The Exile Kiss

by George Alec Effinger

  It had been a very long day, and I hadn't gotten much sleep at Yasmin's apartment. I was beginning to run down. As I got into the car again, I told myself that I was going to make one more little visit, and then I was going to sit on the end of the bar in my club and watch naked female-shaped creatures wiggle to the music.

  "Home, yaa Sidi?" asked Kmuzu.

  "No rest for the wicked, my friend," I said, leaning my head back and massaging my temples. "Take me back to the eastern gate of the Budayeen. I need to talk with the medical examiner there, and after that I'm going to sit in Chiriga's for a few hours. I need to relax a little."

  "Yes, yaa Sidi."

  "You're welcome to come with me. You know that Chiri will be glad to see you."

  I saw Kmuzu's eyes narrow in the rearview mirror. "I will wait for you in the car," he said sternly. He really didn't like the attention he got from Chiri. Or maybe he did like it, and that's what was bothering him.

  "I'll be a few hours," I said. "In fact, I'll probably stay until closing."

  "Then I will go home. You may call me to get you when you wish."

  It only took a few minutes to drive back along the boulevard to the Budayeen. I got out of the car, leaned down, and said good-bye to Kmuzu. I stood in the warm drizzle and watched the cream-colored sedan drive away. To be honest, I was in very little hurry to meet the medical examiner. I have a low tolerance for ghastliness.

  And ghastliness was just what I saw when I entered the morgue, which was just inside the gate on the corner of First and the Street. The city operated two morgues; there was one somewhere else to handle the city in general, and there was this office to take care of the Budayeen. The walled quarter generated so many dead bodies that it rated its own cadaver franchise. The only thing I never understood was, why was the morgue at the eastern end of the Budayeen, and the cemetery against the western wall? You'd think it would be more convenient if they were closer together.

  I'd been in the morgue a few times in the past. My friends and I called it the Chamber of Horrors, because it bore out every horrible expectation one might have. It was dimly lighted, and there was very poor ventilation. The air was hot and dank and reeked of human wastes, dead bodies, and formaldehyde. The medical examiner's office had twelve vaults in which to store the corpses, but natural death, misadventure, and old-fashioned mayhem delivered that many bodies before noon daily. The later ones waited on the floor, stacked in piles on the broken, grimy tiles.

  There was the chief medical examiner and two assistants to try to keep up with this constant, grim traffic. Cleanliness was the next greatest problem, but none of the three officials had time to worry about swabbing the floors. Lieutenant Hajjar occasionally sent jailed prisoners over to work in the morgue, but it wasn't a coveted assignment. Because the builders of the body vaults had neglected to include drains, they had to be mopped out by hand every few days. The vaults were wonderful hatcheries for many varieties of germs and bacteria. The unlucky prisoners often returned to jail with anything from tuberculosis to meningitis, diseases which were eminently preventable elsewhere.

  One of the assistants came up to me with a harried look on his face. "What can I do for you?" he asked. "Got a body or something?"

  Instinctively, I backed away from him. I was afraid he'd touch me. "I have permission from the imam of the Shimaal Mosque to proceed with the exhumation of a body. It was a murder victim who never received an official autopsy."

  "Exhumation, uh huh," said the assistant, beckoning me to follow him. I passed through the tiled room. There was a naked corpse stretched stiff on one of the two metal autopsy tables. It was illuminated by a dirty, cracked skylight overhead, and by a row of flickering fluorescent fixtures.

  The formaldehyde was making my eyes burn and my nose drip. I was thankful when I saw that the assistant was leading me toward a solid wooden door at the far end of the examination room.

  "In here," he said. "The doc will be with you in a few minutes. He's having lunch."

  I wedged myself into the tiny office. It was lined with file cabinets. There was a desk piled high with stacks of folders, files, books, computer bubble plates, and who knew what else. There was a chair opposite it, surrounded by more mounds of papers, books, and boxes. I sat in the chair. There was no room to move it. I felt trapped in this dark warren, but at least it was better than the outer room.

