The ambulance driver closed one of the rear doors. “I have proof,” said Kmuzu. Then the driver closed the second door. A moment later, Papa and I were speeding through the constricted streets, siren screaming. Papa didn’t move on his stretcher. He looked pitifully frail. I didn’t feel so well myself. I suppose it was my punishment for laughing at Hexagram Six.

My mother had brought me pistachio nuts and fresh figs, but I was still having some trouble swallowing. “Then have some of this,” she said. “I even brought a spoon.” She took the lid from a plastic bowl and set it on the hospital tray table. She was very self-conscious about this visit.

I was sedated, but not as sedated as I could have been. Still, a mild dose of Sonneine from a perfusor is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Of course, I own an experimental daddy that blocks pain, and I could have chipped it in and stayed completely clearheaded and lucid. I just didn’t want to use it. I hadn’t told my doctors and nurses about it, because I’d rather have the drug. Hospitals are too tedious to endure sober.

I lifted my head from the pillow. “What is it?” I asked in a hoarse voice. I leaned forward and took the plastic bowl.

“Curdled camel’s milk,” said my mother. “You used to love that when you were sick. When you were little.” I thought I detected an uncharacteristic softness in her voice.

Curdled camel’s milk doesn’t sound like something that could get you to jump out of bed with glee. It isn’t, and I didn’t. I picked up the spoon, however, and made a show of enjoying it just to please her. Maybe if I ate some of the stuff, she’d be satisfied and leave. Then I could call for another shot of Sonneine and take a nice nap. That’s what was worst about being in the hospital: reassuring all the visitors and listening to the histories of their own illnesses and accidents, which were always of far more traumatic proportions than yours.

“You were really worried about me, Marid?” she asked.

“Course I was,” I said, letting my head fall back to the pillow. “That’s why I sent Kmuzu to make sure you were safe.”

She smiled sadly and shook her head. “Maybe you’d be happier if I’d burned up in the fire. Then you wouldn’t be embarrassed about me no more.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

“Okay, honey,” she said. She looked at me in silence for a long moment. “How are your burns?”

I shrugged, and that made me wince. “They still hurt. The nurses come in and slather this white gunk on me a couple of times a day.”

“Well, I suppose it’s good for you. You just let ’em do what they want.”

“Right, Mom.”

There was another awkward silence. “I suppose there’s things I ought to tell you,” she said at last. “I ain’t been completely honest with you.”

“Oh?” This wasn’t any surprise, but I thought I’d swallow the sarcastic comments that came to mind, and let her tell her story her own way.

She stared down at her hands, which were twisting a frayed linen handkerchief in her lap. “I know a lot more about Friedlander Bey and Reda Abu Adil than I told you.”

“Ah,” I said.

She glanced up at me. “I known both of ’em from before. From even before you was born, when I was a young girl. I was a lot better looking in those days. I wanted to get out of Sidi-bel-Abbes, maybe go someplace like Cairo or Jerusalem, be a holoshow star. Maybe get wired and make some moddies, not sex moddies like Honey Pilar, but something classy and respectable.”

“So did Papa or Abu Adil promise to make you a star?”

She looked back down at her hands. “I came here, to the city. I didn’t have no money when I got here, and I went hungry for a while. Then I met somebody who took care of me for a while, and he introduced me to Abu Adil.”

“And what did Abu Adil do for you?”

Again she looked up, but now tears were slipping down her cheeks. “What do you think?” she said in a bitter voice.

“He promise to marry you?” She just shook her head. “He get you pregnant?”

“No. In the end, he just laughed at me and handed me this bus ticket back to Sidi-bel-Abbes.” Her expression grew fierce. “I hate him, Marid.”

I nodded. I was sorry now that she’d begun this confession. “So you’re not telling me that Abu Adil is my father, right? What about Friedlander Bey?”

“Papa was always good to me when I first came to the city. That’s why even though I was so mad at you for finding me in Algiers, I was glad to hear that Papa was taking care of you.”

“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, Marid. 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, Marid. Happier than I got a right to be. All I ever wanted was a chance for a normal life.”