trying to say is, don’t you have a less—well—curious jinni you could assign to whatever it is you want me for?”
With difficulty I kept my temper. “Curious? Damn it, I can turn into the handsomest young man you ever saw. And I would, too, if we were any place but here. Curious, indeed!”
Karim stood up. “Work time,” he said. “You’d better vanish, or evaporate or whatever it’s called. I don’t mean curious looking. I mean—well, nosy. I’d much sooner be poor all my life than have the feeling a jinni is looking over my shoulder every time I kiss a girl.”
“Very delicately put, Karim. And would you rather be poor and in this place all your life?”
He was strolling away from me. He glanced at the nearest overseer, saw the man was out of whipshot, and turned to call back to me. “Oh, I’ll get out of here, all right. They never made bars yet that could hold Karim.” And then he went to spring nimbly back on top of the oil press.
That’s gratitude for you. I thought of several things I could have said, but an overseer was stalking toward me. As his whip cracked toward my legs, I dematerialized with a piece of rahat lakhoum half swallowed, which was sure to give me indigestion.
I floated overhead for a few minutes, to see what that overseer made of my disappearance. But he just rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot eyes, he looked like a hashish user. I suppose he didn’t dare report my behavior, or he would be accused of smoking on duty, and maybe demoted to the grade of prisoner; so he said nothing.
Dematerializing while swallowing had upset my stomach, just as I thought it would. I materialized in a corner of the bazaar and ate an atzem pilaff to settle myself, dematerialized again, and did a fast zoom for the palace.
Just in time. Trumpets were blowing, cymbals clashing, and the Prince Osman was making a morning call on the Sultan. I floated alongside him as he rode across the courtyard, and from the gleam in his eye, I saw he was well-satisfied with himself. I zoomed an immaterial finger under his robes, and there was the vial, sure enough; the vial but not the contents that Ghamal had put there; instead, there was the substitute potion I’d supplied.
Ghamal met the Prince at the door of the great court, clapping for guards to come hold the princely stallion, for servants to sweep the carpet ahead of the princely feet. They exchanged winks, Ghamal and the Prince Osman; low, conspiritorial winks that almost burned me as they passed through me; I happened to be between them at the time.
The usual crowd of fellaheen had sprung up to watch the royal meeting, as my Baghdadians will always show up to watch any spectacle. I pity jinns who have to live in cities like Damascus and Cairo, where the crowds are incurious; I think a good crowd makes a show; a spectacle is nothing without plenty of people.
I got behind Ghamal’s ample figure, and materialized as the old man, and then was shoved away from the Grand Vizier by a palace guard and into the crowd, where I wanted to be anyway.
Ghamal and the Sultan’s chamberlains took up their posts and began the royal shoutings: “The Sultan Abdir Bajazeth, Lord of all he surveys, Sultan of Baghdad, Lord of Samarkand and Samarra, etc., etc.”
And: “The Prince Osman of Mossul, third son of the mighty Sultan Abdul Ali, conqueror of the Berbers, scourge of the Bedouins . . . etc., etc.”
What it came down to was that the Sultan and the Prince were glad to see each other. But two strong men had to shout themselves red-faced to prove it.
Now that the shouting was over, the Prince took his place on the leewan next to the Sultan. Ghamal clapped his hands, and servants brought Turkish coffee and nargilehs delicately filled with a mixture of Persian tobacco and hashish; the royalty sipped and puffed and occasionally exchanged jewels, to show their friendship.
The crowd began to drift away, and sensing this, Ghamal leaned over and whispered something
With difficulty I kept my temper. “Curious? Damn it, I can turn into the handsomest young man you ever saw. And I would, too, if we were any place but here. Curious, indeed!”
Karim stood up. “Work time,” he said. “You’d better vanish, or evaporate or whatever it’s called. I don’t mean curious looking. I mean—well, nosy. I’d much sooner be poor all my life than have the feeling a jinni is looking over my shoulder every time I kiss a girl.”
“Very delicately put, Karim. And would you rather be poor and in this place all your life?”
He was strolling away from me. He glanced at the nearest overseer, saw the man was out of whipshot, and turned to call back to me. “Oh, I’ll get out of here, all right. They never made bars yet that could hold Karim.” And then he went to spring nimbly back on top of the oil press.
That’s gratitude for you. I thought of several things I could have said, but an overseer was stalking toward me. As his whip cracked toward my legs, I dematerialized with a piece of rahat lakhoum half swallowed, which was sure to give me indigestion.
I floated overhead for a few minutes, to see what that overseer made of my disappearance. But he just rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot eyes, he looked like a hashish user. I suppose he didn’t dare report my behavior, or he would be accused of smoking on duty, and maybe demoted to the grade of prisoner; so he said nothing.
Dematerializing while swallowing had upset my stomach, just as I thought it would. I materialized in a corner of the bazaar and ate an atzem pilaff to settle myself, dematerialized again, and did a fast zoom for the palace.
Just in time. Trumpets were blowing, cymbals clashing, and the Prince Osman was making a morning call on the Sultan. I floated alongside him as he rode across the courtyard, and from the gleam in his eye, I saw he was well-satisfied with himself. I zoomed an immaterial finger under his robes, and there was the vial, sure enough; the vial but not the contents that Ghamal had put there; instead, there was the substitute potion I’d supplied.
Ghamal met the Prince at the door of the great court, clapping for guards to come hold the princely stallion, for servants to sweep the carpet ahead of the princely feet. They exchanged winks, Ghamal and the Prince Osman; low, conspiritorial winks that almost burned me as they passed through me; I happened to be between them at the time.
The usual crowd of fellaheen had sprung up to watch the royal meeting, as my Baghdadians will always show up to watch any spectacle. I pity jinns who have to live in cities like Damascus and Cairo, where the crowds are incurious; I think a good crowd makes a show; a spectacle is nothing without plenty of people.
I got behind Ghamal’s ample figure, and materialized as the old man, and then was shoved away from the Grand Vizier by a palace guard and into the crowd, where I wanted to be anyway.
Ghamal and the Sultan’s chamberlains took up their posts and began the royal shoutings: “The Sultan Abdir Bajazeth, Lord of all he surveys, Sultan of Baghdad, Lord of Samarkand and Samarra, etc., etc.”
And: “The Prince Osman of Mossul, third son of the mighty Sultan Abdul Ali, conqueror of the Berbers, scourge of the Bedouins . . . etc., etc.”
What it came down to was that the Sultan and the Prince were glad to see each other. But two strong men had to shout themselves red-faced to prove it.
Now that the shouting was over, the Prince took his place on the leewan next to the Sultan. Ghamal clapped his hands, and servants brought Turkish coffee and nargilehs delicately filled with a mixture of Persian tobacco and hashish; the royalty sipped and puffed and occasionally exchanged jewels, to show their friendship.
The crowd began to drift away, and sensing this, Ghamal leaned over and whispered something
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