A Fire in the Sun (18 page)

This was a week after my visit to Jirji and Indihar's apartment. The day had started off on a low note and it never improved. I looked up to see Kmuzu standing beside my bed holding a tray of orange juice, toast, and coffee. I guess he'd been waiting for my wake-up daddy to kick in. He looked so sick that I almost felt sorry for the poor sucker. "Good morning, yaa Sidi," he said softly.

I felt like hell too. "Where are my clothes?"

Kmuzu winced. "I don't know, yaa Sidi. I don't remember what you did with them last night."

I didn't remember much either. There was nothing but sick blackness from the time I came in the front door late last night until just a moment ago. I crawled out of bed naked, my head throbbing, my stomach threatening immediate upheaval. "Help me find my jeans," I said. "My pillcase is in my jeans."

"This is why the Lord forbids drinking," said Kmuzu, I glanced at him; his eyes were closed and he was still holding the tray, but it was tilting dangerously. There was going to be coffee and orange juice all over my bed in a few seconds. That wasn't important to me right then.

My clothes weren't under the bed, which was the logical place to look. They weren't in the closet, and they weren't in the dressing room or the bathroom. I looked on the table in the dining area and in my small kitchen. No luck. I finally found my shoes and shirt rolled up in a ball in

the bookcase, crammed between some paperback novels by Lutfy Gad, a Palestinian detective writer of the middle twenty-first century. My jeans had been folded neatly and hidden on my desk beneath several thick sheaves of computer printout.

I didn't even put the pants on. I just grabbed the pillcase and hurried back into the bedroom. My plan was to swallow some opiates, maybe a dozen Sonneine, with the orange juice.

Too late. Kmuzu was staring down in horror at the sticky, sweet-smelling puddle on my bedclothes. He looked up at me. "I'll clean this up," he said, gulping down a wave of nausea, "immediately." His expression said that he expected to lose his comfortable job in the Big House, and be sent out to the dusty fields with the other unskilled brutes.

"Don't worry about it right now, Kmuzu. Just hand me that cup of—"

There was a gentle scraping sound as the coffee cup and saucer slid southward and tumbled over the edge of the tray. I looked at the ruined sheets. At least you couldn't see the orange juice stain anymore.

"Yaa Sidi—"

"I want a glass of water, Kmuzu. Right now."

It had been a hell of a night. I'd had the bright idea to go to the Budayeen after work. "I haven't had a night out in a long time," I said to Kmuzu when he arrived to pick me up at the station house.

"The master of the house is pleased that you're concentrating on your work."

"Yeah, you right, but that don't mean I can't see my friends now and then." I gave him directions to Jo-Mama's Greek club.

"If you do this, you will not get home until late, yaa Sidi."

"I know it'll be late. Would you rather I went out drinking in the morning?"

"You must be at the station house in the morning."

"That's a long time from now," I pointed out.

"The master of the house—"

"Turn left here, Kmuzu. Now!" I wasn't going to listen to any more argument. I guided him northwest through the twisting streets of the city. We left the car on

the boulevard and walked through the gate into the Budayeen.

Jo-Mama's club was on Third Street, jammed tight against the high northern wall of the quarter. Rocky, the relief barmaid, frowned at me when I took a stool at the front bar. She was short and hefty with brushy black hair, and she didn't look glad to see me. "Ya want to see my manager's license, cop?" she said in a sour voice.

"Get a grip, Rocky. I just want a gin and bingara." I turned to Kmuzu, who was still standing behind me. "Grab a seat," I told him.

"Who's this?" said Rocky. "Your slave or something?"

I nodded. "Give him the same."

Kmuzu raised a hand. "Just some club soda, please," he said. Rocky glanced at me, and I shook my head slightly.

Jo-Mama came out of her office and grinned at me. "Marîd, where y'at? You ain't been comin' around no more."

"Been busy," I said. Rocky set a drink in front of me and an identical one in front of Kmuzu.

Jo-Mama smacked his shoulder. "You know your boss here got some guts," she said admiringly.

"I've heard the stories," said Kmuzu.

"Yeah, ain't we all?" said Rocky. Her lip curled just a

little.

Kmuzu sipped his gin and bingara and grimaced. "This club soda tastes strange," he said.

"It's the lime juice," I said hastily.

"Yeah, I put some lime in it for ya," said Rocky.

"Oh," said Kmuzu. He took another taste.

