A Fire in the Sun (27 page)

"Some people hate him, you know," I said.

She stared at me, then shrugged. "I went back to Sidi-bel-Abbes, after all, and then after a few years I met your father. It was like my life was passing so fast. You were born, and then you got older and left Algiers. Then more years went by. Finally, right after you came to see me, I got a message from Abu Adil. He said he'd been thinking about me and wanted to see me again."

She had gotten agitated, and now she paused until she calmed down a little. "I believed him," she said. "I don't know why. Maybe I thought I could have a second chance to live my life, get back all those years I lost, fix all the mistakes. Anyway, goddamn if I didn't fuck up all over again."

I shut my eyes and rubbed them. Then I looked at my mother's anguished face. "What did you do?"

"I moved in with Abu Adil again. In that big place he's got in the slums. That's how I know all about him, and about Umm Saad. You got to watch out for her, baby. She works for Abu Adil, and she's planning to ruin Papa."

"I know."

My mother looked bewildered. "You know already? How?"

I smiled. "Abu Adil's little fuck-buddy told me. They've pretty much written off Umm Saad. She's not part of their plans anymore."

"Still," said my mother, raising a warning finger, "you got to watch out for her. She's got her own schemes in the fire."

"Yeali, I guess so."

"You know about Abu Adil's moddy? The one he's made of himself?"

"Uh huh. That son of a bitch Umar told me all about it. I'd like to get my hands on it for a few minutes."

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Maybe I could think of a way."

Yipe. That's all I needed. "It's not that important, Mom," I told her.

She began to weep again. "I'm so sorry, Marîd. I'm so sorry for everything I done, for not being the kind of mother you needed."

Jeez, I really wasn't feeling well enough to deal with her attack of conscience. "I'm sorry too, Mom," I said, and I was surprised to realize that I truly meant it. "I never showed you the respect—"

"I never earned no respect—"

I raised both hands. "Why don't we stop before we're fighting over who's hurt who the most? Let's call a truce or something."

"Maybe we could start over again?" Her voice had a peculiar shyness to it.

I had a lot of doubt about all of this. I didn't know if it was possible to start over again, especially after all that had happened between us, but I thought I could give her a chance. "That's fine with me," I said. "I got no love for the past."

She smiled crookedly. "I like living in Papa's house with you, baby. It makes me think I won't have to go back to Algiers and . . . you know."

I took a deep breath and let it out. "I promise you, Mom," I said, "you'll never have to go back to that life again. Just let me take care of you from now on."

She got up and came toward my bed, her arms outstretched, but I wasn't quite ready for an exchange of mother-son affection. I have a little trouble expressing my feelings, I guess, and I've never been a very demonstrative person. I let her bend down and kiss my cheek and give me a hug, and she murmured something that I couldn't make out. I kind of patted her on the back. It was the best I could manage. Then she went back to her chair.

 She sighed. "You made me very happy, Marîd. Happier than I got a right to be. All I ever wanted was a chance for a normal life."

Well, what the hell, what did it cost me? "What do you want to do, Mom?" I asked.

She frowned. "I don't really know. Something useful. Something real."

I had a ludicrous image of Angel Monroe as a candy-striper in the hospital. I dismissed the notion immediately. "Abu Adil brought you to the city to spy on Papa, right?"

"Yeah, and I was a sucker to think he really wanted me."

"And on what kind of terms did you leave him? Would you be willing to spy on him for us?"

She looked doubtful. "I really let him know I didn't like being used," she said. "If I went back there, I don't know if he'd believe I was sorry. But maybe he would. He's got a big ego, you know. Men like that, they always think their women'd walk through fire for 'em. I suppose I could make him buy it." She gave me a wry grin. "I was always a good actress. Khalid used to tell me I was the best."

Khalid, I remembered, had been her pimp. "Let me think about it, Mom. I wouldn't get you into anything dangerous, but I'd like to have a secret weapon Abu Adil didn't know anything about."

"Well, anyway, I feel like I owe Papa something. For letting Abu Adil use me like that, and for all Papa's done for me since I came to live in his house."

I wasn't crazy about letting my mother get involved any further with the intrigue, but I was aware that she might be a wonderful source of information. "Mom," I said casually, "what do the letters A.L.M. mean to you?"

