Budayeen Nights: Stories

back there was into renting herself to strangers long before she had to support the two of us. She wasn’t the forlorn heroine she always said she was. She glossed over a lot of the truth.”

The Half-Hajj looked me hard in the eye for a few seconds. “Yeah?” he said. “Half the girls, changes, and debs we know do the same thing, and you don’t have any problem treating them like human beings.”

I was about to say “Sure, but none of them is my mother.” I stopped myself. He would have jumped on that sentiment, too, and besides, it was starting to sound foolish even to me. The edge of my anger had vanished. I think I was just greatly annoyed to have to learn these things after so many years. It was hard for me to accept. I mean, now I had to forget almost everything I thought I knew about myself. For one thing, I’d always been proud of the fact that I was half-Berber and half-French. I dressed in European style most of the time — boots and jeans and work shirts. I suppose I’d always felt a little superior to the Arabs I lived among. Now I had to get used to the thought that I could very well be half-Berber and half-Arab.

The raucous, thumping sound of mid-twenty-first-century hispo roc from Chiri’s jukebox broke into my daydream. Some forgotten band was growling an ugly chant about some damn thing or other. I’ve never gotten around to learning any Spanish dialects, and I don’t own a Spanish-language daddy. If I ever run into any Colombian industrialists, they can just damn well speak Arabic. I have a soft spot in my liver for them because of their production of narcotics, but outside of that I don’t see what South America is for. The world doesn’t need an overpopulated, starving, Spanish-speaking India in the Western Hemisphere. Spain, their mother country, tried Islam and said a polite no-thank-you, and their national character sublimed right off into nothingness. That’s Allah punishing them.

I was bored as hell. I knocked back the rest of my drink. Chiri looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “No thanks, Chiri,” I said. “I got to go.”

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Well, don’t be a stranger now that you’re a fascist swine cop.”

“Right,” I said. I got up from my stool. It was time to go to work. I left the rest of my change for Chiri’s hungry register and went back outside.

3

There was always a crowd of young children outside the station house on Walid al-Akbar Street. I don’t know if they were hoping to see some shackled criminal dragged in, or waiting for their own parents to be released from custody, or just loitering in the hopes of begging loose change. I’d been one of them myself not so very long ago in Algiers, and it didn’t hurt me any to throw a few kiam into the air and watch them scramble for it. I reached into my pocket and grabbed a clutch of coins. The older, bigger kids caught the easy money, and the smaller ones clung to my legs and wailed, “Baksheesh!” Every day it was a challenge to shake my young passengers loose before I got to the revolving door.

I had a desk in a small cubicle on the third floor of the station house. My cubicle was separated from its neighbors by pale green plasterboard walls only a little taller than I was. There was always a sour smell in the air, a mixture of stale sweat, tobacco smoke, and disinfectant. Above my desk was a shelf that held plastic boxes filled with dated files on cobalt-alloy cell-memories. On the floor was a big cardboard box crammed with bound printouts. I had a grimy Annamese data deck on my desk that gave me trouble-free operation on two out of every three jobs. Of course, my work wasn’t very important, not according to Lieutenant Hajjar. We both knew I was there just to keep an eye on things for Friedlander Bey. It amounted to Papa having his own private police precinct devoted to protecting his interests in the Budayeen.

Hajjar came into my cubicle and dropped another heavy box on my desk. He was a Jordanian who’d had a lengthy arrest record of his own before he came to the city. I suppose he’d been an athlete ten years ago, but he hadn’t stayed in shape. He had thinning brown hair and lately he’d tried to grow a beard. It looked terrible, like the skin of a kiwi fruit. He looked like a mother’s bad dream of a drug dealer, which is what he was when he wasn’t administering the affairs of the nearby walled quarter.

“How you doin’, Audran?” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “What’s all this?”

“Found something useful for you to do.” Hajjar was about two years younger than me, and it gave him a kick to boss me around.

I looked in the box. There were a couple hundred blue cobalt-alloy plates. It looked like another really tedious job. “You want me to sort these?”

“I want you to log ‘em all into the daily record.”

I swore under my breath. Every cop carries an electronic log book to make notes on the day’s tour: where he went, what he saw, what he said, what he did. At the end of the day, he turns in the book’s cell-memory plate to his sergeant. Now Hajjar wanted me to collate all the plates from the station’s roster. “This isn’t the kind of work Papa had in mind for me,” I said.

“What the hell. You got any complaints, take ‘em to Friedlander Bey. In the meantime, do what I tell you.”

“Yeah, you right,” I said. I glared at Hajjar’s back as he walked out.

“By the way,” he said, turning toward me again, “I got someone for you to meet later. It may be a nice surprise.”

I doubted that. “Uh huh,” I said.

“Yeah, well, get movin’ on those plates. I want ‘em finished by lunchtime.”

I turned back to my desk, shaking my head. Hajjar annoyed the hell out of me. What was worse, he knew it. I didn’t like giving him the satisfaction of seeing me irked.

I selected a productivity moddy from my rack and chipped it onto my posterior plug. The rear implant functions the same as everybody else’s. It lets me chip in a moddy and six daddies. The anterior plug, however, is my own little claim to fame. This is the one that taps into my hypothalamus and lets me chip in my special daddies. As far as I know, no one else has ever been given a second implant. I’m glad I hadn’t known that Friedlander Bey told my doctors to try something experimental and insanely dangerous. I guess he didn’t want me to worry. Now that the frightening part is over, though, I’m glad I went through it. It’s made me a more productive member of society and all that.

When I had boring police work to do, which was almost every clay, I chipped in an orange moddy that Hajjar had given me. It had a label that said it was manufactured in Helvetia. The Swiss, I suppose, have a high regard for efficiency. Their moddy could take the most energetic, inspired person in the world and transform him instantly into a drudge.

Not into a stupid drudge, like what the Half-Hajj’s dumbing-down hardware did to me, but into a mindless worker who isn’t aware enough to be distracted before the whole assignment is in the Out box. It’s the greatest gift to the office menial since conjugal coffee breaks.

I sighed and took the moddy, then reached up and chipped it in.

The immediate sensation was as if the whole world had lurched and then caught its balance. There was an odd, metallic taste in Audran’s mouth and a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He felt a touch of nausea, but he tried to ignore it because it wouldn’t go away until he popped the moddy out. The moddy had trimmed down his personality, like the wick of a lamp, until there was only a vague and ineffectual vestige of his true self left.

Audran wasn’t conscious enough even to be resentful. He remembered only that he had work to do, and he pulled a double handful of cobalt-alloy plates out of the box. He slotted six of them into the adit ports beneath the battered data deck’s comp screen. Audran touched the control pad and said, “Copy ports one, two, three, four, five, six.” Then he stared blankly while the deck recorded the contents of the plates. When the run was finished, he removed the plates, stacked them on one side of the desk, and loaded in six more. He barely noticed the morning pass as he logged in the records.

“Audran.” Someone was saying his name.

He stopped what he was doing and glanced over his shoulder. Lieutenant Hajjar and a