She shook her head. “I’ve got to get home to the kids.’
“The kids should be asleep already,” I said. “Anyway, I’m paying Senalda to give you a hand with them. Let her watch the kids tonight. Stay a little while.”
“I’ll go with you to the hospital tomorrow, Marîd. Good night, everybody.”
After she and Kmuzu left the club, Yasmin turned and said, “Well, that just means more fried chicken for the rest of us.”
“Son of a bitch, Yasmin,” Rocky said, “that’s cold.” Yasmin just laughed and flung her long black hair over her shoulder.
I’m sure it wasn’t a coincidence that the first guests to show up—right after the food arrived—were Jacques, Mahmoud, and Saied the Half-Hajj. These guys had been my best friends in the Budayeen, although in recent times events had reduced them from three to a total of no more than one-half of a best friend among them.
Jacques was three-quarters European and he made sure everyone knew it. He was a snob, and I didn’t like to be around him very much, but I’d put him to work in one of Friedlander Bey’s commercial ventures. Thanks to me, Jacques was making some good money and getting a little influence of his own, so now he showed me more respect. That was very generous of him, as he still found ways to remind me that I’d always be a full twenty-five percent less French than he.
Mahmoud had not been born a man. As a matter of fact, I can remember him as a slender, rather pretty girl with big, dark eyes, dancing at Jo-Mama’s Greek club some years ago. Now he weighed a lot more, had developed a mean, cruel personality, and still thought no one knew he worked for Friedlander Bey’s rival and enemy, Shaykh Reda Abu Adil. It was okay with me if Mahmoud believed he was fooling me. It was that much easier to keep a close watch on him.
Saied was actually a friend, but the kind of friend you wished lived in, say, Transoxiana—the kind of friend who sent you a letter every ten years or so, and you never had to deal with up close and personal. We called him the Half-Hajj because he had once set out on the holy pilgrimage to Makkah, got a brilliant idea for making a ton of money in a short amount of time, quit the pilgrimage and headed back home, and forgot the brilliant idea before he got back here. He’s so scatterbrained that I rarely saw him when he wasn’t wearing a personality module with a better short-term memory built in.
These three hung out together all the time. In simpler days—when I was still living on the street and my time was my own—I hung out with them, too. We used to sit in the Cafe Solace and play cards and gossip. I don’t get to do that much anymore.
The Half-Hajj had brought a date—some guy with light brown hair and blue eyes, tall but not very muscular, and good-looking enough, I suppose. My eyebrows raised, because I knew that Saied had been keeping time with the American kid everyone called Abdul-Hassan, whom he’d inherited when the boy’s previous protector was killed.
I knew better than to say a word, though. In the Budayeen, you never ask personal questions, not even something as innocent as “How’s the wife and kids?” Since the last time you saw them, they could have been sold into slavery or traded for a nice Esmeraldas holo system.
I went to greet them. “You just missed Indihar,” I said. “She brought the food and left.”
“Marîd,” Jacques said, “the drinks are on the house, right?”
That was so goddamn typical. “Yes, Jacques,” I said, “the drinks are free.” He smiled and went to the bar. I glanced at Saied, who just gave me a little shrug.
“It’s good that you’re making the hajj,” Mahmoud said.
“As if the religion means a copper fiq to you,” Saied said.
“Well,” I said, “it’s mostly Friedlander Bey’s idea.”
“It usually is,” Jacques said. He had come back carrying what looked like a tequila mockingbird. He’d probably had to tell Rocky how to make one.
“Papa’s starting to hear the calendar pages whisper,” I said. “He wants to go on the pilgrimage before he gets too old.”
“Ha,” Mahmoud said, “he’ll outlive us all.”
“He’ll certainly outlive some of us, I’m sure.” I tried to look completely innocent when I said that. I don’t even know if Mahmoud understood what I meant.
Saied reached out and tapped me on the shoulder with a forefinger. “I really should introduce you. Marîd, darling, this is my new friend, Ratomir. He’s in the city on business.”
“It’s Radomil, actually.” He gave me a brief, empty smile. “Good to meet you. You own this club?” He was obviously European, but he was speaking perfect Arabic. I took it for granted that he had an Arabic-language daddy chipped in.
