“Why do you hold him responsible for your father’s death?” I pressed.
It was clear Kamel didn’t want to speak about it. Each word was a strain. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, as if sorry he’d brought it up. “Perhaps I think he should have gone instead.”
We didn’t speak for the rest of the way across the valley. The road to Ain Ka’abah was a long spiral that wound around the mountain. It was half an hour from bottom to top—the last fifty yards were wide stairs hewn from the stone and well worn by the passing of many feet.
“How do the people who live here eat?” I asked as we puffed to the top. Four-fifths of Algeria was desert, there was no timber, and the only arable land was two hundred miles away along the sea.
“They make carpets,” Kamel replied, “and silver jewelry, which they trade. There are precious and semiprecious stones in the mountain—carnelian and opal, and a bit of turquoise. Everything else is imported from the coast.”
The village of Ain Ka’abah had a long road down the center with stucco houses at either side. We stopped on the dirt road outside a large house with a thatched roof. Storks had made a nest in the chimney, and there were several perched on the roof.
“That is the weavers’ cottage,” said Kamel.
As we walked down the street, I noticed that the sun had completely disappeared. It was a lovely lavender twilight—but already the air was growing chilly.
There were a few carts on the road with loads of hay, several donkeys, and a few small flocks of goats. I assumed it was easier to get donkey carts up the hill than a Citroën limousine.
At the end of town, Kamel paused in the road outside a large house. He stood there looking at it for a long time. The house was stucco like the others, but perhaps twice as wide, with a balcony running across the front. A woman stood on the balcony, beating carpets. She was dark and dressed in colorful clothes. Beside her sat a small child with golden curls, wearing a white dress and pinafore. The top of the child’s hair was braided in thin plaits that fell in loose ringlets below. She ran downstairs when she saw us and came up to me.
Kamel called up to the mother, who stood looking down at him for a moment in silence. Then she saw me and broke into a smile, showing several gold teeth. She went into the house.
“This is the house of El-Marad,” said Kamel. “That woman is his senior wife. The child is a very late one—the woman gave birth long after they thought she was barren. This is considered to be a sign from Allah—the child is ‘chosen.’”
“How do you know all this when you’ve been gone ten years?” I said. “This child’s only five or so.” Kamel took the little girl by the hand as we went toward the house and looked down at her with affection.
“I’d never seen her before,” he admitted, “but I keep track of what happens in my village. This child was considered quite an event. I should have brought her something—after all, she’s hardly responsible for the way I feel toward her father.”
I rummaged about in my floppy bag to see if I had anything that might fill the bill. A piece of Lily’s pegboard chess set came loose in my hand—just a piece of plastic—the White Queen. It looked like a miniature doll. I handed it to the child. In great excitement she hurried indoors to show her mother the toy. Kamel smiled at me in thanks.
The woman came out and took us into the darkened house. She held the chess piece in her hand, chattered to Kamel in Berber, and kept looking at me with sparkling eyes. Perhaps she was asking him about me. She touched me from time to time with featherlike fingers.
Kamel said a few words to her, and she departed.
“I asked her to bring her husband,” he told me. “We can go into the shop and sit there. One of the wives will bring us coffee.”
The carpet shop was a large room, taking up the better part of the main floor. Carpets were piled everywhere, folded in stacks and rolled in long tubes against the walls. There were carpets six deep spread across the floors, and others were hanging from the walls and tossed over the inner balcony of the second floor. We sat cross-legged on hassocks on the ground. Two young women came in, one bearing a tray with a samovar and cups, the other carrying a stand to put the tray on. They set up everything and poured us coffee. They giggled when they looked at me and swiftly looked away again. After a few moments they left.
“El-Marad has three wives,” Kamel told me. “The Islamic faith permits as many as four, but it’s unlikely he’ll take another at this late date. He must be close to eighty.”
“But you haven’t any wives?” I asked.
“A minister is only permitted one, by state law,” Kamel replied. “So one must be more cautious.” He grinned at me but still seemed very quiet. It was clear he was under strain.
“They seem to find something very amusing about me, these women. They giggle when they look at me,” I said to clear the air.
