The Exile Kiss (23 page)

She held her forehead and winced. "I don't remember anything like that at all."
I shrugged, grabbing my underwear and
gallebeya.
"What can I say? I'm not responsible for what you can or can't remember."
"How do I know you didn't bring me home passed out, and then raped me when I was at your mercy?"
I pulled the
gallebeya
over my head. "Yasmin," I said sadly, "don't you know me better than that? Have I ever done anything that would make you think I was capable of rape?"
"You've killed people," she said, but the steam had gone out of her argument.
I balanced on one foot and slipped on a sandal. "I didn't rape you, Yasrnin," I said.
She relaxed a little more. "Yeah?" she said. "How was it?"
I tugged on the other sandal. "It was great, Yasmin. We've always been great together. I've missed you."
"Yeah? Really, Marid?"
I knelt beside the mattress. "Look," I said, staring into her dark eyes, "just because I'm married to Indihar—"
"I won't let you cheat on her with me, Marid. Indihar and I been friends for a long time."
I closed my eyes and rubbed them. Then I gazed back at Yasmin. "Even Prophet Muhammad—"
"May the blessings of Allah be on him and peace," she murmured.
"Even the Prophet had more than one wife. I'm enti-tled to four, if I can support them all equally and treat them all with fairness."

Yasmin's eyes grew larger. "What are you telling me, Marid?"
I shrugged. "I don't know, honey. Indihar and I are married in name only. We're good friends, but I think she

-esents me a little. And I really meant what I said about :nissing you."
"Would you really marry me? And what would Indihar say about that? And how—"
I raised a hand. "I've got 'a lot to work out in my n'lind," I said. "And we'd all have to get together and talk about

this. And Papa might not approve. Anyway, I hav§ in appointment with the imam of the Shimaal Mosque in two hours. I've got to go get cleaned up."

