“Listen,” I said, “there’s some important thing I have to talk over with Yasmin when she’s finished this set.”
Frenchy shook his head. “She’s working on that mark down there wearing the fez. Wait until she milks him dry, then you can talk to her all you want. If you wait until the mark leaves, I’ll get someone else to take her next turn on stage.”
“Allah be praised,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
He smiled at me. “Buy two,” he said. “Pretend one’s for me, one’s for you. Drink them both. I can’t stomach the stuff anymore.” He patted his belly and made a sour face, then got up and walked down the bar, greeting his customers and whispering in the ears of his girls. I bought two drinks from Dalia, Frenchy’s short, round-faced, informative barmaid; I’d known Dalia for years. Dalia, Frenchy, and Chiriga were very likely fixtures on the Street when the Street was just a goatpath from one end of the Budayeen to the other. Before the rest of the city decided to wall us in, probably, and put in the cemetery.
When Yasmin finished dancing, the applause was loud and long. Her tip jar filled quickly, and then she was hurrying back to her enamored mark before some other bitch stole him away. Yasmin gave me a quick, affectionate pinch on the ass as she passed behind me.
I watched her laughing and talking and hugging that cross-eyed bastard son of a yellow dog for half an hour; then his money ran out, and both he and Yasmin looked sad. Their affair had come to a premature end. They waved fond, almost passionate farewells and promised they’d never forget this golden evening. Every time I see one of those goddamn wogs climbing all over Yasmin — or any of the other girls, for that matter — I remember watching nameless men grabbing at my mother. That was a hell of a long time ago, but for certain things my memory works just too well. I watched Yasmin and I told myself it was just her job; but I couldn’t help the sick, acid feeling that climbed out of my gut and made me want to start breaking things.
She scooted down beside me, drenched with perspiration, and gasped, “I thought that son of a slut would never leave!”
“It’s your charming presence,” I said sourly. “It’s your scintillating conversation. It’s Frenchy’s needled beer.”
“Yeah,” said Yasmin, puzzled by my annoyance, “you right.”
“I have to talk to you about something.”
Yasmin looked at me and took a few deep breaths. She mopped her face with a clean bar towel. I suppose I sounded unusually grave. Anyway, I went through the events of the evening for her: my second meeting with Friedlander Bey; our — that is, his — conclusions; and how I had failed to impress Lieutenant Okking. When I finished, there was stunned silence from all around.
“You’re going to do it?” asked Frenchy. I hadn’t noticed him returning. I wasn’t aware that he’d been eavesdropping, but it was his place and nobody knew his eaves better.
“You’re going to get wired?” asked Yasmin breathlessly. She found the whole idea vastly exciting. Arousing, if you get my meaning.
“You’re crazy if you do,” said Dalia. Dalia was as close to being a true conservative as you could find on the Street. “Look what it does to people.”
“What does it do to people?” shouted Yasmin, outraged, tapping her own moddy.
“Oops, sorry,” said Dalia, and she went to mop up some imaginary spilled beer at the far, far end of the bar.
“Think of all the things we could do together,” said Yasmin dreamily.
“Maybe it’s not good enough for you the way it is,” I said, a little hurt.
Her expression fell. “Hey, Marîd, it’s not that. It’s just—”
“This is your problem,” said Frenchy, “it’s none of my business. I’m going in the back and count tonight’s money. Won’t take me very long.” He disappeared through a ratty gold-colored cloth that served as a flimsy barrier to the dressing room and his office.
“It’s permanent,” I said. “Once it’s done, it’s done. There’s no backing out.”
“Have you ever heard me say that I wanted to have my wires yanked?” asked Yasmin.
“No,” I admitted. It was just the irrevocableness of it that prickled my skin.
“I haven’t regretted it for an instant, and neither has anybody else I know who’s had it done.”
I wet my lips. “You don’t understand,” I said. I couldn’t finish my argument; I couldn’t put into words what she didn’t understand.
“You’re just afraid,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. That was a good starting point.
“The Half-Hajj has his brain wired, and he’s not even a quarter of the man you are.”
“And all it got him was Sonny’s blood all over everything. I don’t need moddies to make me act crazy, I can do that on my own.”
Suddenly she got a faraway, inspired look in her eyes. I knew something fascinating had occurred to her, and I knew it most likely meant bad news for me. “Oh, Allah and the Virgin Mary in a motel room,” she said softly. That had been a favorite blasphemy of her father’s, I think. “This is working out just like the hexagram said.”
“The hexagram.” I had put that I Ching business out of my mind almost before Yasmin had finished explaining it to me.
“Remember what it said?” she asked. “About not being afraid to cross the great water?”
“Yeah. What great water?”
“The great water is some major change in your life. Getting your brain wired, for instance.”
“Uh huh. And it said to meet the great man. I did that. Twice.”
“It said to wait three days before beginning, and three days before completing.”
I counted up quickly: tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday. Monday, when I was going to have this thing done, would be after three days. “Oh, hell,” I muttered.
“And it said that nobody would believe you, and it said that you had to keep up your confidence during adversity, and it said that you didn’t serve kings and princes but higher principles. That’s my Marîd.” And she kissed me.
I felt ill. There was absolutely no way I could get out of the surgery now, unless I started running and began a new life in some new country, shoving goats and sheep around and eating a few figs every couple of days to stay alive like the other fellahin.
“I’m a hero, Yasmin,” I said, “and we heroes sometimes have secret business to attend to. Got to go.” I kissed her three or four times, squeezed her right silicone tit for luck, and stood up. On the way out of Frenchy’s I patted Indihar’s ass, and she turned and grinned at me. I waved good-night to Dalia. Blanca I pretended didn’t even exist.
I walked down the Street to the Silver Palm, just to see what people were doing and what was going on. Mahmoud and Jacques were sitting at a table, having coffee and sopping up hummus with pita bread. The Half-Hajj was absent, probably out kicking gigantic heterosexual stone-cutters around for the hell of it. I sat down with my friends. “May your and so forth, and so forth,” said Mahmoud. He was never one to worry about formalities.
“Yours too,” I said.
“Getting yourself wired, I hear,” said Jacques. “A crucial decision. A major undertaking. I’m sure you’ve considered both sides of the matter?”
I was a little astonished. “News travels fast, doesn’t it?”
Mahmoud raised his eyebrows. “That’s what news is for,” he said, around a mouthful of bread and hummus.
“Permit me to buy you some coffee,” said Jacques.