Jo-Mama snorted. She's the largest woman I've ever met—big, strong, and often friendly. She has a loud, gruff voice and a remarkable memory for who owes her money and who's done her dirt. When she laughs, you see beer splash out of glasses all around the bar; and when she gets angry, you don't hang around long enough to see anything. "Your friends are at a table in the back," she said.

"Who?"

"Mahmoud and the Half-Hajj and that snotty Christian."

"Used to be my friends," I said. Jo-Mama shrugged. I

picked up my drink and went deeper into the dark cavern of the club. Kmuzu followed me.

Mahmoud, Jacques, Saied, and Saied's adolescent American lover, Abdul-Hassan, were sitting at a table near the edge of the stage. They didn't see me at first because they were appraising the dancer, a stranger to me but clearly a real girl. I moved a couple of chairs up to their table, and Kmuzu and I sat down.

"How ya doin', Marîd?" said the Half-Hajj.

"Look who it is," said Mahmoud. "Come in to inspect the permits?"

"That's a bum line I heard already from Rocky,"

It didn't bother Mahmoud. Although as a girl he'd been lithe and pretty enough to dance here in Jo-Mama's club, he'd put on weight and muscle after the sexchange. I wouldn't want to fight him to see which of us was tougher.

"Why are we watching this bint?" asked Saied. Abdul-Hassan was glaring spitefully at the girl on stage. The Half-Hajj was teaching him well.

"She's not so bad," said Jacques, giving us the benefit of his militantly conventional viewpoint. "She's very pretty, don't you think?"

Saied spat on the floor. "The debs on the Street are prettier."

"The debs on the Street are constructs," said Jacques. "This girl's natural."

"Shellfish toxin is natural, if that's what you care about," said Mahmoud. "I'd rather watch somebody who's spent some time and effort making herself look good."

"Someone who's spent a fortune on bodmods, you mean," said Jacques.

"What's her name?" I asked.

They ignored my question. "You hear that Blanca's dead?" Jacques said to Mahmoud.

"Probably beaten to death in a police riot," Mahmoud replied. His eyes flicked at me.

I wasn't going to put up with any more of this. I got out of my chair. "Finish your . . . club soda," I said to Kmuzu.

Saied stood up and came closer to me. "Hey, Marîd," he whispered, "don't pay any attention to 'em. They're just trying to bubble your bile."

"It's working," I said.

"They'll get tired of it soon, fiverything'll go back the way it used to be."

I downed the rest of my drink. "Sure," I said, surprised by Saied's naivete. Abdul-Hassan gave me a flirtatious look, batting his thick eyelashes. I wondered what sex he'd be when he grew up.

Jo-Mama had disappeared into her office again, and Rocky didn't bother saying goodbye. Kmuzu trailed me out of the bar. "Well," I said to him, "enjoying yourself?"

He gave me a blank stare. He didn't look pleased.

"We'll pass by Chiri's," I told him. "If anybody even looks at me cross-eyed in there, I can throw him out. It's my club." I liked the way that sounded.

I led Kmuzu south, and then turned up the Street. He came along with a solemn and disapproving look on his face. He wasn't the perfect drinking companion, but he was loyal. I knew he wouldn't abandon me if he met some hot girl somewhere.

"Why don't you loosen up?" I asked him.

"It's not my job to be loose," he said.

"You're a slave. It's your job to be what I tell you to be. Gear down a. little."

I got a nice welcome when I went into the club. "Here he comes, ladies," called Chiri, "the boss man." This time she didn't sound bitter when she called me that. There were three sexchanges and two debs working with her. The real girls were all on the day shift with Indihar.

It felt great to feel at home somewhere. "How's it going, Chiri?" I asked.

She looked disgusted. "Slow night," she said. "No money."

"You always say that." I went down and took my usual seat at the far end of the bar, where it curved around toward the stage. I could sit there and look down the whole length of the bar, and see anybody coming into the club. Kmuzu sat beside me.

Chiri flipped a cork coaster toward me. I tapped the place in front of Kmuzu, and Chiri nodded. "Who is this handsome devil?" she asked.

"His name's Kmuzu," I said. "He's uncommunicative."

Chiri grinned. "I can fix that. Where you from, honey?" she asked.

He spoke to Chiri in some African language, but neither she nor I understood a word of it. "I'm Sidi Martd's slave," he said.

