“But you think she’s sexy?” I asked him.
“That’s beside the point, yaa Sidi,” he said. From then on, he just concentrated on his driving.
After we got back to Friedlander Bey’s estate, I went to my suite and tried to relax. I took a notebook and stretched out on my bed, trying to order my thoughts. I looked at Yasmin’s electronic I Ching and laughed softly. For no particular reason, I pressed the white button marked H. The little device played its tinkling tune, and a synthesized woman’s voice spoke up. “Hexagram Six. Sung. Conflict. Changes in the first, second, and sixth lines.”
I listened to the judgment and the commentary, and then I pressed L for the lines. What it all amounted to was a warning that I was in a difficult period, and that if I tried to force my way toward my goal, I’d encounter a lot of conflict. I didn’t need a pocket computer to tell me that.
The image was “Heaven above the waters,” and I was advised to stay close to home. The problem was that it was just a little too late for that. “If you determine to confront the difficulties,” the mechanical woman cautioned, “you’ll make minor progress that will soon be reversed, leaving you in a worse situation than before. Sidestep this trouble by tending your garden and ignoring your powerful adversaries.”
Well, hell, I would have loved to do just that. I could have forgotten all about Abu Adil and all about Jawarski, just written Shaknahyi off as a painful tragedy, and let Papa deal with Umm Saad by ordering the Stones That Speak to twist her devious head off. I could have left my mother a fat envelope of cash, kissed Chiriga’s club goodbye, and caught the next bus out of the city.
Unfortunately, none of that was possible. I stared at the toy I Ching ruefully, then remembered that the changing lines gave me a second hexagram that might indicate where events were leading. I pressed CH.
“Hexagram Seventeen. Sui. Following. Thunder in the lake.” Whatever that meant. I was told that I was coming into very positive circumstances. All I had to do was attune my actions into harmony with the personalities of the people I had to deal with. I just had to adapt my own desires to the needs of the times.
“Okay,” I said, “that’s just what I’ll do. I just need someone to tell me what ‘the needs of the times’ are.”
“Such fortune telling is blasphemous,” said Kmuzu. “Every orthodox religion in the world forbids it.” I hadn’t heard him come into my room.
“The idea of synchronicity makes a certain logical sense,” I said. Actually, I felt pretty much about the I Ching as he did, but I felt it was my job to bait him as much as possible. Maybe something would get him to loosen up a little.
“You are dealing with dangerous people, yaa Sidi,” he said. “Surely your actions must be governed by reason, not by this child’s plaything.”
I tossed Yasmin’s gimmick to him. “You’re right, Kmuzu. Something like that could be dangerous, in the hands of a gullible fool.”
“I’ll return it to Miss Yasmin tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I said,
“Will you need anything more tonight?”
“No, Kmuzu, I’m just gonna make some notes to myself, and then I’ll get some sleep.”
“Then goodnight, yaa Sidi.”
“Goodnight, Kmuzu.” He closed the door to my bedroom behind him.
I got up and undressed, then pulled back the covers on my bed and laid down again. I began listing names in my notebook: Friedlander Bey, Reda Abu Adil and Umar Abdul-Qawy, Paul Jawarski, Umm Saad, Lieutenant Haj-jar. The bad guys. Then I made a list of the good guys: me.
I remembered a proverb I’d heard as a child in Algiers. “Fleeing when it is not necessary is better than not fleeing when it is necessary.” A quick trip to Shanghai or Venice seemed like the only reasonable response to this situation.
I suppose I fell asleep thinking about stuffing a bag full of clothes and money and running off into the honeysuckle-scented night. I was having a bizarre dream about Chiriga’s. Lieutenant Hajjar seemed to be running the place, and I went in looking for somebody who might have been Yasmin or possibly Fayza, one of my adolescent ’oves. There was some kind of argument with my mother about whether or not I’d brought in a case of bottled sherbet, and then I was in school without any clothes on, and I hadn’t studied for some important exam.
Someone was shaking me and shouting. “Wake up, yaa Sidi!”
“What is it, Kmuzu?” I said blearily. “What’s the matter?”
“The house is on fire!” he said. He pulled on my arm until I got out of bed.
“I don’t see any fire.” I could smell the smoke, though.
“This whole floor is burning. We don’t have much time. We’ve got to get out.”
I was completely awake now. I could see a heavy layer of smoke hanging in the bright moonlight that slanted in through the lattice-covered windows. “I’m all right, Kmuzu,” I said. “I’ll wake Friedlander Bey. Do you think the whole house is on fire, or just this wing?” “I’m not sure, yaa Sidi.”
“Then run over to the east wing and wake my mother. Make sure she gets out all right.” “And Umm Saad as well.”
“Yeah, you right.” He hurried out of my room. Before I went out into the hall, I stopped td find the telephone on my desk. I punched the city’s emergency number, but the line was busy. I muttered a curse and tried again. Still the line was busy. I kept calling and calling; it seemed like hours went by before a woman’s voice answered. “Fire,” I cried. I was frantic by that time. “The Friedlander Bey estate near the Christian Quarter.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the woman. “The fire brigade is on its way.”
The air had gotten very bad, and the acrid smoke burned my nose and throat as I bent lower trying to breathe. I paused at the entrance to the suite, and then ran back to find my jeans. I know you’re supposed to get out of a burning building as quickly as possible, but I still hadn’t seen any actual flames and I didn’t feel as if I were in any immediate danger. It turned out that I was wrong; while I stopped to pull on my jeans, I was already being burned by the hot ash in the air. I didn’t feel it at the time, but I was getting second-degree burns on my head, neck, and shoulders, which were bare. My hair was badly singed, but my beard protected my face. I’ve since promised myself that I’m never going to shave it off again.
I first saw flames in the corridor. The heat was intense. I ran with my arms around my head, trying to shield my face and eyes. The soles of my feet were badly scorched within ten feet of my apartment. I pounded on Papa’s door, sure that I was going to die right there, bravely but foolishly attempting to rescue an old man who was likely already dead. A stray thought lodged in my consciousness, the memory of Friedlander Bey asking me if I had the courage to fill my lungs again with fire.
There was no response. I knocked louder. The fire was blistering the skin on my back and arms, and I’d begun to choke. I took a step back, raised my right leg, and kicked the door as hard as I could. Nothing happened. It was locked, and the bolt had probably expanded in the heat. I kicked again, and this time the wooden frame around the lock splintered. One more kick and the door sprang back, slamming in against the wall of Papa’s parlor. “O Shaykh!” I shouted. The smoke billowed even more densely here. There was the sharp smell of burning plastic in the air, and I knew that I had to get Papa out quickly, before he and I were overcome by poisonous fumes. That made me even less hopeful of finding Friedlander Bey alive. His bedroom was back and to the left, and that door was closed and locked too. I kicked it in, paying no attention to the stabbing pain that shot through my ankle and shin. I’d have time to nurse my injuries later — if I lived.