by Zoë Ferraris
Nayir sipped his tea and marveled at the casual way that Muhammad had spoken of his wife. There had been no need to explain who she was, and telling Nayir her name was something else entirely. It put Muhammad squarely in the category of young infidel wannabe. Gone were the days of calling one's wife "the mother of Muhammad Junior"; today women had first names, last names, jobs and whatnot. He wondered how many men had known Nouf's name.
Nayir set down his cup and Muhammad refilled it.
"My condolences for Nouf," Nayir said.
"Thank you."
"I know what it's like to suffer a loss."
"I'm devastated." Muhammad ran a hand through his hair.
Once again the scent of manure wafted into Nayir's nose. "How long have you worked for the family?" he asked.
"Since I was a boy. My father was a driver for Abu Tahsin when he was my age." Muhammad shook his head. "Father died last year."
"Allah's peace be upon him."
"Thank you."
"Was he happy with the family?" Nayir asked.
"Yes. The Shrawis treated him well. I grew up on their old estate, the one they had before they moved to the island. When they moved, I got married, so I got my own place." He waved a hand at the bare walls. "Ugly as it is. I used to think I should have stayed on the island, but I'm glad I didn't."
"Oh?" Nayir glanced at his host.
"I wasn't happy there. Except with Nouf. She was different." "Different how?"
Muhammad shrugged. He narrowed his eyes. "Are you close to the family?"
"Only in an official capacity. I'm their desert guide."
"Ah. I think I've heard of you. You're the Bedouin guy."
Nayir pressed his lips together. "The family hired me to find Nouf when she ran away."
Muhammad nodded thoughtfully. "So no one's paying you now?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
"I'm not satisfied that her death was an accident."
Muhammad motioned toward Nayir's coat and gave a faint smile. "You sure look the part. But I have to admit, I didn't think there was anything strange about her death. It was tragic, but nothing made me think of murder."
"Murder?"
"Oh. I ... Isn't that why you're here?"
Nayir eyed his host. "Do you think she was murdered?"
"I didn't. I don't. I mean, I just assumed that's what you meant."
"Not exactly."
Muhammad wiped the sweat from his temple. "Then why did you come?"
Nayir paused. "Tell me what happened on the day she disappeared. You must have seen her that day."
He shook his head. "She called and said she didn't need me."
"Was that normal?"
"Well, I don't know. She's done it before, if that's what you mean."
"She told her mother she was going to exchange her wedding shoes," Nayir said. "And you didn't take her to the mall?"
"No."
Nayir sat forward. "How did she leave the house if you didn't take her?"
"I don't know. If I'm not there, she'll usually go out with her mother, or her sisters-in-law and one of their escorts." Muhammad opened his hands. "Look, I've already told Tahsin and Othman everything I know. We've gone over it a dozen times."
"I want to hear your side of the story. When did you realize that she'd run away?"
Muhammad blinked the sweat from his eyes. "That evening, her mother called me. I told her everything I knew. I went to the estate right away, but of course by then there was nothing I could do..."
Nayir waited but nothing came. "What did you do that day?"
Muhammad flinched. "I had to run errands with my wife."
"Was she with you all day?"
"Yes, and her sister was there too."
Nayir knew that he should talk to Muhammad's wife and her sister to confirm his story, but it wouldn't be proper. He set his teacup on the floor. "I wonder why a woman like Nouf would run away. It doesn't seem likely, does it? She had everything—money, a good family, a fiancé. Maybe you can help me make sense of it. You knew her."
Muhammad poured Nayir another cup of tea, but the water was gone and the leaves spilled out. Abruptly he set the teapot down and pressed his fingers against his eyes. A long silence went by. When he lowered his hand, his face was dark red and puffy. "Please forgive me. I was supposed to protect her."
Nayir felt his host's pain but wondered just how much was professional guilt.
