“Let’s get a taxi,” said the convert.
“Will they take us together? We’re obviously not related.” Alif looked dubiously at the convert’s pink skin.
“In the New Quarter they will. They’re used to foreigners doing all kinds of weird things here.”The convert stepped into the stream of cars, bicycles and mopeds and raised one arm. A black-and-white cab drew up alongside her.
“You get in front, Alif,” murmured Vikram.
Alif obliged, wincing as he lowered himself into the overheated vinyl seat next to the driver, a Sikh man whose yellow turban brushed the underside of the roof. Climbing through the back door, the convert gave him directions in accented but passable Punjabi. They sped off into the white glare of midday traffic.
“Wait—where’s Vikram?” The convert turned to look out the back window, dismayed. Alif felt the same needling dysphoria he had experienced the night before, when Vikram was like a word he once knew or an errand he had forgotten to run, facts just beyond the pale of memory.
“I think—I think he’s meeting us there,” he said, though why he thought so he did not know. He shook his head to clear it. Half in, half out.
“But he doesn’t know where we’re going! This is ridiculous.” The convert gave a forced little sigh and leaned back into the seat cushions, which groaned in agreement. Alif shrugged.
“Vikram knows everything.”
“Do you believe him? I mean about what he is?” The convert’s eyes were narrow in the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know what I believe.”
“If you don’t know, it means you think there’s an actual possibility that he is actually an actual evil spirit.”
“Evil?” Alif turned to look at her. “You think so?”
“Hah! You really believe him, don’t you.”
The corners of Alif ’s mouth twitched. He thought of half a dozen veiled insults, and despite himself, the worst one came out.
“Why did you become Muslim?” He found himself elongating the pronoun with a hostile sneer, forgetting for a moment that he, too, shared some of her foreignness, some of her skepticism.
The convert seemed unsurprised by his implication. “Islam was presented to me as a system for social justice,” she said carefully, “I converted in that spirit.”
“God never came into it, then.”
“Well of course God came into it, but as a—as an—”
“A side issue? A thought experiment? Or something for one of your papers?”
The convert jerked as though she’d been slapped. “That’s not fair,” she said in a quieter voice. “That is really, really not fair.”
Alif felt chastened. Thinking of Dina and what she might say to him if she were there, the feeling deepened to shame too heavy for an apology. He turned his burning face toward the window: they were speeding through the indifferent neighborhoods between the New and Old Quarters. Baqara District was not far away. If he leapt out at this street corner, he could reach his house in a fifteen minute walk. As the cab slowed for a passing microbus, Alif actively considered it. The frantic confusion of the last two days was settling into something else; a malaise, a desire for nothing more than to sleep in his own bed, even if it meant waking up to the police. Was not capture inevitable anyway? Alif could think of no other dissident, religious or political, who had successfully evaded State. He was no different—no smarter, no better equipped.
The cab jerked forward again. Alif watched regretfully as familiar streets slid away one after the other. The convert’s silence was becoming oppressive. He unzipped his backpack and removed the Alf Yeom once more, thumbing through the delicate pages until he found his place.
Once upon a time, the king of the birds had an urgent message to impart to the prince of the salamanders. A great wave had been spotted by his lieutenants at sea, and the bird-king, eager to curry favor wherever he could, thought to warn the prince of salamanders of this threat to his people. There was only one obstacle: custom prevented birds from speaking directly to salamanders.The bird king couldn’t possibly relay his message to the salamander prince himself, or even send another bird as intermediary; to do so would go against all good form and propriety.
“What to do?” the bird king asked his wisest vizier.
“If I might make a suggestion,” said the vizier—who was a large black grackle, “Perhaps your majesty might consider sending an emissary from among the insects. We can speak to them, after all. A hearty dragonfly, or even a locust, is almost as good as a bird.”
“A tremendous idea,” said the bird king. “Send for the commandant of insects at once.”
The commandant of insects was delighted to receive an invitation from the king of birds, and arrived with all haste.
“Tell the prince of salamanders to warn his people,” he told the commandant, “A great wave is coming from out at sea, and if they do not move their burrows, they will surely drown.”
“Never fear,” said the commandant. “I will send my speediest wasp to communicate your message.”
Back at his palace, however, the commandant of insects was distraught. Insects could no more speak to salamanders than birds could—such a thing was shocking even to consider.
“What to do?” he asked his wisest vizier—who was a heavy-looking bumble bee.
“If I might make a suggestion,” said the vizier, “Why not send a messenger from among the crustaceans? A stalwart lobster, or even a crab, is almost as good as an insect.”
“Famous,” said the commandant, “Send for the premier of crustaceans at once.”
The premier arrived as soon as he was able.
“With all good speed,” said the commandant, “Send someone from among your people to warn the salamanders that a great whale is coming in from sea, and if they don’t hurry, it will surely be beached upon their burrows.”
The premier agreed to do so. But as soon as he arrived home, he collapsed in distress. It was impossible to conceive of a crustacean stooping so low as to speak to a salamander.
