Budayeen Nights (33 page)

He longed to see Steven, his son. It had been years; that, too, wasn’t fair. Governments and powers must have their way, but certainly it wouldn’t upset their dynastic realms to allow the fulfilling of one man’s sentiments. How old was the boy now? Old enough to have children of his own? Perhaps, amazingly, grandchildren for Ernst? Steven might have a son; he might be named Ernst, after his funny, old grandfather.

“How unusual it would be, to bounce a grandchild upon this palsied knee,” he thought. “I doubt if ever a grandchild has been cuddled in all the history of this city. Surely Kebap could not accurately identify his own grandparents. Would they be anxious to claim him? He is, after all, somewhat of an objectionable child. And he has had only nine years to develop so remarkably offensive a manner. It is truly an accomplishment—all emotional considerations aside, one must give the wretched boy his due.

“There is something about him, though, that obsesses me. If there were not, I should without hesitation inflict some kind of permanent injury upon him, to induce him to leave my peace unspoiled. I detect an affinity. I cannot dispute the possibility that I, myself, may be the lad’s own father. What a droll entertainment that would be. I shall have to explore the possibility with him tomorrow. Indeed, the more I consider it, the better the idea becomes. I hope I can remember it.”

He heard the rattling of M. Gargotier drawing the steel gate across the door and windows of the small cafe. The sound was loud and harsh, and it made Ernst feel peculiarly abandoned, as it did every night. Suddenly, he was aware that he sat alone in a neglected city, a colony despised by the rest of the world, alone on the insane edge of Africa, and no one cared. He heard the click of a switch, and knew that the Fee Blanche’s own sad strings of lights had been extinguished. He heard M. Gargotier’s slow, heavy steps.

“M. Weinraub?” said the proprietor softly. “I will go now. It is nearly dawn. Everything is locked up. Maybe you should go, too, eh?” Ernst nodded, staring across the avenue. The proprietor made some meaningless grunt and hurried home, down the street.

The last of the whiskey went down Ernst’s throat. Its abrupt end shocked him. So soon? He remembered M. Gargotier’s last words, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He struggled to order his thoughts.

“Is that the whiskey? I need some more whiskey,” he said aloud. There was an unnatural, cracked quality to his voice that alarmed him. Perhaps he was contracting some disgusting rot of the city. “There had better be some more whiskey,” he thought. “It isn’t a matter of courtesy any longer. I require a certain quantity of the stuff to proceed through this. Gretchen would get it for me, but I cannot find Gretchen anywhere. Steven would get it for me, but I haven’t seen Steven in years. One would think that someone in my position would command a bit more devotion.”

He wondered about his sanity for a moment. Perhaps the day’s excitement, perhaps the liquor, had introduced a painful madness into his recollections. He realized that, in point of fact, he had never been married. Gretchen, again? Where had that name come from? Who could she be? Steven, the fantasy son? Ernst’s father’s name had been Stefan, perhaps there was some connection.

He called to M. Gargotier. “More whiskey, straight, no water.” He wanted to believe that there was still some darkness left, but he could already make out the lines of the hotel across the street, just beginning to edge clearly into view from the mask of nighttime.

“I have never traveled
anywhere
,” he admitted in a whisper. “I did not come from anywhere.” He sat silently for a few seconds, his confession hanging in the warm morning air, echoing in his sorrowing mind.
Will that do
? he wondered. He looked in vain for M. Gargotier.

He could almost read the face of the clock across the street. He picked up his glass, but it was still empty. Angrily, he threw it toward the clock. It crashed into pieces in the middle of the street, startling a small flock of pigeons. So it was morning. Perhaps now he could go home. He rose from his creaking latticed chair. He stood, wavering drunkenly. Wherever he turned, it seemed to him that an invisible wall held him. His eyes grew misty. He could not move.

“No escape,” he said, sobbing. “It’s Courane that’s done this. Courane and Czerny. He
said
they’d get me, the bastards, but not
now
. Please.” He could not move.

He sat again at the table. “They’re the only ones who know what’s going on. They’re the ones with all the facts,” he said, searching tiredly for M. Gargotier. He held his head in his hands. “It’s for my own good, I suppose. They know what they’re doing.”

