He opened his eyes as I stood there. “You have made us lonely, my nephew,” he said. His voice was faint, like words carried on the wind.
“May God never make you lonely, O Shaykh,” I said. I bent and kissed him on the cheek.
“You must tell me,” he began. His breath wheezed and he couldn’t finish his sentence.
“All goes well, praise Allah,” I said. “Umm Saad is no more. I have yet to instruct Abu Adil on the folly of plotting against you.”
The corners of his mouth quirked. “You will be rewarded. How did you defeat the woman?”
I wished he would stop thinking in terms of debts and rewards. “I have a personality module of Shaykh Reda,” I said. “When I chipped it in, I learned many things that have been useful.”
He caught his breath and looked unhappy. “Then you know—”
“I know of the Phoenix File, O Shaykh. I know that you protect that evil thing in cooperation with Abu Adil.”
“Yes. And you know also that I am your mother’s grandfather. That you are my great-grandson. But do you understand why we kept that knowledge a secret?”
Well, no, I hadn’t known that until just that moment, although if I’d been wearing Abu Adil’s moddy and stopped to think about myself or my mother, the information might have popped into my consciousness.
So all that stuff about Papa possibly being my father was just Mom being cute and clever. I guess she’d known the truth all along. And that’s why Papa’d been so upset when I’d kicked her out of the house when she first came to the city. That’s why Umm Saad had caused him so much grief: Because everybody but me understood that she was trying to squeeze out the natural heirs, with Abu Adil’s assistance. And Umm Saad was using the Phoenix File to blackmail Papa. Now I saw why he allowed her to remain in the house so long, and why he preferred that I dispose of her.
And ever since Friedlander Bey’s divine finger first descended from the clouds to tap me so long ago, I’d been aimed toward lofty ends. Had I been cut out to be merely Papa’s indispensable, reluctant assistant? Or had I been groomed all along to inherit the power and the wealth, every bit of it, along with the terrible life-and-death decisions Papa made every day?
How naive I’d been, to think that I might find a way to escape! I was more than just under Friedlander Bey’s thumb; he owned me, and his indelible mark was written in my genetic material. My shoulders sagged as I realized that I would never be free, and that any hope of liberty had always been empty illusion.
“Why did you and my mother keep this secret from me?” I asked.
“You are not alone, my… son. As a young man, I fathered many children. When my own eldest son died, he was older than you are now, and he has been dead more than a century. I have dozens of grandchildren, one of whom is your mother. In your generation, I do not know how many descendants I can claim. It would not have been appropriate for you to feel unique, to use your relationship with me to further selfish ends. I needed to be sure that you were worthy, before I acknowledged you as my chosen one.”
I wasn’t as thrilled by that speech as he probably thought I should be. He sounded like a lunatic pretending to be God, passing on his blessing like a birthday present. Papa didn’t want me to use my connection for selfish ends! Jeez, if that wasn’t the height of irony!
“Yes, O Shaykh,” I said. It didn’t cost me anything to sound docile. Hell, he was going to have his skull carved in a few minutes. Still, I made no promises.
“Remember,” he said softly, “there are many others who would take away your privileged position. You have scores of cousins who may someday do you harm.”
Great. Something else to look forward to. “Then the computer records I searched—”
“Have been changed and changed again many times over the years.” He smiled faintly. “You must learn not to put your faith in truth that has only electronic existence. Is it not our business, after all, to supply versions of that truth to the nations of the world? Have you not learned how supple truth can be?”
More questions occurred to me every second. “Then my father was truly Bernard Audran?”
“The Provencal sailor, yes.”
I was relieved that I knew one thing for certain.
“Forgive my, my darling,” murmured Papa. “I did not wish to reveal the Phoenix File to you, and that made it more difficult for you to deal with Umm Saad and Abu Adil.”
I held his hand; it trembled in my grasp. “Don’t worry, O Shaykh. It’s almost over.”
“Mr. Audran.” I felt Dr. Yeniknani’s large-knuckled hand on my shoulder. “We’ll be taking your patron down to surgery now.”
“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.