"Whozat?" she said. She lurched toward me.
"It's Marîd."
"Marîd!" She grinned sloppily and dropped into the booth like a sack of onions. She reached under the table and fiddled under my gallebeya. "I've missed you, Marîd! You still got that thing under there?"
"Yasmin, listen—"
"I'm real tired tonight, Marîd. Would you take me back to my apartment? I'm kind of drunk."
"I noticed. Look, I really just wanted to talk with you about—"
She got up again and stood beside me, bending down to wrap her arms around my neck. She started tickling my ear with her tongue. "You used to like this, Marîd, remember?"
"I never liked that. You're thinking of someone else."
Yasmin slid her hand down my chest. "C'mon, Marîd, I want to go home. I live back on Fourteenth Street now."
"All right," I said. When Yasmin got drunk and got an idea in her head, there was no way you could talk your way out of doing what she wanted. I got up, put my arm around her shoulders, made sure she had her purse, and half-led, half-dragged her out of the Brig. It took us half an hour to walk the seven blocks back on the Street.
We finally reached her building and I found her keys in her purse. I opened her front door and led her over to her bed. "Thanks, Marîd," she said in a singsong voice. I took her shoes off for her and then turned to go. "Marîd?"
"What is it?" I was getting sleepy again. I wanted to get home and sneak back into my apartment before Youssef or Tariq or Kmuzu found out I was gone, and informed Friedlander Bey.
Yasmin called me again. "Rub my neck a little?"
I sighed. "All right, but just a little." Well, I started rubbing her neck, and while I was doing that she was slipping down her short black skirt. Then she reached up and tried to throw my gallebeya over my head. "Yasmin, you're drunk," I said.
"Do it to me, will ya?" she said. "I don't get a hangover that way." It wasn't the most sensual invitation I'd ever had. She kissed me deep and long, and she hadn't lost any speed in that department. And she knew what to do with her hands, too. In a little while, we were jamming hard and hungry. I think she was asleep before I finished. Then I had a weary climax and crashed right beside her.
How do I describe the beginning of the new day? I slept fitfully, half on and half off Yasmin's bare mattress. I dreamed vivid, crazy dreams as the remainders of the opiates and the speed disappeared from my bloodstream. I woke up once about ten o'clock in the morning, a foul taste in my mouth, a dull throbbing behind my forehead. I couldn't remember where I was, and I gazed around Yasmin's apartment, hopeful of finding a clue. Finally, I examined her graceful back, slender waist, and luscious hips. What was I doing in bed with Yasmin? She hated me. Then I recalled the end of the night before. I yawned and turned away from her, and was almost instantly asleep again.
I dreamed that my mother was shouting at me. I dream that a lot. On the surface, my mom and I have patched up all our differences, and the guilts and resentments have been put away forever. The dreams told me that most of that progress had been only cosmetic, and that deep within, I still had awkward, unsettled emotions where my mother was concerned.
My mother's voice rose in both pitch and volume, but I couldn't quite make out what she was mad about this time. I saw her face turn red and ugly, and she shook her fist at me. With her harsh words echoing painfully in my ears, I ducked as she began beating my head and shoulders.
I woke up. It was Yasmin who was screaming, and who was also punching me in my sleep. Yasmin had started out as a rather large and well-built young man, so that even after her sexchange operation, she was still a formidable opponent. In addition, she had the element of surprise on her side.
"Get out of here! Get out of here!" she cried.
I rolled off the mattress onto the cold floor. I glanced at my watch: it was now about noon. I didn't understand what Yasmin's problem was.
"You're slime, Audran!" she shouted. "You're slug vomit, taking advantage of me in the shape I was in!"
Despite all the many times we'd made love in the past, however long we'd actually lived together, I felt embarrassed to be naked in her presence. I dodged out of range of her fists, then stood kind of hunched over, trying to hide my nude vulnerability. "I didn't take advantage of you, Yasmin," I said. The throbbing behind my forehead started up again, but worse this time. "I ran into you a few hours ago at the Brig. You begged me to make sure you got home all right. I was trying to leave when you started begging me to jam you. You climbed all over me. You wouldn't let me leave."