“What to do?” he asked his vizier—who was a fat-clawed crayfish.
“If I might make a suggestion,” said the vizier, “Why not send a go-between from among the turtles? A clever leatherback, or even a box turtle, is almost as good as a crustacean.”
“Fantastic,” said the premier, “Send for the chairman of turtles at once.”
The chairman was delighted by the invitation, and arrived that very day.
“Make it a priority,” said the premier, “Send someone from among your people to warn the salamanders that a great wind is coming in from sea, and if they don’t take care, they’ll miss their chance to harvest all the debris it will blow upon the shore.”
The chairman promised to do so at once. The salamanders were great allies of his people. He went himself to dine with the prince of salamanders.
“By the way,” he told him, “The king of birds told the commandant of insects to tell the premier of crustaceans to tell me to tell you that a great window of opportunity has arrived for your people, and if they don’t hurry down to the sea, they’ll miss it.”
The salamander prince was delighted by this news, thinking perhaps a merchant ship had been wrecked and spilled its treasures upon the beach, or perhaps a tasty dolphin carcass had washed up on the shore. He hurried down to the sea with his people, who were promptly drowned by the great wave, which had just come crashing in from out at sea.
“And that,” said the nurse, “is why crustaceans and salamanders are no longer on speaking terms.”
Princess Farukhuaz frowned.
“You mean that is why one should never let antiquated custom stand in the way of progress, or why one should never send a third party to relay information better communicated in person,” she said.
“Oh—well, yes, that too,” said the nurse.
“Dear nurse, much as I love you, you are terribly muddled when it comes to the morals of stories.”
“Dear child, s
ome stories have no morals. Sometimes darkness and madness are simply that.”
“How terrible,” said Farukhuaz.
“Do you think so? I find it reassuring. It saves me from having to divine meaning in every sorrow that comes my way.”
* * *
Alif came to with a start. He frowned, wondering at what point he had fallen asleep. The pages beneath his fingers were beginning to pucker with sweat; hastily, he closed the book and put it away in his backpack. The cab was circling up toward one of the ancient gates in the Old Quarter Wall. He glanced at the convert in the rearview mirror: she was leaning against the car door on one elbow, frowning out the window.
“You must know the Old Quarter very well by now,” he hazarded, “Better than most foreigners.”
She said nothing.
“Your Punjabi is also very good. I barely speak any at all.” “For God’s sake, don’t make it worse.”
Mortified, Alif slumped in his seat until the rearview mirror reflected only off-white sky. They passed through the Old Quarter Wall—a mundane color in the midday light—and rattled on to cobbled roads lined with gracious stone houses. Wooden shutters over the windows protected their residents from the staring of passerby. Here and there, low-slung harem balconies extended out over the street, their latticed arches reminders of a time when architectural mercies were the extent of an aristocratic woman’s public life.
The cab shuddered to a halt at the western edge of the Al Basheera campus. The buildings here were modern: glass boxes designed by some French architect with a perverse sense of humor, who, now that women were permitted to attend the university, apparently desired to put them on display. Classes were in session. Students went in and out of the glass doors in tight groups, the foreign ones visible as clots of bare skin against the uniform banner of thobes and veils. A lone chaiwalla hawked his milk tea from a cart drawn up alongside the glass edifice, making him look shabbier and it more pretentious than either could hope to do alone.
“Let’s go.” Straightening her headscarf, the convert stepped out of the cab. Alif was gratified when she let him pay—if she was really angry, he reasoned, she would have tried to pay herself. He followed her toward the nearest building: outside were two security guards flanking a metal detector, searching students and their bags as they went inside. Alif felt adrenaline bloom in his nerves.
“This is where it gets tricky,” the convert muttered. She pushed back her shoulders. “Give me your backpack. It’s too nice for a menial.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just give it to me for a minute. I’ll give it back.”
Frowning, Alif handed the convert his backpack. She slung it over one shoulder.
“Okay. Now look like a bored, downtrodden migrant worker.” The convert strode confidently up to the younger of the two guards, her passport in hand.
“Excuse me,” she said in English, with an exaggerated, high pitched American accent, “I’m so sorry, but my driver left his keys downstairs when he came to pick me up—can we run back in and get them?”
The guard leered at her. “You are Muslim?”
“Il hamdulilah.”
“You looking nice Muslim husband?”
“Inshallah.” With a modest, downcast smile, the convert walked through the metal detector. Alif shuffled after her, not daring to look either guard in the eye. No one stopped him. When he glanced over his shoulder, the guards were rummaging lazily through a veiled woman’s large Prada bag. No tension shadowed their faces; no indication that they had even noticed him. He was simply a rich woman’s accessory.
“Well well,” came a voice at his ear, “You do have a talent or two of the hidden folk.”
Alif brightened. Vikram bobbed along beside him as they made their way down the hall. The students hurrying to and from classrooms swerved around him without looking.