  After a while, the medical examiner came in. He glanced at me once over the top of his thick-rimmed spectacles. New eyes are so cheap and easy to get—there are a couple of good eyeshops right in the Budayeen—that you don't see many people with glasses anymore. "I'm Dr. Besharati. You're here about an exhumation?"

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  He sat down. I could barely see him over the litter on his desk. He picked up a trumpet from the floor and leaned back. "I'll have to clear this through Lieutenant Hajjar's office," he said.

  "I've already been to see him. I was given permission by Imam Abd ar-Razzaq to have this posthumous examination performed."

  "Then I'll just call the imam," said the medical examiner. He tootled a few notes on his trumpet.

  "The imam is dead," I said in a flat voice. "You can call his secretary, though."

  "Excuse me?" Dr. Besharati gave me an astonished look.

  "He was murdered this afternoon. After I left his office."

  "May the blessings of Allah be on him and peace!" he said. Then he murmured for a while. I assumed he was praying. "That's most horrible. It's a terrible thing. Do they have the murderer?"

  I shook my head. "No, not yet."

  "I hope he's torn to pieces," said Dr. Besharati.

  "About Khalid Maxwell's autopsy—" I handed him the written order from the late Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq.

  He put his trumpet back on the floor and examined the document. "Yes, of course. What is the reason for your request?"

  I filled him in on the entire story. He stared at me with a dazed expression during most of it, but the mention of Friedlander Bey's name snapped him out of it. Papa often has that magical effect on people.

  At last, Dr. Besharati stood up and reached across his desk to take my hand. "Please give my regards to Friedlander Bey," he said nervously. "I will see to the exhumation myself. It will be done this very day, inshallah. As to the autopsy itself, I will perform it tomorrow morning at seven o'clock. I like to get as much work done before the heat of the afternoon. You understand."

  "Yes, of course," I said.

  "Do you wish to be present? For the autopsy, I mean?"

  I chewed my lip and thought. "How long will it take?"

  The medical examiner shrugged. "A couple of hours."

  Dr. Besharati's reputation suggested that he was someone Friedlander Bey and I could trust. Still, I intended to let him prove himself. "Then I'll come by about nine o'clock, and you can give me a report. If there's anything you think I ought to see, you can show me then. Otherwise, I don't see the need for me to get in your way."

  He came out from around his desk and took my arm, leading me back out into the Chamber of Horrors. "I suppose not," he said.

  I hurried ahead of him to the outer waiting room. "I appreciate your taking the time to help me," I said. "Thank you."

  He waved a hand. "No, it's nothing. Friedlander Bey has helped me on more than one occasion in the past. Perhaps tomorrow, after we've finished with Officer Maxwell, you'll permit me to give you a tour of my little domain?"

  I stared at him. "We'll see," I said at last.

  He took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. "I understand completely. Twenty years I've been here, and I hate it just as much now as when I first saw it." He shook his head.

  When I got back outside, I gulped fresh air like a drowning man. I needed a couple of drinks now more than ever.

  As I made my way up the Street, I heard shrill whistles around me. I smiled. My guardian angels were on the job. It was early evening, and the clubs and cafes were beginning to fill up. There were quite a few nerv
ous tourists around, all wondering if they'd be taking their lives in their hands if they just sat somewhere and had a beer. They'd probably find out. The hard way.

  The night shift had just taken over when I walked into Chiri's. I felt better immediately. Kandy was on stage, dancing energetically to some Sikh propaganda song. That was a trend in music that I wished would hurry up and disappear.

  "Jambo, Mr. Boss!" called Chiri. She flashed a grin.

  "Where you at, sweetheart," I said. I took my seat at the far curve of the bar.

  Chiri threw together a White Death and brought it to me. "Ready for another wonderful, exotic, exciting night on the Street?" she said, plopping down a cork coaster and setting my drink on it.

  I frowned. "It's never wonderful, it's never exotic," I said. "It's just the same damn boring music and the same faceless customers."

  Chiri nodded. "The money always looks the same, too, but that don't make me kick it out of bed."

