The Haunting of Tram Car 015

by P. Djèlí Clark

  The callers were all women, beseeching ceremonies for every manner of thing: fever sickness, childlessness, depression, addiction, ill fortune. The list was endless, and the two operators were forced to keep up a busy pace. It was a stunning revelation, and he wondered how many thoroughly modern Cairene women were in the privacy of their homes participating in what was often publicly dismissed as backward superstition. The Ministry had obviously grossly underestimated the ceremony’s popularity.

  “Agents, the sheikha will see you now,” that slurred voice came.

  Hamed looked up to find a tall male djinn standing over him in maroon robes. He was as ruby-skinned as the female djinn, and had those same long silver horns that curved down his back like hair. A relation perhaps? That strong scent carried with him, too. And his black eyes held a familiar sparkle. Hamed blinked as it struck him. Why, this wasn’t another djinn, it was the same one! He stared openly, unable to catch himself, and the djinn put on a smile that was more knowing than demure.

  “Your tea, agents? And if you’ll come with me.”

  Hamed accepted his glass, offering the other to Onsi as they rose to follow.

  “I’ve heard of this class of djinn!” the younger man leaned in to whisper. “I wonder how they prefer to be addressed? Still remarkably beautiful!”

  And with that same mesmerizing walk, Hamed had to admit. They were led through another door to a small room. The djinn bid them sit and left them there, closing the door behind.

  The two figures before them now were as different as could be. The first was not a woman at all, nor a djinn, but a boilerplate eunuch. Only it was of a design of which Hamed was unfamiliar. All the machine-men he’d ever encountered lacked specific anatomical features, composed of barrel-shaped torsos attached to jointed limbs. This model was decidedly not a machine-man, but instead a machine-woman: the light curves of its lithe body easily perceptible even beneath long white robes. Where boilerplate eunuchs were uniformly featureless, this one displayed a brass face carved like a statue of some ancient goddess, the light from a lamp reflecting a metallic glare off a set of prominent cheekbones. The peculiar automaton stood inert, hands folded at its middle, looking out at them from behind blank oval-shaped eyes, full lips engraved into the barest smile.

  The other figure was unmistakably human, a woman in her middle years with braided hair the tint of gray ash. She sat behind a polished sandalwood desk etched throughout with interlocking circles of Sufi symbology, including a calligraphic sigil commonly used to denote al-Jahiz. That was no surprise, as the woman was Soudanese, obvious by the indigo thoub that wrapped her from ankle to head. There was a glaring red, black, and green tri-color pennant bearing a white crescent moon and spear spread out on the wall behind—the flag of the Mahdist Revolutionary People’s Republic.

  Hamed greeted the sheikha, introducing both himself and Onsi. She met this with cool civility, her brown eyes inspecting them as one would a pair of vipers who’d invited themselves to your dinner table. Her fingers absently traced the intricate henna patterns that covered her other hand as they exchanged pleasantries, and he wondered what so disquieted her about their presence. He wasn’t kept wanting for an answer long.

  “I expected the Ministry to make its way to my door sooner or later,” she commented in the clear accents of her home country. “But I think you must know that I cannot aid you in your endeavor.” Agent Hamed looked at her, startled. He hadn’t even made his request. Misreading his confusion, her already flat stare tightened to steel. “I won’t bow to any coercion to make me register with the Ministry. And I will tell you now, every other sheikha or kodia will resist such attempts as well—not when it means exposing women to misguided men who label what we do some baladi custom or even haram!”

  It took a moment for him to take her meaning and he chided himself for his thoughtlessness. Of course she would think that two agents unexpectedly appearing at her office were here to bring the Zār under Ministry control. Given what he knew of the ceremony—with its numerous leaders and small cells—there were likely hundreds of such women throughout the city. She was probably also right. Once the Ministry learned of the extensive nature of their operations, there’d be calls for registering and sanctioning their practices. But at least he could assure her that wasn’t their current purpose.