“Perhaps they’ve never seen a Western woman before,” said Kamel. “Certainly they’ve never seen a woman wearing trousers. Probably there are many questions they would like to ask you, but they’re too shy.”
Just then the curtains beneath the balcony parted, and a tall, imposing man entered the room. He was over six feet tall, with a long sharp nose, hooked like a hawk, craggy eyebrows over piercing black eyes, and a mane of dark hair streaked with white. He wore a long red-and-white-striped caftan of fine light wool and walked with a vigorous step. He didn’t look more than fifty. Kamel stood to greet him, and they kissed on either cheek and touched their fingers to their foreheads and breasts. Kamel said a few words in Arabic to him, and the man turned to me. His voice was higher-pitched than I’d expected and soft—almost a whisper.
“I am El-Marad,” he told me. “Any friend of Kamel Kader is welcome in my home.” He motioned for me to take a seat, and he sat opposite, cross-legged, on ottomans on the floor. I could see no sign of the strain Kamel had mentioned between the two men, who, after all, had not spoken in at least ten years. El-Marad had spread his robes around him and looked at me with interest.
“I present Mademoiselle Catherine Velis,” Kamel said with polite formality. “She’s come from America to do work for OPEC.”
“OPEC,” said El-Marad, nodding at me. “Luckily, we do not have petrol here in the mountains, or we too would have to change our way of life. I hope you will enjoy your stay in our land, and that through your work—if Allah wishes—we may all prosper.”
He raised his hand, and the mother came in, holding the little girl by the hand. She gave her husband the chess piece, and he held it out to me.
“You’ve given my daughter a gift, I understand,” he said to me. “You place me in your debt. Please choose the carpet you would like to take with you.” He waved his hand again, and the mother and child vanished as silently as they’d come.
“No, please,” I said. “It’s only a plastic toy.” He was looking at the piece in his hand and seemed not to hear me. Now he looked up at me with eagle eyes beneath forbidding brows.
“The White Queen!” he whispered, glancing once quickly at Kamel, then back at me. “Who sent you?” he demanded. “And why have you brought him?”
This took me completely by surprise, and I looked at Kamel. Then, of course, I understood. He knew what I was there for—perhaps the chess piece was some sort of signal that I’d come from Llewellyn. But if so, it was a signal Llewellyn had never mentioned.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said to smooth things over. “A friend of mine, an antique dealer in New York, asked me to come and see you. Kamel was kind enough to bring me here.”
El-Marad said nothing for a moment but glared at me from beneath his beetled brow. He kept toying with the chess piece in his hand as if it were a string of prayer beads. At last he turned to Kamel and said a few words in Berber. Kamel nodded and rose to his feet. Looking down at me, he said:
“I think I’ll go for a breath of fresh air. It seems there’s something El-Marad would like to say to you in private.” He smiled at me, to show
he didn’t mind the rudeness of this strange man. To El-Marad he added, “But Catherine is dakhil-ak, you know.…”
“Impossible!” cried El-Marad, rising to his feet as well. “She is a woman!”
“What is that?” I said, but Kamel had disappeared out the door, and I was left alone with the carpet trader.
“He says you are under his protection,” El-Marad said, turning back to me when he was certain Kamel had gone. “A Bedouin formality. A man who is pursued may grasp the skirt of another man in the desert. The burden of protection is mandatory upon him, even if they are not of the same tribe. It is rarely offered unless requested—and never given to a woman.”
“Maybe he thought leaving me alone with you called for dire measures,” I suggested.
El-Marad stared at me in amazement. “You are very brave to make jests at a time like this,” he said slowly, walking around me in a circle, sizing me up. “He did not tell you that I educated him like my own son?” El-Marad stopped pacing and gave me another tiresome stare. “We are nahnu malihin—on terms of salt. If you share your salt in the desert with someone, it’s worth more than gold.”
“So you are a Bedouin,” I said. “You know all the desert customs, and you never laugh—I wonder if Llewellyn Markham knows that? I’ll have to drop him a note and let him know the Bedouin aren’t as polite as the Berbers.”