Yasmin nodded, but she stared at me with her head rilted to one side. I made sure I had my keys and every-thing else I'd come in with—particularly my essential pill-case. I went to her front door.
"Marid?" she called.
I turned and looked at her.
"I wouldn't be just your Number Two wife. I won't be a servant to Indihar and her kids. I'd expect to be treated equally, just like the noble Qur'an says."
I nodded. "We've got plenty of time," I said. I crossed the room and knelt to kiss her good-bye. It was a soft, lingering kiss, and I was sorry to end it. Then I stood up, sighed, and closed her door behind me. Yaa
Allah,
what had those drugs gotten me into
this
time?
Outside on the street, it was a gray and drizzly morn-ing. It fit my mood perfectly, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable. I had a long walk along the Street from Fourteenth to the eastern gate. I lowered my head and strode along close to the storefronts, hoping no one would recognize me. I wasn't in the mood for a reunion with Saied the Half-Hajj or Jacques or any of my other old pals. Besides, I barely had time to get home and shower and change clothes for my appointment with Abd ar-Raz-zaq.
Of course, as usual, what I wanted didn't seem to mat-ter to the cosmos. I'd gone only about a block and a half, when a high-pitched voice
called
out "Al-Amin! O Great One!"
I shuddered and looked behind me. There was a scrawny boy about fifteen years old, taller than me, dressed in a torn, dirty white shirt and white trousers. His filthy feet looked as if they'd never seen shoes or sandals. He had a purple and white checked
keffiya
knotted around his grimy neck. "Morning of light, O Shaykh," he said happily.
"Right," I said. "How much do you need?" I reached into my pocket and pulled out a roll of bills.
He looked astonished, then glanced around in all di-rections. "I didn't mean to ask you for money, Shaykh Marid," he said. "I wanted to tell you something. You're being followed."
"What?" I was honestly startled by the news, and very unhappy. I wondered who'd set the tail on me, Hajjar or Abd ar-Razzaq or Abu Adil.
"It's true, O Shaykh," said the boy. "Let's walk to-gether. On the other side of the Street, about a block behind us, is a fat
kaffir
in a sky-blue
gallebeya.
Don't look for him."
I nodded. "I wonder if he sat outside Yasmin's apart-ment all night, waiting for me."
The boy laughed. "My friends told me he I was astonished. "How did you—they—know where I was last night?"
"Buy me something to eat, O Father of Generosity?" he asked. It sounded good to me. We turned around and walked back to Kiyoshi's, a better-than-average Japanese cookshop on South Fourteenth Street. I got a good look at the big man who was trying desperately to be inconspicu-ous. He didn't appear dangerous, but that didn't mean anything. We sat in a booth, watching the holographic rock band that appeared between us. The cookshop owner also fan-cied himself a musician, and his band entertained at every table, whether you wanted it to or not. The boy and I split a double order of hibachi chicken. It seemed safe enough
to
talk.
"You are our protector,
yaa Amin,"
said the boy be-tween greedy gulps of food. "Whenever you come to the Budayeen, we watch over you from the moment you step through the eastern gate. We have a system of signals, so we always know where you are. If you needed our help, we'd be at your side in a moment."
I laughed. "I knew nothing of this," I said.
"You've been good to us, with your shelters and soup kitchens. So this morning, my friends sat up while you visited that sexchange, Yasmin. They noticed the
kaffir
doing the same. When I awoke this morning, they told me all the news. Listen: whenever you hear this tune"—and he whistled a familiar children's song well known to all the youngsters in the city "—you'll know that we're there, and that we're telling you to be careful. You may be being followed, or possibly the police are looking for you. When you hear that tune, it would be good to become invisible for a while."
I sat back, taking in his words. So I had an army of children guarding my back. It made me feel great. "I am unable to express my thanks," I said.
The boy spread his hands. "There is no need," he said. "We wish we could do more. Now my family, of course, is in greater want than some of the others, and that means that I can't devote as much time to—"
I understood immediately. I took out my roll again and dealt out a hundred kiam. I shoved the money across the
table. "Here," I said. "For the ease of your blessed parents."
The boy picked up the hundred kiam and stared at it in wonder. "You are even nobler than the stories say," he murmured. He quickly tucked the money away out of sight.
Well, I didn't feel noble. I gave the kid a few bucks out of self-interest, and a hundred kiam doesn't hurt my bankroll very much. "Here," I said, standing up, "you fin-ish the food. I've got to get going. I'll keep an eye out. What's your name?"
He looked me directly in the eye. "I am Ghazi, O Shaykh. When you hear two quick low notes followed by a long high note, that means that one boy is passing respon-sibility for you to the next boy. Be careful, Al-Amin. We in the Budayeen depend on you."
I put my hand on his long, dirty hair. "Don't worry, Ghazi. I'm too selfish to die. There are too many beautiful things in God's world that I haven't yet experienced. I have a few important things holding me here."
"Like making money, drinking, playing cards, and Yas-rnin?" he asked, grinning.
"Hey," I said, feigning shock, "you know too much about me!"
"Oh," said the boy airily, "everyone in the Budayeen knows all about that."
"Terrific," I muttered. I walked by the fat black man, who'd been lingering across the way from the Japanese cookshop, and headed east along the Street. Behind me and high overhead I heard someone whistle the children's tune. The whole time I walked with my shoulders slightly hunched, as if at any moment I might be struck from behind by the butt of a pistol. Nevertheless, I made it all the way to the other end of the walled quarter without being jumped. I got into my car, and I saw my tail dive for a taxi. I didn't care if he followed me further; I was just going home. I didn't want to run into anyone as I slunk upstairs to my apartment, but once again luck was against me. First Youssef and then Tariq crossed my path. Neither of them said anything to me, but their expressions were grave and disapproving. I felt like the useless, drunken sot of a son wasting the resources of a great family. When I got to my rooms, Kmuzu was waiting in the doorway. "The master of the house is very angry,
yaa Sidi,"
he said.
I nodded. I expected as much. "What did you tell him?"
"I said that you'd risen early and gone out. I told the master of the house that I didn't know where you'd gone."
I sighed with relief. "Well, if you speak to Papa again, tell him that I went out with Jacques, to see how well he was coming along with the datalink project."
"That would be a lie,
yaa Sidi.
I know where you've been."
I wondered how he knew. Maybe the fat black man who'd followed me wasn't working for the bad guys, after all. "Can't you bring yourself to tell one little falsehood, Kmuzu? For my sake?"
He gave me a stern look. "I am a Christian,