She held her forehead and winced. "I don't remember anything like that at all."
I shrugged, grabbing my underwear and gallebeya. "What can I say? I'm not responsible for what you can or can't remember."
"How do I know you didn't bring me home passed out, and then raped me when I was at your mercy?"
I pulled the gallebeya over my head. "Yasmin," I said sadly, "don't you know me better than that? Have I ever done anything that would make you think I was capable of rape?"
"You've killed people," she said, but the steam had gone out of her argument.
I balanced on one foot and slipped on a sandal. "I didn't rape you, Yasmin," I said.
She relaxed a little more. "Yeah?" she said. "How was it?"
I tugged on the other sandal. "It was great, Yasmin. We've always been great together. I've missed you."
"Yeah? Really, Marîd?"
I knelt beside the mattress. "Look," I said, staring into her dark eyes, "just because I'm married to Indihar—"
"I won't let you cheat on her with me, Marîd. Indihar and I been friends for a long time."
I closed my eyes and rubbed them. Then I gazed back at Yasmin. "Even Prophet Muhammad—"
"May the blessings of Allah be on him and peace," she murmured.
"Even the Prophet had more than one wife. I'm entitled to four, if I can support them all equally and treat them all with fairness."
Yasmin's eyes grew larger. "What are you telling me, Marîd?"
I shrugged. "I don't know, honey. Indihar and I are married in name only. We're good friends, but I think she resents me a little. And I really meant what I said about missing you."
"Would you really marry me? And what would Indihar say about that? And how—"
I raised a hand. "I've got a lot to work out in my mind," I said. "And we'd all have to get together and talk about this. And Papa might not approve. Anyway, I have an appointment with the imam of the Shimaal Mosque in two hours. I've got to go get cleaned up."
Yasmin nodded, but she stared at me with her head tilted to one side. I made sure I had my keys and everything else I'd come in with—particularly my essential pill case. I went to her front door.
"Marîd?" she called.
I turned and looked at her.
"I wouldn't be just your Number Two wife. I won't be a servant to Indihar and her kids. I'd expect to be treated equally, just like the noble Qur'ân says."
I nodded. "We've got plenty of time," I said. I crossed the room and knelt to kiss her good-bye. It was a soft, lingering kiss, and I was sorry to end it. Then I stood up, sighed, and closed her door behind me. Yaa Allah, what had those drugs gotten me into this time?
Outside on the street, it was a gray and drizzly morning. It fit my mood perfectly, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable. I had a long walk along the Street from Fourteenth to the eastern gate. I lowered my head and strode along close to the storefronts, hoping no one would recognize me. I wasn't in the mood for a reunion with Saied the Half-Hajj or Jacques or any of my other old pals. Besides, I barely had time to get home and shower and change clothes for my appointment with Abd ar-Razzaq.
Of course, as usual, what I wanted didn't seem to matter to the cosmos. I'd gone only about a block and a half, when a high-pitched voice called out "Al-Amîn! O Great One!"
I shuddered and looked behind me. There was a scrawny boy about fifteen years old, taller than me, dressed in a torn, dirty
white shirt and white trousers. His filthy feet looked as if they'd never seen shoes or sandals. He had a purple and white checked keffiya knotted around his grimy neck. "Morning of light, O Shaykh," he said happily.
"Right," I said. "How much do you need?" I reached into my pocket and pulled out a roll of bills.
He looked astonished, then glanced around in all directions. "I didn't mean to ask you for money, Shaykh Marîd," he said. "I wanted to tell you something. You're being followed."
"What?" I was honestly startled by the news, and very unhappy. I wondered who'd set the tail on me, Hajjar or Abd ar-Razzaq or Abu Adil.
"It's true, O Shaykh," said the boy. "Let's walk together. On the other side of the Street, about a block behind us, is a fat kaffir in a sky-blue gallebeya. Don't look for him."
I nodded. "I wonder if he sat outside Yasmin's apartment all night, waiting for me."
The boy laughed. "My friends told me he did."
