Free When Gravity Fails by George Alec Effinger Page A

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 Sahîb 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 know 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.
    Hassan was in the storeroom, checking some crates against an invoice. The crates were addressed to him in Arabic script, but other words were stenciled in some European language. The crates could have contained anything from static pistols to shrunken heads. Hassan didn’t care what he bought and sold, as long as he turned a profit. He was the Platonic ideal of the crafty merchant.
    He heard us come through the curtain, and greeted me like a long-lost son. He embraced me and asked, “You are feeling better today?”
    “Praise be to Allah,” I replied.
    His eyes flicked from me to Yasmin and back. I think he may have recognized her from the Street, but I don’t think he knew her personally. I saw no need to introduce her. It was a breach of etiquette, but tolerated in certain situations. I made the determination that this was one of those times. Hassan extended a hand. “Come, join me in some coffee!”
    “May your table last forever, Hassan, but we’ve just dined; and I am in a hurry to find Abdoulaye. I owe him a debt, you recall.”
    “Yes, yes, quite so.” Hassan’s brow creased. “Marîd, my darling, clever one, I haven’t seen Abdoulaye for hours. I think he’s entertaining himself elsewhere.” Hassan’s tone implied Abdoulaye’s entertainment was any of several possible vices.
    “Yet I have the money now, and I wish to end my obligation.”
    Hassan pretended to mull this problem over for a moment. “You know, or course, that a portion of that money is indirectly to be paid to me.”
    “Yes, O Wise One.”
    “Then leave the whole sum with me, and I will give Abdoulaye his portion when next I see him.”
    “An excellent suggestion, my uncle, but I would like to have Abdoulaye’s written receipt. Your integrity is beyond reproach, but Abdoulaye and I do not share the same bond of love as you and I.”
    That didn’t sit well with Hassan, but he could make no objection. “I think you will find Abdoulaye behind the iron door.” Then he rudely turned his back on us and continued his labor. Without turning to face us, he spoke again. “Your companion must remain here.”
    I looked at Yasmin, and she shrugged. I went through the storeroom quickly, across the alley, and knocked on the iron door. I waited a few seconds while someone identified me from somewhere. Then the door opened. There was a tall, cadaverous, bearded old man named Karîm. “What do you wish here?” he asked me gruffly.
    “Peace, O Shaykh, I have come to pay my debt to Abdoulaye Abu-Zayd.”
    The door closed. A moment later, Abdoulaye opened it. “Let me have it. I need it now.” Over his shoulder, I could see several men engaged in some high-spirited gambling.
    “I have the whole sum, Abdoulaye,” I said, “but you’re going to write me out a receipt. I don’t want you claiming that I never paid you.”
    He looked angry. “You dare imagine I’d do such a thing?”
    I glared back at him. “The receipt. Then you