I bought a stick of broiled meat, onions, and peppers from the sidewalk window at Vast Foods. The kebab wasn’t really all that huge; “vast” had been only a sign painter’s error. The lamb and beef were coated in a rich, sticky sauce and I savored every succulent bite. It was one of those days when I realized again how much I’d given up, to move from the street life into the magnificent mansion of Friedlander Bey.
Beyond the eastern gate was the gorgeous Boulevard il-Jameel, with towering palm trees and carefully tended flowerbeds planted on the median strip. I walked to the cabstand and, yes, Bill was there. I was feeling confident and content, so much so that I was almost positive I would live through another ride with him.
“Bill,” I said, “you want to take me home?”
“Sorry, pal, but I only go home with girls.”
In any conversation with Bill, you had to give him a good head start because he’s generally slower on the uptake than most people. That’s because most people haven’t traded one of their lungs for an artificial sac dripping measured amounts of lightspeed hallucinogen into their bloodstream. That’s what Bill did, and that’s what’s made him into the barrel-of-fun, hold-onto-your-hat kind of driver that he was. Much of the time he’s crashing his cab through monstrous threatening paisleys that only he can see.
I ride with him because few other people will, and because I’ve seen those paisleys often enough myself.
“What I meant, Bill, was will you take me to Friedlander Bey’s house?”
“Papa, huh? Why didn’t he come down and get you himself?”
“Told him I’d rather ride with you. It’s faster.”
Bill snorted. “Sure as hell is that. I can make it even faster if you want. We can try for the land speed record, you know. As long as the streets are clear of bugs. They got bugs now, you know. Big bugs. Bugs as big as…as big as things.” He shivered.
“Won’t be any bugs around with me in the car,” I said calmly.
“No? You sure? You promise? Okay then, get in.”
“Oh, and Bill? We don’t have to try for the land speed record. Maybe next time.”
“Next time,” he muttered. “Son of a bitch, it’s always next time.”
We careened through narrow, twisting lanes, depending solely on Bill’s shrill horn and good karma to keep us from smashing into a jutting building or a recalcitrant pack animal. There was no direct route from the Budayeen to Papa’s estate near the Christian quarter, so Bill tried to make one. All in all, though, it was a good ride: Once again I’d survived, which was what counted most.
I paid Bill his fare and added a generous tip in the hope that he’d spend it on something sensible, such as food or shelter, instead of anti-bug-and-paisley weapons. The expatriate from the American republic of Sovereign Deseret backed out of the white-pebbled driveway. I heard the small stones crunching and then the burring sound of Bill’s electric taxi heading back toward the Budayeen.
Papa’s house — and now my home, as his legitimate though reluctant heir — was hidden behind half a jungle of tall, slender trees, well-kept shrubbery, and masses of flowering plants. It must have cost Friedlander Bey a small fortune to coax that floral effusion from the dry, sandy soil of the city. I hoped he enjoyed the beautiful result, although I’d never once heard him remark on it.
I looked up at the towers built at the corners of the walled estate. When I’d first come here, my suspicions were that they housed armed guards. They did, of course, all except the minaret, up which Papa’s personal muezzin climbed five times daily to call him to prayer. Papa would have nothing to do with the electronic recordings that called almost everyone else in the city through loudspeakers.
I went slowly up the broad, smooth marble stairs to the house’s entrance. Before I reached the carved front door, Youssef, our butler, opened it. “I pray to God that the day is pleasant to you, Shaykh Marîd.”
“Salam alekom,” I said. Peace be with you.
“Alekom-os-salam,” Youssef murmured.
“Thanks, Youssef,” I said. I walked by him. I wanted to go straight to my apartments in the west wing. When I got there, I found Kmuzu, my slave and watchdog, busily straightening my already achingly clean and neat rooms.
“You are home before we expected you,” Kmuzu said. “Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m just fine.”
“Can I get you something to eat, then? It’s well past lunch time.”
I sighed. “No, I grabbed something in the Budayeen. Please find bin Turki and send him to my office.”
“I must tell you that the master of the house wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.”
“I’ll be having dinner with him later. For now, send bin Turki to me.”
Kmuzu nodded. “Immediately, yaa Sidi.” Kmuzu was a very good slave.
I had been seated at my desk for only a few minutes, making flight reservations through one of the data decks, when Kmuzu announced bin Turki. The young man came from a nomadic Bedu tribe called the Bani Salim. He had returned with me to the city because he had a great hunger to see and learn new things. He was becoming a very useful helper; he merely shrugged and did what I asked, and showed no hesitation about the more “difficult” tasks I assigned him.
“God grant you peace, O Shaykh, inshallah,” he said. You hear the word inshallah a lot around the city; it means “if Allah wills.”
“May your day be happy, bin Turki,”
“You sent for me, Shaykh Marîd?”
“Yes, O Clever One. I’ve just purchased your ticket on the next suborbital to Ash-Sham. Damascus. It will be a good experience for you to visit that ancient place.”
“Ash-Sham!” bin Turki said with wonder. “The mother city of them all! I’ve dreamt of going there. What must I do for you?”
“A simple task. Here, the data deck is finished printing. Two round-trip tickets, one for you to and from Ash-Sham, a second round-trip from there to this city and back. You are to fetch a woman called Sulome el-Khabbaz. Here is her address and commcode. She’ll be expecting you.”
“If Allah grants it, there will be no difficulty.”
“Please bring her directly to this house,” I said. “Make her comfortable if I’m not home to receive her. I will tell Kmuzu to attend to her needs. Tell no one about her — as impossible as it sounds, try to keep her secret even from Youssef, Tariq, the Stones That Speak, and especially the master of the house. May you go and come in safety.”
“I understand, O Shaykh,” bin Turki said. “Salam alekom.” He took the suborbital tickets and Sulome’s address and left my office. When you gave that young Bedu a job, he just went ahead and did it, and he never complained. I liked bin Turki and trusted him. He reminded me of myself at a certain age.
I spent the rest of the afternoon going over ledgers, reports, and financial accounts. Reconciling the daily figures wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as people-watching in Chiri’s, but I hadn’t been elevated from punkhood merely to have fun. I’d guessed early on that I was in training for…something.
I worked at my data deck until Kmuzu came up behind me and murmured that it was almost time for dinner. I wasn’t unhappy to close the books for another day.
Dining with Friedlander Bey meant changing into more traditional Arab clothing. Kmuzu had laid out a clean white gallebeya with a light tan cloak to wear over it, a black-and-white-checked keffiya — the Arab headdress — -with a simple black rope akal to hold it in place, as well as sandals instead of my dusty black boots. This was all to keep Friedlander Bey happy; he was almost two hundred years old, and he was getting a little conservative in his old age.
Even after all this time, I was still a little unnerved by our meetings. I had never gotten over my awe of Papa’s kinglike power. When he was pleased with me and my activities, he was like a loving father. Just as often, however, his eyes would narrow and grow stern with unvoiced displeasure.