Yipe. That was the first time I’d ever used a moddy recorded from a living person. It had been a disgusting experience. It had been like being immersed in slime, except that you could wash slime away; having your mind fouled was more intimate and more terrible. From now on, I promised myself, I’d stick with fictional characters and moddy constructs.
Abu Adil was even more brainsick than I’d imagined. Still, I’d learned a few things — or, at least, my suspicions had been confirmed. Surprisingly, I could understand Umm Saad’s motivations. If I’d known about the Phoenix File, I’d have done anything to get my name off it too.
I wanted to talk some of this over with Kmuzu, but he wasn’t back from his Sabbath service yet. I thought I’d see if my mother had anything more to tell me.
I crossed the courtyard to the east wing. There was a little pause when I knocked on her door. “Coming,” she called. I heard glass clinking, then the sound of a drawer opening and shutting. “Coming.” When she opened the door to me, I could smell the Irish whiskey. She’d been very circumspect during her stay in Papa’s house, I’m sure she drank and took drugs as much as ever, but at least she had the self-control not to parade herself around when she was smashed.
“Peace be on you, O Mother,” I said.
“And on you be peace,” she said. She leaned against the door a little unsteadily. “Do you want to come in, O Shaykh?”
“Yes, I need to talk to you.” I waited until she’d opened the door wider and stepped back. I came in and took a seat on the couch. She faced me in a comfortable armchair.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I got nothin’ to offer you.” “Uh yeah, that’s okay.” She looked well. She had abandoned the outlandish makeup and clothing, and now she rather resembled my former mental image of her: Her hair was brushed, she was suitably dressed, and she was modestly seated with her hands folded in her lap. I recalled Kmuzu’s comment that I judged my mother more harshly than I judged myself, and forgave her the drunkenness. She wasn’t hurting anybody.
“O Mother,” I said, “you said that when you came back to the city, you made the mistake of trusting Abu Adil again. I know that it was my friend Saied who brought you here.”
“You know that?” she said. She seemed wary.,
“And I know about the Phoenix File. Now, why were you willing to spy on Friedlander Bey?”
Her expression was amazed. “Hey,” she said, “if somebody offered to cross you off that goddamn list, wouldn’t you do just about anything? I mean, hell, I told myself I wouldn’t give Abu Adil nothin’ he could really use against Papa. I didn’t think I was hurtin’ nobody.”
That’s just what I’d hoped to hear. Abu Adil had squeezed Umm Saad and my mother in the same vise. Umm Saad had responded by trying to kill everyone in our house. My mother had reacted differently; she’d fled to Friedlander Bey’s protection.
I pretended that the matter wasn’t important enough to discuss further. “You also said that you wished to do something useful with your life. You still feel that way?” “Sure, I suppose,” she said suspiciously. She looked uncomfortable, as if she were waiting for me to condemn her to some horrible fate of civic consciousness.
“I’ve put away some money,” I said, “and I’ve given Kmuzu the job of starting up a kind of charity kitchen in the Budayeen. I was wondering if you’d like to help with the project.”
“Oh sure,” she said, frowning, “whatever you want.” She couldn’t have been less enthusiastic if I’d asked her to cut out her own tongue.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
I was startled to see tears slipping down her pale cheek. “You know, I didn’t think I’d come to this. I’m still good lookin’, ain’t I? I mean, your father thought I was beautiful. He used to tell me that all the time, and that wasn’t so long ago. I think if I had some decent clothes — not that stuff I brought with me from Algiers — I could still turn a few heads. No reason I got to be lonely the rest of my life, is there?”
I didn’t want to get into that. “You’re still attractive, Mother.”
“You bet your ass,” she said, smiling again. “I’m gonna get me a short skirt and some boots. Don’t look at me that way, I mean a tasteful short skirt. Fifty-seven years old ain’t so bad these days. Look at Papa.”
Yeah, well, Papa was lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to pull his own sheet up under his chin.
“And you know what I want?” she asked with a dreamy expression.
I was afraid to ask. “No, what?” “I saw this picture of Umm Khalthoum in the souk. made out of thousands of flat-head nails. This guy pounded ’em all into this big board, then painted each nail head a different color. You can’t see what it is close up, but when you step back, it’s this gorgeous picture of The Lady.”
“Yeah, you right,” I said. I could just see it hanging on the wall over Friedlander Bey’s expensive and tasteful furniture.
“Well, hell, I got some money put away too.” I must have looked surprised, because she said, “I got some secrets of my own, you know. I been around, I seen things. I got my own friends and I got my own cash. So don’t think you can order my life for me just ’cause you set me up here. I can pick up and leave anytime I want.”
“Mother,” I said, “I really don’t want to tell you how to act or what to do. I just thought you might like helping out in the Budayeen. There’s a lot of people there as poor as we used to be.”
She wasn’t listening closely. “We used to be poor, Marid,” she said, drifting off to a fantasy recollection of what those times had been like, “but we was always happy. Those were the good days.” Then her expression turned sad, and she looked at me again. “And look at me now.
“Got to go,” I said. I stood up and headed for the door. “May your vigor continue, O Mother. By your leave.”
“Go in peace,” she said, coming with me to the door. “Remember what I told you.”
I didn’t know what she meant. Even under the best conditions, conversations with my mother were filled with little information and much static. With her, it was always one step forward and two steps back. I was glad to see that she didn’t seem to have any thoughts of returning to Algiers, or going into her old line of work here. At least, that’s what I thought she’d meant. She’d said something about “turning some heads,” but I hoped she meant purely in a noncommercial way. I thought about these things as I went back to my suite in the west wing.
Kmuzu had returned, and was gathering up our dirty laundry. “A call came for you, yaa Sidi,” he said.
“Here?” I wondered why it hadn’t come on my personal line, on the phone I wore on my belt.
“Yes. There was no message, but you are supposed to call Mahmoud. I left the number on your desk.”
This could be good news. I’d planned to tackle the second of my three targets next — Umm Saad; but she might have to wait. I went to the desk and spoke Mahmoud’s commcode into the phone. He answered immediately. “Allo,” he said.
“Where y’at, Mahmoud. It’s Marid.”
“Good… I have some business to discuss with you.”
“Let me get comfortable.” I pulled out a chair and sat down. I couldn’t help a grin from spreading over my face. “Okay, what you got?”
There was a slight pause. “As you know, I was greatly saddened by the death of Jirji Shaknahyi, may the blessings of Allah be on him.”
I knew nothing of the kind. If I hadn’t known Indihar was married, I doubted if Mahmoud or Jacques or anybody else knew either. Maybe Chiriga. Chiri always knew these things. “It was a tragedy to the entire city,” I said. I was staying noncommittal.