by Maha Gargash
Back in the living room I frown at the empty glasses and cigarette ash on the table, at the pillows strewn on the floor and the sticks we’d used for that ridiculous dance. There’s something else, too: a string of amber worry beads that Hareb gave me. I pick it up and flop onto the couch, wondering who had retrieved it from the cabinet drawer.
My brother bought the beads sometime in the early 1970s, when the company first started making real money. He paid a grand sum of two thousand Indian rupees to a merchant in Bombay. It was the first time he had bought anything expensive. And he chose to give the gift to me.
“Because we are one,” he had said. Judging by his expression, he believed it to be a profound truth, impossible to dispute, and I had found myself nodding vehemently, convinced of our sameness. After all, we were brothers brought up in the same household, part of the people of the palms.
As a boy I’d often helped Hareb at the palm grove, removing the dead leaves and debris from the dug-up water channels or pruning the trees. We’d secure ropes around our waists and scramble up the date palms in a competition to see who was faster. It didn’t matter to him that I almost always won. But on the occasions when he won, I would sink into a dull, black mood. He’d slap me and tell me not to be such a sissy. Then, as if remembering the age difference, he’d pinch my cheeks until they turned red: a demonstration of his love for me that was no less painful than the slaps. I was ten; he was nine years older.
Lost in the memory, I’m hardly aware of the beads sliding between my fingers, clicking in a fluid rhythm that eases my impatience. I’m pulled back further into that past shared with Hareb. Under a dome of sky that traps a harsh light and the burn of the sun, we hold our heads up to catch a whimper of a breeze. There’s the seih, strewn with umbrella-crowned desert acacias. How many times did he drag me along the broad expanse of the valley to hunt for honey? With a widemouthed earthen jar hugged to his waist, Hareb enjoyed the search, and after he’d nicked the honeycomb from the bees and stored it safely in the jar under a muslin cloth, he would insist on sharing it with the neighbors. With a grand smile, he would watch my face sour as I divided the find.
I smell the dry dust. Barefoot on the scalding earth, with tattered kandoras and sun-bleached wizars pulled up and knotted securely at the waist, we would dart on the balls of our feet from one patch of shade to the next, moving in zigzags to avoid the dried-up plant pods, spiral-shaped and prickly and the scatterings of half-buried acacia thorns. Once, trotting back home along the seih after we’d found a particularly large nest, I stepped with my full weight on one of those needle-sharp thorns. I remember squealing like a woman as I fell back, and I raised my foot so that Hareb could pull it out.
Along with a few stray bees that followed the scent of their honey in a dizzy pursuit, a cluster of buzzing flies zoomed around the jar. They changed course upon scenting the blood on the bottom of my foot. I cursed them. I cursed the thorn. I cursed the tree.
In that moment, as payment for my injury, I decided I would no longer distribute the honey equally. The burn, the sweat, and the throbbing hole in my foot: they were enough to convince me that I should keep as much as I dared from a honey jar that I considered mine by right. I did so with no guilt, and over time I grew bolder, held back a little bit more, always ready to argue my case if Hareb ever discovered that I’d kept more than my share. He never did.
I search for a hint of sameness. I’m mulling over how my brother and I shared an upbringing but not a way of thinking when my phone rings. Saeed has arrived.
He steers the car out of traffic and onto a relatively empty road. He offers me a cigarette and I light it, pulling in three long, deep drags. Smoke enters through my mouth and exits through my nose. The nicotine shoots to my brain, but it fails to satisfy me. “Tell me.”
Saeed rubs the stubble on his cheeks. “Well, we brought the doctor.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry. He’s a discreet old man who Abu-George uses to deal with all kinds of medical issues concerning his girls. Nothing broken, according to the doctor—just some bruising here.” He strokes his neck.
This should relieve me, but the scowl that’s been plastered on my face since last night’s incident stays put. The questions loom in my mind like barbed wire. “Stop trickling information! What does the bitch want?”