“I own half of it,” I said. “Get a drink, have some food.”
“Let me get you something, sweetheart,” the Half-Hajj said. “What are we drinking?”
“Beer is fine,” Radomil said. Saied nodded and went to get the beer. A couple of things startled me: First, I don’t believe I’d ever heard Saied use any term of endearment on any occasion whatsoever; and second, he never fetched for anyone. That wasn’t his image, and he cared a lot about his image.
“It’s his new moddy,” Mahmoud said, knowing what I was thinking.
“Has to be,” I said.
“It’s a niceness moddy,” Jacques said. He was having trouble stifling his laughter.
I shook my head in wonder. Until now, the Half-Hajj’s favorite moddy had been Rex, the Butch Brute.
Radomil looked puzzled. “I rather prefer this personality to the one he was wearing when I first met him.”
Saied returned, and while he was handing Radomil a glass of beer and a plate of sushi, Jacques whispered in my ear, “Ain’t love grand?”
“I’m not going to say a single word,” I said. It was none of my business. It would just take me a little while to get used to a “nice” Saied, that’s all.
“Marîd,” Yasmin said, “don’t look now, but here come the Bucket-of-Mud Girls.”
“Who?” Mahmoud asked.
“As in ‘dumb as a bucket of mud,’” Lily explained.
“We’re back!” It was the triumphant return of Baby and Kitty, staggering drunkenly on either side of an obese bearded black man wearing a blue robe and sandals. He had a carefully trimmed beard, eyes like anthracite chips, and a small, bemused smile on his lips. There was something wrong with this picture. He didn’t look like he belonged in Chiriga’s, and he didn’t look like he belonged with Baby and Kitty, either.
They walked a crooked line to one of the booths in the back, near the rest rooms. As they passed me, I said softly, “Where’d you find this guy?”
Baby laughed. “We were in Frenchy’s, and he was buying bottles. He wanted to see Chiri’s. We told him we’d rather stay in Frenchy’s, but he wanted to see Chiri’s.” Baby shrugged. “So here we are. See if he wants to buy us another bottle.”
They squeezed into the booth, all three of them on one side. It looked like Kitty was getting crushed on the inside, but I didn’t hear her complain. “Would you like to buy these young ladies a drink, sir?” I asked.
“Whatever they want,” he said. His voice was low and solemn. He wasn’t drunk.
“A bottle!” Baby said.
I glanced at the man. Bottles went for a hundred sixty kiam. If he was looking for sex, he could get it a lot cheaper almost anywhere else in the Budayeen. I didn’t think he was looking for sex. I didn’t know what his angle was, or even if he had an angle.
“A bottle,” he said. “And for me, just coffee, please.”
I nodded. We didn’t have coffee in the club, but if the gentleman was going to spill cash for a bottle, I could send out for his coffee.
“See?” Baby said. “What did I tell you?”
“I don’t remember what you told me,” I said.
“You asked me before why we don’t like to dance when it’s our turn. Where we worked before, our boss told us that there were like two kinds of girls in these clubs. There are front-room girls and back-room girls. W
e’re like back-room girls.”
I mulled that one over for a few seconds. “Baby,” I said at last, “how long have you worked for me?”
She looked puzzled. “A couple of weeks, I think. How come?”
“In that couple of weeks, haven’t you noticed that we don’t have a back room?”
“You don’t?” She looked across the heavyset mark at Kitty, who seemed even more bewildered.
“Just take it easy,” I said. “I’ll have Rocky bring your bottle.”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Boss!” Baby called after me. Okay, let her think it was my birthday. Close enough.
I headed back toward the front of the club, and I saw Chiri come in. That cheered me up, because she was sensible enough to cancel out Baby and Kitty, with the Half-Hajj thrown in. “Hey, Chiri,” I said.
“Say, Bwana. I was expecting more of an actual party, you know what I mean? It’s too quiet in here. Play some music, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know. I kind of like it like this. I get real tired of hearing the same songs all day.”
Chiri nodded. “I brought some different stuff from home. You mind if I play it?”