At the mention of Llewellyn’s name, El-Marad grew pale. “So you are from him,” he said. “Why didn’t you come alone?”
I sighed and looked at the chess piece in his hand. “Why don’t you tell me where they are?” I said. “You know what I came for.”
“Very well,” he said. He sat down, shooting a squirt of coffee from the samovar into a little cup and sucking at it. “We’ve located the pieces and tried to purchase them—to no avail. The woman who owns them will not even see us. She lives in the Casbah of Algiers, but she is very rich. Though she does not own the entire set, we’ve cause to believe she has many pieces. We can collect the funds to purchase them—if you can get in to see her.”
“Why won’t she see you?” I said, repeating the question I’d asked Llewellyn.
“She lives in a harem,” he said. “She is sequestered—the very word ‘harem’ means ‘forbidden sanctuary.’ No man is permitted but the master.”
“So why not negotiate with her husband?” I asked.
“He no longer lives,” said El-Marad, putting his coffee cup down with an impatient gesture. “He is dead, and she is rich. His sons protect her, but they are not her sons. They do not know she has the pieces. No one knows this.”
“Then how do you know?” I demanded, raising my voice. “Look, I offered to perform this simple service for a friend, but you’re giving me no help at all. You haven’t even told me this woman’s name or her address.”
He paused and looked at me carefully. “Her name is Mokhfi Mokhtar,” he said. “There are no street addresses in the Casbah, but it’s not large—you’ll find her. And when you do, she’ll sell to you if you tell her the secret message I am going to give you. It will open every door.”
“Okay,” I said with impatience.
“Tell her that you are born on the Islamic holy day—the Day of Healing. Tell her you are born, by the Western calendar—on April fourth.…”
Now it was my turn to stare. My blood went cold, and my heart was pumping. Even Llewellyn didn’t know the date of my birthday.
“Why should I tell her that?” I asked as calmly as possible.
“It is the day of Charlemagne’s birthday,” he told me softly, “the day when the chess service was raised from the ground—an important day associated with the pieces we seek. It is said that the one who is destined to put the pieces together again, to reunite them after all these years, will be born on this day. Mokhfi Mokhtar will know the legend—and she will see you.”
“Have you ever seen her?” I asked.
“Once, many years ago …” he said, his face changing as he looked into the past. I wondered what this man was really like—a man who’d do business with a flake like Llewellyn—a man Kamel thought had stolen his father’s business and maybe sent to his death, but who’d financed Kamel’s education so he could become one of the most influential ministers in the country. He lived here like a hermit a million miles from nowhere, with a bevy of wives—yet he had business contacts in London and New York.
“She was very beautiful then,” he was saying. “She must be quite old by now. I met her, but only for a moment. Of course, I did not know then that she had the pieces—that one day she would be … But she had eyes like yours. That I do recall.” He snapped back to attention. “Is that all you wish to know?”
“How do I get the money, if I can buy the pieces?” I asked, bringing the subject back to business.
“We will arrange that,” he said brusquely. “You may contact me through this postal box.” And he handed me a slip of paper with a number on it. Just then, one of the wives popped her head in through the drapery, and we saw Kamel standing behind her.
“Finish your business?” he asked, stepping into the room.
“Quite so,” said El-Marad, standing and helping me to my feet. “Your friend drives a hard bargain. She can claim the al-basharah for yet another carpet.” He pulled two rolled carpets of uncombed camel hair from a stack. The colors were beautiful.
“What’s that I’ve claimed?” I said with a smile.
“The gift claimed by one who brings good news,” said Kamel, hoisting the carpets on his back. “What good news did you bring? Or is that a secret, too?”
“She brings a message from a friend,” El-Marad said smoothly. “I can send a donkey boy down with you, if you’d like,” he added. Kamel said that would be much appreciated, so we sent for the boy with the cart. El-Marad accompanied us to the street as the boy came up.
“Al-safar zafar!” said El-Marad, waving us on our way.
“An old Arabic proverb,” Kamel explained. “It means, ‘Voyaging is victory.’ He wishes you well.”