“She’s completely on edge. She would have gone to the police had we not taken charge right away,” Saeed says. “Abu-George and I warned her to think before she acts, because she’s in a conservative Muslim country. A girl in an apartment filled with men—especially a girl who is selling her services—would not be believed! We told her that the first thing the police would say is, ‘What were you doing there in the first place? You asked for it.’ We told her she’d be thrown in jail and, once she’d served her time, deported.”
A police report—and that could lead to a court case! It would be her word against mine. Even if it all went against her, there’s no guarantee that word of what happened would not get out. Society is fickle. All it takes is a single scandalous whisper. I would be branded. It wouldn’t affect my success as a businessman, but it would discredit me in the eyes of my peers, make me a laughingstock: Majed Al-Naseemy, notorious for assaulting whores.
“These Western types,” Saeed says, “love to make a big fuss out of everything—no respect for discretion. I talked to her like a kind father, gentle, you know, explaining that that’s not the way to resolve a small problem. And, stupid cow that she is, she blew up.” He sighs through his teeth. “I guess it’s because she’s shaken. Yes, very upset.”
Right now, the last thing I care about is how shaken or upset she is. “Yes, yes, of course she has to act like she is,” I say through clenched teeth. “This whole drama is nothing more than a neat little deception. Isn’t that how these girls are, always acting this role or that?”
He opens his mouth, but one glance at my bulging eyes and he fixes his sight back on the road. He’s driving toward my house. He says, “Abu-George—he stayed with her—had the doctor give her some sedatives. So she’s calm, in a better state to listen to him. Let’s just wait and see what happens. Don’t worry, everything will be solved, insha’Allah.”
“Solved? What, angels will descend and make this go away? Did you offer her money?”
“She won’t take it.”
“Why not?”
He takes a sharp breath through tobacco-stained teeth. Every minute drags as I wait for an answer. I suddenly understand. He has failed.
My agitation is a worm in my gut. It slithers; it pauses. And when it bites, I pound the dashboard. “I should have dealt with the situation myself! This is all your fault, you know,” I say, “you and that bastard Abu-George. Bringing such girls to the Neely!” My tone is fierce, relentless. “The most you can handle is keeping the Neely stocked. Anything beyond that is too hard for you. Have you ever done anything right?”
“Now, wait a second.” He looks hurt, but knowing Saeed, it’s certainly an act. “I—”
“Chup, chup, chup! Shut up! No, you listen to me. You are going to take me home and wait for me while I freshen up. Then you will take me to the slut so I can put an end to this mess.”
At the house, I am beset by a brooding anger as I shower and change into a fresh kandora. I grab a wad of hundred-dollar bills from the safe and slip them into my pocket. Aisha arrives home from an outing and finds me in the kitchen, gobbling down the last bite of a sandwich.
“Your eyes look like someone poured kerosene in them,” she says. “And why is Saeed waiting outside? The doorman told me he brought you here. Where is your car?”
“At the garage.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“How should I know? Do I look like a mechanic?”
“I mean, what happened?”
“It broke down.”
“Did it happen last night? Is that why you didn’t come home?”
“What’s wrong with you, woman? You want t
o know about the sore and its medicine?” my voice thunders, silencing her abruptly.
I drive Saeed’s car. He sits next to me and indicates the way. My grip on the steering wheel is tight as I cross Al-Maktoum Bridge and head toward Meena Bazaar in Bur Dubai. Once we reach the Ramada Hotel, I make a U-turn and enter the first of the smaller streets behind it. The buildings here are medium-sized, rising no higher than ten floors. We pass one that has been turned into a hotel. I miss the name but catch the sign at the entrance: VALET PARKING WITH DRIVERS.
It’s 2:15 p.m. A school bus in front of me keeps stopping at curbs and corners. I want to finish this business with Galina the Russian as soon as possible, but I don’t overtake the bus, just stare at the bundles of noisy children hopping off. The delay gives me a chance to think.
Much as I’d like to break her neck as soon as I see her, getting physical would only inflame the situation. She will be angry; of that I am sure. She will probably curse me. I decide I must rise above all that and deal with her using words only—strong words, and perhaps, if she is sensible, a few gentle words, too—as I urge her to take the money. It’s the sight of the dollars, clean and crisp, that will tame her.
