“May your table last forever, Taalab.”
The qadi nodded, and the servant girl poured two cups of coffee. She handed one to Abdul-Qahhar and one to her master.
“Bismillah,” said Taalab. In the name of God.
“Bismillah,” murmured Abdul-Qahhar. He sipped the coffee. “Always! It is excellent.”
“May God lengthen your life,” said Taalab. He drained all the coffee in his cup and put it aside. “If we may, I’d prefer to dispense with the social niceties and get right to the immediate problem.”
“As you wish, Taalab. I’m at your disposal.”
The qadi regarded his guest in silence for a moment. “I’m too battle-hardened to take your meaning literally, my young friend. I wish to know if you think you have enough support among the ulema to be elected.”
Abdul-Qahhar sipped more coffee as he thought. He wondered if he dared be entirely truthful. “I admit that there’s been some doubt,” he said finally. “You haven’t attended the meetings of the Consultation, so you haven’t heard the arguments.”
Taalab yawned lazily. “The same old bickering, I expect. The conservatives fighting the young hotheads pushing for reform, am I right?”
Abdul-Qahhar shrugged. “Only now it’s complicated by the Berbers, who are demanding a higher standard of living. They claim that the Arab majority in the cities is holding them down.”
“It’s true enough, isn’t it?” The qadi was beginning to look bored.
“That’s beside the point,” said the younger man. “No, the issues are not new, but the matter of Unification is causing conflict even between long-time allies. The ulema will choose our new leader today or perhaps tomorrow, but he may not be the most qualified man. He may only be best at soothing tempers and making empty promises.”
“The best politician, you mean,” said Taalab. He poured himself another cup of coffee.
“Yes. I’ve come to despise politicians.”
“Then if you aren’t elected, who’ll be the next president?”
“Yahya ben Sadiq,” said Abdul-Qahhar with a grimace, as if he’d bitten into a rotten fruit.
“Ben Sadiq is a pirate, all right,” said the qadi, “but he has charisma. He knows how to make you smile while he robs you.”
The man in the business suit nodded agreement. “I wish I had some of that skill,” he said. “He’s masquerading as a liberal this session, pleading for tolerance and aid for Arabs and Berbers alike, arguing that Western science can’t be entirely evil if it feeds our Muslim brothers.”
Taalab leaned back against his cushions and tapped a thumbnail thoughtfully against his strong white teeth. “Is it true that he’s had his brain wired?”
Abdul-Qahhar took a deep breath and let it out heavily. “Yes, and he flaunts the implant before everyone. He has arrived bareheaded to every session of the Consultation.”
The qadi nodded knowingly. “Watch him, Abdul-Qahhar. I’ll bet he’ll find a way to make the neurosurgery seem a gift from Allah. You must undermine his strategy at every opportunity.”
“I’ve tried, but the radical delegates have been swayed by his talk of reviving the Islamic brotherhoods. He clamors for spiritual politics, but he carefully avoids talking about practical goals and methods. When he begins to speak, the council chamber fills immediately with wispy, warm clouds of optimism.”
Taalab laughed. “And you can’t pin him down to how he intends to make those marvelous changes, or administer them, or pay for them. You’d hardly believe that Ben Sadiq was the most ruthlessly conservative member of the ulema not so long ago. Now he’s a radical. At the next session, who knows what his politics will be?”
They talked for a while longer, until the qadi’s servants brought in platters of couscous and vegetables and roast mutton. They had a leisurely meal, during which they spoke no more of the Consultation, but inquired instead into the health of each one’s family and friends. Finally, just after the evening prayers, the qadi walked with his guest down to Abdul-Qahhar’s small electric automobile.
“I wish you luck, my friend,” said the qadi. “I’d offer you advice, but it is your hand in the fire, while mine is in the water.”
“I thank you for your good wishes,” said Abdul-Qahhar.
“Go with safety, then, and protect the future of our nation.”
Abdul-Qahhar got into his car and shut the door. “Allah yisallimak,” he said. God bless you. He started the car and drove to the meeting hall of the Consultation of the Two Peoples.
The evening session had not yet been called to order, and the council chamber was a riotous madhouse of noise and confusion. The ulema, the scholars and experts in Islamic law who had convened in Bekhaout, were gathered in many small groups, all loudly arguing over their interpretations of Islamic tradition that governed their individual political outlooks. Hussain Abdul-Qahhar paused at the entrance to the meeting hall and smiled ruefully, watching the wildly gesturing Arabs and Berbers. It had been a long time since such a convention had been called, and Abdul-Qahhar prayed briefly that it wouldn’t explode into violence — at least not until the necessary work of choosing a national leader had been finished.
He saw a young man wearing a black turban waving to him from a desk near the front of the assembly. It was Muhammad Timgadi, who had been his classmate at religious college in Oran. Abdul-Qahhar pushed his way through the crowded aisles and took a seat beside his old friend.
“Did you have a pleasant day?” asked Timgadi.
Abdul-Qahhar shrugged. “Pleasant enough.”
“And where did you go? Your absence this afternoon was widely noted.”
“I had business elsewhere. Besides, there were no important debates scheduled for this afternoon.”
Timgadi pretended to study his fingernails. “And how is the health of Taalab the qadi?”
Abdul-Qahhar turned and glared. “What, am I being followed?”
Timgadi laughed at his friend’s reaction. “Hussain, you don’t need to be followed. No one in this hall needed to have your absence explained. It was quite obvious that you were out trying to consolidate support for your candidacy.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Forgive me, my friend.” Abdul-Qahhar frowned. “I wonder if I accomplished anything.”
“For your sake and ours, I hope so,” said Timgadi, turning to stare back toward the great double doors. “Your rival, Ben Sadiq, spent the noon hours engaged in the same business.”
Abdul-Qahhar’s eyebrows went up. “Is that true? Taalab mentioned nothing of a visit from Ben Sadiq. Where did he — “
Timgadi laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Quiet,” he said, “the imam is making his entrance.”
GEORGE ALEC EFFINGER
1947-2002
“Foreword,” copyright © 2003 by Barbara Hambly.
“The City on the Sand,” first published in
“King of the Cyber Rifles,” first published in
“Marid and the Trail of Blood,” first published in
“Marid Changes His Mind,” first published in
“Marid Throws a Party,” copyright © 2003 by the Estate of George Alec Effinger. Originally written as the first two chapters of
“The Plastic Pasha,” copyright © 2003 by the Estate of George Alec Effinger.
Previously unpublished.
“Schrodinger’s Kitten,” first published in