“Not as much of a curmudgeon as I’d originally thought,” I told Kamel. “But I still don’t trust him.”
Kamel laughed. He seemed much more relaxed. “You play the game well,” he said.
My heart stopped, but I kept on walking through the dark night. I was happy he couldn’t see my face. “What do you mean?” I said.
“I mean you got two free rugs from the shrewdest carpet trader in Algeria. His reputation would be ruined if this news got out.”
We walked on in silence for a while, listening to the squeaking wheels of the donkey cart that moved through the darkness before us.
“I think we should go ahead to the ministry quarters in Bouira for the night,” said Kamel. “It’s about ten miles from here, down the road. They’ll have nice rooms for us, and we could go back to Algiers from there tomorrow—unless you’d prefer to double back through the mountains tonight?”
“Not on your life,” I told him. Besides, at the ministry quarters they probably had hot baths and other luxuries I hadn’t enjoyed in months. Though the El Riadh was a charming hotel, the charm had worn thin after two months of cold water with iron filings.
It wasn’t until Kamel and I were back in the car with our carpets, had tipped the donkey boy, and were on the highway to Bouira that I pulled out my Arabic dictionary to look up some words that had been puzzling me.
As I’d suspected, Mokhfi Mokhtar wasn’t a name at all. It meant the Hidden Elect. The Secret Chosen One.
THE CASTLE
Alice: It’s a great huge game of chess that’s being played all over the world.… Oh what fun it is! How I wish I was one of them! I wouldn’t mind being a Pawn, if only I might join—though of course I should like to be a Queen best.
Red Queen: That’s easily managed. You can be the White Queen’s Pawn if you like, as Lily’s too young to play—and you’re in the Second Square to begin with. When you get to the Eighth Square you’ll be a Queen.…
&nbs
p; —Through the Looking-Glass
Lewis Carroll
On the Monday morning after our trip to the Kabyle, all hell broke loose. It started the night before when Kamel dropped me at my hotel—and dropped a bomb in parting. It seems there was an OPEC conference coming up soon, at which he planned to present the “findings” of my computer model—a model that wasn’t built yet. Therese had collected more than thirty tapes of data for me on barrels per month by country. I had to format these and load my own data by keypunch to produce trends on production, consumption, and distribution. Then I had to write the programs that would analyze it—all before this conference took place.
On the other hand, with OPEC no one ever knew what “soon” meant. The dates and locations of each conference were kept in darkest secrecy until the final hour—on the assumption that such piss-poor planning would prove less convenient to the schedules of terrorists than to the OPEC ministers. It was open season on OPEC in some circles, and a number of ministers had been snuffed out in recent months. It was a testimonial to the importance of my model that Kamel had even hinted at a forthcoming meeting. I knew I was under the gun to deliver data.
To make matters worse, when I arrived at the Sonatrach data center, high on the central hill of Algiers, there was a message in an official envelope pinned to the console where I did my work. It was from the Ministry of Housing—they’d found me a real apartment at last. I could move in tonight; in fact, I must move in tonight, or I’d lose it. Housing was rare in Algiers—I’d already waited two months for this one. I’d have to race home, pack, and move as soon as the whistle blew quitting time. With all this going on, how was I going to accomplish my own goal to hunt down Mokhfi Mokhtar of the Casbah?
Though office hours in Algiers are seven in the morning to seven at night, the buildings are shut during the three hours of lunch and siesta. I decided to use those three hours to begin my search.
As in all Arabic cities, the Casbah was the oldest quarter, which had once been fortified for protection. The Casbah of Algiers was a mazelike puzzle of narrow cobbled streets and ancient stone houses tumbling ramshackle down the steepest of the hills. Though it only covered about 2,500 square yards of mountainside, it was crammed with dozens of mosques, cemeteries, Turkish baths, and dizzying flights of stone steps branching off like arteries at every angle. Of the million residents in Algiers, nearly twenty percent lived in this tiny quarter: robed, veiled figures that slipped silently in and out of the deep shadows of hidden doorways. One could be swallowed in the Casbah without a trace. It was the perfect setting for a woman calling herself “the secret chosen.”
The Eight Page 40