“Did you see that?” The convert bustled toward them, flushed with triumph. “Wasn’t I right? They didn’t even ask for your ID! They—”
She stopped short when she noticed Vikram. He grinned at her wolfishly.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded.
“Through that door, the same as you did.”
The convert drew a breath as though preparing for a retort. Instead, she let it out again, and turned away.
“Fine. Whatever. I don’t want to know. The lab is down this way.” She let Alif ’s backpack drop at his feet. He shouldered it and followed her. At the end of the hall was a glass-enclosed room with modish recessed lighting and row upon row of flat screened monitors, about half of which were in use. Along the wall were work stations with embedded clusters of electrical outlets and data ports. The scent of working metal and the whir of machines greeted Alif as the convert opened the door. He sighed with sheer joy, quickening his steps to catch the door before it swung shut behind her.
Vikram chuckled as he slid into the lab in Alif ’s wake.
“So happy to see so much dead wire. Tell me, younger brother, do you get this excited about living flesh? I will judge you on your answer.”
“I don’t care,” said Alif. He tossed his backpack on to a chair at an empty workstation. “And it’s not dead. It’s just another kind of alive.” He took out his netbook and examined the data ports in the wall.
“TNova,” he said reverently. “They’ve got TNova. The connection speed is so fast that a website practically loads before you’ve had time to type the whole address.”
“Well I’m glad you like it. They jacked up tuition to pay for this place.” The convert stood over him with her hands on her hips, looking mollified. “If you give me the book, I’ll take it down to the archival science department. I’ll have to take paper samples, but I’ll make them as small as I can.”
Alif extracted the book from his pack and handed it to her.
“Be careful,” he fretted.
The convert sniffed. “You should be careful. You’re the one who’s lugging it around in the heat and the dust like a high school biology textbook.” She tucked the manuscript under her arm and turned to go.
“Thank you,” said Alif to her retreating back. She didn’t answer. He pursed his lips in frustration.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Vikram, crouching at his feet. “I’m sure you haven’t been more of an ass than usual.”
“You’re the ass,” Alif muttered. He plugged in his netbook and waited for it to identify the TNova connection. Five muscular bars appeared at the top of his screen, alongside a megabytes-per-second ratio among the highest he’d ever seen. Within a few clicks he was inside the cloud. It hummed with information, half-finished programs posted for feedback, jokes written in code; the electrical thoughts of isolated people. Alif felt his shoulders relax. All problems are simply interruptions in the transmission and preservation of data, he reminded himself. He had been projecting needless fear and anxiety on to his situation: he must stay calm and rationally eliminate the barriers between himself and his return to normal life one by one.
As he studied the cloud’s community portal, his serenity evaporated. On an ordinary day data turnover in the cloud was rapid, but Alif saw that many of his friends’ posts were several days old. Some had logged on only to leave cryptic messages in leetspeak, many of which were directed at him.
On 26/10 at 18:44:07, Gurkhab0ss left you a message: A1if u fuk were getting pwned where are u
On 27/10 at 00:17:35, Keffiyagiddan left you a message: pwned pwned pwned
“Shit,” said Alif. A blinking chat box opened in the bottom right corner of his screen.
NewQuarter01: Alif ?
Alif stifled a cry of surprise. After his dramatic retirement, NewQuarter had disappeared off the face of the blogosphere, and was now spoken of only in terms of hushed awe and contempt. Some said he had been arrested; others that he didn’t have the stomach for real danger. Alif had remained aloof, and cultivated no opinion, ashamed that he could feel abandoned by someone he had never met.
A1if
: NQ! Thought youd gone 4ever
NewQuarter01: I have. Im a ghost now. Ur speaking to the dead. A1if: . . .
NewQuarter01: U need to tell me how to stop this program the Hand nicked from ur
comp. Every1 keeps getting reinfected.
A1if: Can’t sweep for malware and delete?
NewQuarter01: New delivery method evry day. Homograph attacks on some of our own sites. Can’t keep up w/teh tricky bstard. With u gone everybdy’s panicking. Ur friend RadioSheikh even called me on the damn phone. STupid.
A1if: He told u it was my program?
NewQuarter01: Yes. Dont be mad. Too late for mad. Now focus on fix.
A1if: Can’t fix.
NewQuarter01: Wat u mean can’t fix? U wrote the damn thing. A1if: I don’t know how it wrks, NQ. It shouldn’t wrk the way it does. I don’t understand.
NewQuarter01: wat the hell u saying?
A1if: Saying can’t fix.
NewQuarter01: Wat is this bullshit? Im supposed 2b RETIRED u understand
A1if: dunno wat to say. im sorry. wrking on fix IRL.
NewQuarter01: were talking about *comp* issue Alif, is no fix In Real Life.
A1if: this is different. something else going on IRL. Wrking on it. NewQuarter01: whtvr. all i can say is if this gets really bad u better do the right thing. U know what im talking abt.
A1if: i know.
NewQuarter01 is now offline.
Alif ran his fingers through his hair and tightened them until he could feel tension against his scalp.
Alif the Unseen Page 12
