"George Alec Effinger - Marid 3 - The Exile Kiss" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

honey-moons, but Indihar and I just watched the clock, counting the hours until this entire ordeal would be
finished.
The ceremony itself took place in Papa's grand hall. There were hundreds of guests; some were friends of ours,
and some were sinister, silent men who stood watch-fully at the edges of the crowd. My best man was Saied the
Half-Hajj, who in honor of the occasion was wearing no moddy at all, something remarkable in its own right. Most of
the other club owners in the Budayeen were there, as well as the girls, sexchanges, and debs we knew, and such
Budayeen characters as Laila, Fuad, and Bill the cab driver. It could have been a truly joyous occasion, if Indihar and I
had loved each other and wanted to get married in the first place.
We sat face to face before a blue-turbaned shaykh who performed the Muslim marriage ceremony. Indihar was
lovely in a beautiful white satin dress and white veil, with a bouquet of fragrant blossoms. First the shaykh in-voked
the blessings of Allah, and read from the first surah of the noble Qur'an. Then he asked Indihar if she con-sented to
the marriage. There was a brief pause, when I thought I saw her eyes fill with regret. "Yes," she said in a quiet voice.
We joined our right hands, and the shaykh covered them with a white handkerchief. Indihar repeated the words of
the shaykh, stating that she married me of her own free will, for a bride-price of seventy-five thousand kiam.
"Repeat, after me, Marid Audran," said the shaykh. "I accept from thee your betrothal to myself, and take thee
under my care, and bind myself to afford thee my protec-tion. Ye who are present bear witness of this." I had to say it
three times to make it work.
The shaykh finished it off by reading some more from the holy Qur'an. He blessed us and our marriage. There was
an instant of peace in the hall, and then from the throats of all the women came the shrill, trilling sound of the
zagareet.
There was a party afterward, of course, and I drank and pretended to be happy. There was plenty to eat, and the
guests gave us gifts and money. Indihar left early with the excuse that she had to put her children to bed, al-though
Senalda was there to do just that. I left the cele-bration not long afterward. I went back to my apartment, swallowed
seven or eight tabs of Sonneine, and lay on my bed with my eyes closed.
I was married. I was a husband. As the opiates began to take effect, I thought about how beautiful Indihar had
looked. I wished that I had at least kissed her.
Those were my memories of our wedding. Now, as I sat in her parlor, I wondered what my real responsibilities
were. "You've treated me and my children well," Indihar said. "You've been very generous, and I should be grate-ful.
Forgive me for my behavior, husband."
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Indihar," I said. I stood up. The mention of the children reminded me that they
could run squawking and drooling into the parlor at any moment. I wanted to get out of there while I still could. "If
there's anything you need, just ask Kmuzu or Tariq."
"We're well provided for." She looked up into my eyes, then turned away. I couldn't tell what she was feel-ing.
 I began to feel awkward myself. "Then I'll leave you. I wish you a good morning."
"May your day be pleasant, husband."
I went to the door and turned to look at her again before I left. She seemed so sad and alone. "Allah bring you
peace," I murmured. Then I closed the door behind me.
I had enough time to get back to the smaller dining room near Friedlander Bey's office, where we had break-fast
whenever he wanted to discuss business matters with me. He was already seated in his place when I arrived. The two
taciturn giants, Habib and Labib, stood behind him, one on either side. They still eyed me suspiciously, as if even after
all this time, I might still draw a naked blade and leap for Papa's throat.
"Good morning, my nephew," said Friedlander Bey solemnly. "How is your health?"
"I thank God every hour," I replied. I seated myself across the table from him and began helping myself from the
breakfast platters.
Papa was wearing a pale blue long-sleeved shirt and brown woolen trousers, with a red felt tarboosh on his head.
He hadn't shaved in two or three days, and his face was covered with gray stubble. He'd been hospitalized recently,
and he'd lost a lot of weight. His cheeks were sunken and his hands trembled. Still, the sharpness of his mind hadn't
been affected.
"Do you have someone in mind to help you with our datalink project, my darling?" he asked me, cutting short the
pleasantries and getting right to business.