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“Peace be on you, O Mother,” I said.
“And on you be peace,” she said. She leaned against the door a little unsteadily. “Do you want to come in, O Shaykh?”
“Yes, I need to talk to you.” I waited until she’d opened the door wider and stepped back. I came in and took a seat on the couch. She faced me in a comfortable armchair.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I got nothin’ to offer you.” “Uh yeah, that’s okay.” She looked well. She had abandoned the outlandish makeup and clothing, and now she rather resembled my former mental image of her: Her hair was brushed, she was suitably dressed, and she was modestly seated with her hands folded in her lap. I recalled Kmuzu’s comment that I judged my mother more harshly than I judged myself, and forgave her the drunke
“O Mother,” I said, “you said that when you came back to the city, you made the mistake of trusting Abu Adil again. I know that it was my friend Saied who brought you here.”
“You know that?” she said. She seemed wary.,
“And I know about the Phoenix File. Now, why were you willing to spy on Friedlander Bey?”
Her expression was amazed. “Hey,” she said, “if somebody offered to cross you off that goddamn list, wouldn’t you do just about anything? I mean, hell, I told myself I wouldn’t give Abu Adil nothin’ he could really use against Papa. I didn’t think I was hurtin’ nobody.”
That’s just what I’d hoped to hear. Abu Adil had squeezed Umm Saad and my mother in the same vise. Umm Saad had responded by trying to kill everyone in our house. My mother had reacted differently; she’d fled to Friedlander Bey’s protection.
I pretended that the matter wasn’t important enough to discuss further. “You also said that you wished to do something useful with your life. You still feel that way?” “Sure, I suppose,” she said suspiciously. She looked uncomfortable, as if she were waiting for me to condemn her to some horrible fate of civic consciousness.
“I’ve put away some money,” I said, “and I’ve given Kmuzu the job of starting up a kind of charity kitchen in the Budayeen. I was wondering if you’d like to help with the project.”
“Oh sure,” she said, frowning, “whatever you want.” She couldn’t have been less enthusiastic if I’d asked her to cut out her own tongue.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
I was startled to see tears slipping down her pale cheek. “You know, I didn’t think I’d come to this. I’m still good lookin’, ain’t I? I mean, your father thought I was beautiful. He used to tell me that all the time, and that wasn’t so long ago. I think if I had some decent clothes — not that stuff I brought with me from Algiers — I could still turn a few heads. No reason I got to be lonely the rest of my life, is there?”
I didn’t want to get into that. “You’re still attractive, Mother.”
“You bet your ass,” she said, smiling again. “I’m go
Yeah, well, Papa was lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to pull his own sheet up under his chin.
“And you know what I want?” she asked with a dreamy expression.
I was afraid to ask. “No, what?” “I saw this picture of Umm Khalthoum in the souk. made out of thousands of flat-head nails. This guy pounded ’em all into this big board, then painted each nail head a different color. You can’t see what it is close up, but when you step back, it’s this gorgeous picture of The Lady.”
“Yeah, you right,” I said. I could just see it hanging on the wall over Friedlander Bey’s expensive and tasteful furniture.
“Well, hell, I got some money put away too.” I must have looked surprised, because she said, “I got some secrets of my own, you know. I been around, I seen things. I got my own friends and I got my own cash. So don’t think you can order my life for me just ’cause you set me up here. I can pick up and leave anytime I want.”
“Mother,” I said, “I really don’t want to tell you how to act or what to do. I just thought you might like helping out in the Budayeen. There’s a lot of people there as poor as we used to be.”
She wasn’t listening closely. “We used to be poor, Marid,” she said, drifting off to a fantasy recollection of what those times had been like, “but we was always happy. Those were the good days.” Then her expression turned sad, and she looked at me again. “And look at me now.
“Got to go,” I said. I stood up and headed for the door. “May your vigor continue, O Mother. By your leave.”
“Go in peace,” she said, coming with me to the door. “Remember what I told you.”
I didn’t know what she meant. Even under the best conditions, conversations with my mother were filled with little information and much static. With her, it was always one step forward and two steps back. I was glad to see that she didn’t seem to have any thoughts of returning to Algiers, or going into her old line of work here. At least, that’s what I thought she’d meant. She’d said something about “turning some heads,” but I hoped she meant purely in a noncommercial way. I thought about these things as I went back to my suite in the west wing.
Kmuzu had returned, and was gathering up our dirty laundry. “A call came for you, yaa Sidi,” he said.
“Here?” I wondered why it hadn’t come on my personal line, on the phone I wore on my belt.
“Yes. There was no message, but you are supposed to call Mahmoud. I left the number on your desk.”
This could be good news. I’d pla
“Where y’at, Mahmoud. It’s Marid.”
“Good… I have some business to discuss with you.”
“Let me get comfortable.” I pulled out a chair and sat down. I couldn’t help a grin from spreading over my face. “Okay, what you got?”
There was a slight pause. “As you know, I was greatly saddened by the death of Jirji Shaknahyi, may the blessings of Allah be on him.”
I knew nothing of the kind. If I hadn’t known Indihar was married, I doubted if Mahmoud or Jacques or anybody else knew either. Maybe Chiriga. Chiri always knew these things. “It was a tragedy to the entire city,” I said. I was staying noncommittal.
“It was a tragedy to our Indihar. She must be helpless with grief. And to have no money now, that must make her situation even harder. I’m sorry that I suggested she work for me. That was callous. I spoke quickly before I considered what I was saying.”
“Indihar is a devout Muslim,” I said coldly. “She’s not about to turn tricks for you or for anyone.”
“I know that, Marid. No need for you to be so defensive on her behalf. But she’s realized that she can’t support all her children. You mentioned that she’d be willing to place one of them in a good foster home, and perhaps earn enough that way to feed and clothe the others in a proper ma
I hated what I was doing. “You may not know it,” I said, “but my own mother was forced to sell my little brother when we were children.”
“Now, now, Maghrebi,” said Mahmoud, “don’t think of it as ‘selling.’ No one’s got the right to sell a child. We can’t continue this conversation if you maintain that attitude.”
“Fine. Whatever you say. It’s not selling; call it whatever you want. The point is, have you found someone who might be interested in adopting?”
Mahmoud paused. “Not exactly,” he said at last. “But I know a man who frequently acts as go-between, arranging these matters. I’ve dealt with him before, and I can vouch for his honesty and delicacy. You can see that these transactions require a great amount of sympathy and tact.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’s important. Indihar is in enough pain as it is.”
“Exactly. That’s why this man is so highly recommended. He’s able to place a child in a loving home immediately, and he’s able to present the natural parent with a cash gift in such a way as to prevent any guilt or recriminations. It’s just his way. I think Mr. On is the perfect solution to Indihar’s problem.”