yaa Sidi,"
was all he said.
"Thanks anyway," I said, and pushed past him to the bathroom. I took a long, hot shower, letting the hard spray pound my aching back and shoulders. I washed my hair, shaved, and trimmed my beard. I was starting to feel better, even though I'd had only a few hours of sleep. I stared into my closet for a long while, deciding what to wear to my appointment with the imam. Feeling a little perverse, I chose a conservative blue business suit. I al-most never wore Western-style clothing anymore, and even when I did, I steered away from business suits. I had to have Kmuzu tie my necktie; not only did I not know how, I obstinately refused to learn.
"Would you care for something to eat,
yaa Sidi?"
he asked.
I glanced at my watch. "Thanks, Kmuzu, but I tarely have time to get there. Would you be so kind as to drive me?"
"Of course,
yaa. Sidi."
For some reason, I felt no anxiety at all about facing Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq, the imam of the greatest mosque in the city and one of our leading religious think-ers. That was good, because it meant that I didn't feel the need to pop a few tabs and caps in preparation for the meeting. Sober, and with my wits about me, I might come away from the appointment with my head still attached to my shoulders.
Kmuzu double-parked the car on the street outside the mosque's western wall, and I hurried through the rain and up the well-worn granite steps. I slipped off my shoes and made my way deeper through the shadowy spaces and chambers that formed an asymmetric network be-neath high, vaulted ceilings. In some of the columned areas, robed teachers taught religious lessons to groups of serious-faced boys. In others, individuals or small congre-gations prayed. I followed a long, cool colonnade to the rear of the mosque, where the imam had his offices.
I spoke first to a secretary, who told me that Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq was running a bit late that afternoon. He in-vited me to sit in a small waiting room to the .side. There was one window looking out over the inner courtyard,
but
the glass was so grimy that I could barely see through it. The waiting room reminded me of the visits I'd made to Friedlander Bey, in the time before I came to live in his mansion. I'd always had to cool my heels in a waiting room very much like this one. I wondered if it was a common psychological ploy of the rich and powerful.
After about half an hour, the secretary opened the door and said the imam would see me now. I stood up, took a deep breath, pressed my suit jacket with my hands, and followed the secretary. He held open a heavy, won-derfully carved wooden door, and I went in.
Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq had placed his large desk in the darkest corner of the room, and as he sat in his pad-ded leather chair, I could barely make out his features. He had a green-shaded lamp providing light on the desk, but when I took the seat he indicated, his face sank once again into the indistinguishable shadows.
I waited for him to speak first. I squirmed a little in the armchair, turning my head a little from side to side, seeing only shelves of books reaching up out of sight to-ward the ceiling. There was a peculiar odor in the room, compounded of old, yellowing paper, cigar smoke, and pine-scented cleaning solutions.
He sat observing me for some time. Then he leaned forward, bringing the lower part of his face into the light from the lamp. "Monsieur Audran," he said in an old, cracked voice.
"Yes, O Wise One."
"You dispute the evidence that has been gathered, evi-dence that clearly proves you and Friedlander Bey mur-dered Officer Khalid Maxwell." He tapped a blue cardboard folder.
"Yes, I dispute it, O Wise One. I never even met the murdered patrolman. Neither I nor Friedlander Bey have any connection to this case."
The imam sighed and leaned back out of the light. "There is a strong case against you, you must know that. We have an eyewitness who has come forward."
I hadn't heard that before. "Yes? Who is this eyewit-ness, and how do you know he's reliable?"
"Because, Monsieur Audran, the witness is a lieuten-ant of police. Lieutenant Hajjar, as a matter of fact."
"Son of an ass!" I cried. Then I caught myself. "I apologize, O Wise One."
He waved a hand in dismissal. "It comes down to this: your word against that of a high-ranking police official. I must make my judgments according to Islamic law, ac-cording to proper civil procedure, and using my some-what limited faculties to sort truth from lies. I must warn you that unless you can provide conclusive proof of your innocence, the case will no doubt be judged against you."
"So I understand, Imam Abd ar-Razzaq. We have ave-nues of investigation yet to explore. We're hopeful of pre-senting sufficient evidence to change your mind."
The old man coughed hoarsely a few times. "For your sakes, I hope you do. But be assured that my primary motive will be to see that justice is done."
"Yes, O Wise One."
"To that end, I wish to know what your immediate plans are, as far as investigating this sad event."
This was it. If the imam was too shocked by my inten-tion, he could very well veto it, and then I'd be up the proverbial dune without a sunshade. "O Wise One," I began slowly, "it has come to our attention that no proper autopsy was performed on the corpse of Khalid Maxwell. I wish your permission to exhume the body, and have a thorough study done by the city's coroner."
I could not see the man's expression, but I could hear his sharp intake of breath. "You know that it is a com-mandment from Allah that burial follow death immedi-ately."
I nodded.
"And exhumation is permitted only in the most ex-treme and urgent situations."
I shrugged. "May I remind you, O Wise One, that my life and the life of Friedlander Bey may depend on the results of an autopsy. And I'm sure that Shaykh Mahali would agree, even if you don't."
The imam slammed his wrinkled hand down on the desk. "Watch your words, boy!" he whispered. "You threaten to go over my head on this matter? Well, there is no need. I will grant permission for the exhumation. But in return, I will say that your proof must be gathered in two weeks, not the month you were given previously. The people of the city cannot tolerate a longer delay for justice to be done." He bent over his desk and found a clean sheet of paper. I watched him write out a short paragraph and sign it.
Abd ar-Razzaq was making it almost impossible for us to clear our names. Two weeks! I didn't like that at all. We could have used twelve. I merely stood, bowed my head slightly, and said, "Then if you will excuse me, O Wise One, I will go directly to the coroner's office in the Budayeen. I do not wish to take up any more of your time." I could not see him, and he said nothing more to me. He just handed me the sheet of paper. I glanced at it; it was an official order for Khalid Maxwell's autopsy, to be performed within the next two weeks.
I stood there in his darkened office for a few seconds, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Finally, I thought to myself, "Fuck him," and turned around. I hurried back through the sprawling mosque, regained my shoes, and got back in the car behind Kmuzu.