Budayeen Nights (20 page)

I ride with him because few other people will, and because I’ve seen those paisleys often enough myself.

“What I meant, Bill, was will you take me to Friedlander Bey’s house?”

“Papa, huh? Why didn’t he come down and get you himself?”

“Told him I’d rather ride with you. It’s faster.”

Bill snorted. “Sure as hell is that. I can make it even faster if you want. We can try for the land speed record, you know. As long as the streets are clear of bugs. They got bugs now, you know. Big bugs. Bugs as big as…as big as
things
.” He shivered.

“Won’t be any bugs around with me in the car,” I said calmly.

“No? You sure? You promise? Okay then, get in.”

“Oh, and Bill? We don’t have to try for the land speed record. Maybe next time.”

“Next time,” he muttered. “Son of a bitch, it’s
always
next time.”

We careened through narrow, twisting lanes, depending solely on Bill’s shrill horn and good karma to keep us from smashing into a jutting building or a recalcitrant pack animal. There was no direct route from the Budayeen to Papa’s estate near the Christian quarter, so Bill tried to make one. All in all, though, it was a good ride: Once again I’d survived, which was what counted most.

I paid Bill his fare and added a generous tip in the hope that he’d spend it on something sensible, such as food or shelter, instead of anti-bug-and-paisley weapons. The expatriate from the American republic of Sovereign Deseret backed out of the white-pebbled driveway. I heard the small stones crunching and then the burring sound of Bill’s electric taxi heading back toward the Budayeen.

Papa’s house—and now my home, as his legitimate though reluctant heir—was hidden behind half a jungle of tall, slender trees, well-kept shrubbery, and masses of flowering plants. It must have cost Friedlander Bey a small fortune to coax that floral effusion from the dry, sandy soil of the city. I hoped he enjoyed the beautiful result, although I’d never once heard him remark on it.

I looked up at the towers built at the corners of the walled estate. When I’d first come here, my suspicions were that they housed armed guards. They did, of course, all except the minaret, up which Papa’s personal muezzin climbed five times daily to call him to prayer. Papa would have nothing to do with the electronic recordings that called almost everyone else in the city through loudspeakers.

I went slowly up the broad, smooth marble stairs to the house’s entrance. Before I reached the carved front door, Youssef, our butler, opened it. “I pray to God that the day is pleasant to you, Shaykh Marîd.”

“Salam alekom,” I said. Peace be with you.

“Alekom-os-salam,” Youssef murmured.

“Thanks, Youssef,” I said. I walked by him. I wanted to go straight to my apartments in the west wing. When I got there, I found Kmuzu, my slave and watchdog, busily straightening my already achingly clean and neat rooms.

“You are home before we expected you,” Kmuzu said. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m just fine.”

“Can I get you something to eat, then? It’s well past lunch time.”

I sighed. “No, I grabbed something in the Budayeen. Please find bin Turki and send him to my office.”

“I must tell you that the master of the house wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.”

“I’ll be having dinner with him later. For now, send bin Turki to me.”

Kmuzu nodded. “Immediately, yaa Sidi.” Kmuzu was a very good slave.

I had been seated at my desk for only a few minutes, making flight reservations through one of the data decks, when Kmuzu announced bin Turki. The young man came from a nomadic Bedu tribe called the Bani Salim. He had returned with me to the city because he had a great hunger to see and learn new things. He was becoming a very useful helper; he merely shrugged and did what I asked, and showed no hesitation about the more “difficult” tasks I assigned him.

“God grant you peace, O Shaykh, inshallah,” he said. You hear the word inshallah a lot around the city; it means “if Allah wills.”

“May your day be happy, bin Turki,”

“You sent for me, Shaykh Marîd?”

“Yes, O Clever One. I’ve just purchased your ticket on the next suborbital to Ash-Sham. Damascus. It will be a good experience for you to visit that ancient place.”

“Ash-Sham!” bin Turki said with wonder. “The mother city of them all! I’ve dreamt of going there. What must I do for you?”

“A simple task. Here, the data deck is finished printing. Two round-trip tickets, one for you to and from Ash-Sham, a second round-trip from there to this city and back. You are to fetch a woman called Sulome el-Khabbaz. Here is her address and commcode. She’ll be expecting you.”