“There, right there.” Saeed points to a mud-colored six-story building with cement troughs for balconies, and suddenly I can’t wait to confront her. I honk the horn, and the three cars behind me do the same.
The elevator smells of coconut hair oil and stale sweat. Saeed presses a button. The second-floor corridor is broad and dim. Lunchtime noises seep from behind apartment doors, along with the pungent whiff of fried onions and heavily spiced Indian curry.
Her apartment is three doors down, and Abu-George is outside, punching numbers on his phone as he waits for our arrival. He wears a striped shirt with the top buttons undone, showing off a thick gold chain nestled in chest hair. His jeans are so tight—his flab is pinched into a tube around his waist, his crotch squished in a trap that looks so painful I find I’m jiggling my hips to make sure all the equipment between my legs can move freely—that I wonder why he needs that cowboy belt to hold it up. He puts his phone in his pocket and tells me that the effect of the pill the doctor had given her has worn off. “Now, it won’t help to lose one’s temper,” he adds with some hesitation. “We have to be calm.”
“Of course,” I say, giving him an icy stare.
“Right,” he says, and rakes his hair—shiny and slick with oil—back with his hand before turning toward her apartment. He knocks, but to our surprise the door across the way cracks open in response. We turn around and see a small girl with a red thumbprint bindi on her forehead. She stares at us with big black eyes that brim with distrust. I crouch to her height and scold her in Urdu. “Who called you?” I hiss. “Get back inside.” The alarmed girl retreats just as cold air blows on my back.
None of us is fast enough. The Russian slams the door before we can slip in. “I no want to see heem,” she yells from behind the closed door. “You go away now.”
Abu-George shakes his head. “They are so stupid sometimes, these girls.” He pulls out a chain clanging with keys and tools and inserts one into the lock. With a few pokes and twists, he unlocks the door. And we’re in.
Galina is not surprised by our successful entry. She stands with her back to the window at the far end of the room, holding a phone. “You move to me and I call polices.”
Instinctively, I motion to Saeed to go down and wait by the car so he can warn us if any cops show up. Abu-George tries to reason with her. “Come on, Galina,” he says. “What do you think? We’re here to hurt you?” He touches his heart. “We are friends.”
Looking at her, she could be any Western tourist. She wears a long summer dress with bright flowers. A scarf is tied around her neck, and this makes me wonder how severe the bruising is. As if reading my mind, she pulls it off. The bruise is the color and texture of a rotten date. “He keeller.” She spits out the accusation and adds strength to it with a string of Russian profanities. “He try keel me.”
“I’m here only to talk,” I say, taking out the money and counting it note by note. “I am here to tell you that whatever you want, I am ready to help.”
“You no can buy me,” she shouts, pointing the phone at me as though it were a pistol. “Dirty man!” Her mouth is warped with scorn, and I puzzle over how I ever compared it to a strawberry.
She is ludicrous. And here I am, forced to bear her insolence. Stuffing the money back into my pocket, I shake my head to keep from losing my temper and glare at the beaded curtain to her right that must lead to the bedroom. It quivers and clacks with every gust blown by the noisy air-conditioning unit.
“Galina, habibti,” says Abu-George in a voice filled with boredom, “put the phone down.” She hesitates a little before plunking it on the windowsill, within her reach. Abu-George takes a few steps toward her. “You are here on a one-month tourist visa. Why do you want to go and ruin your stay? Come on, Galina. You don’t want that.”
He goes on mollifying the girl. I have no interest in this petty rapport between pimp and prostitute. But I’m obliged to wait for the outcome. My gaze drifts around the apartment. It’s a no-nonsense place filled with furniture that looks little better than a laborer’s—probably somebody else’s discarded goods placed next to the city rubbish dumps for collection. She has a stained pale-green couch, scratched-up plastic chairs pocked with cigarette burns, and cheap wobbly lamps swathed with flimsy crimson scarves. A pile of thin foam mattresses is stacked against a wall; the crumpled sheets on top indicate that the apartment either is shared by a number of people—girls in the same line of work, no doubt—or is a place of business, a pleasure den.