"Look," Muhammad said, "it's obvious that Nouf ran away because she was sick of her life." He forced himself to look into Nayir's eyes. "You may not want to believe me, but let me tell you, she wasn't the only one who wanted to escape. Most of the girls feel that way. They hate it on the island. They're always out shopping or riding their jet-skis. Yanni, I never thought she would actually do it. Not like—not like that."
Nayir could see tears welling in Muhammad's eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a new miswak. "Do you mind if I...?"
"No. Go ahead."
With his thumbnail Nayir scraped off the top inch of bark and dumped the pieces on the tea tray. He stuck the miswak in his mouth. "They say that women suffer here," he said. "But as far as I know, only one woman suffered enough to run out to the desert and get herself killed. So what made her actually do it?"
Muhammad swallowed hard. "I don't know."
"You said she was different. What did you mean?"
"I don't know." Muhammad let out his breath. "I just meant—she was Nouf." He couldn't find a place for his hands, and the sweat poured so freely from his face that his collar was damp. Another silence went by, and Nayir studied him.
"You knew Nouf for what—sixteen years? Long enough, I think, to know quite a bit about her."
"Yes, of course. We were practically family."
Family. The word hung in the air. "Long enough to develop a ... relationship with her?" Of course, Nayir thought, a true relationship, devoid of the stifling proprieties of kinship and marriage. How easy would it have been for Muhammad to fall in love with Nouf ? She was pretty. A rich girl who had everything he lacked. He had known her better than anyone else, and yet she was forbidden.
The escort stared at the floor, blinking rapidly. His face was a ghastly gray. "I had nothing to do with her death," he said.
"There's something else I don't understand," Nayir went on. "If it's true that she drove away from the estate, how did she learn how to drive?"
Muhammad continued staring at the floor. "I taught her. It was something we did for fun. The other girls do it too—even Zainab, and she's only six. I know it's crazy, but they would do it anyway, and I figured it was better if I taught them how to drive safely and if I made a few rules. They have to practice on the dirt road behind the house, where nobody can see."
"All right. But let's say she ran away. She would have needed to prepare for it. She would have had to determine where she was going. Did she have maps? A GPS system? How would she get such things, I wonder? Would she steal them? Or would somebody help her?"
"It wasn't me."
"Why not? You helped her learn how to drive, which is a lot more dangerous than stealing. It's illegal, too."
Muhammad looked frightened. "I know, but it's not—"
"How did she know where to find the keys to the truck, for that matter? And how did she get the camel into the truck? That's a pretty big job—it requires a little muscle. Someone also hit the camel keeper's daughter on the head, but that girl was bigger than Nouf. How did Nouf manage to knock her out? I think someone helped her, someone who knew she was running away."
"Ya Allah, Allah, Bism'allah."Muhammad looked as if he would cry.
"And how did she get out to the desert?"
Muhammad rocked back and forth, hands clutched in a knot on his lap. "I don't know."
"And her ... condition—" "Allah! I would never touch her!"
"Someone did. As far as I can tell, you were the only man she saw regularly."
Muhammad's sho
ulders began to shake. "No, no. Listen. There was this guy. Eric. Eric Scarsberry. I used to take her to see him. She wanted to go to America and he was going to help her."
Nayir sat up. "America? How?"
"She gave him a million riyals. He was going to set her up in New York with an apartment, a green card, I don't know what else. It was what she always wanted. She wanted to leave."
Nayir stared at his host. Nouf was going to run away with an American? Despite everything, he was surprised. How was it possible? Women were not allowed to leave the country without an exit visa signed by their husbands or fathers. Certainly Abu Tahsin would never allow her to travel anywhere. She would have needed a husband, but it couldn't have been Eric. Muslim women were not allowed to marry infidels.
"How was she going to leave?" Nayir asked.
"On her honeymoon. She was going to New York with Qazi."
"Her fiancé?"
"Yes. She was going to leave him in the hotel and meet Eric somewhere."
"She was going to marry Qazi and then run off with the American?"
Muhammad stopped shaking and buried his face in his hands. He mumbled something.
"What?"