“If Allah grants it, there will be no difficulty.”

“Please bring her directly to this house,” I said. “Make her comfortable if I’m not home to receive her. I will tell Kmuzu to attend to her needs. Tell no one about her—as impossible as it sounds, try to keep her secret even from Youssef, Tariq, the Stones That Speak, and especially the master of the house. May you go and come in safety.”

“I understand, O Shaykh,” bin Turki said. “Salam alekom.” He took the suborbital tickets and Sulome’s address and left my office. When you gave that young Bedu a job, he just went ahead and did it, and he never complained. I liked bin Turki and trusted him. He reminded me of myself at a certain age.

I spent the rest of the afternoon going over ledgers, reports, and financial accounts. Reconciling the daily figures wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as people-watching in Chiri’s, but I hadn’t been elevated from punkhood merely to have fun. I’d guessed early on that I was in training for…something.

I worked at my data deck until Kmuzu came up behind me and murmured that it was almost time for dinner. I wasn’t unhappy to close the books for another day.

Dining with Friedlander Bey meant changing into more traditional Arab clothing. Kmuzu had laid out a clean white gallebeya with a light tan cloak to wear over it, a black-and-white-checked keffiya—the Arab headdress—-with a simple black rope akal to hold it in place, as well as sandals instead of my dusty black boots. This was all to keep Friedlander Bey happy; he was almost two hundred years old, and he was getting a little conservative in his old age.

Even after all this time, I was still a little unnerved by our meetings. I had never gotten over my awe of Papa’s kinglike power. When he was pleased with me and my activities, he was like a loving father. Just as often, however, his eyes would narrow and grow stern with unvoiced displeasure.

I’d purchased a gift for Papa, and I brought it along as Kmuzu and I walked toward the smaller dining room. When we arrived, we were confronted by Papa’s huge, grim-faced bodyguards, the Stones That Speak. “Habib,” I greeted one. “Labib,” I greeted the other. I never knew if I attached the correct name to the right individual, they were so alike. Fortunately, they never responded, however offended they might have been.

“Wait,” Habib or Labib said from above my head.

We waited.

It did not take long for the other Stone to discover that we were, after all, expected. “Go in,” he said. His voice was like the sound of granite being scraped by a blunt stone chisel.

We went in. Papa reclined on one of his elegant, expensive divans. There was a second divan facing him, and between us was a table spread with all sorts of meat, vegetables, and fruit dishes. Friedlander Bey raised a glass of sweet mint tea. “Ahlan wa sahlan,” he said, welcoming me.

I rested comfortably on the second divan. Kmuzu stood silently behind me. I raised my glass of mint tea toward Papa and said, “May your table last forever.”

He smiled and replied, “May Allah lengthen your life.”

We continued through a series of formalized Arab niceties until I announced, “I have brought you a gift, O Shaykh.”

Papa was pleased. “And I have one for you, as well, my nephew.”

By Almighty God, this was the last thing I wanted to hear-that Friedlander Bey had yet another one of his gifts for me. All the others had changed my life in unexpected and generally unwelcome ways. Of course, everywhere else in the world it’s considered impolite to refuse a present. Here in the city, in the midst of a land of Arab customs and Muslim traditions, such a show of ingratitude toward Papa could easily prove harmful to my well being.

“You are the Father of Generosity, O Shaykh,” I said. I had a tense, uncomfortable feeling in my belly, but I said it anyway.

Papa smiled at me indulgently. He enjoyed these occasions, principally because he was almost always the one in control. Few people caught Papa by surprise; if they did, they were usually instructed by Habib or Labib not to let it happen again. “It’s nothing,” Friedlander Bey said. “A mere trifle, really, yet I’m sure that you’ll find my gift profitable and rewarding.”

Papa had given me Chiriga’s, once upon a time. The nightclub had also proven to be profitable and rewarding. Of course, for a long while I lost the friendship of Chiriga herself, because she hadn’t really wanted to sell her establishment. Friedlander Bey had “persuaded” her. I wondered if his new present would have similar effects.