I was astonished. "How did you—they—know where I was last night?"
"Buy me something to eat, O Father of Generosity?" he asked. It sounded good to me. We turned around and walked back to Kiyoshi's, a better-than-average Japanese cookshop on South Fourteenth Street. I got a good look at the big man who was trying desperately to be inconspicuous. He didn't appear dangerous, but that didn't mean anything.
We sat in a booth, watching the holographic rock band that appeared between us. The cookshop owner also fancied himself a musician, and his band entertained at every table, whether you wanted it to or not. The boy and I split a double order of hibachi chicken. It seemed safe enough to talk.
"You are our protector, yaa Amîn" said the boy between greedy gulps of food. "Whenever you come to the Budayeen, we watch over you from the moment you step through the eastern gate. We have a system of signals, so we always know where you are. If you needed our help, we'd be at your side in a moment."
I laughed. "I knew nothing of this," I said.
"You've been good to us, with your shelters and soup kitchens. So this morning, my friends sat up while you visited that sexchange, Yasmin. They noticed the kaffir doing the same. When I awoke this morning, they told me all the news. Listen: whenever you hear this tune"—and he whistled a familiar children's song well known to all the youngsters in the city "—you'll know that we're there, and that we're telling you to be careful. You may be being followed, or possibly the police are looking for you. When you hear that tune, it would be good to become invisible for a while."
I sat back, taking in his words. So I had an army of children guarding my back. It made me feel great. "I am unable to express my thanks," I said.
The boy spread his hands. "There is no need," he said. "We wish we could do more. Now my family, of course, is in greater want than some of the others, and that means that I can't devote as much time to—"
I understood immediately. I took out my roll again and dealt out a hundred kiam. I shoved the money across the table. "Here," I said. "For the ease of your blessed parents."
The boy picked up the hundred kiam and stared at it in wonder. "You are even nobler than the stories say," he murmured. He quickly tucked the money away out of sight.
Well, I didn't feel noble. I gave the kid a few bucks out of self-interest, and a hundred kiam doesn't hurt my bankroll very much. "Here," I said, standing up, "you finish the food. I've got to get going. I'll keep an eye out. What's your name?"
He looked me directly in the eye. "I am Ghazi, O Shaykh. When you hear two quick low notes followed by a long high note, that means that one boy is passing responsibility for you to the next boy. Be careful, Al-Amîn. We in the Budayeen depend on you."
I put my hand on his long, dirty hair. "Don't worry, Ghazi. I'm too selfish to die. There are too many beautiful things in God's world that I haven't yet experienced. I have a few important things holding me here."
"Like making money, drinking, playing cards, and Yasmin?" he asked, grinning.
"Hey," I said, feigning shock, "you know too much about me!"
"Oh," said the boy airily, "everyone in the Budayeen knows all about that."
"Terrific," I muttered. I walked by the fat black man, who'd been lingering across the way from the Japanese cookshop, and headed east along the Street. Behind me and high overhead I heard someone whistle the children's tune. The whole time I walked with my shoulders slightly hunched, as if at any moment I might be struck from behind by the butt of a pistol. Nevertheless, I made it all the way to the other end of the walled quarter without being jumped. I got into my car, and I saw my tail dive for a taxi. I didn't care if he followed me further; I was just going home.
I didn't want to run into anyone as I slunk upstairs to my apartment, but once again luck was against me. First Youssef and then Tariq crossed my path. Neither of them said anything to me, but their expressions were grave and disapproving. I felt like the useless, drunken sot of a son wasting the resources of a great family. When I got to my rooms, Kmuzu was waiting in the doorway. "The master of the house is very angry, yaa Sidi," he said.
I nodded. I expected as much. "What did you tell him?"
"I said that you'd risen early and gone out. I told the master of the house that I didn't know where you'd gone."
I sighed with relief. "Well, if you speak to Papa again, tell him that I went out with Jacques, to see how well he was coming along with the datalink project."
"That would be a lie, yaa Sidi. I know where you've been."
I wondered how he knew. Maybe the fat black man who'd followed me wasn't working for the bad guys, after all. "Can't you bring yourself to tell one little falsehood, Kmuzu? For my sake?"
