Kmuzu tapped the steering wheel with his index fingers. “If you need help, yaa Sidi, I’ll be there. You won’t have to face her alone, as you faced Shaykh Reda.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Kmuzu, but I don’t think Umm Saad is as loony or as powerful as Abu Adil. She and I will just be sitting down to a meal. I intend to stay in control, inshallah.”
Kmuzu gave me one more thoughtful glance, then turned his attention back to driving.
When we arrived at Friedlander Bey’s mansion, I went upstairs and changed my clothes. I put on a white robe and a white caftan, into which I transferred my static pistol. I also popped the pain-blocking daddy. I didn’t really need it all the time anymore, and I was carrying plenty of sunnies just in case. I felt a flood of annoying aches and pains, all of which had been blocked by the daddy. The worst of all was the throbbing discomfort in my shoulder. I decided there was no point in suffering bravely, and I went right for my pillcase.
While I waited for Umm Saad’s response to my invitation, I heard the sunset call to prayer from Papa’s muezzin. Since my talk with the elder of the mosque in Souk el-Khemis Street, I’d been worshiping more or less regularly. Maybe I didn’t manage to hit all five daily prayers, but I was doing decidedly better than ever before. Now I went downstairs to Papa’s office. He kept his prayer rug there, and he had a special mihrab built into one wall. The mihrab is the shallow semicircular alcove you find in every mosque, indicating the precise direction of Mecca. After I washed my face, hands, and feet, I unrolled the prayer mat, cleared my mind of uncertainty, and addressed myself to Allah.
When I’d finished praying, Kmuzu murmured, “Umm Saad waits for you in the small dining room.”
“Thank you.” I rolled up Papa’s prayer rug and put it away. I felt determined and strong. I used to believe that this was a temporary illusion caused by worship, but now I thought that doubt was the illusion. The assurance was real.
“It is good that you’ve regained your faith, yaa Sidi,” said Kmuzu. “Sometime you must let me tell you of the miracle of Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus is no stranger to Muslims,” I replied, “and his miracles are no secret to the faith.”
We went into the dining room, and I saw Umm Saad and her young son sitting in their places. The boy hadn’t been invited, but his presence wouldn’t stop me from what I planned to say. “Welcome,” I said, “and may Allah make this meal wholesome to you.”
“Thank you, O Shaykh,” said Umm Saad. “How is your health?”
“Fine, all praise be to Allah.” I sat down, and Kmuzu stood behind my chair. I noticed that Habib had come into the room as well — -or maybe it was Labib, whichever of the Stones wasn’t guarding Papa in the hospital. Umm Saad and I exchanged more pleasantries until a serving woman brought in a platter of tahini and salt fish.
“Your cook is excellent,” said Umm Saad. “I have relished each meal here.”
“I am pleased,” I said. More appetizers were brought out: cold stuffed grape leaves, stewed artichoke hearts, and eggplant slices stuffed with cream cheese. I indicated that my guests should serve themselves.
Umm Saad piled generous portions of each dish on her son’s plate. She looked back at me. “May I pour coffee for you, O Shaykh?” she asked.
“In a moment,” I said. “I’m sorry that Saad ben Salah is here to hear what I’ve got to say. It’s time to confront you with what I’ve learned, I know all about your work for Shaykh Reda, and how you’ve attempted to murder Friedlander Bey. I know that you ordered your son to set the fire, and I know about the poisoned stuffed dates.”
Umm Saad’s face went pale with horror. She had just taken a bite of a stuffed grape leaf, and she spat it out and dropped the remainder on her plate. “What have you done?” she said hoarsely.
I picked up another stuffed grape leaf and put it in my mouth. When I finished chewing, I said, “I’ve done nothing as terrible as you’re thinking.”
Saad ben Salah stood up and moved toward me. His young face was twisted in an expression of rage and hate. “By the beard of the Prophet,” he said, “I won’t allow you to speak that way to my mother!”
“I only speak the truth,” I said. “Isn’t that so, Umm Saad?”
The boy glared at me. “My mother had nothing to do with the fire. That was my own idea. I hate you, and I hate Friedlander Bey. He’s my grandfather, yet he denies me. He leaves his own daughter to suffer in poverty and misery. He deserves to die.”
I sipped some coffee calmly. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “It’s commendable of you to shoulder the blame, Saad, but it’s your mother who’s guilty, not you.”
“You’re a liar!” cried the woman.
The boy leaped toward me, but Kmuzu put himself between us. He was more than strong enough to restrain Saad.
I turned again to Umm Saad. “What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why you’ve tried to kill Papa. I don’t see that his death would benefit you at all.”
“Then you don’t know as much as you think,” she said. She seemed to relax a little. Her eyes flicked from me to Kmuzu, who still held her son in an unbreakable grip. “Shaykh Reda promised me that if I discovered Fried-lander Bey’s plans, or eliminated him so that Shaykh Reda would have no further obstacle, he would back my claim to be mistress of this house. I would take over Friedlander Bey’s estate and his business ventures, and I would then turn over all matters of political influence to Shaykh Reda.”
“Sure,” I said, “and all you’d have to do is trust Abu Adil. How long do you think you’d last before he eliminated you the way you eliminated Papa? Then he could unite the two most powerful houses in the city.”
“You’re just inventing stories!” She got to her feet, turning to look at Kmuzu again. “Let my son go.”
Kmuzu looked at me. I shook my head.
Umm Saad took a small needle gun from her bag. “I said, let my son go!”
“My lady,” I said, holding up both hands to show that she had nothing to fear from me, “you’ve failed. Put down the gun. If you go on, not even the resources of Shaykh Reda will protect you from the vengeance of Friedlander Bey. I’m sure Abu Adil’s interest in your affairs has come to an end. At this point, you’re only deluding yourself.”
She fired two or three fleehettes into the ceiling to let me know she was willing to use the weapon. “Release my boy,” she said hoarsely. “Let us go.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I said. “I’m sure Fried-lander Bey would want to—”
I heard a sound like thitt! thitt! and realized that Umm Saad had fired at me. I sucked in a deep breath, waiting to feel the bite of pain that would tell me where I’d been wounded, but it didn’t happen. Her agitation had spoiled her aim even at this close range.
She swung the needle gun toward Kmuzu, who remained motionless, still shielded by Saad’s body. Then she turned back toward me. In the meantime, however, the Stone That Speaks had crossed the few feet between us. He raised one hand and chopped down on Umm Saad’s wrist, and she dropped the needle gun. Then the Stone raised his other hand, clenched into a huge fist.
“No,” I shouted, but it was too late to stop him. With a Sowerful backhand clout, he knocked Umm Saad to the oor. I saw a bright trail of blood on her face below her split lip. She lay on her back with her head twisted at a grotesque angle. I knew the Stone had killed her with one blow. “That’s two,” I whispered. Now I could give my complete attention to Abu Adil. And Umar, the old man’s deluded plaything.
“Son of a dog!” screamed the boy. He struggled a moment, and then Kmuzu permitted him to go to her. He bent and cradled his mother’s corpse. “O Mother, Mother,” he murmured, weeping.