George Effinger - A Fire in the Sun

“What’s wrong? What are you going to do?”

It was obvious that there wasn’t time to go into a long explanation. “You were right about the tainted dates. Someone had been feeding him the poison for some time. It has severely impaired his medulla, the part of the brain that controls respiration, heartbeat, and wakefulness. It’s been damaged to such an extent that, unless something is done very soon, he will fall into an irreversible coma.”

My mouth was dry, and my heart was racing. “What are you going to do?” I asked.

Dr. Yeniknani looked down at his hands. “Dr. Lisan believes the only hope is a partial medullar transplant. We have been waiting for healthy tissue from a compatible donor.”

“And today you’ve found it?” I wondered who on that goddamn Phoenix File had been sacrificed for this.

“I can’t promise success, Mr. Audran. The operation has only been tried three or four times before, and never in this part of the world. But you must know that if any surgeon can offer you hope, it’s Dr. Lisan. And of course, I will be attending. Your patron will have all the skill at our disposal, and all the prayers of his faithful friends.”

I nodded dumbly. I looked up to see two male nurses lifting Friedlander Bey from his hospital bed onto a wheeled cart. I went to grasp his hand once more.

“Two things,” he said in a husky whisper. “You have moved the policeman’s widow into our home. When the four months of proper mourning are over, you must marry her.”

“Marry her!” I was so startled, I forgot to be properly respectful.

“And when I recover from this illness—” He yawned, almost unable to keep his eyes open against the medication the nurses had given him. I lowered my head to catch his words. “When I am again well, we will go to Mecca.”

That wasn’t what I expected, either. I guess I groaned. “Mecca,” I said.

“The pilgrimage.” He opened his eyes. He looked frightened, not of the surgery but of his unfulfilled obligation to Allah. “It is past time,” he said, and then they wheeled him away.

I decided the wise thing was to wait until my arm was unwrapped before I faced down Abu Adil. After all, the great Salah ad-Din didn’t reconquer Jerusalem and drive out the Franj Crusaders by riding down into battle with half his army. Not that I planned to get into a fistfight with Shaykh Reda or Umar, but I’d taken enough nicks and scrapes lately to learn a little prudence.

Things had quieted down considerably. For a time, we worried and prayed to Allah for Friedlander Bey’s recovery. He’d survived the surgery and Dr. Lisan had pronounced it a success; but Papa slept almost around the clock, day after day. He roused occasionally and talked with us, although he was terribly confused about who we all were and what century it was.

With Umm Saad and her son gone, the atmosphere in the house was more cheerful. I concerned myself with Papa’s business matters, acting in his place to settle disputes among the city’s caterers of the ungodly. I let Mahmoud know that I would be tough but fair as Friedlander Bey’s deputy, and he seemed to accept that. At least, he dropped his resentment. That may have been just an act. You can never accurately read Mahmoud.

I also had to handle a major foreign crisis, when the new tyrant of Eritrea came to me demanding to know what was going on in his own country. I took care of that mess, thanks to Papa’s impeccable record keeping and Tariq and Youssef’s knowledge of where everything was.

My mother continued to alternate between modestly mature and brazenly foolish. Sometimes when we talked, we were sorry for the way we’d punished each other in the past. Other times, we wanted to slit each other’s throats. Kmuzu told me that this kind of relationship is not unusual between parent and child, particularly after both have reached a certain age. I accepted that, and I didn’t worry about it anymore.

Chiriga’s continued to make lots of money, and both Chiri and I were satisfied. I guess she would’ve been more satisfied if I’d sold the club back to her, but I enjoyed owning it too much. I decided to hang on to it a little while longer, the way I decided to hang on to Kmuzu.

When the muezzin’s call to prayer came, I answered it a large percentage of the time, and went to the mosque on a Friday or two. I was becoming known as a kind and generous man, not just in the Budayeen but all through the city. Wherever I went, people called me Shaykh Marid al-Amin. I didn’t completely stop taking drugs, however, because I was still injured and I saw no reason to take the chance of enduring unnecessary agony.

All in all, the month after I’d kissed off the police department was a welcome experiment with peace and quiet. It all came to an end one Tuesday, just before lunch, when I answered the phone. “Marhaba,” I said.

“Praise be to God. This is Umar Abdul-Qawy.”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “The hell do you want?” I said.

“My master is concerned for the health of Fried-lander Bey. I’m calling to inquire as to his condition.”

I was coming to a quick boil. I didn’t really know what to say to Umar. “He’s fine. He’s resting.”

“Then he’s able to take care of his duties?” There was a smugness in his voice that I hated a lot.

“I said he’s fine, all right? Now, I got work to do.”

“Just a second, Monsieur Audran.” And then his voice got positively sanctimonious. “We believe you may have something that properly belongs to Shaykh Reda.”

I knew what he was talking about, and it made me smile. I liked being the screwer rather than the screwee. “I don’t know what you mean, Himmar.” I don’t know, something made me say it. I knew it would pluck his beard.

“The moddy,” he said. “The goddman moddy.”

I paused to savor what I heard in his voice. “Well, hell,” I said, “you got it all wrong. As I recall, you have the goddamn moddy. Remember? Himmar? You cuffed my hands behind my back, and then you beat me bloody, and then you jacked me into a moddy link and read off my brain. You guys done with it yet?”

There was silence. I think Umar hoped I wouldn’t remember that moddy. That’s not what he wanted to talk about. I didn’t care, I had the floor. “How’s it work, you son of a bitch?” I said. “You wear my brain while that sick bastard jams you? Or the other way around? How am I, Umar? Any competition for Honey Pilar?”

I heard him trying to get himself under control. “Perhaps we could arrange an exchange,” he said at last. “Shaykh Reda truly wishes to make amends. He wants his personality module returned. I’m sure he would agree to give you the recording we made of you plus a suitable cash settlement.”

“Cash,” I said. “How much?”

“I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure Shaykh Reda would be very generous. He realizes that he’s put you through a great deal of discomfort.”

“Yeah, you right. But business is business, and action is action. How much?”

“Ten thousand kiam,” said Umar.

I knew that if I balked, he’d name a higher figure; but I wasn’t interested in their money. “Ten thousand?” I said, trying to sound impressed.

“Yes.” Umar’s voice got smug again. He was going to pay for that. “Shall we meet here, in an hour? Shaykh Reda instructed me to say that our staff is preparing a special midday meal in your honor. We hope you’ll let our past differences go, Shaykh Marid. Shaykh Reda and Friedlander Bey must join together now. You and I must be partners in harmony. Don’t you agree?”

“I do testify that there is no god but Allah,” I declared solemnly.

“By the Lord of the Kaaba,” swore Umar, “this will be a memorable day for both our houses.”