out of the amir's palace? I thought Papa had more on the ball than that."
"Papa's pretty shrewd," said the Half-Hajj. "It's just that Shaykh Reda is shrewder than they gave him credit for."
"I have to admit that's true," I said.
"Kmuzu, sit down," said Jacques. "You don't have to play slave with us. We like you. Have a drink or some-thing."
"Thank you," said Kmuzu in a flat voice. "I prefer to remain standing."
"We insist," grumbled Mahmoud. "You're making us nervous." Kmuzu nodded, then got a chair from another table and sat behind me.
Old Ibrahim came to take my order, and I just had a plate of hummus and bread, and a gin and bingara to wash it all down.
"Bleah," said Mahmoud.
I turned to respond, but I was interrupted by a man who came to the iron railing. "Shaykh Marid," he said in an urgent voice, "do you remember me?"
I looked at him for a moment, but although I knew I'd seen him before, I couldn't place precisely where. "I'm sorry," I said.
"My name is Nikos Kouklis. A few months ago, you lent me the money to open my own gyro-souvlaki shop on Ninth Street. Since then, I've done better than I'd ever dreamed. My shop is successful, my wife is happy, my children are well fed and well dressed. Here. It gives me. great pleasure to return to you your investment, and my wife made a pan of baklava for you. Please accept it, with my undying gratitude."
I was taken aback. I'd loaned lots of people a little money here and there, but this was the first time one of them had made a big deal out of paying me back. Indeed, it made me a little uncomfortable. "You keep that money," I said. "Save it for your wife and children."
"I'm sorry, O Shaykh," said Kouklis, "but I insist on repaying you."
I understood the man's pride, and I took the money with a courteous nod. I also accepted the plate of baklava. "May your success continue," I said, "May your fortunes increase."
"I owe everything to you," said the Greek restaurant owner. "I will be in your debt forever."
"Perhaps someday there will come a chance to dis-charge it," I said.
"Anything," said Kouklis. "Anytime." He bowed to the four of us and backed away.
"Oh, Mr. Bigshot," said Mahmoud mockingly.
"Yeah," I said, "that's right. What have you ever done for anybody?"
"Well—" Mahmoud began.
I cut him off. I'd known Mahmoud since he'd been a slim-hipped girl named Misty, working for Jo-Mama. I knew that I couldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. Nowadays, with the weight he'd put on after his sexchange, that was about a foot and a half.
Instead, I turned to Jacques and said, "You still up to helping us out?"
"Of course." Jacques looked a little frightened. As with most of the people of the Budayeen, he preferred to accept the protection of the house of Friedlander Bey, but he was scared out of his mind when it came time to repay that generosity.
"Then call me tomorrow, about noon," I said. "You have my number at Papa's mansion, don't you?"
"Uh huh," said Jacques nervously.
"Oh," said Mahmoud, "have you sold out now, too?"
"Look who's talking," said Jacques. "Mr. Lackey of Shaykh Reda himself finds room to criticize."
"I'm no one's lackey," said Mahmoud, half-rising from his seat.
"Oh no, of course not," said Saied.
I ignored their childish debate. "I've got the hardware, Jacques," I said, "and I've been playing around with it, and it definitely looks like a good deal for us as well as for the club owners who subscribe. You don't have to worry about doing anything illicit—we have a complete set of permits from the city, and everything's legal and above-board."
"Then why is Friedlander Bey interested?" said Mah-moud. "I didn't think he cared about anything that wasn't at least a little bit bent."
The Half-Hajj leaned back in his chair and regarded Mahmoud for a few seconds. "You know, my friend," he said at last, "someday somebody's going to take care of that mouth of yours. You're going to wish you'd never changed sexes and joined the big boys."
Mahmoud only laughed disdainfully. "Any time you think you're man enough, Saied," he said.
The bickering was interrupted by the arrival of Yas-" min. "How y'all are?" she asked.
