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“Two things,” he said in a husky whisper. “You have moved the policeman’s widow into our home. When the four months of proper mourning are over, you must marry her.”
“Marry her!” I was so startled, I forgot to be properly respectful.
“And when I recover from this illness—” He yawned, almost unable to keep his eyes open against the medication the nurses had given him. I lowered my head to catch his words. “When I am again well, we will go to Mecca.”
That wasn’t what I expected, either. I guess I groaned. “Mecca,” I said.
“The pilgrimage.” He opened his eyes. He looked frightened, not of the surgery but of his unfulfilled obligation to Allah. “It is past time,” he said, and then they wheeled him away.
I decided the wise thing was to wait until my arm was unwrapped before I faced down Abu Adil. After all, the great Salah ad-Din didn’t reconquer Jerusalem and drive out the Franj Crusaders by riding down into battle with half his army. Not that I pla
Things had quieted down considerably. For a time, we worried and prayed to Allah for Friedlander Bey’s recovery. He’d survived the surgery and Dr. Lisan had pronounced it a success; but Papa slept almost around the clock, day after day. He roused occasionally and talked with us, although he was terribly confused about who we all were and what century it was.
With Umm Saad and her son gone, the atmosphere in the house was more cheerful. I concerned myself with Papa’s business matters, acting in his place to settle disputes among the city’s caterers of the ungodly. I let Mahmoud know that I would be tough but fair as Friedlander Bey’s deputy, and he seemed to accept that. At least, he dropped his resentment. That may have been just an act. You can never accurately read Mahmoud.
I also had to handle a major foreign crisis, when the new tyrant of Eritrea came to me demanding to know what was going on in his own country. I took care of that mess, thanks to Papa’s impeccable record keeping and Tariq and Youssef’s knowledge of where everything was.
My mother continued to alternate between modestly mature and brazenly foolish. Sometimes when we talked, we were sorry for the way we’d punished each other in the past. Other times, we wanted to slit each other’s throats. Kmuzu told me that this kind of relationship is not unusual between parent and child, particularly after both have reached a certain age. I accepted that, and I didn’t worry about it anymore.
Chiriga’s continued to make lots of money, and both Chiri and I were satisfied. I guess she would’ve been more satisfied if I’d sold the club back to her, but I enjoyed owning it too much. I decided to hang on to it a little while longer, the way I decided to hang on to Kmuzu.
When the muezzin’s call to prayer came, I answered it a large percentage of the time, and went to the mosque on a Friday or two. I was becoming known as a kind and generous man, not just in the Budayeen but all through the city. Wherever I went, people called me Shaykh Marid al-Amin. I didn’t completely stop taking drugs, however, because I was still injured and I saw no reason to take the chance of enduring u
All in all, the month after I’d kissed off the police department was a welcome experiment with peace and quiet. It all came to an end one Tuesday, just before lunch, when I answered the phone. “Marhaba,” I said.
“Praise be to God. This is Umar Abdul-Qawy.”
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “The hell do you want?” I said.
“My master is concerned for the health of Fried-lander Bey. I’m calling to inquire as to his condition.”
I was coming to a quick boil. I didn’t really know what to say to Umar. “He’s fine. He’s resting.”
“Then he’s able to take care of his duties?” There was a smugness in his voice that I hated a lot.
“I said he’s fine, all right? Now, I got work to do.”
“Just a second, Monsieur Audran.” And then his voice got positively sanctimonious. “We believe you may have something that properly belongs to Shaykh Reda.”
I knew what he was talking about, and it made me smile. I liked being the screwer rather than the screwee. “I don’t know what you mean, Himmar.” I don’t know, something made me say it. I knew it would pluck his beard.
“The moddy,” he said. “The goddman moddy.”
I paused to savor what I heard in his voice. “Well, hell,” I said, “you got it all wrong. As I recall, you have the goddamn moddy. Remember? Himmar? You cuffed my hands behind my back, and then you beat me bloody, and then you jacked me into a moddy link and read off my brain. You guys done with it yet?”
There was silence. I think Umar hoped I wouldn’t remember that moddy. That’s not what he wanted to talk about. I didn’t care, I had the floor. “How’s it work, you son of a bitch?” I said. “You wear my brain while that sick bastard jams you? Or the other way around? How am I, Umar? Any competition for Honey Pilar?”
I heard him trying to get himself under control. “Perhaps we could arrange an exchange,” he said at last. “Shaykh Reda truly wishes to make amends. He wants his personality module returned. I’m sure he would agree to give you the recording we made of you plus a suitable cash settlement.”
“Cash,” I said. “How much?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure Shaykh Reda would be very generous. He realizes that he’s put you through a great deal of discomfort.”
“Yeah, you right. But business is business, and action is action. How much?”
“Ten thousand kiam,” said Umar.
I knew that if I balked, he’d name a higher figure; but I wasn’t interested in their money. “Ten thousand?” I said, trying to sound impressed.
“Yes.” Umar’s voice got smug again. He was going to pay for that. “Shall we meet here, in an hour? Shaykh Reda instructed me to say that our staff is preparing a special midday meal in your honor. We hope you’ll let our past differences go, Shaykh Marid. Shaykh Reda and Friedlander Bey must join together now. You and I must be partners in harmony. Don’t you agree?”
“I do testify that there is no god but Allah,” I declared solemnly.
“By the Lord of the Kaaba,” swore Umar, “this will be a memorable day for both our houses.”
I hung up the phone. “Damn straight about that,” I said. I sat back in my chair. I didn’t know who would have the upper hand when the afternoon was over, but the days of the false peace had come to an end.
I’m not a total fool, so I didn’t go to Abu Adil’s palace alone. I took one of the Stones That Speak with me, as well as Kmuzu and Saied. Now, the latter two had been exploited by Shaykh Reda, and they both felt they had scores to settle with him. When I asked if they’d like to join me in my devious charade, they eagerly agreed.
“I want a chance to make up for selling you out to Shaykh Reda,” said the Half-Hajj.
I was checking my two weapons, and I looked up. “But you’ve already done that. When you pulled me out of that alley.”
“Nan,” he said, “I still feel like I owe you at least one more.”
“You have an Arabic proverb,” said Kmuzu thoughtfully. “ ‘When he promised, he fulfilled his promise. When he threatened, he did not fulfill his threat, but he forgave.’ It is equivalent to the Christian idea of turning the other cheek.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But people who live their lives by proverbs waste their time doing lots of stupid things. ‘Getting even is the best revenge’ is my motto.”
“I wasn’t counseling retreat, yaa Sidi. I was only making a philological observation.”
Saied gave Kmuzu an irritated look. “And this big bald guy is something else you got to pay back Abu Adil for,” he said.
The ride out to Abu Adil’s palace in Hamidiyya was strangely pleasant. We laughed and talked as if we were on some enjoyable picnic or outing. I didn’t feel afraid, even though I wasn’t wearing a moddy or any daddies. Saied talked almost nonstop in the scatterbrained way that had given him his nickname. Kmuzu kept his eyes straight ahead as he drove, but even he put in a light-hearted comment now and then. Habib or Labib — whichever he was — sat beside Saied in the backseat and did his silent sandstone giant routine.