Chiri was dismayed. She was almost speechless. "Slave? Forgive me for saying it, sweetie, but being a slave's nothing to brag about. You can't really make it sound like an achievement, you know?"

Kmuzu shook his head. "There is a long story behind it."

"I guess so," said Chiri, looking at me for an explanation.

"If there's a story, nobody's told me," I said.

"Papa just gave him to you, right? Like he gave you the club." I nodded. Chiri put a gin and bingara on my coaster and another in front of Kmuzu. "If I was you," she said, "I'd be careful what I unwrapped under his Christmas tree from now on."

Yasmin watched me for half an hour before she came up to say hello, and then only because the other two changes were kissing on me and rubbing themselves up against me, trying to get in good with the new owner. It was working, too. "You come a long way, Marîd," Yasmin said.

I shrugged. "I feel like I'm still the same simple noraf I've always been."

"You know that's not true."

"Well, I owe it all to you. You're the one who bullied me into getting my skull amped, doing what Papa wanted."

Yasmin looked away. "Yeah, I guess so." She turned toward me again. "Listen, Marîd, I'm sorry if—"

I put my hand on hers. "Don't ever say you're sorry, Yasmin. We got past all that a long time ago."

She looked grateful. "Thanks, Marîd." She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then she hurried back down the bar where two dark-skinned merchant seamen had taken seats.

The rest of the night passed quickly. I downed one drink after another, and I made sure that Kmuzu did the same. He still thought he was drinking club soda with some strange lime juice in it.

Somewhere along the line I began to get drunk, and Kmuzu must have been nearly helpless. I recall Chiri closing the bar about three in the morning. She counted out the register and gave me the money. I gave half the receipts back to her as per our agreement, then paid Yasmin and the other four their wages. I still ended up with another thick wad of bills for myself.

I got a very enthusiastic goodnight kiss from a change named Lily, and a slip of paper with a commcode from someone named Rani. I think Rani gave a slip of paper to Kmuzu too, just to cover her bets.

That's when I really blacked out. I don't know how Kmuzu and I got home, but we didn't bring the car with us. I guess Chiri called us a cab. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed and Kmuzu was about to spill orange juice and hot coffee all over me.

"Where's that water?" I called. I stumbled around my suite, holding the sunnies in one hand and my shoes in the other.

"Here, yaa Sidi."

I took the glass from him and swallowed the tabs. "There's a couple left for you," I said.

He looked appalled. "I can't—"

"It's not recreational. It's medicine." Kmuzu overcame his aversion to drugs long enough to take a single Sonneine.

I was still far from sober, and the sunnies I'd taken didn't help steady me. I didn't hurt anymore, but I was only vaguely conscious. I dressed quickly without paying much attention to what I put on. Kmuzu offered me breakfast, but the whole idea turned my stomach; for once, Kmuzu didn't badger me into eating. I think he was glad not to have to cook.

We stumbled blearily downstairs. I called a taxi to take me to work, and Kmuzu came with me to pick up the sedan. In the cab, I let my head fall back against the seat, and I closed my eyes and listened to peculiar noises inside my head. My ears were thrumming like the engine room of an ancient tugboat.

"May your day be blessed," said Kmuzu, when we got to the station house.

"May I live to see lunch, you mean," I said. I got out of

the cab and pushed my way through my crowd of young fans, throwing them a little money.

Sergeant Catavina gave me a jaundiced look when I got to my cubicle. "You don't look well," he said.

"I don't feel well."

Catavina clucked his tongue. "I'll tell you what I do when I get a little hung over."

"You don't show up for work," I said, dropping into my molded plastic chair. I didn't feel like conversing with him.

"That always works too," he said. He turned and left my cubicle. He didn't seem to like me, and I didn't seem to care.

Shaknahyi came by fifteen minutes later. I was still staring at my data deck, unable to dig into the mound of paperwork that waited on my desk. "Where you at?" he said. He didn't wait for an answer. "Hajjar wants to see us both right now."

"I'm not available," I said glumly.

"I'll tell him that. Come on, move your ass."

I followed him reluctantly down the corridor to Hajjar's little glass-walled office. We stood in front of his desk while he toyed with a small pile of paper clips. After a few seconds he looked up and studied us. It was a careful act. He had something difficult to tell us, and he wanted us to know that It Would Hurt Him More Than It Hurt Us. "I don't like havin' to do this," he said. He looked real sad.