Read Online When Gravity Fails by George Alec Effinger - Free Book Online Page B

Marîd, will understand: Business is business, mush hayk? (And I’ll bet you thought I never learned a single word of Arabic!)
    With much love,
    Nikki
     
    When I finished reading the letter, I sighed and handed it to Yasmin. I’d forgotten that she couldn’t read a word of French, and so I translated it for her.
    “I hope she’ll be happy,” she said when I folded the letter up.
    “Being kept by some old German bratwurst? Nikki? You know Nikki. She needs the action as much as I do, as much as you do. She’ll be back. Right now, I guess, it’s sugar-daddy time on the Princess Nikki Show.”
    Yasmin smiled. “She’ll be back, I agree; but in her own time. And she’ll make that old bratwurst pay for every minute of it.” We both laughed, and then the waiter brought Yasmin’s drink, and we ordered dinner.
    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