He dropped his hands. "I know it's my fault. I should never have allowed it. I knew it was wrong, but she wanted it so much..."
"What did she want?" Nayir held his breath.
"She ... she wanted to live in America." Seeing Nayir's horrified look, he explained. "She saw this program on television one day, about a woman who studied wild dogs in Africa. She wanted to be just like that woman, even though the woman lived with these dogs—dogs! She was dirty. She'd been in Africa for three months, but she loved her life. I think that impressed Nouf more than anything else, that this woman could live like a dog and be so happy. More than Nouf, at least." He swallowed hard. "All her friends at school get to go to London and New York. They're rich kids, just like Nouf, and they go wherever they want. But Nouf's parents would never let her leave the country, especially to go to America! All she wanted was to go to school, to study zoology, and then she was going off to live in the wild somewhere. Africa maybe. But she couldn't do any of that here, her father wouldn't allow it. It was something she wanted more than anything else and I ... I couldn't say no!" The tears began to fall. Nayir looked away, but Muhammad's quiet sobs disturbed him anyway.
"I'm sorry," he said, not sure what else to say.
Angrily Muhammad wiped his cheek. "Bism'allah," he hissed. "I almost feel like I killed her."
"Tell me," Nayir said, "how did she communicate with Eric?"
"She met him at the Corniche mall. I don't know where he lived."
"Did you go with her?"
"Yes."
"When did you see Eric last?"
"About three weeks ago. He gave her a key and the address to his apartment in New York." "His apartment?"
"Yes." Muhammad reached into his pocket and produced a thick key ring. "This is a copy of the key—she gave it to me in case she lost her own, or in case something happened. She was going to stay there for a while until her own apartment was ready."
"May I borrow the key?"
"You're not—"
"I won't show this to the family."
Muhammad slid it off the key ring and handed it to Nayir. "Listen, you've got to believe me," he said. "I've been crazy with guilt. I had the feeling that Eric might be somehow involved in her death, but I have no idea where to find him. I don't know where he lives, what company he works for, or if he's still in the country." For a moment his eyes were wild.
Nayir didn't want to ask the next question, but he had no choice. "Do you think she was serious enough about Eric ... serious in the way that—"
"That she would be intimate with him?" Muhammad looked disgusted, or offended, or both. "When I took her to see Eric"—he tapped his cheek—"she never left my sight. He never even saw her face."
Nayir tried to decide whether he was telling the truth. His gut told him yes, even if it seemed improbable.
Muhammad dropped his hand. "You're going to tell the family."
"For now," Nayir said, "I'll keep your secret in my fist. But let me ask you this. Nouf disappeared three days before her wedding. Now if what you say is true, then why would she give up her plan and run away before the wedding? She couldn't leave the country without Qazi."
"Eric must have promised her a way. I don't know how, but it wasn't impossible. He had connections at the docks—he even had his own boat! He could have smuggled her out."
"Did she say that might happen?"
"No." Muhammad fell into a thoughtful silence. He shut his eyes. "I always figured that if she were leaving for good, she would have said goodbye."
The tragic tone caught Nayir in the throat, but he forced it down. Muhammad, after all, had been complicit in her plan of escape. He had helped her meet Eric and then withheld the truth from her family. He was, by all accounts, a terrible escort.
And the details of Muhammad's story bothered him. Why did she want to live in America? Why not Europe? Or Egypt? In Cairo she would have many of the freedoms she could have found in America without the difficulty of a language barrier. But maybe it was too close; it was just across the sea, and going to Egypt was not as dramatic as going to America, land of infidels. She must have wanted to leave her family for good, and to leave with a loud statement. Going to America was not a slap in the face, it was a knockout blow to a righteous family like the Shrawis.
He found that he was tapping his miswak against the back of his hand, and he stopped.
"Did Nouf ever go into the men's side of the house—her brothers' bedrooms? Or their former bedrooms? Their offices?"
"No, I don't think so. Why?"
"You never saw her go into the men's bedrooms?"
