“So why are you afraid, my son?” she said, trying to calm him down.
He hesitated before confessing what was torturing him.
“Maybe I left my fingerprints on the knife when I pulled it out of her stomach.”
He knew from her confused look she didn’t know what the fingerprints might mean. She barely had an elementary school education.
“If they find my prints on the knife, they’ll arrest me and accuse me of killing her,” he added in a firm voice.
His mother finally understood the seriousness of the situation. Grief-stricken, she suddenly slapped her face.
“But my son, you have a law degree in French! Why’d you touch the knife when you knew these fingerprints might get you arrested?”
“She begged me, Mama. I couldn’t ignore her as she was lying there dying.”
He stood up, at a loss, and started pacing around the room.
“But maybe the prints were damaged. I could’ve wiped them off,” he said, as if talking to himself.
“The killer’s a thief!” his mother screamed. “Break-ins have been going up these days. Yesterday, they killed a man for ten dirhams. The poor guy was coming home from the mosque after morning prayer.”
“No, Mama,” said Othman, walking back and forth nervously like someone possessed. “They didn’t steal anything. All her jewelry’s still there.”
His mother became more and more aware of the trouble her son was in.
“So who killed her?”
“I don’t know,” he said in complete despair.
He sat back down obsessing about the prints, hoping they couldn’t be recovered from the murder weapon.
When he heard a knock at the door, his hair stood up. He was terrified the police had come to take him away. He calmed down when he saw his father walk in with a carton of milk and four Moroccan doughnuts covered in sugar and tied together by a thick piece of green grass.
His father was a bit older than sixty. His skin looked dried out; his face was wrinkled and his body was bony. He spent most of his life watching people’s cars on the street for spare change. Othman threw himself on his father and hugged him tightly as if he’d just come back from a long trip.
Othman launched into what happened and his father listened intently as he wrapped his jalbab around his legs absentmindedly and pressed down on the Marrakech-style skullcap that hid most of his bald head. He stayed silent as he listened to his son.
“Why’d you grab the knife?” he said finally in an accusatory tone. “If someone else did that, we could’ve said he didn’t know what he was doing. But you spent four years at the university studying law!”
“She begged me, Papa!” said Othman, as if struck by a heavy blow. “You can’t refuse someone who’s dying.”
“And the police?” said his father with a hint of bitterness. “What’d they do with you?”
“They asked me some questions and told me to come to the station today.”
Othman’s father slapped his hands together.
“I knew things wouldn’t end well with that whore. May God curse greed and everything that comes with it.”
Othman felt defeated. Why was his father intent on insulting him at a time like this?
“God willing, the police will arrest the killer,” said his mother, trying to intervene. “Everything will be fine. I’ll make breakfast for you. It will all turn out well.”
The father bowed his head and fell silent. He never allowed his emotions to show on his face. But this time, his tears got the better of him.
“Tell me the truth, son,” he muttered quietly in a hoarse voice, not without a certain suspicion.
“Why do you think so badly of me?” Othman yelled, choked with pain, as he jumped up out of his chair.
Before his father could speak, Othman ran out of the house, which shook as he slammed the door behind him.
Inspector Asila was dreaming of holding the pop singer Madonna in his arms when he started hearing loud noises around him. As he woke up, he saw a group of kids with backpacks on their way to school. One of the kids looked over at him through the driver’s window and stuck his tongue out. Asila cursed at him as he sat up. He looked at his watch and saw it was quarter after nine. How long had he been asleep?
Asila looked over at the villa gate scowling, trying to calm his agitated nerves. He opened the window and filled his lungs with the fresh air. He kept his eyes on the police radio and checked to make sure his gun was still in its holster.
At the end of the street he saw a woman coming toward him. When she was only a few steps away, he could tell she was about thirty years old. She had a scarf covering her hair and wore a jalbab and shoes with worn heels that made a clicking sound on the pavement. She stopped at the villa gate and looked over at Asila in the car. She then hit the buzzer.
The inspector swallowed and sat up, trying not to waste much time figuring out what to do. The woman kept ringing the bell, looking quickly over at him several times. The inspector noticed that her patience began to run out. His cop instinct told him she wasn’t used to waiting outside like this.
He left the car and started walking toward her. As he got close, he noticed the skin on her face was still smooth. Her withered eyes, however, had the look of misery typical of Moroccan maids.
“Anyone inside?” he asked innocently.
“Who are you?” said the woman, looking at him in confusion.
The inspector ignored her question and hit the bell. The only reply was the dog’s barking.
“And who are you?” he asked, scrutinizing the woman’s face with his unadulterated police stare.
“I work here,” she said automatically with a hint of fear.
The inspector pressed on the bell again and began to realize the difficulty of his position.
“What’s your name?” he asked gruffly.
“Rahma,” she answered nervously. “And you?”
The inspector knew he’d be in big trouble if the guy inside had taken off while he was napping in the car. He needed this woman’s help.
“I’m a police inspector,” he said roughly in an attempt to scare her. “Police. Is there another door?”
Rahma’s face went white as she shuddered.
