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. “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 Sahib 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 how 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.