When Gravity Fails Read online

  Yasmin’s eyes opened wider, then she laughed. I couldn’t see what she thought was so humorous. My face still looked swollen and bruised, and by ribs still hurt like the devil. The day before had been anything but clownish. “I saw Nikki yesterday morning,” said Yasmin.

  “You did?” Then I remembered that Chiriga had seen Nikki about ten o’clock, and that Nikki had left Chili’s to find Yasmin. I hadn’t connected that visit to Chiri with Nikki’s later skip-out.

  “Nikki looked very nervous,” said Yasmin, “and she told me she’d quit her job and had to move out of Tami’s apartment. She wouldn’t tell me why. She said she’d tried to call you again and again, but there wasn’t any answer.” Of course not; when Nikki was trying to call me, I was lying unconscious on my floor. “She gave me this envelope and told me to be sure you got it.”

  “Why didn’t she just leave it with Chiri?” That would have saved a lot of mental and physical anguish.

  “Don’t you remember? Nikki worked in Chili’s club, oh, a year ago, maybe longer. Chiri caught Nikki shortchanging customers and stealing from the other girls’ tip jars.”

  I nodded; now I recalled that Nikki and Chiri left each other pretty much alone. “So Nikki went to Chiri just to get your address?”

  “I asked her a lot of questions, but she wouldn’t answer a thing. She just kept saying, ‘Make sure Marîd gets this,’ over and over.”

  I hoped it was a letter, an apology maybe, with an address where I could reach her. I wanted my money back. I took the envelope from Yasmin and tore it open. Inside was my three thousand kiam, and a note written in French. Nikki wrote:

  My dearest Marîd:

  I so much wanted to give you the money in person. I called many times, but you did not answer. I am leaving this with Yasmin, but if you never get it, how will you know? You will hate me forever, then. When we meet again, I will not understand. My feelings are so confused.

  I am going to live with an old friend of my family. He is a wealthy businessman from Germany, who always brought me presents whenever he visited. That was when I was a shy, introverted little boy. Now that I am, well, what I am, the German businessman has discovered that he is even more inclined to give me presents. I was always fond of him, Marîd, although I can’t love him. But being with him will be so much more pleasant than staying with Tamiko.

  The gentleman’s name is Herr Lutz Seipolt. He lives in a magnificent house on the far side of the city, and you must ask the driver to take you to (I have to copy this down for you) Bayt il-Simsaar il-Almaani Seipolt. That ought to get you to the villa.

  Give my love to Yasmin and to everyone. I will visit the Budayeen when I can, but I think I will enjoy playing the mistress of such an estate for a while. I am sure you, of all people, Marîd, will understand: Business is business, mush hayk? (And I’ll bet you thought I never learned a single word of Arabic!)

  With much love,

  Nikki

  When I finished reading the letter, I sighed and handed it to Yasmin. I’d forgotten that she couldn’t read a word of French, and so I translated it for her.

  “I hope she’ll be happy,” she said when I folded the letter up.

  “Being kept by some old German bratwurst? Nikki? You know Nikki. She needs the action as much as I do, as much as you do. She’ll be back. Right now, I guess, it’s sugar-daddy time on the Princess Nikki Show.”

  Yasmin smiled. “She’ll be back, I agree; but in her own time. And she’ll make that old bratwurst pay for every minute of it.” We both laughed, and then the waiter brought Yasmin’s drink, and we ordered dinner.

  As we finished the meal, we lingered over a last glass of champagne. “What a day yesterday was,” I said bemusedly, “and now everything is back to normal. I have my money, except I’ll be out a thousand kiam in interest. When we leave here, I want to find Abdoulaye and pay him.”

  “Sure,” said Yasmin, “but even then, everything won’t be back to normal. Tami’s still dead.”

  I frowned. “That’s Okking’s problem. If he wants my expert advice, he knows where to find me.”

  “Are you really going to talk to Devi and Selima about why they beat you?”

  “You bet your pretty plastic tits. And the Sisters better have a damn good reason.”

  “It must have something to do with Nikki.”