  “Sheikha Nadiyaa,” he rejoined respectfully, “I regret if we’ve caused you undue worry. But we haven’t come here to do any such thing.” At least not today, he reflected guiltily. “We’re here seeking your help, if you’ll give it.” She fixed him with a disbelieving look, and he hurriedly explained what they were after. She sat listening, her expression impenetrable. When he finished she said nothing right away, still carefully digesting his words. At the least, her fingers had ceased their tracing.

  “I must confess, Agent Hamed,” she said at last, “this is not at all what I expected.” Her shoulders relaxed, more at ease as she sat back in her chair. And she took up a glass of red tea that had sat untouched. “You tell quite a story, with this possessed tram car. I have never heard of such a thing. But tell me, why haven’t you sought the aid of one of the greater djinn?” Hamed felt his moustache twitch as he grasped for a tactful reply. “Ah,” she sighed, reading his hesitation, “you suppose a sheikha comes cheaper than the rates of some high-priced Marid. Well you’re right. We aren’t trying to make wealth off the women of the city, though we ask that each give according to their kind. Unfortunately, however, I will have to disappoint you by denying your request.”

  Hamed felt the wind collapse beneath his hopes. “But why?” he asked.

  The sheikha took a long draught of tea before answering. “First, you misunderstand what it is we do. The Zār is not a ceremony to drive out spirits. We assess each woman to understand the nature of her affliction. It could be that the possessing djinn has been stirred by the woman’s actions or some disruptive presence. Maybe it wants something. Or brings warning. Some are just fickle. Whatever the matter may be, we work to appease the djinn, to bring the person more in harmony with the spirit so that its wants may be pacified. We are not exorcists.” She bit off the last word with clear disdain, taking another sip of tea as if to wash away its taste. “So, as you see, there is nothing we can do for your tram, which is not truly a person. And we are not in the habit of forcing djinn from where they choose to reside.”

  Well, that wasn’t encouraging. Hamed mentally ran through what he knew of the Zār, which was admittedly little. The tradition was believed to have come from Abyssinia, practiced by Christians and Muslims alike. It had traveled throughout the horn then up the Nile into Soudan, Egypt, spreading beyond into the Maghreb. It was the domain of women, or at least he’d never heard of a man leading a Zār. As he understood, they dealt with lesser djinn, the kind that caused troubles and who rarely even took corporeal form. How anyone could appease such creatures was beyond him. He was wondering how to break their impasse when Onsi stepped into the awkward silence.

  “Sheikha Nadiyaa,” he asked, “have you ever ridden on a tram?”

  She shook her head, her face contorting. “Watching them speed along above me is dizzying enough. I appreciate the wonders of this age, but I prefer the earth firmly beneath my feet.”

  “Well, that may explain your misapprehension of the matter,” Onsi replied. “Excuse me for my disagreement, sheikha, but I’m not certain the differentiation you are making between a possessed person and this tram is warranted.”

  “Oh?” she asked, raising an appraising eyebrow. “Please enlighten me.”

  The man seemed eager to do so. “The tram in question is a design of the djinn,” he explained. “It is endowed with a machine mind imbued with magic. The tram is thus capable of thought, which it uses to guide itself and its passengers safely. Those dizzying feats you witness are decisions made by a thinking being. Given that, I submit the tram is little different from a person who suffers an affliction and needs your help. Did not the earliest Sufi masters write t
hat to practice generosity was foremost in achieving spiritual perfection?”

  Both of the woman’s eyebrows were raised now, as were Hamed’s. “I am curious to know how a Copt is versed with the concept of futuwwa,” she said, glancing to his tattooed wrist. “You make an intriguing supposition. However, your argument only leads to another trouble. If these trams are thinking beings, as you say, then they exist in a state of slavery. And I will not aid in such an exploitative system.”

  “Slavery!” Hamed exclaimed, thoroughly perplexed. “How does slavery enter into this?”

  The sheikha drew herself up, and when she spoke it was with the practice of rote recitation. “Thinking beings, whether wrought by God or man, should not be bound to serve but have the right of choosing their lot. In the People’s Republic, all forms of bondage have been done away with. No man or woman may hold another as property. Neither do we allow sentient tram cars or machine-men made in our likeness to toil to our whims while we profit from their labor. Al-Jahiz himself, as you know, was a slave soldier to one of your pashas. He spoke often on the harm that enslavement does to the souls of those bound by the chain, and the souls of those who wield it. Many djinn would tell you as much, for they abhor slavery perhaps greater than all other earthly vice.”

