. “I do not grant wishes,” whispers the ifrit, dropping his towel and pushing Salim gently, but irresistibly, down onto the bed.
It is an hour or more before the ifrit comes, thrusting and grinding into Salim’s mouth. Salim has already come twice in this time. The jinn’s semen tastes strange, fiery, and it burns Salim’s throat.
Salmi goes to the bathroom, washes out his mouth. When he returns to the bedroom the taxi driver is already asleep in the white bed, snoring peacefully. Salim climbs into the bed beside him, cuddles close to the ifrit, imagining the desert on his skin.
As he starts to fall asleep he realizes that he still has not written his fax to Fuad, and he feels guilty. Deep inside he feels empty and alone: he reaches out, rests his hand on the ifrit’s tumescent cock and, comforted, he sleeps. They wake in the small hours, moving against each other, and they make love again. At one point Salim realizes that he is crying, and the ifrit is kissing away his tears with burning lips. “What is your name?” Salim asks the taxi driver.
“There is a name on my driving permit, but it is not mine,” the ifrit says.
Afterward, Salim could not remember where the sex had stopped and the dreams began.
When Salim wakes, the cold sun creeping into the white room, he is alone.
Also, he discovers, his sample case is gone, all the bottles and rings and souvenir copper flashlights, all gone, along widi his suitcase, his wallet, his passport, and his air tickets back to Oman.
He finds a pair of jeans, the T-shirt, and the dust-colored woolen sweater discarded on the floor. Beneath them he finds a driver’s license in the name of Ibrahim bin Irem, a taxi permit in the same name, and a ring of keys with an address written on a piece of paper attached to them in English. The photographs on the license and the permit do not look much like Salim, but then, they did not-16ok much like the ifrit.
The telephone rings: it is the front desk calling to point out that Salim has already checked out/and his guest needs to leave soon so that they can service ttie room, to get it ready for another occupant.
“I do not grant wishes,” says Salim, tasting the way the words shape themselves in his mouth.
He feels strangely light-headed as he dresses.
New York is very simple: the avenues run north to south, the streets run west to east. How hard can it be? he asks himself.
He tosses the car keys into the air and catches them. Then he puts on the black plastic sunglasses he found in the pockets, and leaves the hotel room to go and look for his cab.
Chapter Eight
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him How that could be—I thought the dead were souls, he broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious That there’s something the dead are keeping back? Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.
—Robert Frost, “Two Witches”