“I promised our friend in Russia that I would protect you,” Abu-George says to her, “but I won’t be able to do anything if you go to the police and they throw you in jail. What would he say if I told him how unreasonable you are being, hmm?”
She stiffens at the mention of this friend. (Who is this person?) “I tell Sergei he want keel me,” she mumbles into her chest.
“Come on, there’s no need for so much talk. We can end this right now. All I’m asking for is a little help from you.” Abu-George makes a pinching gesture with his fingers. “Small-small only.”
“No small.” She turns to look at me. Her eyes are as hard as pellets of blue ice. “Thees beeg theeng.”
“He good man, Galina!” Abu-George waves his arms in exasperation. “You want breaking his house? He have wife, childrens, grandchildrens.”
“Yes, why he not be with them? Because he feelthy old man.”
The hangover has not gone away completely. I feel it acutely in a surge of heat that explodes in my head. I frown and rub my forehead. “Listen, Abu-George,” I say through clenched teeth, “I think there’s no point in continuing.” I turn to the girl and attempt a magnanimous smile, tightening every facial muscle to lock it in place. “I’ll say what I have to say just one more time: I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m prepared to make up for that.” I pull out the money and fling it in the air. My smile evaporates as the banknotes float to the ground. “Now take it! And get the hell out of my life!”
“I no want your dirty money,” she screams. “I want you to walk to me on knees. I want you put head on ground next to my feet. I want you to beg I forgeev you.”
What patience I had left has depleted. In an attempt to control my aggravation, I clap my hands. The suddenness of it makes her jump. She grabs the phone and dials. “Ello, polices?”
I react just as swiftly, lunging forward and knocking the receiver out of her hand. It falls to the ground, where Abu-George stomps on it as though it were a scurrying rat. She swings an arm at my face, but I shift to the side. She is hysterical! I make a grab at her from behind and secure her in a powerful grip. She struggles but is unable to lash out. From the corner of my eye I spot Abu-George with his mobile phone glued to his ear. His face lights up. He says, “Hello? Sergei?”
I don’t know who this Ser
gei is, but the mention of his name has an effect on Galina that is nothing short of a miracle. Moments earlier she was tight-limbed with hysteria, spitting curses at me. Now she turns wobbly like jelly, and I let her go lest my grip leave dents in her bones.
“He wants to talk to you,” Abu-George says to her, disregarding her obvious distress as he shoves his mobile phone into her hand.
I am riveted in place, unable to take my eyes off her as the color drains from her face and her voice lowers to a whimper. From wildcat to rabbit: I am baffled by the transformation. Who is this Sergei, and why is she so scared of him? Engrossed in the conversation, Galina drifts toward the window, looking like someone shouldering a heavy burden. I turn to Abu-George, who is busy cooling off. He dabs the sweat off his face with a starched handkerchief, then ruffles his shirt, whipping a breeze through his springy chest hairs. Once he spots my confusion, he signals me to follow him out into the corridor.
The snoopy little girl with the bindi isn’t the only one who has heard the ruckus. Every other occupant of this damned floor—clusters of Asian families, including a shrunken gray-haired granny—peers out from their apartments. Abu-George waves his arms and yells at them to get back in.
Once we’re alone, his voice lowers, as if the walls might have ears. “Sergei is their protector in Russia,” he says. “I know him from when I was studying in Moscow in the early ’80s. For a long time we weren’t in touch because he got involved in a number of shady dealings. But now, well . . . with this new demand for Russian girls, what can I say?” There must be a disapproving expression on my face, because he quickly adds, “I’m not close to him. I’m just a service provider—strictly entertainment, nothing more. No drugs, no money laundering, no black market, no bribery. That’s not me.” He sniffs. “It’s only recently that we reconnected. I arrange the visas. He sends the girls over to work for a month. Then I send them back. That’s all.”