“You do not strictly follow the commands of the Messenger of God,” said Dr. Yeniknani, “but you are a worshipful man in your own way. Two hundred years ago, a man said that the religions of the world are like a lantern with many different colored glass panels, but that God was the single flame within.” He shook my hand and stood up. “With your permission.”
It seemed that every time I spoke with Dr. Yeniknani, he gave me some Sufi wisdom to think about. “Peace be upon you,” I said.
“And upon you be peace,” he said. Then he turned and left my room. I ate supper later, a kind of baked lamb, chick-pea, and bean casserole with onions and tomatoes, which would have been pretty good if only someone would tell the kitchen staff about the existence of salt and maybe a little lemon juice. Then I was bored all over again, and I turned on the holoset, turned it off, stared at the walls, and turned it on again. Finally, to my great relief, the telephone beside my bed warbled. I answered it and said, “Praise Allah.”
I heard Morgan’s voice on the other end. I didn’t have an English-language daddy with me, and Morgan can’t even find the bathroom in Arabic, so the only words I understood were “Jawarski” and “Abu Adil.” I told him I’d talk to him when I got out of the hospital; I knew he didn’t understand any more of what I said than I’d understood of him, so I hung up.
I lay back on my pillow and stared up at the ceiling. I wasn’t really surprised to learn there might be a connection between Abu Adil and the crazy American killer. The way things were starting to shape up, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Jawarski was really my own long-lost brother.
I spent almost a week in the hospital. I watched the holoset and got a lot of reading done, and despite my wishes a few people came to see me — Lily, the sexchange who had a crush on me, Chiri, Yasmin. There were two surprises: the first was a basket of fruit from Umar Abdul-Qawy; the second was a visit from six total strangers, people who lived in the Budayeen and the neighborhood around the copshop. Among them I recognized the young woman with the baby to whom I’d given some money, that day Shaknahyi and I had been sent to look for On Cheung.
She seemed just as shy and embarrassed as she had when she’d approached me in the street. “O Shaykh,” she said in a trembling voice, setting a cloth-covered basket on my tray table, “we all beseech Allah for your recovery.”
“Must be working,” I said, smiling, “because the doctor says I’ll be out of here today.”
“Praise God,” said the woman. She turned to the others who’d come with her. “These people are the parents of children, the children who call to you in the streets and at the police station house. They are grateful for your generosity.”
These men and women lived in the kind of poverty I’d known most of my life. The odd thing was that they didn’t show any petulance toward me. It may seem ungrateful, but sometimes you resent your benefactors. When I was young, I’d learned how humiliating it can be to take charity, especially when you’re so desperate that you can’t afford the luxury of pride.
It all depends on the attitude of the givers. I’ll never forget how much I hated Christmas as a kid in Algiers.
Christians in the neighborhood used to put together baskets of food for my mother, my baby brother, and me. Then they’d come by our shabby apartment and stand around beaming at us, proud of their good deeds. They’d look from my mother to Hussain to me, waiting until we’d acted appropriately grateful. How many times I wished that we weren’t so hungry, that we could just throw those goddamn canned goods back in their faces!
I was afraid these parents might feel the same way about me. I wanted them to know that they didn’t have to go through any forelock-tugging acts of appreciation for my benefit.
“I’m glad to help, my friends,” I said. “But, really, I got my own selfish motives. In the noble Qur’an it says, ‘That which you spend for good must go to parents and near kindred and orphans and the needy and the wayfarer. And whatever good ye do, lo! Allah is aware of it.’ So maybe if I kick a few kiam to a worthy cause, it’ll make up for the night I stayed up partying with the blond twins from Hamburg.”
I saw a couple of my visitors smile. That let me relax a little. “Even so,” said the young mother, “we thank you.”
“Less than a year ago, I wasn’t doing so well myself. Sometimes I was eating only every other day. There were times when I didn’t have a home to go to, and I slept in parks and abandoned buildings. I been lucky since, and I’m just returning a favor. I remember how much kindness everyone showed me when I was broke.” Actually, practically none of that was true, but it sure was gracious as all hell.
“We’ll leave you now, O Shaykh,” said the woman. “You probably need your rest. We just wanted to let you know, if there’s anything we can do for you, it would give us much happiness.”
I studied her closely, wondering if she meant what she said. “As it happens, I’m looking for two guys,” I said. “On Cheung the baby seller, and this killer, Paul Jawarski. If anyone’s got any information, I’d be very grateful.”
I saw them exchange uneasy glances. No one said anything. It was just as I expected. “Allah grant you peace and well-being, Shaykh Marid al-Amin,” murmured the woman, backing toward the door.
I’d earned an epithet! She’d called me Marid the Trustworthy. “Allah yisallimak,” I replied. I was glad when they left.
About an hour later, a nurse came in and told me that my doctor had signed my release from the hospital. That was fine with me. I called Kmuzu, and he brought me some clean clothes. My skin was still very tender and it hurt to get dressed, but I was just glad to be going home.
“The American, Morgan, wishes to see you, yaa Sidi,” said Kmuzu. “He says he has something to tell you.”
“Sounds like good news,” I said. I got into the electric sedan, and Kmuzu closed the passenger door. Then he went around and got in behind the steering wheel.
“You also have some business matters to take care of. There is a considerable amount of money on your desk.”
“Uh yeah, I guess so.” There should be two fat pay envelopes from Friedlander Bey, plus my share of the take from Chiri’s.
Kmuzu let his glance slide over to me. “Do you have any plans for that money, yaa Sidi?” he asked.
I smiled at him. “What, you got a horse you want me to back?”
Kmuzu frowned. No sense of humor, I recalled. “Your wealth has grown large. With the money that came while you were in the hospital, you have more than a hundred thousand kiam, yaa Sidi. Much good could be done with that great a sum.”
“Didn’t know you were keeping such close tabs on my bank balance, Kmuzu.” He was such a friend sometimes, I tended to forget that he was really only a spy. “I had some ideas about putting the money to good use. A free clinic in the Budayeen, maybe, or a soup kitchen.”
I’d really startled him. “That’s wonderful and unexpected!” he said. “I heartily approve.”
“I’m so glad,” I said sourly. I really had been thinking along those lines, but I didn’t know how to begin. “How’d you like to study the feasibility? All my time is taken up with this Abu Adil-Jawarski thing.”
“I would be more than happy. I don’t think you have enough to fund a clinic, yaa Sidi, but providing hot meals to the poor, that is a worthy gesture.”
“I hope it’s more than just a gesture. Let me know when you have some plans and figures for me to look at.”
The nice part of all this was that it would keep Kmuzu busy and out of my hair for a while.
When I went into the house, Youssef grinned and gave me a bow. “Welcome home, O Shaykh!” he said. He insisted on wrestling my suitcase away from Kmuzu. The two of them followed me down the corridor.