"Fine," said the Half-Hajj. "We're just sitting here in the sun, drinking and eating baklava and listening to our-selves claw at each other's throats. Have some?"
Yasmin was tempted by the honey pastry, but she ex-ercised more restraint than I gave her credit for. "No,", she said, smiling, "can't do it. Hips are just right the way they are."
"I'll second that," said Jacques.
"You bad boy," said Yasmin.
"Listen, Yasmin," I said.
"The hell do you want, married man?" she said bit-terly.
"I was only wondering when you were going to drop this jealousy thing."
"What jealousy thing?" she asked haughtily. "You think I even think about such midges and mites as you and Indihar? I have more important things on my mind."
I shook my head. "As I see it," I said, "Islam gives me the option of marrying up to four wives, if I can support them all equally. That means that I can still date, even though I'm married to Indihar. And I'm married to her in name only."
"Ha!" cried Saied. "I knew it! You've never consum-mated that wedding, have you!"
I glared at him for a few seconds. "Yasmin," I said, "give me a break, all right? Let me buy you dinner some-time. I think we need to talk."
She frowned at me, giving me no encouragement at all. "Well talk," she said. "We'll talk at the club tonight, if Indihar gives you permission to go out." Then she grabbed a piece of baklava, turned on her heel, and headed off down the Street.
Not long after she left, I got up and bid my friends good day. Then I had Kmuzu drive me back to Papa's estate. I still had paperwork to attend to.
rThe third meal of the day, of course, was chez ShaykhReda. When I returned home after my lunch break, I tried to get a little work done. It was very difficult. I knew Friedlander Bey was counting on my contribution to both « the datalink project and the on-going business of stabiliz-ing or destabilizing the Muslim nations who came to us(for help. Still, on this particular day, I couldn't help wor-rying a little about what was in Abu AdiPs mind. Why had he invited us to dinner? To finish what he'd started when lie'd had us kidnapped several weeks ago? That's why I wore a small needle gun on my belt, turned around so that it rested in the small of my back. I I chose the needle gun because it was constructed entirely of plastic, and wouldn't show up on an X-ray. It was loaded with razor flechettes, unpoisoned. Half a clip of those suckers would rip away enough flesh to be memora-ble, if the target survived.
I'd worn my best outfit to the wedding reception Shaykh Mahali had thrown, and so it had been destroyed by the rigors of our desert travels. I'd also given the valu-able ceremonial dagger to Shaykh Hassanein. Tonight I wore my best remaining outfit, a long white gallebeya decorated with hand-embroidered flowers in a cream-. colored silk thread. It was a beautiful gallebeya, and I was very proud of it. It had been a gift from a family in the Budayeen I'd given a little help to.
I wore sandals and a black-and-white checked keffiya. I also carried a sheathed dagger in the manner of the Bedu, front and center against my belly. When I put it on my belt, I decided to ask Friedlander Bey if we could bring bin Turk! with us to the dinner. We'd already r planned to bring Tariq and Youssef. We didn't want to offer ourselves up within Shaykh Reda's stronghold with-out a small army of our own. Papa agreed that bin Turki might be useful, so he accompanied the four of us to Shaykh Reda's mansion in the city's western district, Hamidiyya. Abu Adil squatted like a toad in the center of one of the worst parts of town. His own estate was rivaled in the city only by Papa's and Shaykh Mahali's, but Shaykh Reda was surrounded by the burned-out, abandoned, fallen-in tenements of Hamidiyya. It always reminded me of Satan sitting at the center of his hellish realm.
We drove through a gate in the high, brown brick wall that enclosed the mansion and stopped to identify our-selves to a guard. Then we parked the car and the five of us went to the front door. This time we wouldn't permit our party to be separated.
We had no trouble with the man who answered the doorbell. He led us to a small dining hall where places for ten had been set. Our group took seats at one end of the table, and we waited for Abu Adil to make his entrance.