“Forget the money, Chiri, I—”
I shouldn’t have said that. “Hey, you son of a bitch, when I lose a bet I pay up. You’re gonna take the money or I’m gonna cram it down your throat. But, God, you’ve got some kind of twisted imagination.” “That last part,” said Courane, “where she couldn’t raise her hands to pop the moddy link, that was real cold.” He said it approvingly.
“Hell of a sadistic thing to do,” said Chiri, shivering. “Last time I ever touch a Transpex with you.”
“A few extra points, that’s all, Chiri. I didn’t know what my score was. I might have needed a couple more points.”
“You finished with 941,” said Shaknahyi. He was looking at me oddly, as if he were impressed by my score and repelled at the same time. “We got to go.” He stood up and tossed down the last slug of his soft drink.
I stood up too. “You all right now, Chiri?” I put my hand on her shoulder.
“I’m fine. I’m still shaking off the game. It was like a nightmare.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I got to get back to the club so Indihar can go home.”
“Give you a ride?” asked Shaknahyi.
“Thanks,” said Chiri, “but I got my own transportation.”
“See you later then,” I said.
“Kwa heri, you bastard.” At least she was smiling when she called me that. I thought maybe things were okay between us again. I was real glad about that.
Outside, Shaknahyi shook his head and grinned. “She was right, you know. That was a hell of a sadistic thing. Like unnecessary torture. You are a sick son of a bitch.”
“Maybe.”
“And I got to ride around the city with you.”
I was tired of talking about it. “Time to check out yet?” I asked.
“Just about. Let’s pass by the station house, and then why don’t you come home with me for dinner? You got plans already? You think Friedlander Bey can get along without you for one night?”
I’m not a very sociable person, and I always feel uncomfortable in other people’s homes. Still, the idea of spending an evening away from Papa and his Circus of Thrills was immensely attractive. “Sure,” I said.
“Let me call my wife and find out if tonight’s okay.”
“I didn’t even know you were married, Jirji.”
He just raised his eyebrows at me and spoke his commcode into the phone. He had a brief conversation with his wife and then clipped the phone back on his belt. “She says it’s okay,” he said. “Now she’s got to run around cleaning and cooking. She always goes crazy when I bring somebody home.”
“She don’t have to do that just for me,” I said.
Shaknahyi shook his head. “It’s not for you, believe me. She comes from this old-fashioned family, and she’s all the time got to prove she’s the perfect Muslim wife.”
We stopped at the station house, turned the patrol car over to the guys on the night shift, and checked in briefly with Hajjar. Finally we logged out and headed back downstairs to the street. “I usually walk home unless it’s pouring rain,” said Shaknahyi.
“How far is it?” I asked. It was a pleasant evening, but I wasn’t looking forward to a long walk.
“Maybe three, three-and-a-half miles.” “Forget it,” I said. “I’ll spring for a cab.” There are always seven or eight taxis waiting for fares on the Boulevard il-Jameel, near the Budayeen’s eastern gate. I looked for my friend Bill, but I didn’t see him. We got into another cab, and Shaknahyi gave the driver his address.
It was an apartment house in the part of town called Haffe al-Khala, the Edge of the Wilderness. Shaknahyi and his family lived about as far south as you could go in the city, so near the desert that mounds of sand like infant dunes had crept up against the walls of the buildings. There were no trees or flowers on these streets. It was bare and quiet and dead, as cheerless as any place I’ve ever seen.
Shaknahyi must have guessed what I was thinking. “This is all I can afford,” he said sourly. “Come on, though. It’s better inside.”
I followed him into the foyer of the apartment house, and then upstairs to his flat on the third floor. He unlocked the front door and was immediately tackled by two small children. They clung to his legs as he came into the parlor. Shaknahyi bent down laughing, and rested his hands on the boys’ heads. “My sons,” he said to me proudly. “This is Little Jirji, he’s eight, and Hakim, he’s four. Zahra’s six. She’s probably getting in her mother’s way in the kitchen.”
Well, I don’t have much patience with kids. I suppose they’re fine for other people, but I’ve never really understood what they’re for. I can be polite about them when I have to, though. “Your sons are very handsome,” I said. “They do you honor.”
“It is as Allah pleases,” said Shaknahyi. He was beaming like a goddamn searchlight.
He dislodged Little Jirji and Hakim and, to my dismay, left me alone with them while he went in to see how supper was progressing. I didn’t actually bear these children any ill will, but my philosophy of raising kids is kind of extreme. I think you should keep a baby around for a few days after it’s born — until the novelty wears off — and then you put it in a big cardboard box with all the best books of Eastern and Western civilization. Then you bury the box and dig it up again when the kid’s eighteen. I watched uneasily as first Little Jirji and then Hfikim realized I was sitting on the couch. Hakim lurched toward me, a bright red toy figure in his right hand, another in his mouth. “What do I do now?” I muttered.
“How you boys getting along out here?” said Shaknahyi. I was saved. He came back into the parlor and sat beside me in an old, shabby armchair.
“Great,” I said. I said a little prayer to Allah. This looked like it could be a long night.
A very pretty, very serious-faced girl came into the room, carrying a china plate of hummus and bread. Shaknahyi took the plate from her and kissed her on both cheeks. “This is Zahra, my little princess,” he said. “Zahra, this is Uncle Marid.” Uncle Marid! I’d never heard anything so grotesque in my entire life.
Zahra looked up at me, blushed furiously, and ran back into the kitchen while her father laughed. I’ve always had that effect on women.
Shaknahyi indicated the plate of hummus. “Please,” he said, “refresh yourself.”
“May your prosperity increase, Jirji,” I said.
“May God lengthen your life. I’m gonna get us some tea.” He got up again and went back into the kitchen.
I wished he’d stop fussing. It made me nervous, and it left me outnumbered by the kids. I tore off some bread and dipped it in the hummus, keeping a careful eye on Little Jirji and Hakim. They seemed to be playing together peacefully, apparently paying no attention to me at all; but I wasn’t going to be lulled so easily.
Shaknahyi came back in a few minutes. “I think you know my wife,” he said. I looked up. He was standing there with Indihar. He was grinning his damnfool grin, but she looked absolutely pissed.
I stood up, bewildered. “Indihar, how you doing?” I said. I felt like a fool. “I didn’t even know you were married.”
“Nobody’s supposed to know,” she said. She glared at her husband, then she turned and glared at me.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Shaknahyi said. “Marid won’t tell anybody, right?”
“Marid is a—” Indihar began, but then she remembered that I was a guest in her home. She lowered her eyes modestly to the floor. “You honor our family with your visit, Marid,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say. This was a major shock: Indihar as beautiful Budayeen dancer by day, demure Muslim wife by night. “Please,” I said uncomfortably, “don’t go to any trouble for me.”