  I agreed, although I couldn’t imagine what. “Oh,” I said, “and let’s stop by Chiriga’s. I owe her for the stuff she let me have last night.”

  Yasmin gazed at me over the rim of her champagne glass. “It sounds like we might not get home until late,” she said softly.

  “And when we do get home, we’ll be lucky to find the bed.”

  Yasmin made a sweeping, mildly drunken gesture. “Fuck the bed,” she said.

  “No,” I said, “I have more worthy goals.”

  Yasmin giggled a little shyly, as if our relationship were beginning all over again from the very first night together. “Which moddy do you want me to use tonight?” she asked.

  I let out my breath, taken by her loveliness and her quiet, unaffected charm. It was as if I were seeing her again for the first time. “I don’t want you to use any moddy,” I said quietly. “I want to make love with you.”

  “Oh, Marîd,” she said. She squeezed my hand, and we stayed like that, staring into each other’s eyes, inhaling the perfume of the sweet olive, hearing the songs of thrushes and nightingales. The moment lasted almost forever . . . and then . . . I remembered that Abdoulaye was waiting. I had better not forget Abdoulaye; there is an Arabic saying that a clever man’s mistake is equal to the mistakes of a thousand fools.

  Before we left the café, however, Yasmin wanted to consult the book. I told her that the Qur’ân didn’t contain much solace for me. “Not the Book,” she said, “the wise mention of God. The book.” She took out a little device about the size of a pack of cigarettes. It was her electronic I Ching. “Here,” she said, giving it to me, “switch it on and press H.”

  I didn’t have a lot of faith in the I Ching, either; but Yasmin had this fascination with fate and the unseen world and the Moment and all of that. I did as she told me, and when I pressed the square white spot marked H, the little computer played a reedy, tinkling tune, and a woman’s tinny voice spoke up. “Hexagram Eighteen. Ku. Work on that which has been spoiled. Changes in the fifth and sixth lines.”

  “Now hit J, for Judgment,” said Yasmin.

  I did, and the calculator peeped out its goddamn little song again and said, “Judgment:

  Putting effort into what has been ruined

  Brings great success.

  It profits one to cross the great water.

  Heed three days before beginning.

  Heed three days before completing.

  “What has been ruined can be made good again through effort. Do not fear danger—crossing the great water. Success depends on forethought; be cautious before beginning. A return of ruin must be avoided; be cautious before completing.

  “The superior man arouses the people and renews their spirit.”

  I looked at Yasmin. “I hope you’re getting something out of all of this,” I said, “because it doesn’t mean a camel’s glass eye to me.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Yasmin in a hushed voice. “Now, go on. Press L for the Lines.”

  I did as I was told. The spooky machine continued: “A six in the fifth place means:

  Repairing what the father has ruined.

  One’s actions are praiseworthy.

  “A nine at the top means:

  He does not serve kings and princes,

  Sets himself higher goals.”

  “Who’s it talking about, Yasmin?” I asked.

  “You, darling, who else?”

  “Now what do I do?”

  “You find out what the changing lines turn the hexagram into. Another hexagram. Push CH for Change.”

  “Hexagram Forty-seven. K’un. Oppression.”

  I pressed J.

&nbs
p; “Judgment:

  Oppression. Success. Perseverance.

  The great man causes good fortune.

  There is no blame.

  When one has something to say,

  It is not believed.

  “A great man remains confident through adversity, and this confidence leads to later success. It is a strength greater than fate. It must be accepted that for a time he is not granted power, and his counsel is ignored. In times of adversity, it is important to maintain confidence and speak but little.

  “If one is weak in adversity, he remains beneath a bare tree and falls more deeply into sorrow. This is an inner delusion that must be overcome at all costs.”

  That was it: the oracle had spoken. “Can we go now?” I asked plaintively.

  Yasmin was looking dreamily into some other Chinese dimension. “You’re destined for great things, Marîd,” she murmured.

  “Right,” I said, “but the important thing is, can that talking box guess my weight? What good is it?” I didn’t even have the motherless good sense to know when I’d been told off by a book.