"A.L.M.? I don't know. Nothing, really. The Alliance of Lingerie Models? That's a hooker's trade union, but I don't even know if they got a local in this city."

"Never mind. How about the Phoenix File? That ring a bell?"

I saw her flinch just a little. "No," she said slowly, "I never heard of that at all." There was something about the way she said it, though, that persuaded me she was lying. I wondered what she was hiding now. It took the optimistic edge off our previous conversation, making me doubt how much I could trust her. It wasn't the right time to pursue the matter, but there'd be a moment of truth when I got out of the hospital again.

"Mom," I said, yawning, "I'm getting kind of sleepy."

"Oh, baby, I'll go then." She got up and fussed with my covers. "I'll leave the curdled camel's milk with you."

"Great, Mom."

She bent and kissed me again. "I'll be back tomorrow. I'm gonna see how Papa's doing now."

"Give him my regards and tell him that I pray to Allah for his well-being." She went to the door, turned, and waved to me. Then she was gone.

The door had barely shut before a thought struck me: The only person who knew that I'd gone to visit my mother in Algiers had been Saied the Half-Hajj. He must have located Mom for Reda Abu Adil. It must have been Saied who'd brought her to the city to spy on Papa and me. Saied had to be working for Abu Adil. He'd sold me out.

I promised myself still another moment of truth, one that the Half-Hajj would never forget.

Whatever the goal of the conspiracy, whatever the significance of the Phoenix File, it must be tremendously urgent to Abu Adil. In the past few months, he'd set Saied, Kmuzu, and Umm Saad to pry into our affairs. I wondered how many others there were that I hadn't identified yet.

Later that afternoon, just before suppertime, Kmuzu came to visit. He was dressed in a white shirt, no tie, and a black suit. He looked like an undertaker. His expression was solemn, as if one of the nurses outside had just told him that my situation was hopeless. Maybe my burned hair would never grow back, or I'd have to live with that awful, cold white gunk on my skin for the rest of my life.

"How are you feeling, yaa Sidi?" he asked.

"I'm suffering from Delayed Post-Fire Stress Syndrome," I said. "I'm just realizing how close I came to not making it. If you hadn't been there to wake me up—"

"You would have been roused by the fire if you hadn't been using the sleep add-on."

I hadn't thought of that. "I suppose," I said. "Still, I owe you my life."

"You rescued the master of the house, yaa Sidi. He shelters me and protects me from Reda Abu Adil. You and I are even."

"I still feel I'm in your debt." How much was my life worth to me? Could I give him something of equivalent value? "How would you like your freedom?" I asked.

Kmuzu's brows drew together. "You know that liberty is what I desire most. You also know it's in the hands of the master of the house. It's up to him."

I shrugged. "I have a certain amount of influence with Papa. I'll see what I can do."

"I would be most grateful, yaa Sidi." Kmuzu's expression had become noncommittal, but I knew he wasn't as cool as he was pretending.

We talked for a few minutes more, and then he got up to go. He reassured me that my mother and our servants would be safe enough, inshallah. We had two dozen armed guards. Of course, they hadn't prevented someone from entering the grounds and torching the west wing. Collusion, espionage, arson, attempted murder—it had been a long while since Papa's enemies had so noisily expressed their displeasure.

After Kmuzu left, I got bored very quickly. I turned on the holoset fixed to the furniture across from my bed. It wasn't a very good unit and the projection coordinates were off by a considerable margin. The vertical variable needed adjusting; the actors in some contemporary Central European drama struggled along knee-deep in the dresser. The elaborate production was subtitled, but unfortunately the captions were lost, out of sight with the actors' legs in my sock drawer. Whenever there was a close-up, I'd see the person only from the top of his head to the bottom of his nose.

I didn't think I'd care, because at home I don't watch much holo. In the hospital, however, where the order of the day was boredom, I found myself turning it on again and again all day long. I browsed through a hundred channels from around the world, and I never found anything worth watching. That might have been due to my semi-stoned state and my lack of concentration; or it might have been the fault of the little amputated figures wading around on the dresser, speaking a dozen different languages.

