“Here, Marîd,” Rocky said. She put a white death in front of me.
“Thanks, Rocky. Come on, eat something!”
“Oh,” she said, “I’ll pass. I don’t like the way NOSFFF makes their chicken, and you couldn’t pay me to eat that raw fish stuff.”
“Have some pot stickers then.”
Her eyebrows went up a little. “You mean it, Marîd? I thought they were all for you.”
I laughed. “I can’t eat a hundred of ‘em, Rocky.”
“Bet you could. I’ll try a little of that couscous. The guy who runs the restaurant, he’s a Maghrebi like you, isn’t he?”
“Meloul? Yeah, we’re both from Algeria. I mean, Mauretania. I think he’s a Berber from Oran, though. I grew up in Algiers.”
Rocky shrugged. “Same difference,” she said. In this city, far from the Maghreb — the “sunset” or western lands — it didn’t matter very much. People didn’t care where you came from or what you’d done there. The city — the Budayeen in particular — was a perfect place to lose your past and start over. I’d done just that, and most of the people I knew had done it, too. That made me wonder for a moment: Did I know anyone who’d actually been born and raised here?
“Trouble,” Rocky murmured.
I turned and looked. The ‘ricain kid, Abdul-Hassan, had come in. He shot a black look at Saied and his friend for the night, Radomil. The Half-Hajj hadn’t yet noticed that the kid had joined the party. I hoped Rocky’s prediction didn’t come true, but in a worst-case scenario I could handle Abdul-Hassan. I had proved that before.
Of course, the first thing the boy did was walk right toward me. “May you go and come in safety, Shaykh Marîd,” he said. Hooray, I thought, Saied had finally given the kid an Arabic-language daddy. Then Abdul-Hassan raised himself on his toes and gave me a kiss on the mouth. It was over in about two seconds, but it was a very good kiss.
That caught me off-guard. I glanced at Saied, but his expression was empty of resentment or anger. I didn’t know if the Half-Hajj truly didn’t care, or if his attitude was a function of the niceness moddy. Yasmin, however, was glowering. She was already fiercely jealous of Indihar; I knew she didn’t want to see anything develop between me and the American kid.
“Thank you for your good wishes, O Clever One,” I said. I tried to put a little more distance between us, but as I backed away, the kid followed.
At that moment, Yasmin decided to join the tableau. “Marîd,” she said in a chilly voice, “I really need to talk to you. Privately.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go sit down at the bar.”
Abdul-Hassan put a hand on my arm and slowly scratched downward with his fingernails. “My heart will be empty until you get back from the hajj,” he said. I’d never noticed how long his eyelashes were. He gave my arm a little squeeze.
“Right now, Marîd,” Yasmin said.
“All right, Yasmin.” I said to the boy, “Enjoy the party. May it be pleasant to you.”
He said, “All who see you, live, O Shaykh. Maybe we can talk again later.” I had no trouble reading his expression, and I understood that talking was very low on the list of things he’d like to do with me later.
Yasmin and I took seats at the bar. “What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Yasmin said. “I just thought you needed someone to rescue you from that American slut. I didn’t think you were a chicken hawk, Marîd.”
“Are you serious?”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
I was amazed. “Believe me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She tilted her head and looked at me for a few seconds. “You forget that I know you, honey. I think you’d jam anything that held still long enough. In the right situation.”
“He’s pretty, Yasmin, but he’s too young and he belongs to the Half-Hajj.”
“Tell that to Saied, if you can get his attention away from that trick he brought in here.”
I got up from the stool. “You should listen to yourself. You’re jumping to all kinds of wrong conclusions.”
“What I said, Marîd.” She stood up and headed toward the plate of fried chicken.
The party lurched on toward midnight. I got pretty drunk despite the daddy I was wearing. More people came in, and I was very gracious and charming. At least, that’s how I remember it. I greeted Frenchy Benoit, who ran his own club on the Street, and Frenchy’s friendly barmaid, Dalia; we had a drink together.
Heidi, the beautiful blue-eyed German barmaid from the Silver Palm came in and wished me well; we had a drink together. Old Ibrahim, who owned the Cafe Solace, and Monsieur Gargotier, who owned the Fee Blanche, each had a drink with me. They stayed just long enough to mutter a few words in my ear and load up on free food. I thought Ferrari, who lived above his club, the Blue Parrot, might come by, but either he didn’t or he arrived after I’d stopped remembering things.
Safiyya the Lamb Lady dropped by for a little while. She was what other people on the Street called a “character.” She was harmless, though, as long as you didn’t threaten her imaginary lamb. She didn’t even realize there was a party going on. I gave her some food and a glass of beer, and she thanked me. She was the only person in Chiri’s all night long who thanked me for anything.
I do recall Kenneth being there for part of the evening. He was a tall, slender European with wire-rimmed spectacles. He had thin lips, always pressed tightly together; his expression showed that he was cursed to go through life surrounded by people and objects he dreaded to touch. The most notable thing about Kenneth, however, was that he was Shaykh Reda Abu Adil’s lieutenant and current fuck-buddy. Just as Abu Adil hated Friedlander Bey, so Kenneth hated me. The feeling was mutual.
“Shaykh Reda sent me,” Kenneth said. “He wanted me to convey his best wishes to you and to Friedlander Bey for your journey to Makkah.”
“Thank Shaykh Reda for me,” I said. I stared at him. I wasn’t going to say anything more. I wanted to see what he was really up to.
He stared back at me, and the silence got longer and more ridiculous. “I will have a glass of beer,” he said at last.
“Knock yourself out, Kenny,” I said.
His mouth twisted, but he didn’t say anything. A couple of minutes later I saw him, holding his glass of beer, in some kind of intense conference with Mahmoud. I didn’t know what they were discussing, but whatever it was it wouldn’t be good news for Papa and me.
Things began to get blurry soon after that. I have a vague memory of dropping my glass and spilling liquor and ice cubes on the floor. The glass shattered, and when I bent down clumsily, I overturned my plateful of couscous and meze on somebody. The American kid helped me to a chair at a table, and I sat down heavily. The room was making sickening circles with me at its center, and I told myself it might be a good idea to skip a couple of drinks until I was steady again.
Then Baby and Kitty were bending down, kissing me goodbye. The way I was feeling, it was too much effort to raise my eyes to their faces. Instead, I just stared at their remarkable tits. I gathered that Baby and Kitty were abandoning the bearded black man because he’d stopped spending money on them. Sure, okay. I guess they went to another club. The large gentleman himself called out to Rocky to bring him another cup of coffee.
I crossed my arms on the table and put my head down. The room spun even faster. I knew that if I did anything drastic, such as move or breathe, I was in danger of throwing up. I didn’t move or breathe.
The next thing I remember was someone shaking me by the shoulder. I supposed it was Abdul-Hassan, until I opened my eyes. I was wrong. It was Sulome, the working girl from Damascus. She was not supposed to be there. As drunk as I was, I knew that for a fact. “What?” I said. I hoped she understood what I meant, because I didn’t think I could say it any more plainly than that.