Budayeen Nights

by George Alec Effinger

  “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 f
or 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.

  Or so I thought that morning. I liked to cherish the fantasy that there was still a little liberty in my life. I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy living in Papa’s palace and having more money than I ever dreamed possible; it’s just that I got good and tired of having to account for every minute of my day, and that almost everything I really wanted to do was against the wishes of the master of the house. It didn’t help that everyone I knew in the Budayeen would’ve gladly traded places with me in a Marrakesh minute.

  I caught Kmuzu staring at me again. He was trying to look impassive, but his lips were pressed together and his teeth were clenched so tightly that I could see his jaw muscles jumping. I wondered how long this was going to go on. “You reminded me about the party, Kmuzu,” I said. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

  “Do you recall that you are scheduled for surgery today, yaa Sidi?”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed them. I nodded. “I remember. And that’s why I can’t have breakfast. I wasn’t supposed to eat anything after midnight.”

  “You weren’t supposed to drink anything, either.”

  I opened my eyes and tried to look innocent. “As far as I can remember, I didn’t.”

  Well, that one didn’t get by Kmuzu. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was as disgusted as I’ve ever seen him. I told myself it didn’t matter to me what he was thinking.

  In my mind I went over what had happened at the party. In the early stages it had been just fine—but no one ever cares about the early stages of a party. That’s why so many people always show up late. Now, what had gone on that could have put Kmuzu in such a snit?

  Suddenly I remembered. My eyes opened wider. “Mary and Jesus!” I said in a low voice. “Somebody turned up dead in my club. In one of the booths.”

  “Yes, yaa Sidi.”

  “I don’t even know who it was, just some guy. I can’t remember anything after that. Yallah, I really don’t need this, not today.”

  Kmuzu looked me directly in the eye and let two or three heartbeats pass. Then he said, “It gets worse.”

  Fateful things were said and done at the party, despite my longstanding policy against that happening in my club. I didn’t ask for any of it—I usually don’t have to—but because of it my life would be a nonstop nightmare in the weeks to come.

  In Chiriga’s, as in most of the Budayeen bars, the day shift runs from noon until eight in the evening, and the night shift from eight until four in the morning. Some owners even have a late, late shift from 4 A.M. until noon. You wouldn’t think there’d be enough trade to make it worthwhile to stay open then, but evidently there is. I personally don’t care. I’m not that hard up for money.

  I told my gang that we’d be closing Chiri’s early because of the party. I shut the place down about two hours before midnight. Of course, Brandi, Kandy, and the other night girls complained about losing six hours of prime money-making time—and they weren’t talking about wages, either. I paid them for the whole shift; they were upset over the lost tips. I guess “tips” is one way of describing their supplemental income.

  “It’s not fair, Marîd,” Brandi said. “The day girls got to work their whole shift and then they get to come to the party, too.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “Life is like that sometimes. Listen, you don’t have to stay here, you know. I’m sure if you went down the Street to Frenchy’s, he’d let you work the rest of the night. But who knows? Maybe you’ll meet the love of your life here at the party. I mean, it could happen.”

  Brandi grunted, her expression of supreme irony. “The love of my life lives in a drawer of my nightstand.”

  “Well, the love of your evening, then. Or at least a solid twenty minutes.”

  She shook her head and turned to Kandy. “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to go to Frenchy’s,” Kandy said. “Or maybe the Red Light. We can always come back here if we don’t find anything better.”

  All the night-crew dancers left, but I was paying Rocky, the late-shift barmaid, to stay and help out during the party. Rocky was a sturdy, broad-shouldered woman with short, brushy black hair. I’d hired her when Jo-Mama, her previous employer, had gone off to spend a year meditating in the amir’s women’s prison. As crazy as the night girls were, none of them wanted to mix with Rocky. She kept order in my place when I wasn’t around, and I was glad I could count on her.

  For the first half hour, it wasn’t much of a party. It was Rocky and me, and Pualani, Lily, and Yasmin. I didn’t want to get too drunk too fast, so I chipped in an experimental add-on that caused my body to get rid of alcohol at faster than the usual ounce-an-hour rate. I was prepared for a night of grueling fun, so I had Rocky build me a white death. Her version didn’t taste as good as Chiri’s, but it did what it was supposed to do.

  The five of us sat at the bar and gossiped about people who weren’t there to defend themselves. “Hey,” Lily said, “this is just like being at work, only we’re not getting paid.”

  “You don’t have to listen to some stupid mark’s boring life story, either,” Rocky said.

  “That’s true,” Pualani said. “Wait ‘til I tell you what happened today. I’m sitting right here at the bar, okay? And this guy comes in wearing a James Bond moddy.”

  “Yeah?” Rocky didn’t sound very interested.

  The Bond story caught my attention, though, because three years ago another creep wearing a similar James Bond moddy had actually shot somebody in my club. Killed the poor bastard.

  Pualani went on. “And he comes up to me and he goes, ‘My name is Bond. James Bond.’ So I look at him and I’m like, ‘Off. Fuck off.’”

  Yasmin snickered. “Cut him down, girlfriend,” she said. She raised her nearly empty glass. “After hours we don’t have to drink that lousy cheap champagne. Rocky, can I have another one of these, please?”

  Rocky nodded and poured a peppermint schnapps for Yasmin. Nobody said anything else for a while. It wasn’t starting out to be much of a party.

  And then Kmuzu came in with Indihar, my wife. They were carrying several large packages. Rocky and Pualani were glad to see them; both Lily and Yasmin gave Indihar some sour looks. Neither of them had been pleased when Friedlander Bey had, in his usual manner, provided me wit
h a wife. It didn’t make any difference to Lily or Yasmin that Indihar and I hadn’t been pleased, either.

  “What’s all that?” I asked.

  “Put it down on the bar, Kmuzu,” Indihar said. She set her packages down and came up to me. “I thought I’d help get the party started. Looks like it needs starting.”

  “Wow!” Yasmin said, investigating one of the packages. “Fried chicken! Where’s this from?”

  “NOSFFF,” Indihar said. That was the New Orleans Soul and Fast Food Franchise, not far from the club. “I only got extra spicy.”

  “That’s okay by me,” Yasmin said. If anything could take her mind off her semisecret jealousy, it was free food.

  “What else is there?” Pualani asked.

  “Well, I have about fifteen kinds of sushi and sashimi from Kiyoshi’s, and about a ton of couscous from Meloul’s, and a hundred fried dumplings from Martyrs of Democracy.”

  “That’s perfect,” I said. I really love pot stickers.

  Indihar glanced at me. “I got a hundred fried dumplings. Fifty of them are for Marîd, the other fifty are for everybody else. And there’s meze from that new Turkish place on Sixth Street.”

  “What’s meze?” Rocky asked.

  “Lots of different kinds of dishes that you’re supposed to sample while drinking,” I said.

  “Like appetizers?” Yasmin said. “Sometimes I go into Martyrs of Democracy and have like six different appetizers for supper.”

  “Then you should like this,” Indihar said. “There are another few packages still outside. Kmuzu, would you bring them in for me, please?”

  “Yes, immediately, yaa Sitti.”

  Indihar gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Enjoy yourself, Marîd, but don’t have too much fun. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

  “I know, I remember.” I wasn’t happy about her talking to me that way. We were married, but we weren’t that married.

  “I’m going to go now. Have a good time. It was nice seeing all of you again.”

  “Indihar,” Rocky said, “you’re not going to stay?”