So I bailed out of the Thuringian tragedy and told the holoset to turn itself off. Then I got out of bed mi mm «• my robe. That was kind of uncomfortable beane «f mf burns and also because of the white gunk; I hated the m*y it felt, stuck to my hospital gown. I stuck my feet to the green paper slippers the hospital provided, and headed for the door.

An orderly, was coming in just as I was going out, carrying a tray with my lunch. I was pretty hungry and my mouth began to water, even before I found out what was on the plates. I decided to stay in the room until after 1 ate. "What do we have?" I asked.

The orderly set it down on my tray table. "You got -.asty fried liver," he said. His tone let me know it wasn't my thing to look forward to.

"I'll eat it later." I left my room and walked slowly down the corridor. I spoke my name to the elevator, and n a few seconds the car arrived. I didn't know how much freedom of movement I had.

When the elevator asked me what floor I wanted, I isked for Friedlander Bey's room number. "VIP Suite One," it told me.

"What floor is that on?" I asked. "Twenty." That was as high as you could go. This hospital was one of only three in the city with VIP suites. It was the same hospital where I'd had my brainwork lone, less than a year before. I liked having a private room, but I didn't really need a suite. I didn't really feel like entertaining.

"Do you wish the twentieth floor?" the elevator asked.

"You bet."

"Do you wish the twentieth floor?" "Yes," I said. It was a stupid elevator. I stood hunched over while it traveled slowly from the fifteenth floor to the twentieth. I was looking for a posture that didn't feel sticky and squishy, and I wasn't having any luck. I was also starting to get very sick of the white gunk's intense peppermint smell.

I got off on Twenty, and the first thing I saw was a beefy, thick-necked woman in a white uniform sitting in the middle of a circular nurse's station. There was a muscular man nearby too, dressed in a Eur-Am style security guard outfit. He had a huge seizure cannon bolstered on his hip, and he looked at me as if he were deciding whether or not to let me live.

"You're a patient in this hospital," said the nurse. Well, she was at least as bright as the elevator.

"Room 1540," I said.

"This is the twentieth floor. What are you doing here?"

"I want to visit Friedlander Bey."

"Just a moment." She frowned and consulted her computer terminal. From her tone of voice, it was obvious she didn't think anyone as scruffy as me could possibly be on her list of approved visitors. "Your name?"

"Marîd Audran."

"Well, here you are." She glanced up at me. I thought maybe when she found my name on the list, she'd show a little grudging respect. No such luck. "Zain, show Mr. Audran to Suite One," she told the guard.

Zain nodded. "Right this way, sir," he said. I followed him down a lushly carpeted hallway, turned into a cross corridor, and stopped outside the door to Suite One.

I wasn't surprised to see one of the Stones standing sentry duty. "Habib?" I said. I thought I saw his expression flicker just a bit. I pushed by him, half-expecting him to reach out his brawny arm to stop me, but he let me pass. I think both Stones accepted me now as Friedlander Bey's deputy.

Inside the suite, the lights were turned off and the shades drawn on the windows. There were flowers everywhere, jammed into vases and growing from elaborate pots. The sweet fragrance was almost sickening; if it had been my room, I would have told a nurse to give some of the flowers to other sick people in the hospital.

Papa lay motionless in his bed. He didn't look well. I knew he'd been burned as badly as I'd been, and his face and arms had been smeared with the same white gunk. His hair was neatly combed, but he hadn't been shaved in a few days, probably because his skin was still too painful. He was awake, but his eyelids drooped. The Sonneine was knocking him out; he didn't have my tolerance.

There was a second room adjoining, and I could see Youssef, Papa's butler, and Tariq, his valet, sitting at a table playing cards. They started to get up, but I signaled

that they should go on with their game. I sat in a chair beside Papa's bed. "How do you feel, O Shaykh?" I said.

He opened his eyes, but I could see that it was difficult for him to stay awake. "I am being well cared for, my nephew," he said.

That wasn't what I'd asked, but I let it pass. "I pray every hour for your return to health."

He attempted a weak smile. "It is good that you pray." He paused to take a deep breath. "You risked your life to save me."

I spread my hands. "I did what I had to."