“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.
“It was a tragedy to our Indihar. She must be helpless with grief. And to have no money now, that must make her situation even harder. I’m sorry that I suggested she work for me. That was callous. I spoke quickly before I considered what I was saying.”
“Indihar is a devout Muslim,” I said coldly. “She’s not about to turn tricks for you or for anyone.”
“I know that, Marid. No need for you to be so defensive on her behalf. But she’s realized that she can’t support all her children. You mentioned that she’d be willing to place one of them in a good foster home, and perhaps earn enough that way to feed and clothe the others in a proper manner.”
I hated what I was doing. “You may not know it,” I said, “but my own mother was forced to sell my little brother when we were children.”
“Now, now, Maghrebi,” said Mahmoud, “don’t think of it as ‘selling.’ No one’s got the right to sell a child. We can’t continue this conversation if you maintain that attitude.”
“Fine. Whatever you say. It’s not selling; call it whatever you want. The point is, have you found someone who might be interested in adopting?”
Mahmoud paused. “Not exactly,” he said at last. “But I know a man who frequently acts as go-between, arranging these matters. I’ve dealt with him before, and I can vouch for his honesty and delicacy. You can see that these transactions require a great amount of sympathy and tact.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’s important. Indihar is in enough pain as it is.”
“Exactly. That’s why this man is so highly recommended. He’s able to place a child in a loving home immediately, and he’s able to present the natural parent with a cash gift in such a way as to prevent any guilt or recriminations. It’s just his way. I think Mr. On is the perfect solution to Indihar’s problem.”
“Mr. On?”
“His name is On Cheung. He’s a businessman from Kansu China. I’ve had the privilege of acting as his agent before.”
“Uh yeah.” I squeezed my eyes shut and listened to the blood roaring in my head. “This is leading us into the topic of money. How much will this Mr. On pay, and do you get a cut of it?”
“For the elder son, five hundred kiam. For the younger son, three hundred kiam. For the daughter, two hundred fifty. There are also bonuses: an extra two hundred kiam for two children, and five hundred if Indihar relinquishes all three. I, of course, take 10 percent. If you have arranged with her for a fee, that must come from the remainder.”
“Sounds fair enough. That’s better than Indihar had hoped, to be truthful.”
“I told you that Mr. On was a generous man.”
“Now what? Do we meet somewhere or what?”
Mahmoud’s voice was growing excited. “Of course, both Mr. On and I will need to examine the children, to be sure they’re fit and healthy. Can you have them at 7 Rafi ben Garcia Street in half an hour?”
“Sure, Mahmoud. See you then. Tell On Cheung to bring his money.” I hung up the phone. “Kmuzu,” I called, “forget about the laundry. We’re going out.”
“Yes, yaa Sidi. Shall I bring the car around?”
“Uh huh.” I got up and threw a gallebeya over my jeans. Then I stuffed my static pistol in the pocket. I didn’t trust either Mahmoud or the baby seller.
The address was in the Jewish Quarter, and it turned out to be another storefront covered with newspaper, very much like the place Shaknahyi and I had investigated in vain. “Stay here,” I told Kmuzu. Then I got out of the car and went to the front door. I rapped on the glass, and after a little while Mahmoud opened the door an inch or two.
“Marid,” he said in his husky voice. “Where’s Indihar and the children?”
“I told ’em to stay in the car. I want to check this out first. Let me in.”