  Hamed was somewhat familiar with that history. Slavery had been abolished with the birth of an independent Egypt back in ’83. In Soudan, however, the early Mahdist movement had sought to revive the practice—until a djinn converted its leadership to Revolutionary Sufism. Still, Hamed could not help to mention the obvious which was only feet away.

  “Sheikha Nadiyaa. I mean no discourtesy, but you yourself are the owner of a boilerplate eunuch.”

  The sheikha turned to the machine-woman who had stood immobile all this time. “Agent Hamed, you again misunderstand. I don’t own a boilerplate eunuch. Fahima is not my property, but my assistant. Isn’t that so, Fahima?”

  “Yes, Madaam,” the boilerplate eunuch affirmed. “I believe the agent has mistaken the nature of our relationship.”

  Hamed almost fell out of his chair. That boilerplate eunuch had spoken! Her lips hadn’t moved, and her face remained as unchanged as a statue. But those had been her words! And not just the usual “Yes” or “No” or “How may I serve?” but a complex sentence!

  “Fahima is a liberated machine,” the sheikha said, not bothering to hide her amusement at his flummoxed look. “She was a common boilerplate eunuch once, but I helped her see she was more. She began thinking for herself. Soon she chose to become the person you see now. She’s not the only one, either. There are others of her kind, and they are bringing their comrades to consciousness. You are looking at the future.”

  Hamed still couldn’t stop gaping. Boilerplate eunuchs becoming people? He could already envision the chaos, as machine-men began confronting their owners, demanding wages or work they preferred. If the woman had any such concerns, it was lost behind her self-satisfied expression. You let some people read Marx . . .

  “The sheikha is perhaps optimistic,” Fahima put in, tilting her head slightly. “Only a few of my kind share the innate spark to become more. Perhaps it was our particular design. Or some science we do not yet understand. Most are content with their work, and when pressed want little more than perhaps a day to themselves, or two.”

  Is that all? Hamed thought sardonically.

  “I don’t know that this changes anything,” Onsi interjected, appearing to have put together an argument. “Whether thinking machines can be enslaved or not makes for fascinating discourse. However, this seems a poor reason to allow Tram 015 to languish in misery. You would no more be aiding in its enslavement by curing its affliction than you would in healing an exploited laborer. The state of the distressed doesn’t negate your ethical obligation.”

  The sheikha seemed taken by his words, and she looked on consideringly. Onsi pressed the opening with the skill of a chess player. “Besides, one can imagine that such an act of kindness would make Tram 015 more receptive to your message of freedom.” That made her sit up with interest. Hamed whipped his head to glare at the man. They weren’t here to start a revolution!

  “What do you think of the agent’s reasoning, Fahima?” the sheikha inquired.

  “I believe it has merit,” the machine-woman replied.

  Sheikha Nadiyaa nodded her agreement. “I would very much like to talk proletarian dialogues and the philosophies of Sufi masters and Coptic thinkers with you one day, Agent Onsi.”

  “Oh!” the man exclaimed, beaming. “I would like that very much!”

  “Agent Hamed,” she addressed him sharply. “I’ll see what I can do for your tram.”

  “Thank you!” he said gratefully. Though a part of him was still trying to figure out what had just happened.

  “Now,” she said sternly. “Let’s talk about what you can give.”

  They spent the next half of an hour listening as the sheikha put together a plan and rattled off fees. Fahima stood by dutifully with a hand-held mechanical calculator. Her tactile metal fingers moved in a blur, punching at the numbered keys that clacked as the adding machine churned out a spool of printed paper. When it was done, they presented Hamed with the lengthy bill.

  He almost choked on his tea.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, Agent Hamed found himself standing outside Tram 015 at the aerial yard above Ramses Station. He had managed to get Sheikha Nadiyaa to take up the matter immediately, rather than placing them on her busy schedule—in which case she might not have attended to the tram until next Mawlid. It had cost him extra, of course. There seemed to be a fee for everything! She claimed she was only being fair, making them meet in kind what she did every petitioner. Still, it was yet far cheaper than soliciting the aid of a high-priced djinn. Besides, this Zār came with one of its own.