  “You’ve got to find something to believe in,” she said seriously.

  “Look, Yasmin, I keep trying. Really, I do. Was that some kind of prediction? Was it reading my future?”

  Her brow furrowed. “It’s not really a prediction, Marîd. It’s kind of an echo of the Moment we’re all part of. Because of who you are and what you think and feel, and what you’ve done and plan to do, you could have drawn no other hexagram than Number Eighteen, with the changes in just those two lines. If you did it again, right this very second, you’d get a different reading, a different hexagram, because the first one changed the Moment and the pattern is different. See?”

  “Synchronicity, right?” I said.

  She looked puzzled. “Something like that.”

  I sent Ahmad off with the check and a stack of kiam notes. It was a warm, lush, dry evening, and it would be a beautiful night. I stood up and stretched. “Let’s go find Abdoulaye,” I said. “Business is business, damn it.”

  “And afterward?” She smiled.

  “Action is action.” I took her hand, and we started up the Street toward Hassan’s shop.

  The good-looking American boy was still sitting on his stool, still gazing off toward nowhere. I wondered if he was actually having thoughts, or if he was some kind of electronically animated figure that only came to life when someone approached or he caught the crackle of a few kiam. He looked at us and smiled, and asked some question in English again. Maybe a lot of the customers who came into Hassan’s place spoke English, but I doubted it. It wasn’t a place for tourists; it wasn’t that kind of souvenir shop. The boy must have been all but helpless, unable to speak Arabic and without a language daddy. He must have been helpless; that is, dependent. On Hassan. For so many things.

  I know a little simple English; if it’s spoken slowly enough, I can understand a few words. I can say, “Where is the toilet?” and “Big Mac and fries” and “Fuck you,” but that’s about the extent of my vocabulary. I stared at the boy; he stared back. He smiled slowly. I think he liked me.

  “Where is the Abdoulaye?” I asked in English. The kid blinked and rattled off some indecipherable reply. I shook my head, letting him know that I hadn’t understood a word. His shoulders slumped. He tried another language; Spanish, I think. I shook my head again.

  “Where is the Sahîb Hassan?” I asked.

  The boy grinned and rattled off another string of harsh-sounding words, but he pointed at the curtain. Great: we were communicating.

  “Shukran,” I said, leading Yasmin to the back of the shop.

  “You’re welcome,” said the boy. That stumped me. He knew that I’d said “thanks” in Arabic, but he didn’t know how to say “you’re welcome.” Dumb kid. Lieutenant Okking would find him in an alleyway some night. Or I would, with my kind of luck.

  Hassan was in the storeroom, checking some crates against an invoice. The crates were addressed to him in Arabic script, but other words were stenciled in some European language. The crates could have contained anything from static pistols to shrunken heads. Hassan didn’t care what he bought and sold, as long as he turned a profit. He was the Platonic ideal of the crafty merchant.

  He heard us come through the curtain, and greeted me like a long-lost son. He embraced me and asked, “You are feeling better today?”

  “Praise be to Allah,” I replied.

  His eyes flicked from me to Yasmin and back. I think he may have recognized her from the Street, but I don’t think he knew her personally. I saw no need to introduce her. It was a breach of etiquette, but tolerated in certain situations. I made the determination that this was one of those times. Hassan extended a hand. “Come, join me in some coffee!”

  “May your table last forever, Hassan, but we’ve just dined; and I am in a hurry to find Abdoulaye. I owe him a debt, you recall.”

  “Yes, yes, quite so.” Hassan’s brow creased. “Marîd, my darling, clever one, I haven’t seen Abdoulaye for hours. I think he’s entertaining himself elsewhere.” Hassan’s tone implied Abdoulaye’s entertainment was any of several possible vices.

  “Yet I have the money now, and I wish to end my obligation.”

  Hassan pretended to mull this problem over for a moment. “You know, or course, that a portion of that money is indirectly to be paid to me.”

  “Yes, O Wise One.”

  “Then leave the whole sum with me, and I will give Abdoulaye his portion when next I see him.”

