Lawrence Block - Tanner’s Virgin

“You will not kill me?”

“Good thinking.”

His eyes grew crafty. “You are with the Central Intelligence Agency, perhaps?”

“So that’s what was grabbing you.”

“Who is grabbing me?”

“No, forget it. No, I’m not with the Central Intelligence Agency. As a matter of fact, the Central Intelligence Agency and I don’t get along very well.”

“You are an enemy of the CIA?”

“Well, I suppose you could put it that way, if you don’t mind stretching a point. You could even say I’m a great friend of Russia if you want. A supporter of the Soviet Union. An ally of the People’s Republic of Bulgaria, if it makes you happy.”

“Ha! The Soviet Union!”

“Sure.”

“Ha! Bulgaria!”

“Ha! indeed,” I said. “So you’ll tell your boss, okay? Yaakov, the one with all the knees and elbows and teeth. Tell him I’m a good guy and I just came here to get my glasses cleaned. And tell him to for God’s sake stop sending people to kill me. I don’t like it.”

He nodded.

“And now,” I said, “I am not doing this because I hate you, but simply because I don’t trust you. I know it’s mean of me to think it, but I’ve got a feeling that you might try to follow me.”

“I would never do this,” he said.

“Somehow you fail to convince me. I even have a hunch that, given insufficient time for reflection, you might have another try at killing me.”

“I am not such a man.”

I aimed a kick at his groin. I checked it, but the mere thought of it was enough to make him double up, hands at crotch. It was no great trick to grab his head and rap it a couple of times against the wall. Not too hard, because I wanted my message delivered to Yaakov. Not too soft, either, because I wasn’t that crazy about my little bearded friend. If he had a headache when he woke up, that was fine with me.

I slipped out of the mouth of the alleyway. I didn’t just walk out, the way I would have done earlier. I found my way to the end of the alley and stuck my head out very carefully and looked to the left and to the right, and then I scurried out and disappeared into the shadows on the other side of the street.

If all of these fools didn’t know any better than to waste time killing me, at least I could be on my guard. There was no point in making their work easy for them.

A man named Arthur Hook had described him as a great hulking wog with white hair to his shoulders. A man named Tarsheen of the Sausage Pot added that he had a furious appetite and a belly that would press through his robes if it could. They were both right. Amanullah the son of Ba’aloth the son of Pezran the son of D’hon was all this and more.

He sort of hung. His hair hung straight to his shoulders, white as a Southern jury and limp as a eunuch. His body was appallingly fat all over, and the fat drooped. Someone must have slammed the door while his head was in the oven, because his face had fallen all over the place. His eyes were huge and very blue, contrasting nicely with his brown teeth. His ears were positively gigantic, with huge lobes, and if he could have contrived to flap them he could have flown away like Dumbo the Flying Elephant, whom he probably outweighed. While I introduced myself he engulfed a salad, a large wedge of cheese, two liters of beer and a chunk of bread the size of a small loaf. He didn’t even seem to be eating. He seemed to inhale his food, to breathe it into his belly.

And he was, all of this notwithstanding, an exceedingly charming man. Good will was an aura around him. I sat down across the table from him fully prepared to despise him, and from the onset I found it impossible to do other than like him.

“So you bring greetings from Tarsheen, eh?” He belched rather delicately. “Tarsheen of the Sausage Pot. He is, let me see-”

“The husband of the sister of the wife of your brother.”

“Why, kâzzih, you understand my family ties better than I do myself! It is as you say. You tasted the sausages of Tarsheen? None better are sold in the streets of Kabul. In this wineshop, though, one may obtain the best food anywhere in the city.”

“I thought there was only wine.”

“For me there is food. For others, no. I eat here constantly, it is my pleasure in life.” He erupted with laughter. “As if I must tell you this, eh?” He slapped his abdomen. “As if my belly does not testify amply to my source of happiness?” He slapped it again. “But I eat and offer nothing, it is not seemly. You wish nourishment?”

“I ate not an hour ago.”

“An hour after eating I am famished. You wish wine?”

“Perhaps beer.”

He ordered it, and another of the ugly sisters brought it. Somewhere along the line I asked him why it tasted of cashews, and he explained about the nut with which they flavored it. When I finished the beer he ordered me another.

“Now, kâzzih, ” he said eventually, “I suspect you wish to discuss business. Is it not so?”

“It is so.”

“And your business is what?”

“A woman.”

“Only one woman? I see. You buy or you sell?”

“I buy.”

“You have preference as to type? Young or old, tall or short, Eastern or Western? Fat? Slender? Dark or light? Or would you examine my poor stock and determine what strikes your fancy?”

“I want a girl named Phaedra,” I said.

“A name?” He shrugged massively. “But of what importance is a name? To be honest, I never bother learning the names of the girls I handle. But if you wish a girl with such a name – how is it called?”

“Phaedra.”

“A most unusual name in this part of the world. Is it Hindu?”

“It’s Greek.”

“How extraordinary! The name, though, what does it matter? You select a girl, you pay her price, she is yours to do with as you wish. If you wish to call her Phaedra, so she is called. If you wish to call her Dunghill, to Dunghill does she answer. Is it not so, kâzzih? ”

I sighed. I wasn’t quite getting my point across. I took it from the top again and explained that I was looking for a girl whom he had already handled, a girl he had already purchased as a slave.

“A girl brought here to me?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, that is another matter entirely. When did this occur?”

I told him.

“So many months? A problem.” He picked up a roll, broke it in half, sopped up salad oil with it, and gobbled it up. “I bought and sold many girls that month, kâzzih. How would I know one from another?”

I told him the seller was an Englishman and that the girl was part of a shipment of half a dozen English girls. I dragged out my picture of Phaedra and gave him a look at it. He studied it for a long time.

“I remember the girl,” he said.

“Thank God.”

“She is Greek? I did not think-”

“She is American.”

“American, but her name is Greek. The world has more questions than answers, is it not so? I remember the girl, the others that she came with. The demand was strong at that time. All of those girls were placed almost immediately. You would do well to forget her, kâzzih. ”

I stared. “Why?”

“It is sad.” He rolled his huge blue eyes. “ Kâzzih, if you loved her, you should have purchased her freedom before ever she came to Afghanistan. A man falls in love with a slave girl, and he does not think she is ever taken from him. He does not anticipate this. And then she is sold, and sold again, and only then does he regret waiting so long. And by that time it is too late.”

“Why is it too late?”

“Ah, kâzzih, drink your beer. These are sad times.”

“Is she alive?”

“Do I know? When I have sold a woman my interest in her ceases. She is no longer my property. It would be immoral for me to maintain concern in her. She lives, she dies, I do not know. Nor does it matter.”