Budayeen Nights: Stories

profitable and rewarding.”

Papa had given me Chiriga’s, once upon a time. The nightclub had also proven to be profitable and rewarding. Of course, for a long while I lost the friendship of Chiriga herself, because she hadn’t really wanted to sell her establishment. Friedlander Bey had “persuaded” her. I wondered if his new present would have similar effects.

“May the Prophet of Allah — peace be upon him — bless you for your kindness,” I said. “I’m sure that I’ll be greatly surprised and pleased.” Well, surprised, anyway.

“It gives me great satisfaction to make this small gesture,” he said. He waved a hand to show how negligible his effort had been. I didn’t buy it for a minute.

“Please, my uncle,” I said, “allow me to show you what I’ve done. First, may I offer you this special edition of the noble Qur’an?” According to common practice, you’re not supposed to buy or sell the holy book — a willing student of the Straight Path shouldn’t be prevented by poverty from learning the wisdom of the Qur’an. The clever local way around this decree is that the contents of the book are always free of charge, but the merchant may sell the binding for whatever he can get. In this particular case, I’d had some of the best artists and craftsmen in the city create a beautiful, one-of-a-kind copy of the scriptures for Friedlander Bey, to take with him on the holy pilgrimage.

“This volume is truly lovely,” he said, as he turned the gold-edged pages. “Of course, even the plainest edition would be more than good enough for me. All that really matters is that I have the solace and guidance of the inspired words of the Disciple of God, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace.” His words were modest, but the tone of his voice and his expression said something else. I could tell that he was very happy with my gift.

“There is still more, O Shaykh,” I said.

His eyes opened wider. “More?”

“Yes, if you will permit it. I’ve taken the liberty of making all the necessary bookings for our pilgrimage. You’ve told me your father’s story often, about his own journey to Makkah. Well, I’ve done a little research, and I’ve arranged for us to follow exactly in his footsteps. We will hire the same means of transportation and stop at the same lodgings along the way. We will find our guides through the same agencies, and conduct our pilgrimage as much like your father’s as is possible in this day and age.” After all, a century and a half had passed since my twice-great-grandfather had made his trip to the holy city.

I don’t believe I’d ever seen Friedlander Bey completely astonished before. He started to say something, closed his mouth, opened it again, then gave up. He raised a hand to his forehead and shut his eyes for a moment. If it hadn’t been Papa — if he had been, say, an ordinary person — I might have thought he was about to show some strong emotion.

Instead, he quickly regained his composure and gave me only the briefest of smiles. Friedlander Bey had not climbed to the summit of wealth and power in the city by letting just anyone know his true thoughts and feelings. He put the copy of the Qur’an aside and said quietly, “You’ve given me great happiness, my nephew. Now I will tell you what I’ve planned in return.”

I couldn’t imagine what Papa had done for me. A new car would’ve been nice, I guess; I just hoped I wasn’t getting another slave or some valuable treasure that had been grabbed away from one of my dearest friends.

“A few years ago,” Friedlander Bey said, picking up a sugared, nut-stuffed date and examining it carefully, “I arranged for you to have the finest experimental brain implants available. I was very gratified by the results. Now, however, surgical procedures have advanced further. Your brain-wiring is no longer unique. In fact, in some ways you are at a disadvantage compared to the present state of the art.”

Oh jeez, I thought. I knew for sure that I wasn’t going to like this.

Papa went on, still not looking directly at me. “I’ve made plans with the neurosurgery staff at al-Amir Hospital to upgrade you before we begin our pilgrimage. We decided to augment your cerebral functions by enclosing your brain in a reticule of delicate gold mesh.”

“Yes, O Shaykh, but-“

“Also, today’s implants are much smaller and can easily be hidden at the base of the skull. The new personality modules and data add-ons are now only a small fraction the size of your older ones. The hospital will fit you out with a new set. I know you’ll be as pleased as I am.”

“Yes, O Shaykh, but-“

Friedlander Bey raised a hand in dismissal. “No thanks are needed, my nephew. You will have the surgery tomorrow morning, and there will be enough time to recuperate before our departure.” He put the stuffed date in his mouth. There was nothing more to be said — by either of us.

So now I had plenty to think about while I got ready for the party.

Kmuzu tiptoed heavily around my suite of rooms. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was shooting me hard- eyed glances that were more reproachful than I thought the situation called for. All right, so I’d gone to a party the night before, so I’d stayed out Allah-only-knew how late and came in so damaged that I couldn’t even remember how I’d gotten home. I mean, I’m an adult — maybe not a completely responsible adult, but that’s my business.

Or so I thought that morning. I liked to cherish the fantasy that there was still a little liberty in my life. I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy living in Papa’s palace and having more money than I ever dreamed possible; it’s just that I got good and tired of having to account for every minute of my day, and that almost everything I really wanted to do was against the wishes of the master of the house. It didn’t help that everyone I knew in the Budayeen would’ve gladly traded places with me in a Marrakesh minute.

I caught Kmuzu staring at me again. He was trying to look impassive, but his lips were pressed together and his teeth were clenched so tightly that I could see his jaw muscles jumping. I wondered how long this was going to go on. “You reminded me about the party, Kmuzu,” I said. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

“Do you recall that you are scheduled for surgery today, yaa Sidi?”

I closed my eyes and rubbed them. I nodded. “I remember. And that’s why I can’t have breakfast. I wasn’t supposed to eat anything after midnight.”

“You weren’t supposed to drink anything, either.”

I opened my eyes and tried to look innocent. “As far as I can remember, I didn’t.”

Well, that one didn’t get by Kmuzu. He didn’t say anything, but his expression was as disgusted as I’ve ever seen him. I told myself it didn’t matter to me what he was thinking.

In my mind I went over what had happened at the party. In the early stages it had been just fine — but no one ever cares about the early stages of a party. That’s why so many people always show up late. Now, what had gone on that could have put Kmuzu in such a snit?

Suddenly I remembered. My eyes opened wider. “Mary and Jesus!” I said in a low voice. “Somebody turned up dead in my club. In one of the booths.”

“Yes, yaa Sidi.”

“I don’t even know who it was, just some guy. I can’t remember anything after that. Yallah, I really don’t need this, not today.”

Kmuzu looked me directly in the eye and let two or three heartbeats pass. Then he said, “It gets worse.”

Fateful things were said and done at the party, despite my longstanding policy against that happening in my club. I didn’t ask for any of it — I usually don’t have to — but because of it my life would be a nonstop nightmare in the weeks to come.

In Chiriga’s, as in most of the Budayeen bars, the day shift runs from noon until eight in the evening, and the night shift from eight until four in the morning. Some owners even have a late, late shift from 4 A.M. until noon. You wouldn’t think there’d be enough trade to make it worthwhile to stay open then, but evidently there is. I personally don’t care. I’m not that hard up for money.

I told my gang that we’d be closing Chiri’s early because of the party. I shut the place down about two hours before midnight. Of course, Brandi, Kandy, and the other night girls complained about losing six hours of prime money-making time — and they weren’t talking about wages, either. I paid them for the whole shift; they were upset over the lost tips. I guess “tips” is one way of describing their supplemental income.

“It’s not fair, Marid,” Brandi said. “The day girls got to work their whole shift and then they get to come to the party, too.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Life is like that sometimes. Listen, you don’t have to stay here, you know. I’m sure