  He looked to the ruby-skinned djinn—at present a woman—who was helping prepare the tram for the ceremony. It turned out the djinn was more than just a secretary. “Jizzu has been with my family for generations,” the sheikha had informed him. “Long before al-Jahiz, we accepted without question that djinn lived and worked among us. The ritual I perform today has come out of that bond.”

  Some kind of personal djinn, Hamed suspected. Perhaps even a Qareen. There were only a few such cases recorded by the Ministry—djinn like Jizzu who attached themselves directly to persons, whole families, or lineages, sometimes even counted among them. He would have to remember to jot this down in his report. That was, provided this plan worked out at all.

  “I pray it goes well,” Onsi had replied, when Hamed shared as much. He spoke through bites of sweet sudjukh, having replenished his stores of the candy from Bashir’s dish that morning. The superintendent had looked on in growing bafflement as Sheikha Nadiyaa and her retinue filed into his small office, all holding bundles and various items—from candles to foodstuffs, even several live chickens. By the time Jizzu and Fahima appeared, Bashir couldn’t decide if he wanted more to stare at the captivatingly attractive djinn or the enunciating boilerplate eunuch.

  “God willing,” Hamed intoned in answer. He watched as the women draped parts of the tram with white cloth. “What is it they’re doing now?”

  “I spent the night reading on the ritual,” Onsi related. “Do you know, the Zār is very different depending on the region? Even some clans living in close proximity in Soudan practice it different from one another. And Christians different from Muslims, though at times it is practiced together. I believe what they are doing now is preparing the patient. Ordinarily this would be a woman placed into white robes. Ah yes, see there? Now they are applying the kohl beneath the eyes.”

  Hamed could see the women were now indeed using brushes to paint the black cosmetic beneath the two bulbous lanterns of the tram. It seemed Onsi had impressed the sheikha enough with his argument to have her treat the car as an actual person. Remembering all that talk of “liberating” Cairo’s machines, he hoped they wouldn’t regre
t putting the radical notion into her head.

  “This will be quite a thing to witness,” Onsi remarked. “Is Superintendent Bashir certain he doesn’t want to see?”

  “Quite certain,” Hamed drolled. The man had been so put off by the idea of the ritual—and the prospect of encountering the djinn haunting his tram car—that he’d made some excuse of work duties, leaving them to their own devices.

  “Agents!” Nadiyaa called. “We’ll need your help here.”

  Hamed walked over with Onsi. He hoped the women only needed him to carry things. He’d been eyeing the cages of chickens dubiously. As he understood, the Zār had to end in a sacrifice. He wasn’t averse to such things, but the blood and feathers were likely to get onto his uniform. And he’d just had it cleaned and pressed. But when they got closer, he saw that she held out two round flat Tar drums.

  “The Zār is always accompanied by music,” she told them. “Ordinarily I would hire a troupe of men to play. But with such short notice, none were readily available. We will have to make do with what we can. And you will help. Now find your places, we’re set to begin.”

  Hamed took the broad drum hesitantly. He hadn’t even known men were allowed into the Zār, and hadn’t expected he’d be called on to participate. But there was no time to object, as they were quickly hustled among the group of women. A few of them were Nadiyaa’s age, but most were younger—with faces that reflected the variety of Soudan, Egypt, perhaps even Abyssinia. All were dressed in patterned dresses and hijab, in contrast with the simple white they’d hung about the tram. The two men were hurried into bright blue gallabiyahs over their uniforms—colors, they were told, the djinn might find pleasing.

  In moments, the strumming strings of an oud and the fluty resonance of several reed neys played in the morning air. The sounds emanated from Fahima, who seemed to make them as easily as Hamed could whistle. The machine-woman walked alongside Nadiyaa in the front, flanking the sheikha’s left as Jizzu took her right. An odd enough trio, he judged, as he began to slap a palm on the goatskin hide of the Tar drum.