He laughed. “Even that has not prompted you to modify yourself. Your pride takes the form of presenting yourself — as the Christians say in some context — as being in the world but not of it.”

“Untempted by its treasures and untouched by its evils, that’s me.” My ironic tone was not lost on Papa.

“I would like you to help me, Marîd Audran,” he said. There it was, take it or leave it.

The way he put it, I was left in an extremely uncomfortable position: I could say, “Sure, I’ll help you,” and then I’d have compromised myself in precisely the way I swore I never would; or I could say, “No, I won’t help you,” and I’d have offended the most influential person in my world. I took a couple of long, slow breaths while I sorted out my answer. “O Shaykh,” I said at last, “your difficulties are the difficulties of everyone in the Budayeen; indeed, in the city. Certainly, anyone who cares about his own safety and happiness will help you. I will help you all that I can, but against the men who have murdered your friends, I doubt that I can be of much use.”

Papa stroked his cheek and smiled. “I understand that you have no wish to become one of my ‘associates.’ Be that as it may. You have my guarantee, my nephew, that if you agree to aid me in this matter, it will not mark you as one of ‘Papa’s men.’ Your pleasure is in your freedom and independence, and I would not take that from one who does me a great favor.”

I wondered if he was implying that he might take away the freedom from one who refused to perform the favor. It would be child’s play for Papa to steal my liberty; he could accomplish that by simply planting me forever, deep beneath the tender grass in the cemetery where the Street comes to its end.

Baraka: an Arabic word that is very difficult to translate. It can mean magic or charisma or the special favor of God. Places can have it; shrines are visited and touched in the hope that some of the baraka will rub off. People can have baraka; the derwishes, in particular, believe that certain fortunate people are specially blessed by Allah, and are therefore worthy of singular respect in the community. Friedlander Bey had more baraka than all the stone shrines in the Maghrib. I can’t say if it was baraka that made him what he was, or if he attained the baraka as he attained his position and influence. Whatever the explanation, it was very difficult to listen to him and deny him what he asked. “How can I help you?” I said. I felt hollow inside, as if I had made a great surrender.

“I want you to be the instrument of my vengeance, my nephew,” he said.

I was shocked. No one knew better than I how inadequate I was to the task he was giving me. I had tried to tell him that already, but he’d only brushed aside my objections as if they were just some form of false modesty. My mouth and throat were dry. “I have said that I will help you, but you ask too much of me. You have more capable people in your employ.”

“I have stronger men,” said Papa. “The two servants you met last night are stronger than you, but they lack intelligence. Hassan the Shiite has a certain shrewdness, but he is not otherwise a dangerous man. I have considered each of my friends, O my beloved nephew, and I have made this decision: none but you offers the essential combination of qualities I seek. Most important, I trust you. I cannot say the same of many of my associates; it is a sad thing to admit. I trust you because you do not care to rise in my esteem. You do not try to ingratiate yourself with me for your own ends. You are not a truckling leech, of which I have more than my share. For the important work we must do, I must have someone about whom I have no doubts; that is one of the reasons our meeting last night was so difficult for you. It was an examination of your inner worth. I knew when we parted that you were the man I sought.”

“You do me honor, O Shaykh, but I am afraid I do not share your confidence.”

He raised his right hand, and it trembled visibly. “I have not finished my speech, my nephew. There are further reasons why you must do as I ask, reasons that benefit you, not me. You tried to speak of your friend Nikki last night, and I would not permit it. I ask your forgiveness again. You were quite correct in your concern for her safety. I am certain that her disappearance was the work of one or the other of these murderers; perhaps she herself has already been slain, Allah grant that it not be true. I cannot say. Yet if there is any hope of finding her alive, it is in you. With my resources, together we will find the killers. Together we will deal with them, as the Wise Mention of God directs. We will prevent Nikki’s death if we can, and who can say how many other lives we may save? Are these not worthy goals? Can you still hesitate?”

It was all very flattering, I suppose; but I wished like hell that Papa had picked somebody else. Saied would have done a good job, especially with his ass-kicking moddy chipped in. There was nothing I could do now, though, except agree. “I will do my best for you, O Shaykh,” I said reluctantly, “but I do not abandon my doubts.”

“That is well,” said Friedlander Bey. “Your doubts will keep you alive longer.”

I really wished he hadn’t added that last word; he sounded as if I couldn’t survive, no matter what I did, but my doubts would keep me around to watch myself suffer. “It will be as Allah wills,” I said.

“May the blessing of Allah be on you. Now we must discuss your payment.”

That surprised me, too. “I had no thought of payment,” I said.

Papa acted as if he did not hear. “One must eat,” he said simply. “You shall be paid a hundred kiam a day until this affair is concluded.” Concluded is right: until either we put an end to the two murdering sons of bitches, or one of them put an end to me.

“I did not ask for such a wage,” I said. A hundred a day; well, Papa had said one must eat. I wondered what he thought I was accustomed to eating.

Again he ignored me. He gestured to the Stone That Speaks, who approached and handed Friedlander Bey an envelope. “Here is seven hundred kiam,” Papa said to me, “your pay for the first week.” He gave the envelope back to the Stone, who brought it to me.

If I took the envelope, it was a symbol of my complete acceptance of Friedlander Bey’s authority. There would be no turning back, no quitting, no ending but the ending. I looked at the white envelope in the sandstone-colored hand. My own hand rose a little, sank a little, rose again and took the money. “Thank you,” I said.

Friedlander Bey looked pleased. “I hope it brings you pleasure,” he said. It had damn well better; I was certainly going to earn every fuckin’ fiq of it.

“O Shaykh, what are your instructions?” I asked.

“First, my nephew, you must go to Lieutenant Okking and put yourself at his disposal. I will inform him that we will cooperate completely with the police department in this matter. There are circumstances that my associates can manage with greater efficiency than the police; I’m sure the lieutenant will acknowledge that. I think that a temporary alliance of my organization with his will best serve the needs of the community. He will give you all the information he has on the killings, a probable description of the one who cut the throats of Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd and Tamiko, and whatever else he has so far withheld. In return, you will assure him that we will keep the police informed of such facts as we uncover.”

“Lieutenant Okking is a good man,” I said, “but he cooperates only when he feels like it, or when it’s clearly to his advantage.”

Papa gave me a brief smile. “He will cooperate with you now, I will make sure of that. He will soon learn that it is, indeed, in his own best interest.” The old man would be as good as his word; if anyone could persuade Okking to help me, it was Friedlander Bey.