“Your badge ain’t any good in Algiers, salaud.”

“They give me professional courtesy wherever I go.” I didn’t even know if that was true here. “The point is, while I was deep in the cop comp, I took the opportunity to read my own file and a few others. The funny thing was, my name and Friedlander Bey’s kept popping up together. And not just in the records of the last few years. I counted at least eight entries — hints, you understand, but nothing definite — that suggested the two of us were blood kin.” That got a loud reaction from the Half-Hajj; maybe I should have told him about all this before.

“So?” said my mother.

“The hell kind of answer is that? So what does it mean? You ever jam Friedlander Bey, back in your golden youth?”

She looked raving mad again. “Hell, I jammed lots of guys. You expect me to remember all of them? I didn’t even remember what they looked like while I was jamming them.” “You didn’t want to get involved, right? You just wanted to be good friends. Were you ever friends enough to give credit? Or did you always ask for the cash up front?”

“Maghrebi,” cried Saied, “this is your mother!” I didn’t think it was possible to shock him.

“Yeah, it’s my mother. Look at her.”

She crossed the room in three steps, reached back, and gave me a hard slap across the face. It made me fall back a step. “Get the fuck out of here!” she yelled.

I put my hand to my cheek and glared at her. “You answer one thing first: Could Friedlander Bey be my real father?”

Her hand was poised to deliver another clout. “Yeah, he could be, the way practically any man could be. Go back to the city and climb up on his knee, sonny boy. I don’t ever want to see you around here again.”

She could rest easy on that score. I turned my back on her and left that repulsive hole in the wall. I didn’t bother to shut the door on the way out. The Half-Hajj did, and then he hurried to catch up with me. I was storming down the stairs. “Listen, Marid,” he said. Until he spoke, I didn’t realize how wild I was. “I guess all this is a big surprise to you—”

“You do? You’re very perceptive today, Saied.”

“—but you can’t act that way toward your mother. Remember what it says—”

“In the Qur’an? Yeah, I know. Well, what does the Straight Path have to say about prostitution? What does it have to say about the kind of degenerate my holy mother has turned into?”

“You’ve got a lot of room to talk. If there was a cheaper hustler in the Budayeen, I never met him.”

I smiled coldly. “Thanks a lot, Saied, but I don’t live in the Budayeen anymore. You forget? And I don’t hustle anybody or anything. I got a steady job.”

He spat at my feet. “You used to do nearly anything to make a few kiam.”

“Anyway, just because I used to be the scum of the earth, it doesn’t make it all right for my mother to be scum too.”

“Why don’t you just shut up about her? I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Your empathy just grows and grows, Saied,” I said. “You don’t know everything I know. My alma mater back there was into renting herself to strangers long before she had to support my brother and me. She wasn’t the forlorn heroine she always said she was. She glossed over a lot of the truth.”

The Half-Hay looked me hard in the eye for a few seconds. “Yeah?” he said. “Half the girls, changes, and debs we know do the same thing, and you don’t have any problem treating them like human beings.”

I was about to say, “Sure, but none of them is my mother.” I stopped myself. He would have jumped on that sentiment too, and besides, it was starting to sound foolish even to me. The edge of my anger had vanished. I think I was just greatly annoyed to have to learn these things after so many years. It was hard for me to accept. I mean, now I had to forget almost everything I thought I knew about myself. For one thing, I’d always been proud of the fact that I was half-Berber and half-French. I dressed in European style most of the time — boots and jeans and work shirts. I suppose I’d always felt a little superior to the Arabs I lived among. Now I had to get used to the thought that I could very well be half-Berber and half-Arab.

The raucous, thumping sound of mid-twenty-first-century hispo roc broke into my daydream. Some forgotten band was growling an ugly chant about some damn thing or other. I’ve never gotten around to learning any Spanish dialects, and I don’t own a Spanish-language daddy. If I ever run into any Columbian industrialists, they can just damn well speak Arabic. I have a soft spot in my liver for them because of their production of narcotics, but outside of that I don’t see what South America is for. The world doesn’t need an overpopulated, starving, Spanish-speaking India in the Western Hemisphere. Spain, their mother country, tried Islam and said a polite no-thank-you, and their national character sublimed right off into nothingness. That’s Allah punishing them.

“I hate that song,” said Indihar. Chiri had given her a glass of Sharab, the soft drink the clubs keep for girls who don’t drink alcohol, like Indihar. It’s exactly the same color as champagne. Chiri always fills a cocktail glass with ice and pours in a few ounces of soda — which should be a tip-off to the mark: you don’t get ice in your champagne in the real world. But the ice takes up a lot of space where the more expensive stuff would go. That’ll cost a sucker eight kiam and a tip for Chiri. The club kicks three bills back to the girl who got the drink. That motivates the employees to go through their cocktails at supersonic speed. The usual excuse is that it’s thirsty work whirling like a derwish to the cheers of the crowd.

Chiri turned to watch Janelle, who was on her last song. Janelle doesn’t really dance, she flounces. She takes five or six steps to one end of the stage, waits for the next heavy-footed bass drum beat, then does a kind of shrugging, quivering thing with her upper body that she must think is torridly sexy. She’s wrong. Then she flounces back the other way to the opposite end of the stage and does her spasm number again. The whole time she’s lip-synching, not to the lyrics, but to the wailing lead keypad line. Janelle the Human Synthesizer. Janelle the Synthetic Human is closer to the truth. She wears a moddy every day, but you have to talk to her to find out which one. One day she’s soft and erotic (Honey Pilar), the next day she’s cold and foulmouthed (Brigitte Stahlhelm). Whichever personality she’s chipped in, though, is still housed in the same unmodified Nigerian refugee body, which she also thinks is sexy and about which she is also mistaken. The other girls don’t associate with her very much. They’re sure she lifts bills out of their bags in the dressing room, and they don’t like the way she cuts in on their customers when they have to go up to dance. Someday the cops are going to find Janelle in a dark doorway with her face pulped and half the bones in her body broken. In the meantime, she flounces in time to the ragged screams of keypads and guitar synths.

I was bored as hell. I knocked back the rest of my drink. Chiri looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “No thanks, Chiri,” I said. “I got to go.”

Indihar leaned over and kissed me on the cheek? “Well, don’t be a stranger now that you’re a fascist swine cop.”

“Right,” I said. I got up from my stool.

“Say hello to Papa for me,” said Chiri.

“What makes you think I’m going there?”

She gave me her filed-tooth grin. “Time for good boys and girls to check in at the old kibanda.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. I left the rest of my change for her hungry register and went back outside.

I walked down the Street to the arched eastern gate. Beyond the Budayeen, along the broad Boulevard il-Jameel, a few taxis waited for fares. I saw my old friend, Bill, and climbed into the backseat of his cab. “Take me to Papa’s, Bill,” I said.