She had gotten agitated, and now she paused until she calmed down a little. “I believed him,” she said. “I don’t know why. Maybe I thought I could have a second chance to live my life, get back all those years I lost, fix all the mistakes. Anyway, goddamn if I didn’t fuck up all over again.”
I shut my eyes and rubbed them. Then I looked at my mother’s anguished face. “What did you do?”
“I moved in with Abu Adil again. In that big place he’s got in the slums. That’s how I know all about him, and about Umm Saad. You got to watch out for her, baby. She works for Abu Adil, and she’s planning to ruin Papa.”
“I know.”
My mother looked bewildered. “You know already? How?”
I smiled. “Abu Adil’s little fuck-buddy told me. They’ve pretty much written off Umm Saad. She’s not part of their plans anymore.”
“Still,” said my mother, raising a warning finger, “you got to watch out for her. She’s got her own schemes in the fire.”
“Yeali, I guess so.”
“You know about Abu Adil’s moddy? The one he’s made of himself?”
“Uh huh. That son of a bitch Umar told me all about it. I’d like to get my hands on it for a few minutes.”
She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe I could think of a way.”
Yipe. That’s all I needed. “It’s not that important, Mom,” I told her.
She began to weep again. “I’m so sorry, Marid. I’m so sorry for everything I done, for not being the kind of mother you needed.”
Jeez, I really wasn’t feeling well enough to deal with her attack of conscience. “I’m sorry too, Mom,” I said, and I was surprised to realize that I truly meant it. “I never showed you the respect—”
“I never earned no respect—”
I raised both hands. “Why don’t we stop before we’re fighting over who’s hurt who the most? Let’s call a truce or something.”
“Maybe we could start over again?” Her voice had a peculiar shyness to it.
I had a lot of doubt about all of this. I didn’t know if it was possible to start over again, especially after all that had happened between us, but I thought I could give her a chance. “That’s fine with me,” I said. “I got no love for the past.”
She smiled crookedly. “I like living in Papa’s house with you, baby. It makes me think I won’t have to go back to Algiers and… you know.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “I promise you, Mom,” I said, “you’ll never have to go back to that life again. Just let me take care of you from now on.”
She got up and came toward my bed, her arms outstretched, but I wasn’t quite ready for an exchange of mother-son affection. I have a little trouble expressing my feelings, I guess, and I’ve never been a very demonstrative person. I let her bend down and kiss my cheek and give me a hug, and she murmured something that I couldn’t make out. I kind of patted her on the back. It was the best I could manage. Then she went back to her chair.
She sighed. “You made me very happy, Marid. Happier than I got a right to be. All I ever wanted was a chance for a normal life.”
Well, what the hell, what did it cost me? “What do you want to do, Mom?” I asked.
She frowned. “I don’t really know. Something useful. Something real.”
I had a ludicrous image of Angel Monroe as a candy-striper in the hospital. I dismissed the notion immediately. “Abu Adil brought you to the city to spy on Papa, right?”
“Yeah, and I was a sucker to think he really wanted me.”
“And on what kind of terms did you leave him? Would you be willing to spy on him for us?”
She looked doubtful. “I really let him know I didn’t like being used,” she said. “If I went back there, I don’t know if he’d believe I was sorry. But maybe he would. He’s got a big ego, you know. Men like that, they always think their women’d walk through fire for ’em. I suppose I could make him buy it.” She gave me a wry grin. “I was always a good actress. Khalid used to tell me I was the best.”
Khalid, I remembered, had been her pimp. “Let me think about it, Mom. I wouldn’t get you into anything dangerous, but I’d like to have a secret weapon Abu Adil didn’t know anything about.”
“Well, anyway, I feel like I owe Papa something. For letting Abu Adil use me like that, and for all Papa’s done for me since I came to live in his house.”
I wasn’t crazy about letting my mother get involved any further with the intrigue, but I was aware that she might be a wonderful source of information. “Mom,” I said casually, “what do the letters A.L.M. mean to you?”
“A.L.M.? I don’t know. Nothing, really. The Alliance of Lingerie Models? That’s a hooker’s trade union, but I don’t even know if they got a local in this city.”
“Never mind. How about the Phoenix File? That ring a bell?”
I saw her flinch just a little. “No,” she said slowly, “I never heard of that at all.” There was something about the way she said it, though, that persuaded me she was lying. I wondered what she was hiding now. It took the optimistic edge off our previous conversation, making me doubt how much I could trust her. It wasn’t the right time to pursue the matter, but there’d be a moment of truth when I got out of the hospital again.
“Mom,” I said, yawning, “I’m getting kind of sleepy.”
“Oh, baby, I’ll go then.” She got up and fussed with my covers. “I’ll leave the curdled camel’s milk with you.”
“Great, Mom.”
She bent and kissed me again. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m gonna see how Papa’s doing now.”
“Give him my regards and tell him that I pray to Allah for his well-being.” She went to the door, turned, and waved to me. Then she was gone.
The door had barely shut before a thought struck me: The only person who knew that I’d gone to visit my mother in Algiers had been Saied the Half-Hajj. He must have located Mom for Reda Abu Adil. It must have been Saied who’d brought her to the city to spy on Papa and me. Saied had to be working for Abu Adil. He’d sold me out.
I promised myself still another moment of truth, one that the Half-Hajj would never forget.
Whatever the goal of the conspiracy, whatever the significance of the Phoenix File, it must be tremendously urgent to Abu Adil. In the past few months, he’d set Saied, Kmuzu, and Umm Saad to pry into our affairs. I wondered how many others there were that I hadn’t identified yet.
Later that afternoon, just before suppertime, Kmuzu came to visit. He was dressed in a white shirt, no tie, and a black suit. He looked like an undertaker. His expression was solemn, as if one of the nurses outside had just told him that my situation was hopeless. Maybe my burned hair would never grow back, or I’d have to live with that awful, cold white gunk on my skin for the rest of my life.
“How are you feeling, yaa Sidi?” he asked.
“I’m suffering from Delayed Post-Fire Stress Syndrome,” I said. “I’m just realizing how close I came to not making it. If you hadn’t been there to wake me up—”
“You would have been roused by the fire if you hadn’t been using the sleep add-on.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose,” I said. “Still, I owe you my life.”
“You rescued the master of the house, yaa Sidi. He shelters me and protects me from Reda Abu Adil. You and I are even.”
“I still feel I’m in your debt.” How much was my life worth to me? Could I give him something of equivalent value? “How would you like your freedom?” I asked.
Kmuzu’s brows drew together. “You know that liberty is what I desire most. You also know it’s in the hands of the master of the house. It’s up to him.”
I shrugged. “I have a certain amount of influence with Papa. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I would be most grateful, yaa Sidi.” Kmuzu’s expression had become noncommittal, but I knew he wasn’t as cool as he was pretending.