His head bowed over the table. Soon he would be able to hear the morning sounds of the city’s earliest risers. Soon the day’s business would begin. Not so very long from now, M. Gargotier would arrive again, greet him cheerfully as he did every day, roll back the steel shutters and bring out two fingers of anisette. Now, though, tears dropped from Ernst’s eyes onto the table’s rusting circular surface. They formed little convex puddles, and in the center of each reflected the last of the new morning’s stars.

The Plastic Pasha

This is what George had to say about “The Plastic Pasha”:

“It’s about Marîd Audran’s kid brother (I’ve mentioned in the books that their mother sold the younger brother when they were young). He’s grown up now and become the ruler of Algeria. I don’t think Marîd ever meets him, though. The story’s about the official acceptance of the brain-wiring technology in the Islamic world…Somebody comes up with a personality module of the perfect Islamic governor, and that leads to a battle over who is qualified to wear it….”

George had also told me that the personality moddy was that of Thomas Jefferson—one of George’s personal heroes—thus leaving the reader with the rather puzzling question of who’s really in charge here?

George’s relationship with his own brother was stormy and difficult, and they finally became estranged about three years before George’s death. I don’t know how, or if, that would have translated into this story, or which of the characters we’ve met so far, in the few pages that he wrote, is the protagonist, if any.

George finally began work on this story the week of April 15, 2002; I got this fragment off his computer’s hard drive after he died.

—
Barbara Hambly

TO THE NORTH OF THE CITY OF BEKHAOUT WAS A
narrow pass through the mountains to the coastal lowlands and the sea. Around the city to the east, west, and south was a wide hardscrabble plain, and not far from the ancient fortified walls flocks of sheep foraged where sun-scorched grass still grew. They grazed unaware of the day’s significance, although some would be selected as sacrifices to mark the Great Feast, celebrated throughout the Islamic world as the culmination of the year’s pilgrimage to Makkah.

A fresh wind blew fine grit and sand first from one direction, then another. Two men in khaki uniforms held a struggling black ram, while a third man hobbled it with ropes. A fourth man, much older than the others, watched with shrewd eyes. In his youth he had stood tall and straight, but now he was bent over, leaning on a stout wooden staff. He wore a clean white shirt buttoned to the neck, with its shirttails flapping over black trousers, a white robe over them, leather sandals on his feet, and on his head the turban of a scholar of the Qur’ân. “This is a good animal,” the old man said in a dry, hoarse voice.

“It’s the finest ram on the plain of Bekhaout, Imam Abbas,” one of the uniformed men said. He and his fellows had begun to decorate the animal with long satin ribbons of scarlet, blue, yellow, and green.

“Soon the ulema will choose a new leader for our country,” the imam said thoughtfully. “Then next year, Allah willing, that man will relieve me of this privilege.”

The three soldiers were startled. “But, Wise One,” one of them said, “it’s a holy tradition.”

“Yes,” the imam said, sighing, “and when I perform it, I recall the faith of Father Abraham when the Lord directed him to sacrifice his son, Ishmael. Yet of all my duties, it’s the least pleasant. Now, hold this beautiful animal still. His head must be turned toward Makkah—that way.” The old man pointed across the plain with one long, bony forefinger.

“The sword, Wise One,” said the third man, who wore a sergeant’s uniform. He drew a magnificent gold-hilted ceremonial blade from its jeweled scabbard and passed it to the imam.

Imam Abbas took the sword in his right hand. “In the name of Allah,” he said in a loud, clear voice. He slashed the helpless ram’s throat and said, “God is most great.” Then, without turning his head, he handed the bloody sword back to the sergeant who held the scabbard.

“I’ll take the ram to the qadi,” the second man said. He was younger than the others, and his face was flushed with excitement.

“Ride quickly,” Imam Abbas said. “If the ram is still alive when you arrive at the house of the qadi, then there will be peace and good fortune in Bekhaout for the next year.”

The young man grinned. “That’s why I’m using the jeep and not my horse,” he said. The three soldiers wrapped the terror-stricken ram in a blanket and threw it into the back of the open jeep.