  “An excellent suggestion, my uncle, but I would like to have Abdoulaye’s written receipt. Your integrity is beyond reproach, but Abdoulaye and I do not share the same bond of love as you and I.”

  That didn’t sit well with Hassan, but he could make no objection. “I think you will find Abdoulaye behind the iron door.” Then he rudely turned his back on us and continued his labor. Without turning to face us, he spoke again. “Your companion must remain here.”

  I looked at Yasmin, and she shrugged. I went through the storeroom quickly, across the alley, and knocked on the iron door. I waited a few seconds while someone identified me from somewhere. Then the door opened. There was a tall, cadaverous, bearded old man named Karîm. “What do you wish here?” he asked me gruffly.

  “Peace, O Shaykh, I have come to pay my debt to Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd.”

  The door closed. A moment later, Abdoulaye opened it. “Let me have it. I need it now.” Over his shoulder, I could see several men engaged in some high-spirited gambling.

  “I have the whole sum, Abdoulaye,” I said, “but you’re going to write me out a receipt. I don’t want you claiming that I never paid you.”

  He looked angry. “You dare imagine I’d do such a thing?”

  I glared back at him. “The receipt. Then you get your money.”

  He called me a couple of foul names, then ducked back into the room. He scrawled out the receipt and showed it to me. “Give me the fifteen hundred kiam,” he said, growling.

  “Give me the receipt first,”

  “Give me the accursed money, you pimp!”

  For a second I thought about hitting him hard with the edge of my hand across the flat of his nose, breaking his face for him. It was a delicious image. “Christ, Abdoulaye! Get Karîm back here. Karîm!” I called. When the gray-bearded old man returned, I said to him, “I’m going to give you some money, Karîm, and Abdoulaye is going to give you that piece of paper in his hand. You give him the money, and give me the paper.”

  Karîm hesitated, as if the transaction were too complicated for him to follow. Then he nodded. The trade was made in silence. I turned and went back across the alley. “Son of a whore!” cried Abdoulaye. I smiled. That is one hell of an insult in the Muslim world; but, as it happened to be true, it’s never offended me very much. Still, because of Yasmin and our plans for the evening, I had let Abdoulaye abuse me beyond my usual limit. I promised myself that soon there would be a settling of that ac
count, as well. In the Budayeen, it is not well to be thought of as one who meekly submits to insolence and intimidation.

  As I passed through the storeroom and went to Yasmin, I said, “You can collect your cut from Abdoulaye, Hassan. You’d better do it fast: I think he’s losing big.” Hassan nodded but said nothing.

  “I’m glad that’s taken care of,” said Yasmin.

  “Not any more than I am.” I folded the receipt and pushed it down into a hip pocket.

  We went to Chili’s, and I waited until she’d finished serving three young men in Calabrian naval uniforms. “Chiri,” I said, “we can’t stay long, but I wanted to give you this.” I counted out seventy-five kiam and put the money on the bar. Chiri didn’t make a move toward it.

  “Yasmin, you look beautiful, honey. Marîd, what’s this for? The stuff last night?” I nodded. “I know you make a thing about keeping your word and paying your debts and all that honorable choo. I wouldn’t charge you Street prices, though. Take some of this back.”

  I grinned at her. “Chiri, you risk causing offense to a Muslim.”

  She laughed. “Muslim, my black ass. Then you two have a drink on me. There’s a lot of action tonight, a lot of loose money. The girls are in a good mood, and so am I.”

  “We’re celebrating, Chiri,” said Yasmin. They exchanged some kind of secret signal—maybe that kind of occult, gender-specific transfer of knowledge goes along with the sex-change operation. Anyway, Chiri understood. We took the free drinks she’d offered, and got up to go.

  “You two have a good night,” she said. The seventy-five kiam had long since disappeared. I don’t remember seeing it happen, though.

  “Kwa heri,” I said as we left.

  “Kwa herini ya kuonana,” she said. Then, “All right, which one of you lazy, fat-assed whores is supposed to be up on stage dancing? Kandy? Well, get your fuckin’ clothes off and get to work!” Chiri sounded happy. All was well with the world.