“May the Prophet of Allah—peace be upon him—bless you for your kindness,” I said. “I’m sure that I’ll be greatly surprised and pleased.” Well, surprised, anyway.

“It gives me great satisfaction to make this small gesture,” he said. He waved a hand to show how negligible his effort had been. I didn’t buy it for a minute.

“Please, my uncle,” I said, “allow me to show you what I’ve done. First, may I offer you this special edition of the noble Qur’ân?” According to common practice, you’re not supposed to buy or sell the holy book—a willing student of the Straight Path shouldn’t be prevented by poverty from learning the wisdom of the Qur’ân. The clever local way around this decree is that the contents of the book are always free of charge, but the merchant may sell the
binding
for whatever he can get. In this particular case, I’d had some of the best artists and craftsmen in the city create a beautiful, one-of-a-kind copy of the scriptures for Friedlander Bey, to take with him on the holy pilgrimage.

“This volume is truly lovely,” he said, as he turned the gold-edged pages. “Of course, even the plainest edition would be more than good enough for me. All that really matters is that I have the solace and guidance of the inspired words of the Disciple of God, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace.” His words were modest, but the tone of his voice and his expression said something else. I could tell that he was very happy with my gift.

“There is still more, O Shaykh,” I said.

His eyes opened wider. “More?”

“Yes, if you will permit it. I’ve taken the liberty of making all the necessary bookings for our pilgrimage. You’ve told me your father’s story often, about his own journey to Makkah. Well, I’ve done a little research, and I’ve arranged for us to follow exactly in his footsteps. We will hire the same means of transportation and stop at the same lodgings along the way. We will find our guides through the same agencies, and conduct our pilgrimage as much like your father’s as is possible in this day and age.” After all, a century and a half had passed since my twice-great-grandfather had made his trip to the holy city.

I don’t believe I’d ever seen Friedlander Bey completely astonished before. He started to say something, closed his mouth, opened it again, then gave up. He raised a hand to his forehead and shut his eyes for a moment. If it hadn’t been Papa—if he had been, say, an
ordinary
person—I might have thought he was about to show some strong emotion.

Instead, he quickly regained his composure and gave me only the briefest of smiles. Friedlander Bey had not climbed to the summit of wealth and power in the city by letting just anyone know his true thoughts and feelings. He put the copy of the Qur’ân aside and said quietly, “You’ve given me great happiness, my nephew. Now I will tell you what I’ve planned in return.”

I couldn’t imagine what Papa had done for me. A new car would’ve been nice, I guess; I just hoped I wasn’t getting another slave or some valuable treasure that had been grabbed away from one of my dearest friends.

“A few years ago,” Friedlander Bey said, picking up a sugared, nut-stuffed date and examining it carefully, “I arranged for you to have the finest experimental brain implants available. I was very gratified by the results. Now, however, surgical procedures have advanced further. Your brain-wiring is no longer unique. In fact, in some ways you are at a disadvantage compared to the present state of the art.”

Oh jeez, I thought. I knew for sure that I wasn’t going to like this.

Papa went on, still not looking directly at me. “I’ve made plans with the neurosurgery staff at al-Amir Hospital to upgrade you before we begin our pilgrimage. We decided to augment your cerebral functions by enclosing your brain in a reticule of delicate gold mesh.”

“Yes, O Shaykh, but-“

“Also, today’s implants are much smaller and can easily be hidden at the base of the skull. The new personality modules and data add-ons are now only a small fraction the size of your older ones. The hospital will fit you out with a new set. I know you’ll be as pleased as I am.”

“Yes, O Shaykh, but-“

Friedlander Bey raised a hand in dismissal. “No thanks are needed, my nephew. You will have the surgery tomorrow morning, and there will be enough time to recuperate before our departure.” He put the stuffed date in his mouth. There was nothing more to be said—by either of us.

So now I had plenty to think about while I got ready for the party.

Kmuzu tiptoed heavily around my suite of rooms. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was shooting me hard-eyed glances that were more reproachful than I thought the situation called for. All right, so I’d gone to a party the night before, so I’d stayed out Allah-only-knew how late and came in so damaged that I couldn’t even remember how I’d gotten home. I mean, I’m an adult—maybe not a completely
responsible
adult, but that’s my business.