George Effinger - A Fire in the Sun

She laughed. “You never was an attentive child, O Shaykh.”

“As I recall, you weren’t the doting mother, either. That’s why I’m wondering why you showed up here all of a sudden.”

She inhaled again on the narjilah. “Algiers is boring, I lived there most of my life. After you came to see me, I knew I had to get out. I wanted to come here, see the city again.”

“And see me again?”

She gave me another shrug. “Yeah, that too.”

“And Abu Adil? You drop by his palace first, or haven’t you been over there yet?” That’s what we in the cop trade call a shot in the dark. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

“I ain’t having nothing more to do with that son of a bitch,” she said. She almost snarled.

Shaknahyi would have been proud of me. I kept my emotions under control and my expression neutral. “What’s Abu Adil ever done to you?”

“That sick bastard. Never mind, it’s none of your business.” She concentrated on her water pipe for a few moments.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll respect your wishes, O my mother. Anything I can do for you before I leave?”

“Everything’s great. You run along and play Protector of the Innocent. Go roust some poor working girl and think of me.”

I opened my mouth to make some sharp reply, but I caught myself in time. “You get hungry, or you need anything, just ask Youssef or Kmuzu. May your day be happy.”

“Your day be prosperous, O Shaykh.” Whenever she called me that, there was heavy irony in her voice.

I nodded to her and left the room, closing the door quietly behind me. Kmuzu was in the corridor, right where I’d left him. He was so goddamn loyal, I almost felt like scratching him behind the ears. I didn’t buy that act for a minute.

“It would be well for you to greet the master of the house before we leave for the police station,” he said.

“I don’t need you to rehearse me on my manners, Kmuzu.” He had this way of annoying me. “Are you implying that I don’t know my duties?”

“I imply nothing, yaa Sidi. You are inferring.”

“Sure.” You just can’t argue with a slave.

Friedlander Bey was already in his office. He sat behind his great desk, massaging his temples with one hand. Today he was wearing a pale yellow silk robe with a starched white shirt over it, buttoned to the neck and with ho tie. Over the shirt he had on an expensive-looking herringbone-tweed suit jacket. It was a costume only an old and revered shaykh could get away with wearing. I thought it looked just fine. “Habib,” he said. “Labib.”

Habib and Labib are the Stones That Speak. The only way you can tell them apart is to call one of the names. There’s an even chance one of ’em will blink. If not, it doesn’t really make any difference. In fact, I couldn’t swear that they blink in response to their own names. They may be doing it just for fun.

Both of the Stones That Speak were in the office, standing on either side of a straight-backed chair. In the chair, I was surprised to see, was Umm Saad’s young son. The Stones each had one hand on Saad’s shoulders, and the hands were kneading and crushing the boy’s bones. He was being put to the question. I’ve had that treatment, and I can testify that it isn’t a lick of fun.

Papa smiled briefly when I came into the room. He did not greet me, but looked back at Saad. “Before you came to the city,” he said in a low voice, “where did you and your mother dwell?”

“Many places,” Saad answered. There was fear in his voice.

Papa returned to rubbing his forehead. He stared down at his desktop, but waved a few fingers at the Stones That Speak. The two huge men tightened their grip on the boy’s shoulders. The blood drained from Saad’s face, and he gasped.

“Before you came to the city,” Friedlander Bey repeated calmly, “where did you live?”

“Most recently in Paris, O Shaykh.” Saad’s voice was thin and strained.

The answer startled Papa. “Did your mother like living among the Franj?”

“I guess so.”

Friedlander Bey was doing an admirable impersonation of a bored person. He picked up a silver letter opener and toyed with it. “Did you live well in Paris?”

“I guess so.” Habib and Labib began to crush Saad’s collarbones. He was encouraged to give more details. “We had a big apartment in the Rue de Paradis, O Shaykh. My mother likes to eat well and she likes giving parties. The months in Paris were pleasant. It surprised me when she told me we were coming here.”

“And did you labor to earn money, so your mother could eat Franji food and wear Franji clothing?”

“I did no labor, O Shaykh.”

Papa’s eyes narrowed. “Where do you think the money came from to pay for these things?”

Saad hesitated. I could hear him moan as the Stones applied still more pressure. “She told me it came from her father,” he cried.

“Her father?” said Friedlander Bey, dropping the letter opener and looking at Saad directly.

“She said from you, O Shaykh.”

Papa grimaced and made a quick gesture with both hands. The Stones moved back, away from the youth. Saad slumped forward, his eyes tightly closed. His face was shiny with sweat.

“Let me tell you one thing, O clever one,” said Papa. “And remember that I do not lie. I am not your mother’s father, and I am not your grandfather. We share no blood. Now go.”

Saad tried to stand, but collapsed back into the chair. His expression was grim and determined, and he glared at Friedlander Bey as if he were trying to memorize every detail of the old man’s face. Papa had just called Umm Saad a liar, and I’m sure that at that moment the boy was entertaining some pitiful fantasy of revenge. At last he managed to stand up again, and he made his way shakily to the door. I intercepted him.

“Here,” I said. I took out my pillcase and gave him two tabs of Sonneine. “You’ll feel a lot better in a few minutes.”

He took the tabs, looked me fiercely in the eye, and dropped the sunnies to the floor. Then he turned his back on me and left Friedlander Bey’s office. I bent down and

reclaimed the Sonneine. To paraphrase a local proverb: a white tablet for a black day.

After the formal greetings, Papa invited me to be comfortable. I sat in the same chair from which Saad had just escaped. I have to admit that I suppressed a little shudder. “Why was the boy here, O Shaykh?” I asked.

“He was here at my invitation. He and his mother are once again my guests.”

I must have missed something. “Your graciousness is legendary, O my uncle; but whey do you permit Umm Saad to intrude on your peace? I know she upsets you.”

Papa leaned back in his chair and sighed. At that moment, he showed every year of his long life. “She came to me humbly. She begged my forgiveness. She brought me a gift.” He gestured to a platter of dates stuffed with nutmeats and rolled in sugar. He smiled ruefully. “I don’t know where she got her information, but someone told her that these are my favorite treat. Her tone was respectful, and she made a claim upon my hospitality that I could not dismiss.” He spread his hands, as if that explained it all.

Friedlander Bey observed traditions of honor and generosity that have all but disappeared in this day and age. If he wanted to welcome a viper back into his home, I had nothing to say about it. “Then your instructions concerning her have changed, O Shaykh?” I asked.

His expression did not alter. He didn’t even blink. “Oh no, that’s not what I mean. Please kill her as soon as it’s convenient for you, but there’s no hurry, my son. I find I’m getting curious about what Umm Saad hopes to accomplish.”

“I will conclude the matter soon,” I said. He frowned. “Inshallah, “I added quickly. “Do you think she’s working for someone else? An enemy?”