“Go with God, Salim!” shouted one of the other men. They watched as he got behind the steering wheel and roared off across the stony plain toward the gates of the city, raising a thick, choking cloud of dust behind him.

“Superstition,” the imam muttered. The two soldiers overheard, and exchanged glances.

“Imam Abbas,” the sergeant said, “you have no horse.”

“No,” the old man said, “I walked here from the city.”

“May I offer you my own horse to return, Wise One?”

The imam smiled but shook his head. “Thank you, sergeant, but I wish to go back on foot as well. For me, the most pleasant part of this day’s observance is to be left alone to meditate, here beyond the ramparts of the city. I enjoy the exercise.”

“As you wish, Wise One,” said the sergeant. “I return to you the Sword of the Sharif.”

The imam took the ceremonial weapon and watched the sergeant and his companion mount their horses. They saluted the old man, then wheeled their mounts and set off after the jeep at an easy trot.

Imam Abbas choked on the dust in the air, and unwound his turban a bit to serve as a mask over his mouth and nose. He looked about himself for a moment, seeing the northern mountains pink as crystal quartz in the summer sun, the dry, barren beauty of the plain, and the proud aspect of the city itself, which had witnessed too much history ever to admit that it was becoming a forgotten ruin. Here, where another man might have seen only desolation and poverty, Imam Abbas felt an inexplicable flush of happiness. “God is most great,” he murmured, and he prayed that Salim would, indeed, deliver the ram still alive to the qadi of Bekhaout.

The army private felt a similar joy as he bounced along in the jeep on the rocky track that led to the Bab es-Sayf, the Gate of Summer. Salim felt that bringing the ram sacrificed for the city was the most important event in his young life, and for a time the world seemed unnaturally vivid. The intensity of the colors, the smells, and the sounds exhilarated him. As soon as he rattled through the city’s gate and up the Avenue Colonel Boushaar, Salim pressed the jeep’s horn with the palm of his right hand and did not let it up again, sounding a shrill warning to the old women and donkeys beyond the sudden turns of the cobblestone street.

There were men and boys squatting in the meager shade of whitewashed walls, their heads covered with blue turbans or red felt tarbooshes. Their eyes turned to follow as Salim rocketed by, though none of them was curious enough in the heat of the day to stand and run after the jeep. Salim grinned as he wrenched the steering wheel once hard to the right, and then immediately back to the left, and finally stamped his foot on the brake to come to a halt before the house of the qadi on the north side of 10 January Square.

“This must be the sacrificial animal,” said the qadi to a young man in a gray business suit and white knit skullcap.

Salim jumped out and ran to the back of the jeep. “Look, Your Honor,” he said, pulling away the bloodstained blanket, “the ram is still alive!”

The man in the business suit turned his face away. The qadi came nearer to the jeep and glanced at the dying animal. “The butcher will attend to it now, soldier,” he said.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Salim. “Good fortune to you, and to the city of Bekhaout!”

The qadi paid no further attention to him, but gestured to his companion. “My cooks will roast the animal,” he said, “and we’ll dine on it later, but I always distribute most of the meat to my neighbors for their festival. The streets will be filled with their singing all day long.” The qadi shrugged. “So this one day out of the year I feed their hunger, and all the rest of the year they call me Father of Generosity.”

“That is the art of politics, Taalab,” said the young man in the business suit.

The qadi smiled. “An art you’ve studied and learned well, Hussain Abdul-Qahhar,” he said. “Now, come with me. Let’s make ourselves comfortable. We have much to discuss before your meeting tonight.”

They entered the qadi’s home and climbed the stairs to a large, low-ceilinged room overlooking a tidy courtyard and splashing fountain. The warbling of caged songbirds came in through screens made of narrow strips of wood, and there was the delicate perfume of cultivated flowering shrubs on the warm breeze. The qadi indicated that Hussain Abdul-Qahhar should make himself comfortable, and he himself reclined on one of two lacquered divans, both upholstered in green brocade.

A servant girl brought a tray and set it on a low table between the two divans. “Coffee, Hussain?” asked the qadi.

“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.”