“There’s one in the back. What happened?”
Asila stared her down until she lowered her eyes.
“You don’t know?”
Her heart began beating faster.
“No.”
“Your boss was murdered yesterday,” he said after hesitating a bit.
Rahma placed her hand over her mouth, stricken with grief. Her cheekbones protruded as her jaw dropped. She was on the verge of tears.
“He must’ve fled from the back,” said Asila to himself.
Rahma couldn’t believe what she heard.
“Fled? Who fled?”
Asila stepped past her and held the buzzer down. He pulled on the door handle violently but all that did was stir Yuki up. The dog became more agitated and started barking viciously.
4
Othman wandered the streets for about half an hour, feeling resentful about all the help he’d given his parents over the past five years. He thought about the gifts he’d bought them and the cash he gave them every month. He remembered how he’d held his father’s hand as they went to a travel agency, surprising him with two tickets for the hajj, one for him and the other for his mother. That was followed by a ridiculous controversy that raged in their family for days about whether his parents’ hajj was legitimate since the money came from a Muslim marrying a Christian woman. His father gave in only after consulting a faqih.
Othman walked around so immersed in his thoughts he didn’t hear all the noise around him. He remembered the money he gave his brother, who was six years younger than him. It was enough cash for his brother to set up a TV shop. Thanks to Othman, his brother married a girl he fell in love with and is now living a life of ease, stability, and comfort. His brother falls asleep every nigh
t in the arms of his young, beautiful wife. As for Othman, he lies in bed at the end of the day like a cold hard statue holding a bag of bones covered in leopard skin.
He felt like a total failure as he wandered among the tall buildings in the morning sun. He found himself thinking about his wretched childhood, which he spent between studying at school and making money selling plastic bags on the streets or carrying people’s bags at the market. The only thing he could remember about his teens was misery. He slaved for long hours as a waiter in dingy cafés or cleaning filthy cars at the bus station where his father worked.
Despite all the work and deprivation, he stuck to his studies, without the least encouragement or help from anyone. He was smart and did well in school without much effort, even though he felt like it was just a place for him to relax between his arduous jobs. When he began studying at the university, however, he was struck by terrible low self-esteem. He was so shy he barely had the courage to steal glances at girls. To escape his loneliness, he threw himself into his studies, spending almost all his time at the library, dreaming he’d become a great man some day. Getting his law degree, however, earned him nothing but unemployment. And once he was a university graduate, he no longer had the strength to work miserable street jobs like before.
What his father said this morning shocked him. Othman still couldn’t believe it. It’s true that despite their poverty, his parents didn’t encourage him to marry Sofia. They never visited him at his villa and they never invited Sofia to their home. They were afraid of the neighbors’ mockery and scorn. He remembered his mother’s reaction when she saw a picture of Sofia for the first time. She sighed, slapped her cheek, and said: “Good Lord, my son, you’re marrying a woman who’s older than me!” Despite all that, they didn’t explicitly tell him not to marry her. And their unease soon turned to delight once the money started coming in.
Was he wrong to have married her? Before meeting Sofia, he used to stage sit-ins in front of the parliament building with all the other unemployed university graduates. And after the boots of the police trampled him and his back was almost broken under their clubs, he stopped protesting, convinced that jobs were handed out only through personal connections and corruption and not by protesting or staging sit-ins. He then got the idea of emigrating to Europe illegally through the Strait of Gibraltar like all those boat people, but he didn’t have enough money to pay the smugglers. When he met Sofia, he thought Europe immigrated across the Strait to him. And when they got married, he could rest easy knowing he did everything he could to save himself. He suffered horribly when he was unemployed for four years; every imaginable door was slammed in his face. Even the idea of suicide tempted him from time to time. Sofia was his last chance.
Othman decided to grab a taxi before the traffic jams began, as they usually did this time of morning. After a short ride, the car stopped in front of a modern building on al-Jabal al-Dhahabi Street in the upscale Maarif neighborhood. He paid the driver and got out without bothering to take the change. He went in the building and walked up the stairs quickly to Naeema’s apartment on the third floor. He closed his eyes as he pressed the bell, feeling an exhaustion that went beyond simple weariness. When she opened the door for him, he saw the house was still dark. He must have just woken her up.
Naeema was fidgeting with her nightgown. She didn’t even straighten her hair before opening the door. He looked at Naeema and thought she was even more beautiful without make-up. Othman threw himself into her arms and embraced her tightly. He breathed in the sweetness exuding from her body. She was barely able to push him away from her so she could close the door.
She looked at him, feeling a sudden panic.
“What’s going on?” she asked with a confused smile on her lips.
Othman walked into the living room and sat down. He took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and exhaled the smoke.
“Sofia died yesterday,” he said in a trembling voice. “I found her murdered after I got back from seeing you.”
Naeema let out a laugh as if she’d just heard a joke.
“Are you serious?”
“She was stabbed to death in the bedroom,” he said insistently.
She scrutinized him intently and her face went pale.
“Who killed her? Thieves?”
“Nothing was stolen. Her jewels were in the drawer. Nothing’s missing.”
