"A matter of caprice. I am too poor to afford principles."

The fat man moved on, holding the fig, unwilling to drop it while the beggar could still see him, his head spinning now, his legs beginning to tremble.

He came to a fortune-telling booth. An aged crone blocked his way.

"Learn your fortune, great sir! Learn what will become of you!"

"I never have my fortune told," the fat man said. "A matter of principle." But then he remembered the beggar. "Besides, I cannot afford it."

"You have the price in your hand!" the crone said. She took the fig from him and led him to her booth. She took a bronze jar and spilled its contents on to the counter. In the jar there were twenty or thirty coins of many shapes, sizes, and colours. She studied them intently and looked at the fat man.

"I see change and becoming," she said. "I see resistance, then yielding, then defeat, then victory. I see completion and beginning again."

"Can't you be more specific?" asked the fat man. His forehead and cheeks were burning. His throat was dry and it was painful to swallow.

"Of course, I can," the old woman said. "But I won't, since compassion is a virtue and you are an attractive man."

She turned away abruptly. The fat man picked up a small coin of hammered iron from the counter and walked away.

Street of Initiation, Street of Ivory.

A woman stopped him. She was neither young nor old. She had strong features, dark eyes rimmed with kohl, lips painted with ochre. "My darling," she said, "my full moon, my palm tree! The price is cheap, the pleasure is unforgettable."

"I think not," the fat man said.

"Think of the pleasure, my beloved, the pleasure!"

And, strangely, the fat man knew that he would enjoy this dirty, diseased woman of the streets, enjoy her more than the predictable and sterile couplings he had experienced in the past. Onset of romanticism! But it was out of the question, syphilis was rampant in this place, he didn't have the time, he couldn't stop now.

"Some other time," he said.

"Alas! That will never be!"

"You can never tell."

She looked boldly into his eyes. "Sometimes you can tell. It will never be."

"Take this to remember me by," the fat man said and pushed the iron coin into her hand.

"It is wise of you to pay," she said. "Soon you will see what you have bought."

The fat man turned away and continued to walk mechanically. His joints ached.

Definitely, he was not well. Street of the Razor, Street of the End, and now he had come to the house of the merchant Ahlid.

73

The fat man knocked at the great brass-studded door of Ahlid's house. A servant let him in and took him through an inner courtyard to a cool, dim, high-ceilinged room. The fat man felt relieved to sit on soft brocaded cushions and to sip iced mint tea from a frosted silver glass. But he still felt strange and out of sorts, and the vertigo had not left him. His condition annoyed him. It was most inconvenient.

Ahlid entered the room, a quiet, slender man in his fifties. The fat man had saved his life during a time of riots in Mukhtail. Ahlid had been grateful, and more important, reliable. They had done business together in Aden, Port Sudan, and Karachi. They had not met since Ahlid had moved to Arachnis some years ago.

Ahlid inquired about the fat man's health and listened with grave concern to his indispositions.

"It seems that I cannot take this climate," the fat man said. "But it is of no concern. How are you, my friend, and how is your wife and child?"

"I am well enough," said Ahlid. "Despite the unsettled times, I manage to earn a sufficient living. My wife died two years ago of a snakebite suffered in the bazaar. My daughter is well enough; later you will meet her."

The fat man murmured his regrets. Ahlid thanked him and said, "One learns how to live with Death in this city. Death is present everywhere in the world, of course, and in due time takes everyone; but in other cities he is less publicly evident. Elsewhere, Death makes his customary rounds of the hospitals, goes for a drive on the highway, takes a stroll around town to visit the needy, and generally comports himself like a respectable citizen. To be sure, he arranges a few surprises now and again; but in general he does his work as expected and tries not to disrupt the reasonable hopes and expectations of sober and respectable men.

"But here in Arachnis, Death behaves in quite a different way. Perhaps he is affected by the fierce sun and the marshy land, perhaps they are responsible for making him moody, capricious, and unrelenting. Whatever the causes, Death is ubiquitous and unexpected here, taking delight in sudden surprises and reversals, visiting all parts of the city, not even respecting the mosques and palaces where a man might expect some small measure of security. Here, Death is no longer a good citizen. Here he is a cheap dramatist."

"I beg your pardon," the fat man said. "I seem to have dozed off. The heat… What have we been talking about?"

"You had inquired about my daughter," said Ahlid. "She is seventeen years old. Perhaps you would like to meet her now?"

"Delighted, delighted," said the fat man.

Ahlid led him through dark corridors, up a wide staircase, then through a gallery whose narrow, slit windows looked down upon an interior patio with a fountain. They came to a door. Ahlid knocked, and opened it.

The room was brilliantly lighted. The floor was of black marble, into which a great number of white lines had been let. The lines crossed and recrossed each other at irregular intervals like a tangle of twine. In the centre of the room sat a grave, dark-eyed girl, dressed in white, stitching on a little embroidery frame.

"Charming," said the fat man. The girl did not look up. The tip of her tongue stood out as she concentrated on her design. The pattern of her embroidery was poorly executed, chaotic.

"She is docile," said Ahlid.

The fat man rubbed his eyes. With an effort he sat upright in his chair. He was in Ahlid's salon again, seated on brocade cushions. Ahlid was writing in an account book. In front of the fat man there was a half-eaten cup of sherbet.

The fat man said, "Please excuse my lapses. I have not been well. Perhaps it would be best if we discussed business."

"Just as you please," Ahlid said.

"I have come here," the fat man said, "to arrange, with your help, and at a mutually agreeable price, to… I have a certain object in my possession, of no intrinsic importance except to the man who… I wish to transport a certain engine part to a certain place, and I am confident that I, or rather, you, can accomplish… I seem to be having difficulty in expressing myself. This thing that I wish to accomplish…"

"My friend," said Ahlid, "isn't it time that we talked seriously?"

"Yes? I can assure you…"

"Isn't it time that we talked about what you would like to do with the little time remaining to you?" Ahlid asked.

The fat man managed to smile. "I will admit that I am indisposed. But no one can know…"

"Please," said Ahlid. "My friend, my benefactor, I am very sorry to have to tell you that you have the plague."

"Plague? Don't be ridiculous. I grant that I am not well. I will consult a doctor."

"I have already summoned my own doctor," Ahlid said. "But I know the signs of the plague well. All of us in Arachnis know it, for plague is entwined throughout our lives."