He gave me a stern look. "I am a Christian, yaa Sidi," was all he said.
"Thanks anyway," I said, and pushed past him to the bathroom. I took a long, hot shower, letting the hard spray pound my aching back and shoulders. I washed my hair, shaved, and trimmed my beard. I was starting to feel better, even though I'd had only a few hours of sleep. I stared into my closet for a long while, deciding what to wear to my appointment with the imam. Feeling a little perverse, I chose a conservative blue business suit. I almost never wore Western-style clothing anymore, and even when I did, I steered away from business suits. I had to have Kmuzu tie my necktie; not only did I not know how, I obstinately refused to learn.
"Would you care for something to eat, yaa Sidi?" he asked.
I glanced at my watch. "Thanks, Kmuzu, but I barely have time to get there. Would you be so kind as to drive me?"
"Of course, yaa Sidi."
For some reason, I felt no anxiety at all about facing Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq, the imam of the greatest mosque in the city and one of our leading religious thinkers. That was good, because it meant that I didn't feel the need to pop a few tabs and caps in preparation for the meeting. Sober, and with my wits about me, I might come away from the appointment with my head still attached to my shoulders.
Kmuzu double-parked the car on the street outside the mosque's western wall, and I hurried through the rain and up the well-worn granite steps. I slipped off my shoes and made my way deeper through the shadowy spaces and chambers that formed an asymmetric network beneath high, vaulted ceilings. In some of the columned areas, robed teachers taught religious lessons to groups of serious-faced boys. In others, individuals or small congregations prayed. I followed a long, cool colonnade to the rear of the mosque, where the imam had his offices.
I spoke first to a secretary, who told me that Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq was running a bit late that afternoon. He invited me to sit in a small waiting room to the side. There was one window looking out over the inner courtyard, but the glass was so grimy that I could barely see through it. The waiting room reminded me of the visits I'd made to Friedlander Bey, in the time before I came to live in his mansion. I'd always had to cool my heels in a waiting room very much like this one. I wondered if it was a common psychological ploy of the rich and powerful.
After about half an hour, the secretary opened the door and
said the imam would see me now. I stood up, took a deep breath, pressed my suit jacket with my hands and followed the secretary. He held open a heavy, wonderfully carved wooden door, and I went in.
Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq had placed his large desk in the darkest corner of the room, and as he sat in his padded leather chair, I could barely make out his features. He had a green-shaded lamp providing light on the desk, but when I took the seat he indicated, his face sank once again into the indistinguishable shadows.
I waited for him to speak first. I squirmed a little in the armchair, turning my head a little from side to side, seeing only shelves of books reaching up out of sight toward the ceiling. There was a peculiar odor in the room, compounded of old, yellowing paper, cigar smoke, and pine-scented cleaning solutions.
He sat observing me for some time. Then he leaned forward, bringing the lower part of his face into the light from the lamp. "Monsieur Audran," he said in an old, cracked voice.
"Yes, O Wise One."
"You dispute the evidence that has been gathered, evidence that clearly proves you and Friedlander Bey murdered Officer Khalid Maxwell." He tapped a blue cardboard folder.
"Yes, I dispute it, O Wise One. I never even met the murdered patrolman. Neither I nor Friedlander Bey have any connection to this case."
The imam sighed and leaned back out of the light. "There is a strong case against you, you must know that. We have an eyewitness who has come forward."
I hadn't heard that before. "Yes? Who is this eyewitness, and how do you know he's reliable?"
"Because, Monsieur Audran, the witness is a lieutenant of police. Lieutenant Hajjar, as a matter of fact."
"Son of an ass!" I cried. Then I caught myself. "I apologize, O Wise One."
He waved a hand in dismissal. "It comes down to this: your word against that of a high-ranking police official. I must make my judgments according to Islamic law, according to proper civil procedure, and using my somewhat limited faculties to sort truth from lies. I must warn you that unless you can provide conclusive proof of your innocence, the case will no doubt be judged against you."
The Exile Kiss Page 22
