“Now, Nikki.”
She took some money out of her hip pocket and counted off a hundred. “Here.” There was a new coldness between us.
“Give me another twenty for Papa’s little gift. And you’re responsible for Hassan’s baksheesh. too. I’ll see you tonight.” And then I got out of that place before the rampant craziness began to seep into my skull.
I went home. I hadn’t slept enough, I had a splitting headache, and the edge of the tri-phet glow had disappeared somewhere in the summer afternoon. Yasmin was still asleep, and I climbed onto the mattress next to her. The drugs wouldn’t let me nap, but I really wanted to have a little piece and quiet with my eyes shut. I should have known better; as soon as I relaxed, the tri-phets began thrumming in my head louder than ever. Behind my closed eyelids, the red darkness began to flash like a strobe light. I felt dizzy; then I imagined patterns of blue and dark green, swirling like microscopic creatures in a drop of water. I opened my eyes again to get rid of the strobing. I felt involuntary twitches in my calf muscles, in my hand, in my cheek. I was strung tighter than I thought: no rest for the wicked.
I stood up again and crumpled the note I’d left for Yasmin. “I thought you wanted to go out today,” she said sleepily.
I turned around. “I did go out. Hours ago.”
“What time is it?”
“About three o’clock.”
“Yaa salaam! I’m supposed to be at work at three today!”
I sighed. Yasmin was famous all over the Budayeen for being late for just about everything. Frenchy Benoit, the owner of the club where Yasmin worked, fined her fifty kiam if she came in even a minute late. That didn’t get Yasmin to move her pretty little ass; she took her sweet old time, paid Frenchy the fifty nearly every day, and made it back in drinks and tips the first hour. I’ve never seen anyone who could separate a sucker from his money so fast. Yasmin worked hard, she wasn’t lazy. She just loved to sleep. She would have made a great lizard, basking on a hot rock in the sun.
It took her five minutes to leap out of bed and get dressed. I got an abstract kiss that landed off-center, and she was going out the door, digging in her purse for the module she’d use at work. She called something over her shoulder in her barbaric Levantine accent.
Then I was alone. I was pleased with the turn my fortunes had taken. I hadn’t been this flush in many months. As I was wondering if there was something I wanted, something I could blow my sudden wealth on, the image of Bogatyrev’s bloodstained blouse superimposed itself over the spare, shabby furnishings of my apartment. Was I feeling guilty? Me? The man who walked through the world untouched by its corruption and its crude temptations. I was the man without desire, the man without fear. I was a catalyst, a human agent of change. Catalysts caused change, but in the end they remained unchanged themselves. I helped those who needed help and had no other friends. I participated in the action, but was never stung. I observed, but kept my own secrets. That’s how I always thought of myself, That’s how I set myself up to get hurt.
In the Budayeen — hell, in the whole world, probably — there are only two kinds of people: hustlers and marks. You’re one or the other. You can’t act nice and smile and tell everybody that you’re just going to sit on the sidelines. Hustler or mark or sometimes a little of each. When you stepped through the eastern gate, before you’d taken ten steps up the Street, you were permanently cast as one or the other. Hustler or mark. There was no third choice, but I was going to have to learn that the hard way. As usual.
I wasn’t hungry, but I forced myself to scramble some eggs. I ought to pay more attention to my diet, I know that, but it’s just too much trouble. Sometimes the only vitamins I get are in the lime slices in my gimlets. It was going to be a long, hard night, and I was going to need all my resources. The three blue triangles would be wearing off before my meeting with Hassan and Abdoulaye; in fact, it figured that I’d show up at my absolute worst: depressed, exhausted, in no shape at all to represent Nikki. The answer was stunningly obvious: more blue triangles. They’d boost me back up. I’d be operating at superhuman speed, with computer precision and a prescient knowledge of the tightness of things. Synchronicity, man. Tapped into the Moment, the Now, the convergence of time and space and life and the holy fuckin’ tide in the affairs of men. At least, it would seem that way to me; and across the table from Abdoulaye, putting up a good front was every bit as good as the real thing. I would be mentally alert and morally straight, and that son of a bitch Abdoulaye would know I hadn’t shown up just to get my ass kicked. These were the persuasive arguments I gave as I crossed my crummy room and hunted for my pill case.
Two more tri-phets? Three, to be on the safe side? Or would that wind me too tight? I didn’t want to go spanging off the wall like a snapping guitar string. I swallowed two, pocketed the third just in case.