I shrugged. “Hey, the club’s half yours, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, giving me a smile with absolutely no humor in it. “Half of it.”
“You missed Kmuzu. He and Indihar came in a little while ago. They brought all that food.”
“Choo,” Chiri said. “I wish I’d known they were passing by. They didn’t stay very long, did they?”
I shook my head. “You might’ve been able to talk them into hanging around.”
“I sure as hell would’ve tried with Kmuzu,” she said. “Nothing against Indihar, of course.” She went toward the club’s holo system. For the rest of the night we’d all learn more about Chiri’s taste in music.
About the time her first selection started playing—it was one of those goddamn Sikh propaganda songs, and Chiri knows how much I hate them—I decided it was time to grab myself a few pot stickers. I took a paper plate, plopped six fried dumplings on it, and spooned on the black soy sauce and vinegar combination that Martyrs of Democracy had packaged in a plastic cup. I closed my eyes and murmured “Bismillah”—in the name of God; then I gulped down all six of the pot stickers and took six more. Even though the dumplings had cooled a little by now, they were still great. I told myself I should savor them more slowly. I didn’t.
“Here, Marîd,” Rocky said. She put a white death in front of me.
“Thanks, Rocky. Come on, eat something!”
“Oh,” she said, “I’ll pass. I don’t like the way NOSFFF makes their chicken, and you couldn’t pay me to eat that raw fish stuff.”
“Have some pot stickers then.”
Her eyebrows went up a little. “You mean it, Marîd? I thought they were all for you.”
I laughed. “I can’t eat a hundred of ‘em, Rocky.”
“Bet you could. I’ll try a little of that couscous. The guy who runs the restaurant, he’s a Maghrebi like you, isn’t he?”
“Meloul? Yeah, we’re both from Algeria. I mean, Mauretania. I think he’s a Berber from Oran, though. I grew up in Algiers.”
Rocky shrugged. “Same difference,” she said. In this city, far from the Maghreb—the “sunset” or western lands—it didn’t matter very much. People didn’t care where you came from or what you’d done there. The city—the Budayeen in particular—was a perfect place to lose your past and start over. I’d done just that, and most of the people I knew had done it, too. That made me wonder for a moment: Did I know anyone who’d actually been born and raised here?
“Trouble,” Rocky murmured.
I turned and looked. The ‘ricain kid, Abdul-Hassan, had come in. He shot a black look at Saied and his friend for the night, Radomil. The Half-Hajj hadn’t yet noticed that the kid had joined the party. I hoped Rocky’s prediction didn’t come true, but in a worst-case scenario I could handle Abdul-Hassan. I had proved that before.
Of course, the first thing the boy did was walk right toward me. “May you go and come in safety, Shaykh Marîd,” he said. Hooray, I thought, Saied had finally given the kid an Arabic-language daddy. Then Abdul-Hassan raised himself on his toes and gave me a kiss on the mouth. It was over in about two seconds, but it was a very good kiss.
That caught me off-guard. I glanced at Saied, but his expression was empty of resentment or anger. I didn’t know if the Half-Hajj truly didn’t care, or if his attitude was a function of the niceness moddy. Yasmin, however, was glowering. She was already fiercely jealous of Indihar; I knew she didn’t want to see anything develop between me and the American kid.
“Thank you for your good wishes, O Clever One,” I said. I tried to put a little more distance between us, but as I backed away, the kid followed.
At that moment, Yasmin decided to join the tableau. “Marîd,” she said in a chilly voice, “I really need to talk to you. Privately.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go sit down at the bar.”
Abdul-Hassan put a hand on my arm and slowly scratched downward with his fingernails. “My heart will be empty until you get back from the hajj,” he said. I’d never noticed how long his eyelashes were. He gave my arm a little squeeze.
“Right now, Marîd,” Yasmin said.
“All right, Yasmin.” I said to the boy, “Enjoy the party. May it be pleasant to you.”
He said, “All who see you, live, O Shaykh. Maybe we can talk again later.” I had no trouble reading his expression, and I understood that talking was very low on the list of things he’d like to do with me later.