  I looked around the club. My three pals, Jacques, Saied the Half-Hajj, and Mahmoud, were sitting at a table in the front corner, playing cards. This was rare, because the Half-Hajj got no kick from watching the dancers, and Jacques was militantly straight and could barely speak to the debs and sexchanges, and Mahmoud—as far as I knew—had no sexual predilections at all. That's why they spent most of their time at the Café Solace or on the patio at Gargotier's place.

  I walked over to welcome them to my humble establishment. "How y'all doin'?" I said, pulling up a chair.

  "Just fine," said Mahmoud.

  "Say," said Jacques, studying his cards, "what was all that excitement in Frenchy's with that girl Theoni?"

  I scratched my head. "You mean when she jumped up and started yelling? Well, the customer she was working on so hard gave her a present, remember? After he left Frenchy's, she opened the package and it turned out to be a baby book. Lots of cute pictures of this adorable baby girl, and a kind of diary of the kid's first few months. Turns out the guy was Theoni's real father. His wife ran off with her when Theoni was only eight months old. Her father's spent a lot of time and money tracking the girl down ever since."

  The Half-Hajj shook his head. "Theoni must've been surprised."

  "Yeah," I said. "She was embarrassed to have her father see her working in there. He tipped her a hundred kiam and promised to come back soon. Now she knows why he acted so uncomfortable when she was trying to get him excited."

  "We're trying to play cards here, Maghrebi," said Mahmoud. He was about as sympathetic as a rusty razor. "Heard you was gonna exhume that dead cop."

  I was surprised the news had gotten around already. "How do you feel about it?" I asked.

  Mahmoud looked at me steadily for a couple of seconds. "Couldn't care less," he said at last.

  "What you guys playing?" I asked.

  "Bourré", said Saied. "We're teaching the Christian."

  "It's been an expensive lesson so far," said Jacques. Bourré is a quiet, deceptively simple game. I've never played another card game where you could lose so much money so fast. Not even American poker.

  I watched for a little while. Evidently, none of the three had any thoughts at all concerning the exhumation. I was glad of that. "Anybody seen Fuad lately?" I asked.

  Jacques looked up at me. "Not for a couple days at least. What's the matter?"

  "That check was stolen," I said.

  "Ha! And you got stuck for it, right? I'm sorry, Marîd. I didn't have any way of knowing."

  "Sure, Jacques," I said in a grim voice.

  "What you guys talking about?" asked Saied.

  Jacques proceeded to tell them the whole story, at great length, with many oratorical devices and changes of voice, exaggerating the truth and making me look like a complete and utter fool. Of course, he minimalized his own participation in the affair.

  All three of them broke down in helpless laughter. "You let Fuad rip you off?" gasped Mahmoud. "Fuad? You're never going to live this down! I gotta tell people about this!"

  I didn't say a word. I knew I was going to hear about it for a long time, unless I caught up to Fuad and made him pay for his foolish crime. Now there was nothing to do but get up and go back to my seat at the bar. As I walked away, Jacques said, "You've got a datalink in here now, Marîd. You notice? And you owe me money for all the other ones I've sold so far. A hundred kiam each, you said."

  "Come in sometime with the signed delivery orders," I said in a cold voice. I squeezed the slice of lime and drank a little of the White Death.

  Chiri leaned toward me across the bar. "You're gonna exhume Khalid Maxwell?" she said.

  "Might learn something valuable."

  She shook her head. "Sad, though. The family's been through so much already."

  "Yeah, right." I swallowed more of the gin and bingara.

  "What's this about Fuad?" she asked.

  "Never mind. But if you see him, let me know immediately. He just owes me a little money, is all."

  Chiri nodded and headed down the bar, where a new customer had sat down. I watched Kandy finish up her last song.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw Yasmin and Pualani. "How was your day, lover?" said Yasmin.

  "All right." I didn't feel like going through it all.

  Pualani smiled. "Yasmin says you two are gonna get married next week. Congratulations!"

  "What?" I said, astonished. "What's this next week business? I haven't even formally proposed. I just mentioned the possibility. I've got a lot to think about first. I've got a lot of trouble to take care of. And then I have to talk to Indihar, and to Friedlander Bey—"

  "Oops," said Pualani. She hurried away.