Man, tomorrow was going to be one godawful scurvy day. Better Living Through Chemistry didn’t mind lending me the extra energy up front, in the form of pretty pastel pills; but, to use one of Chiriga’s favorite phrases, paybacks are a bitch. If I managed to survive the stupifying crash that was coming due, it would be an occasion for general rejoicing all around the throne of Allah.
The pace picked up again in about half an hour. I showered, washed my hair, trimmed my beard, shaved the little places on my cheeks and neck where I don’t want the beard, brushed my teeth, washed out the sink and the tub, walked naked through my apartment searching for other things to clean or rearrange or straighten up — and then I caught myself. “Hold on, kid,” I muttered. It was good that I took the two extra bangers so early; I’d settle down before it was time to leave.
Time passed slowly. I thought of calling Nikki to remind her to get going, but that was pointless. I thought of calling Yasmin or Chiri, but they were at work now, anyway. I sat back against the wall and shivered, almost in tears: Jesus, I really didn’t have any friends. I wished I had a holo system like Tamiko’s; it would have killed some time. I’ve seen some holoporn that made the real thing seem fetid and diseased.
At seven-thirty I dressed: an old, faded blue shirt, my jeans, and my boots. I couldn’t have looked pretty for Hassan if I’d wanted to. As I was leaving my building, I heard the crackle of static, and the amplified voice of the muezzin cried “laa ’illaha ’illallaahu” — it is a beautiful sound, that call to prayer, alliterative and moving even to a blaspheming dog of an unbeliever like myself. I hurried through the empty streets; hustlers stopped their hustling for prayer, marks overcame their gullibility for prayer. My footsteps echoed on the ancient cobblestones like accusations. By the time I reached Hassan’s shop, everything had returned to normal. Until the final, evening call to prayer, the hustlers and the marks could return to their rock ’n’ roll of commerce and mutual exploitation.
Minding Hassan’s shop at that hour was a young, slender American boy everyone called Abdul-Hassan. Abdul means “the slave of,” and is usually rounded out with one of the ninety-nine names of God. In this case, the irony was that the American boy was Hassan’s, in every respect you could think of except, perhaps, genetically. The word around the Street was that Abdul-Hassan had not been born a boy, in exactly the same way that Yasmin had not been born a girl; but no one I knew had the time or the inclination to launch a full-scale investigation.
Abdul-Hassan asked me something in English. It was a mystery to the casual bargain hunter just what Hassan’s shop dealt in. That was because it was virtually empty; Hassan’s shop dealt in everything, and so there was no vital reason to display anything. I couldn’t understand English, so I just jerked my thumb toward the stained, block-printed curtain. The boy nodded and went back to his daydreaming.
I passed through the curtain, the storeroom, and the alley. Just as I came to the iron door, it swung outward almost silently. “Open sesame,” I whispered. Then I stepped into a dimly lighted room and looked around. The drugs made me forget to be afraid. They made me forget to be cautious, too; but my instincts are my livelihood, and my instincts are firing away morning and evening, drugs or no drugs. Hassan reclined on a small mountain of cushions, puffing on a narjîlah. I smelled the tang of hashish; the burbling of Hassan’s water pipe was the only sound in the room. Nikki sat stiffly on the edge of a rug, evidently terrified, with a cup of tea in front of her crossed legs. Abdoulaye rested on a few cushions, whispering into Hassan’s ear. Hassan’s expression was as empty as a handful of wind. This was his tea party; I stood and waited for him to speak.
“Ahlan wa sahlan!” he said, smiling briefly. It was a formal greeting, meaning something like “you have come to your people and level ground.” It was intended to set the tone for the rest of this parlay. I gave the proper response, and was invited to be seated. I sat beside Nikki; I noticed that she was wearing a single add-on in the midst of her pale blond hair. It must have been an Arabic-language daddy, because I knew she couldn’t understand a word of it without one.
I accepted a small cup of coffee, heavily spiced with cardamom. I raised the cup to Hassan and said, “May your table last forever.”
Hassan wafted a hand in the air and said, “May Allah lengthen your life.” Then I was given another cup of coffee. I nudged Nikki, who had not drunk her tea. You just can’t expect business to start immediately, not until you’d drunk at least three cups of coffee. If you declined sooner, you risked insulting your host. All the while the coffee- and tea-drinking was going on, Hassan and I asked after the health of the other’s family and friends, and called on Allah to bless this one and that one and protect all of us and the whole Muslim world from the depredations of the infidel.
