“God grant you peace, O Shaykh, inshallah,” he said. You hear the word inshallah a lot around the city; it means “if Allah wills.”

“May your day be happy, bin Turki,”

“You sent for me, Shaykh Marîd?”

“Yes, O Clever One. I’ve just purchased your ticket on the next suborbital to Ash-Sham. Damascus. It will be a good experience for you to visit that ancient place.”

“Ash-Sham!” bin Turki said with wonder. “The mother city of them all! I’ve dreamt of going there. What must I do for you?”

“A simple task. Here, the data deck is finished printing. Two round-trip tickets, one for you to and from Ash-Sham, a second round-trip from there to this city and back. You are to fetch a woman called Sulome el-Khabbaz. Here is her address and commcode. She’ll be expecting you.”

“If Allah grants it, there will be no difficulty.”

“Please bring her directly to this house,” I said. “Make her comfortable if I’m not home to receive her. I will tell Kmuzu to attend to her needs. Tell no one about her — as impossible as it sounds, try to keep her secret even from Youssef, Tariq, the Stones That Speak, and especially the master of the house. May you go and come in safety.”

“I understand, O Shaykh,” bin Turki said. “Salam alekom.” He took the suborbital tickets and Sulome’s address and left my office. When you gave that young Bedu a job, he just went ahead and did it, and he never complained. I liked bin Turki and trusted him. He reminded me of myself at a certain age.

I spent the rest of the afternoon going over ledgers, reports, and financial accounts. Reconciling the daily figures wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as people-watching in Chiri’s, but I hadn’t been elevated from punkhood merely to have fun. I’d guessed early on that I was in training for…something.

I worked at my data deck until Kmuzu came up behind me and murmured that it was almost time for dinner. I wasn’t unhappy to close the books for another day.

Dining with Friedlander Bey meant changing into more traditional Arab clothing. Kmuzu had laid out a clean white gallebeya with a light tan cloak to wear over it, a black-and-white-checked keffiya — the Arab headdress — -with a simple black rope akal to hold it in place, as well as sandals instead of my dusty black boots. This was all to keep Friedlander Bey happy; he was almost two hundred years old, and he was getting a little conservative in his old age.

Even after all this time, I was still a little unnerved by our meetings. I had never gotten over my awe of Papa’s kinglike power. When he was pleased with me and my activities, he was like a loving father. Just as often, however, his eyes would narrow and grow stern with unvoiced displeasure.

I’d purchased a gift for Papa, and I brought it along as Kmuzu and I walked toward the smaller dining room. When we arrived, we were confronted by Papa’s huge, grim-faced bodyguards, the Stones That Speak. “Habib,” I greeted one. “Labib,” I greeted the other. I never knew if I attached the correct name to the right individual, they were so alike. Fortunately, they never responded, however offended they might have been.

“Wait,” Habib or Labib said from above my head.

We waited.

It did not take long for the other Stone to discover that we were, after all, expected. “Go in,” he said. His voice was like the sound of granite being scraped by a blunt stone chisel.

We went in. Papa reclined on one of his elegant, expensive divans. There was a second divan facing him, and between us was a table spread with all sorts of meat, vegetables, and fruit dishes. Friedlander Bey raised a glass of sweet mint tea. “Ahlan wa sahlan,” he said, welcoming me.

I rested comfortably on the second divan. Kmuzu stood silently behind me. I raised my glass of mint tea toward Papa and said, “May your table last forever.”

He smiled and replied, “May Allah lengthen your life.”

We continued through a series of formalized Arab niceties until I announced, “I have brought you a gift, O Shaykh.”

Papa was pleased. “And I have one for you, as well, my nephew.”

By Almighty God, this was the last thing I wanted to hear-that Friedlander Bey had yet another one of his gifts for me. All the others had changed my life in unexpected and generally unwelcome ways. Of course, everywhere else in the world it’s considered impolite to refuse a present. Here in the city, in the midst of a land of Arab customs and Muslim traditions, such a show of ingratitude toward Papa could easily prove harmful to my well being.

“You are the Father of Generosity, O Shaykh,” I said. I had a tense, uncomfortable feeling in my belly, but I said it anyway.

Papa smiled at me indulgently. He enjoyed these occasions, principally because he was almost always the one in control. Few people caught Papa by surprise; if they did, they were usually instructed by Habib or Labib not to let it happen again. “It’s nothing,” Friedlander Bey said. “A mere trifle, really, yet I’m sure that you’ll find my gift profitable and rewarding.”

Papa had given me Chiriga’s, once upon a time. The nightclub had also proven to be profitable and rewarding. Of course, for a long while I lost the friendship of Chiriga herself, because she hadn’t really wanted to sell her establishment. Friedlander Bey had “persuaded” her. I wondered if his new present would have similar effects.

“May the Prophet of Allah — peace be upon him — bless you for your kindness,” I said. “I’m sure that I’ll be greatly surprised and pleased.” Well, surprised, anyway.

“It gives me great satisfaction to make this small gesture,” he said. He waved a hand to show how negligible his effort had been. I didn’t buy it for a minute.

“Please, my uncle,” I said, “allow me to show you what I’ve done. First, may I offer you this special edition of the noble Qur’ân?” According to common practice, you’re not supposed to buy or sell the holy book — a willing student of the Straight Path shouldn’t be prevented by poverty from learning the wisdom of the Qur’ân. The clever local way around this decree is that the contents of the book are always free of charge, but the merchant may sell the binding for whatever he can get. In this particular case, I’d had some of the best artists and craftsmen in the city create a beautiful, one-of-a-kind copy of the scriptures for Friedlander Bey, to take with him on the holy pilgrimage.

“This volume is truly lovely,” he said, as he turned the gold-edged pages. “Of course, even the plainest edition would be more than good enough for me. All that really matters is that I have the solace and guidance of the inspired words of the Disciple of God, may the blessings of Allah be on him and peace.” His words were modest, but the tone of his voice and his expression said something else. I could tell that he was very happy with my gift.

“There is still more, O Shaykh,” I said.

His eyes opened wider. “More?”

“Yes, if you will permit it. I’ve taken the liberty of making all the necessary bookings for our pilgrimage. You’ve told me your father’s story often, about his own journey to Makkah. Well, I’ve done a little research, and I’ve arranged for us to follow exactly in his footsteps. We will hire the same means of transportation and stop at the same lodgings along the way. We will find our guides through the same agencies, and conduct our pilgrimage as much like your father’s as is possible in this day and age.” After all, a century and a half had passed since my twice-great-grandfather had made his trip to the holy city.

I don’t believe I’d ever seen Friedlander Bey completely astonished before. He started to say something, closed his mouth, opened it again, then gave up. He raised a hand to his forehead and shut his eyes for a moment. If it hadn’t been Papa — if he had been, say, an ordinary person — I might have thought he was about to show some strong emotion.