  "Were you lying to me this morning?" asked Yasmin. "Were you just trying to get out of my house without the beating you deserved?"

  "No!" I said angrily. "I was just saying that maybe we wouldn't be so bad together. I wasn't ready to set a date or anything."

  Yasmin looked hurt. "Well," she said, "while you're dicking around and making up your mind, I've got places to go and people to meet. You understand me? Call me when you take care of all your so-called problems." She walked away, her back very straight, and sat down beside the new customer. She put her hand in his lap. I took another drink.

  I sat there for a long time, drinking and chatting with Chiri and with Lily, the pretty sexchange who was always suggesting that we get together. About eleven o'clock, my phone rang. "Hello?" I said.

  "Audran? This is Kenneth. You remember me."

  "Ah, yes, the apple of Abu Adil's eye, right? Shaykh Reda's little darling. What's up? You having a bachelor party and want me to send over a few boys?"

  "I'm ignoring you, Audran. I'm always ignoring you." I was sure that Kenneth hated me with an irrational ferocity.

  "What did you call for?" I asked.

  "Friday afternoon, the Jaish will parade and demonstrate against the gruesome murder of Imam Dr. Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq. Shaykh Reda wishes you to appear, in uniform, to address the Jaish at this historic moment, and also to meet the unit under your command."

  "How did you hear about Abd ar-Razzaq?" I asked. "Hajjar said he wasn't gonna tell anybody until tomorrow."

  "Shaykh Reda isn't 'anybody.' You should know that."

  "Yeah, you right."

  Kenneth paused. "Shaykh Reda also wishes me to tell you he's unalterably opposed to the exhumation of Khalid Maxwell. At the risk of sounding threatening, I have to pass along Shaykh Reda's feelings. He said that if you go ahead with the autopsy, you will earn his undying hatred. That is not something to dismiss lightly."

  I laughed. "Kenny, listen, aren't we already fierce rivals? Don't we hate each other's guts enough by now? And aren't Friedlander Bey and Abu Adil already at each other's throats? What's one little autopsy between archenemies?"

  "All right, you stupid son of a bitch," said Kenneth shortly. "I did my job, I passed along the messages. Friday, in uniform, in the Boulevard il-Jameel outside the Shimaal Mosque. You better show u
p." Then he cut the connection. I clipped my phone back on my belt.

  That concluded the second trip around the village. I looked at Chiri and held up my glass for a refill. The long night roared on.

  15

  I got a good four hours' sleep that night. After the short rest I'd got the night before, I felt exhausted and almost completely worn down. When my sleep daddy woke me at seven-thirty, I swung my feet out of bed and put them down on the carpet. I put my face in my hands and took a few deep breaths. I really didn't want to get up, and I didn't feel like jumping into battle with the forces arrayed against me. I looked at my watch; I had an hour before Kmuzu would drive me to the Budayeen for my appointment with the medical examiner. If I showered, dressed, and breakfasted in five minutes, I could go back to sleep until almost eight-thirty.

  I grumbled a few curses and stood up. My back creaked. I don't think I'd ever heard my back creak before. Maybe I was getting too old to stay up all night, drinking and breaking up fights. It was a depressing thought.

  I stumbled blearily to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Five minutes later, I realized that I was staring straight up into the hot spray with my eyes wide open. I felt asleep on my feet. I grabbed the soap and lathered my body, then turned slowly and let the stinging water rinse me. I dried myself and dressed in a clean white gallebeya with a dark red robe over it. As for breakfast, I had a decision to make. After all, I was going back to the Chamber of Horrors. Maybe food could be put off until later.

  Kmuzu gave me his blank look, the one that's supposed to pass for emotionless, but was in fact transparently unfavorable. "You were quite drunk again last night, yaa Sidi," he said, as he set a plate of eggs and fried lamb patties in front of me.

  "You must be thinking of someone else, Kmuzu," I said. I looked at the food and felt a wave of queasiness. Not lamb, not now.

  Kmuzu stood beside my chair and folded his well-muscled arms. "Would you be angry if I made an observation?" he asked.

  Nothing that I could say would stop him. "No. Please make your observation."