I murmured under my breath to Nikki to keep downing the odd-tasting tea. Her presence here was distasteful to Hassan for two reasons: she was a prostitute, and she wasn’t a real woman. The Muslims have never made up their minds about that. They treated their women as second-class citizens, but they weren’t exactly sure what to do with men who became women. The Qur’ân evidently makes no provisions for such things. The fact that I myself wasn’t exactly a devotee of the Book in which there is no doubt didn’t help matters. So Hassan and I kept drinking and nodding and smiling and praising Allah and trading pleasantries tit for tat, like a tennis match. The most frequent expression in the Muslim world is inshallah, if God wills. It removes all guilt: blame it on Allah. If the oasis dries up and blows away, it was Allah’s will. If you get caught sleeping with your brother’s wife, it was Allah’s will. Getting your hand or your cock or your head chopped off in reprisal is Allah’s will, too. Nothing much gets done in the Budayeen without discussing how Allah is going to feel about it.
The better part of an hour passed this way, and I could tell that both Nikki and Abdoulaye were getting antsy. I was doing fine. Hassan was smiling broader every minute — he was inhaling hashish in heroic quantities.
At last, Abdoulaye couldn’t stand it any longer. He wanted the conversation to get around to money. Specifically, how much Nikki was going to have to pay him for her freedom.
Hassan wasn’t pleased by this impatience. He raised his hands and looked wearily heavenward, reciting an Aral proverb that meant “Greed lessens what is gathered.” It was a ludicrous statement, coming from Hassan. He looked at Abdoulaye. “You have been this young woman’s protector?” he asked. There are many ways of expressing “young woman” in this ancient language, each with its own subtle undertone and shade of meaning. Hassan’s careful choice was il-mahroosa, your daughter. The literal meaning of il-mahroosa is “the guarded one,” and seemed to fit the situation nicely. That’s how Hassan got to be Papa’s ace strongarm, by threading his way unerringly between the demands of culture and the necessities of the moment.
“Yes, O Wise One,” replied Abdoulaye. “For more than two years.”
“And she displeases you?”
Abdoulaye’s forehead wrinkled up. “No, O Wise One.”
“And she has not harmed you in any way?”
“No.”
Hassan turned to me; Nikki was beneath his notice. “The guarded one wishes to live in peace? She plots no malice against Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd?”
“I swear this is true,” I said.
Hassan’s eyes narrowed. “Your oaths mean nothing here, unbeliever. We must leave aside the honor of men, and make a contract of words and silver.”
“Those who hear your words, live,” I said.
Hassan nodded, pleased by my manners, if by nothing else about me or Nikki. “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful,” declared Hassan, his hands raised, palms upward, “I render now my judgment. Let all who are present hear and obey. The guarded one shall return all jewelry and ornaments given to her by Abdoulaye. She shall return all gifts of value. She shall return all costly clothing, keeping for herself only that clothing seemly for daily attire. On his part, Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd must promise to let the guarded one pass about her business unhindered. If some dispute arises in this, I shall decide.” He glared from one to the other, making it clear that there would be no dispute. Abdoulaye nodded, Nikki looked unhappy. “Further, the guarded one shall pay unto Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd the sum of three thousand kiam before noon prayer tomorrow. This is my word, Allah is Most Great.”
Abdoulaye grinned. “May you be healthy and happy!” he cried.
Hassan sighed. “Inshallah.” he murmured, fitting the mouthpiece of the narjîlah between his teeth again.
I was forced by convention to thank Hassan, too, although he’d stung Nikki pretty badly. “I am obliged to you,” I said, standing and dragging Nikki to her feet. Hassan waved a hand, as if shooing a buzzing fly out of his presence. As we passed through the iron door, Nikki turned and spat.
She shouted the worst insults her add-on could supply: “Himmar oo ibn-himmar! Ibn uhka! Yil’an ’abook!” I grabbed her more firmly and we ran. Behind us came the laughter of Abdoulaye and Hassan. They’d hustled their share for the evening and were feeling generous, letting Nikki escape unpunished for her obscenities.
When we got back to the Street, I slowed down, out of breath. “I need a drink,” I said, leading her into the Silver Palm.
“Bastards,” Nikki growled.
“Don’t you have the three thousand?”
“I’ve got it. I just don’t want to give it to them, that’s all. I had other plans for it.”
I shrugged. “If you want to get out from under Abdoulaye bad enough … ”
“Yeah, I know.” She still didn’t look happy about it.