a few moments. The young man nodded, gave Finn another look and then disappeared.
“That is my nephew, Majoub. Clearly he is madly in love with you.”
Finn could feel herself blushing.
“Have no cause for embarrassment. You are very beautiful, it is true, and a wonderful example of a
checroun,
with sprinklings of freckles like stars and skin like milk, but I’m afraid Majoub would fall in love with a female chimpanzee if one came in the door. He is at that age. Harmless, believe me.” A few minutes later the young man was back with an enameled tray loaded down with three small cups, a Moroccan coffeepot and a plate of something brown, sticky and very fattening. Majoub cast a final glance at Finn, sighed and then disappeared for good. Hassan poured the coffee, spooning a tooth-aching amount of sugar into each cup and then passed around the plate of sticky brown things. “I have no idea what Majoub calls these but they are made from toffee and pecans and cashew nuts and are supposedly good for one’s prostate. You do not have to worry about such things, Finn, but we men must look to our health.” He grinned, popped two of them into his mouth one after the other and then washed them down with a swallow of coffee. Finn took a small bite out of the corner of one of the little bars and felt twenty years of careful dentistry in serious jeopardy. They were delicious.
“Now then,” said Hassan, “what is it that I can help you with today?”
“A man was killed yesterday. A ritual dagger was used. A koummya.”
“Oh yes,” said Hassan, nodding. “The director of the museum.”
“You’ve heard about this already?” asked Finn, startled.
“Americans are Americans, Arabs are Arabs—even Jewish Arabs like me. You think the world runs one way. We know it runs another. When a koummya is used to still someone’s tongue that is Moroccan business, Moroccan news, therefore we hear about it quickly.” He smiled with a twinge of sadness. “These days it is better for people with large noses and dark skin to have their story straight before the men from Homeland Security show up at your door with your ticket to the Guantanamo Hilton.”
“Tell us about the koummya,” said Valentine.
“The koummya, or sometimes called the khanjar, comes from the northern part of the country. It is usually thought of as a right of passage, a sign of a boy’s admission into manhood, you know?”
Valentine nodded. Finn waited. She thought about having another one of the little gooey pecan-cashew-toffee things and then decided against it. Just as Hassan Lasri produced a little silver box and lit another one of his oval cigarettes Finn found herself wishing she smoked. No smoking, no drinking, no pecan-cashew-toffee things and no sex—she might as well be a nun.
Lasri took a long drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke out of his wide hairy nostrils and popped another square into his mouth. He chewed and looked thoughtfully at Finn. “Of course,” he continued, his mouth still half full, “the koummya had another purpose.”
“What was that?” asked Finn.
“Other than being used for circumcisions—Arabs and Jews alike circumcise their children, you know—it is only the Christian and Asian infidels who do not—other than that, the dagger was used to cut out the tongues of traitors. Traditionally, that is; I haven’t heard of it being done recently. ‘To still the tongues of traitors’ is the official terminology.”
“Could that have applied to Crawley?” asked Finn.
“How should I know, my dear? I never met the man. I do, however, know where that particular koummya came from.”
“How?”
“A policeman showed me a picture of it this morning. A man named Delaney. He was apparently aware that I was head of the local Moroccan Friendship Alliance. At any rate, I told him what the dagger was, its background and uses.”
“And whom it belonged to?” asked Valentine.
“He didn’t ask me.”
“But you
“That is my nephew, Majoub. Clearly he is madly in love with you.”
Finn could feel herself blushing.
“Have no cause for embarrassment. You are very beautiful, it is true, and a wonderful example of a
checroun,
with sprinklings of freckles like stars and skin like milk, but I’m afraid Majoub would fall in love with a female chimpanzee if one came in the door. He is at that age. Harmless, believe me.” A few minutes later the young man was back with an enameled tray loaded down with three small cups, a Moroccan coffeepot and a plate of something brown, sticky and very fattening. Majoub cast a final glance at Finn, sighed and then disappeared for good. Hassan poured the coffee, spooning a tooth-aching amount of sugar into each cup and then passed around the plate of sticky brown things. “I have no idea what Majoub calls these but they are made from toffee and pecans and cashew nuts and are supposedly good for one’s prostate. You do not have to worry about such things, Finn, but we men must look to our health.” He grinned, popped two of them into his mouth one after the other and then washed them down with a swallow of coffee. Finn took a small bite out of the corner of one of the little bars and felt twenty years of careful dentistry in serious jeopardy. They were delicious.
“Now then,” said Hassan, “what is it that I can help you with today?”
“A man was killed yesterday. A ritual dagger was used. A koummya.”
“Oh yes,” said Hassan, nodding. “The director of the museum.”
“You’ve heard about this already?” asked Finn, startled.
“Americans are Americans, Arabs are Arabs—even Jewish Arabs like me. You think the world runs one way. We know it runs another. When a koummya is used to still someone’s tongue that is Moroccan business, Moroccan news, therefore we hear about it quickly.” He smiled with a twinge of sadness. “These days it is better for people with large noses and dark skin to have their story straight before the men from Homeland Security show up at your door with your ticket to the Guantanamo Hilton.”
“Tell us about the koummya,” said Valentine.
“The koummya, or sometimes called the khanjar, comes from the northern part of the country. It is usually thought of as a right of passage, a sign of a boy’s admission into manhood, you know?”
Valentine nodded. Finn waited. She thought about having another one of the little gooey pecan-cashew-toffee things and then decided against it. Just as Hassan Lasri produced a little silver box and lit another one of his oval cigarettes Finn found herself wishing she smoked. No smoking, no drinking, no pecan-cashew-toffee things and no sex—she might as well be a nun.
Lasri took a long drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke out of his wide hairy nostrils and popped another square into his mouth. He chewed and looked thoughtfully at Finn. “Of course,” he continued, his mouth still half full, “the koummya had another purpose.”
“What was that?” asked Finn.
“Other than being used for circumcisions—Arabs and Jews alike circumcise their children, you know—it is only the Christian and Asian infidels who do not—other than that, the dagger was used to cut out the tongues of traitors. Traditionally, that is; I haven’t heard of it being done recently. ‘To still the tongues of traitors’ is the official terminology.”
“Could that have applied to Crawley?” asked Finn.
“How should I know, my dear? I never met the man. I do, however, know where that particular koummya came from.”
“How?”
“A policeman showed me a picture of it this morning. A man named Delaney. He was apparently aware that I was head of the local Moroccan Friendship Alliance. At any rate, I told him what the dagger was, its background and uses.”
“And whom it belonged to?” asked Valentine.
“He didn’t ask me.”
“But you
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