Yasmin and I took seats at the bar. “What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Yasmin said. “I just thought you needed someone to rescue you from that American slut. I didn’t think you were a chicken hawk, Marîd.”
“Are you serious?”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
I was amazed. “Believe me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She tilted her head and looked at me for a few seconds. “You forget that I know you, honey. I think you’d jam anything that held still long enough. In the right situation.”
“He’s pretty, Yasmin, but he’s too young and he belongs to the Half-Hajj.”
“Tell that to Saied, if you can get his attention away from that trick he brought in here.”
I got up from the stool. “You should listen to yourself. You’re jumping to all kinds of wrong conclusions.”
“What I said, Marîd.” She stood up and headed toward the plate of fried chicken.
The party lurched on toward midnight. I got pretty drunk despite the daddy I was wearing. More people came in, and I was very gracious and charming. At least, that’s how I remember it. I greeted Frenchy Benoit, who ran his own club on the Street, and Frenchy’s friendly barmaid, Dalia; we had a drink together.
Heidi, the beautiful blue-eyed German barmaid from the Silver Palm came in and wished me well; we had a drink together. Old Ibrahim, who owned the Cafe Solace, and Monsieur Gargotier, who owned the Fee Blanche, each had a drink with me. They stayed just long enough to mutter a few words in my ear and load up on free food. I thought Ferrari, who lived above his club, the Blue Parrot, might come by, but either he didn’t or he arrived after I’d stopped remembering things.
Safiyya the Lamb Lady dropped by for a little while. She was what other people on the Street called a “character.” She was harmless, though, as long as you didn’t threaten her imaginary lamb. She didn’t even realize there was a party going on. I gave her some food and a glass of beer, and she thanked me. She was the only person in Chiri’s all night long who thanked me for anything.
I do recall Kenneth being there for part of the evening. He was a tall, slender European with wire-rimmed spectacles. He had thin lips, always pressed tightly together; his expression showed that he was cursed to go through life surrounded by people and objects he dreaded to touch. Th
e most notable thing about Kenneth, however, was that he was Shaykh Reda Abu Adil’s lieutenant and current fuck-buddy. Just as Abu Adil hated Friedlander Bey, so Kenneth hated me. The feeling was mutual.
“Shaykh Reda sent me,” Kenneth said. “He wanted me to convey his best wishes to you and to Friedlander Bey for your journey to Makkah.”
“Thank Shaykh Reda for me,” I said. I stared at him. I wasn’t going to say anything more. I wanted to see what he was really up to.
He stared back at me, and the silence got longer and more ridiculous. “I will have a glass of beer,” he said at last.
“Knock yourself out, Kenny,” I said.
His mouth twisted, but he didn’t say anything. A couple of minutes later I saw him, holding his glass of beer, in some kind of intense conference with Mahmoud. I didn’t know what they were discussing, but whatever it was it wouldn’t be good news for Papa and me.
Things began to get blurry soon after that. I have a vague memory of dropping my glass and spilling liquor and ice cubes on the floor. The glass shattered, and when I bent down clumsily, I overturned my plateful of couscous and meze on somebody. The American kid helped me to a chair at a table, and I sat down heavily. The room was making sickening circles with me at its center, and I told myself it might be a good idea to skip a couple of drinks until I was steady again.
Then Baby and Kitty were bending down, kissing me goodbye. The way I was feeling, it was too much effort to raise my eyes to their faces. Instead, I just stared at their remarkable tits. I gathered that Baby and Kitty were abandoning the bearded black man because he’d stopped spending money on them. Sure, okay. I guess they went to another club. The large gentleman himself called out to Rocky to bring him another cup of coffee.
I crossed my arms on the table and put my head down. The room spun even faster. I knew that if I did anything drastic, such as move or breathe, I was in danger of throwing up. I didn’t move or breathe.
The next thing I remember was someone shaking me by the shoulder. I supposed it was Abdul-Hassan, until I opened my eyes. I was wrong. It was Sulome, the working girl from Damascus. She was not supposed to be there. As drunk as I was, I knew that for a fact. “What?” I said. I hoped she understood what I meant, because I didn’t think I could say it any more plainly than that.
Budayeen Nights Page 20