“So who killed her?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“I have no idea,” he said in a quivering voice.
Naeema left him for a moment and opened the window. Sunlight flooded the room. She went to the kitchen and came back with an ashtray that she put in front of him. She sat down staring at him, waiting for more details. She noticed he was scared and agitated.
“Was she killed when I was with you?” she asked trying to conceal her nervousness.
“That’s what I said. After you left, I went back to the villa, walked up to the bedroom, and found her on the bed with a knife in her stomach, covered in blood.”
Suddenly, he stopped talking. Should he confess his fear about the fingerprints? He thought that would horrify her. And she might think he’s the one who did it. He decided to wait, especially since he couldn’t remember if he wiped his prints off or not. Why rush telling her?
She looked at him searchingly. His paleness scared her.
“Did you call the police?” she asked in a suspicious tone.
“I called the ambulance first but she died before they got there.”
“And the police?” she asked with a hint of fear.
“Yeah. A detective named Alwaar wore me out with all his questions. I haven’t slept at all. I’ve got to go to the police station in a bit.”
She looked at him and lowered her head as she rubbed her eyes.
“So who’s the killer if it wasn’t thieves?” she asked without looking up at him.
“Nothing was stolen,” he replied, doing everything he could not to burst into tears. “And the police have ruled out theft as a motive. I’m going to be their prime suspect until they find the real killer. If only I told them the entire truth yesterday.”
Her eyes widened with fear.
“I didn’t kill her, Naeema,” he added in a hoarse voice. “Believe me. I just wish I told them I was with you when the murder took place.”
He thought again about the prints and almost confessed his fear about them to her but he stopped himself.
“Are you going to give my name to the police?” she asked with her lips trembling.
“I have to tell them the truth. You’re the only proof I have that I wasn’t at the villa when she was murdered. I can’t lose you as an alibi.”
She grimaced as she suddenly flung her long hair back.
“That could get us in trouble. Our relationship will come out and maybe ....”
“But isn’t it the truth?” he cut her off sharply, provoking her with an angry stare.
“You’re innocent,” she hurried to say, trying to calm him down. “So why rush to tell them about us? That might lead to other things, know what I mean? Wait a bit. Maybe they’ll arrest the killer today or tomorrow.”
“And if they don’t? There’s a good chance they’ll arrest me when I go see them today.”
She paused and then put her hand over her mouth as if trying to stop herself from screaming. Othman saw tears well up in her eyes.
“Are you afraid for yourself?” he asked cautiously.
“I’m afraid for both of us!” she said, breaking out in tears. “But what do we have to fear? You’re innocent. You didn’t kill her.”
He dropped to his knees, wiped her tears, and kissed her submissively on her forehead. He then wrapped his arms around her and his own tears began to flow.
“I didn’t kill her, Naeema. I didn’t do it.”
He fell silent and started rocking back and forth slowly. He felt a strong urge to go straight to the police to declare his innocence. He got up suddenly feeling a powerful sense of terror.
The fingerprints! Once again, he gave in to his cowardice and weakness. He felt overwhelmed.
“I’ll make coffee,” said Naeema, trying to avoid terrible thoughts. She wiped away her tears and smiled at him.
Before she went to the kitchen, a strange idea hit her.
“Maybe God wanted us to be together,” she said. “So He sent an angel to kill her.”
Othman closed his eyes not knowing what to make of what she said. He wanted to take off his shoes and lie down on the couch to sleep, just for a few minutes. But his nerves were shot and he didn’t have the strength to be alone, so he joined her in the kitchen. He sat on a chair near her and spread his hand out on the small Formica table. Naeema had her back to him as she put the pot on the stove. He checked out her svelte athletic build and her blond hair that hung down to her shoulders. He thought about how he could see her magnificent neck when she pulled her hair back.
“She was supposed to have a workout with me today,” Naeema said, taking a jar of fruit preserve out of the refrigerator. “She’ll miss class for the first time. She was a very devoted student.”
Othman wasn’t amused.
“Hurry up with the coffee,” he said, looking at his watch. “I’ve got to get to the police station.”
“Are you going to tell them about me?” she asked, trying to hide her fear.
“Depends on what they ask.”
“If they call me down there, what do I say?”
“The truth. No more, no less.”
She looked at him quickly as the jar of preserve almost fell from the counter. Othman caught it and pushed it back. He stood up, took Naeema by the shoulders, and shook her, staring into her eyes.
“I’m warning you, Naeema. However things turn out, only tell them about us. Don’t say anything more, okay?”
She nodded her head and bit her lips. She was so scared she felt like she might pass out then and there on the kitchen floor.
5
Alwaar got to the station about eight thirty in the morning and was told the commissioner was waiting for him. The detective found the office door ajar and the commissioner talking on the phone. Without stopping his conversation, he motioned to Alwaar to sit down. The commissioner was a huge man with a piercing stare. He didn’t make any decision before pondering it over and over again. He always doubted people and trusted only a few of his assistants. At the top of them, however, was Alwaar.
The Final Bet Page 4