"To be honest, I don't go in there myself, so I don't know where she went. Why would she be interested in their bedrooms?"
"Did she ever talk about her brothers' clothing? A jacket, perhaps?"
Muhammad had to think about it, but he shook his head. "She hardly talked about her brothers at all. She was nervous around them. They weren't exactly affectionate with her."
"How were they?"
"Distant."
"One more thing," Nayir said, hearing noise in the hall. "Was Nouf superstitious?"
Muhammad looked skeptical. "No, not really."
"The camel she took to the desert had a mark on its leg—a sign of protection against the evil eye. Why would she make that mark?"
"I don't know," he said. "It seems strange."
"I noticed a Khamsa hand on the door frame." Nayir motioned to the hallway, and Muhammad turned with a jerk. "Are you superstitious?"
"My wife put that—"
Suddenly the door opened and Muhammad's wife came in. She held a baby asleep in her arms. She was wearing a scarf, but her face was exposed, and she wore a radiant, mischievous grin. Nayir looked away, but Muhammad stood up. He kissed his wife on the cheek and took the baby, turning to show Nayir, who climbed to his feet.
"My daughter," he said, beaming. "She's as loud as a plane crash, but we can show her off when she sleeps."
Nayir stroked the baby's cheek. "Ism'allah, ism'allah"
He wanted to ask Muhammad's wife to confirm her husband's alibi, but he was seized with shame at the idea of it. He kept his eyes resolutely on the baby and wondered if Muhammad's wife had ever met Nouf and what she had thought.
"Please don't leave," the wife said. "I'm serving dinner."
"Oh, no, thank you." Even though it made the couple feel awkward, Nayir spoke to Muhammad. His wife seemed to understand Nayir's discomfort, and quietly she took the baby and slipped out of the room.
Muhammad showed him out. "Let me know if you find Eric," he said.
Back on the street, the Sudanese women had gone. Nayir stuck the miswak in his mouth and returned to his car, which had acquired a new layer of dust. He opened the doors to let out the heat and leaned against the fender, perplexed and
disturbed by his revised understanding of Nouf. The fact that she wanted to run away to America set her in a category beyond what he had previously believed: that she was a nervous bride escaping an arranged marriage. Although he had imagined that she had been dishonest with her family, the new Nouf in his mind was starkly deceptive, plotting a scheme to satisfy her desires and rebuke her family. She was not fearful; she was ambitious. She was going to appall her family, perhaps even damage their reputation, and all for what? A chance to live with dogs? He struggled to reenvision her and realized that until now he had thought of her as a victim.
Yet this version of things presented its own problems. If Muhammad had known her better than her brothers and she had trusted him so much, wouldn't she have at least tried to say goodbye to him? Or had she been deceiving Muhammad too?
As Nayir climbed into his Jeep, one thought disturbed him above all else: it was odd that Muhammad would go out of his way to help Nouf leave Saudi but do nothing to find her killer.
11
THERE WERE MANY REASONS to love the marina. Waking up in the morning to the smell of the sea and the delicious view of a blue horizon. Spending the day in the fresh air, cooled by the water and the wind. Watching the peddlers who wandered by, hawking prayer rugs and miswaks, brass pots and cotton sandals from China. A vendor's large silver truck was always parked at the marina gates, and at precisely 6 A.M. the smells of fresh pita, of ful beans cooked in garlic, and of the best coffee in the world came wafting from the truck's windows. At 6:15 the truck's side flipped up like a mother dog's leg and the men who were queued there scrambled around for their breakfasts, falling on the vendor's window like a litter of pups. The neighbors kept their eyes open; there was no crime. No one fought over parking spots. At night the cabin's lullaby rocking was a magical thing, suggesting motion within immobility. But perhaps the finest thing about the marina was the constant lap of water against the hull and the gentle clatter of boats against their docks, a reminder that this was not the prison of a house and that it was merely a matter of slipping the rope and starting the engine and Nayir and his entire existence would float free on a secluded vista of waves.