by Zoë Ferraris
And yet people always wanted to know, how had the devoted desert man come to have such an affair with the sea? He had no answer, really. He had learned to love the desert as a boy, but as an adult he had come to desire a newer version of the wild. On the sea he found a curious replication of the sandy waste. There was vastness, quietude, hidden life, and the challenging paradox of monotony and uncertainty. There was also the ability to get away from your neighbors. If it ever became too difficult to avoid their scrutiny, their questions about his career, his family, his possibilities for marriage, he could simply relocate to a different slip and voilà—a whole new set of strange eyes, not yet comfortable enough to begin spying, would keep their modesty behind curtained portholes. Since coming to the marina, he had not actually moved, but knowing that it was an option brought him a tremendous sense of freedom and made having neighbors more bearable.
This morning he stood on the dock gazing up at the western sky, Columbo coat draped over his arm. He was trying to abate a terrible mood by contemplating the goodness of his world, and he might have contemplated further had it not been for his neighbor Majid.
"Salaam!" Majid called from the opposite slip. He was standing on his bow looking curiously at Nayir.
"Sabaah al-khayr." Standing alone with a strange item of clothing on his arm was, he realized only too late, an invitation to comment.
"What's the news?"
"Al-hamdullilah" Nayir replied.
Majid was the dock's other frustrated bachelor, and as such served as both a comfort and a warning. Between them there was a hint of disgust at this uneasy parallel, enhanced by the fact that they were of the same height and age, their faces were uncannily similar in structure, and they both carried Palestinian blood. The great difference between them was that Majid was the youngest son of a very large family—and not just his immediate family; his female cousins numbered in the dozens—and yet he had managed never to marry. He was a pedantically devout man, but apparently no woman was righteous enough to have him.
Majid stepped onto the pier. "Heading out this morning?" he asked.
"Yes. I've got some things to do."
"What is this?" Majid motioned to the coat. "Let me see. Did you buy yourself a coat?" He drew out the arm and inspected the buttons. "Is it a raincoat?" He smiled. "Tell me, where are you going that you might encounter rain?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
Majid grinned. "Are we expecting rain here?"
The wickedness of his grin was a satisfying reminder that Nayir and Majid were as different as dogs and cats. Nayir thought too that this was a man who, precisely five times a day, performed his ablutions and strutted down fifteen meters of parking lot to the marina mosque. If in his short walk through sparse pedestrian traffic he should spot a woman and therefore ruin his ablutions by witnessing the unclean, he would shout at the woman at the top of his lungs, march back to his boat, bang open the cabin hatch, climb below, and with great rocking and splashing perform his ablutions again. He would then emerge, cleaner of soul and body, and gaze up and down the pier in an awkward way, as if hoping to detect a woman at the very periphery of his vision, which would not be quite the same thing as seeing her. And then, detecting none, he would flip a pair of prophylactic sunglasses onto his nose and march down the pier. Nayir had never seen him bump into a woman twice in one outing—usually his first explosion was enough to chase the women, not to mention all the birds, from the dock—and Majid would stride confidently back to the mosque.
He looked into Majid's eyes. These were precisely the judging eyes that would worry him the most, and for that reason it was always worth being polite. "And what's your news? How is work?"
Majid shrugged. "The same. What about you—how is it in the desert these days?"
"Fine." Nayir began heading down the pier, calling abruptly over his shoulder, "Have a good morning." But the tone of condescension in Majid's question rankled him all the way to the Jeep.
The morning only got worse. Traffic was terrible. He stopped for coffee and eggs at a roadside vendor, but the air was so thick with exhaust fumes that he couldn't breathe, so he went back to the Jeep and drove recklessly off, forgetting his plans for the day, desperate only to get away from the honking traffic and the gagging smell of diesel. But there was no getting free, even when the buildings thinned out and there was nothing near the freeway but fields of sand. In a fit he drove onto the shoulder, switched to four-wheel drive, and drove off into the sand, heading for nowhere. When the freeway was nothing but a thin line at the horizon, he stopped the Jeep and ate his breakfast and then, checking his prayer schedule, got out with his rug to pray on the sand.
It was only then that his anger dissipated and, finishing his prayers, sitting back on the sand in the shade of the Jeep, that he was able to contemplate the cause of his mood. A new dread had cropped up since the conversation with Muhammad. Nouf had made plans to run away. To America. She had died in the desert, but her running to America would have been another kind of death. And that was what caused the dread. That America represented all that was free and exciting, that it was a destination worth erasing your life for, that this place, this city, this desert, this sea, weren't the material of a young girl's dreams.
Qazi ash-Shrawi laid the clipboard on the desk and came to the window to stand closer to Nayir. He had a quiet voice, and the sounds from the warehouse below were causing him to speak louder than was comfortable.
They were in Qazi's office at his father's shoe warehouse. It was a glass-paneled room looking out over row after row of inventory boxes, some stacked so high that only a crane could reach them.
Qazi was almost as tall as Nayir but half as wide. He wore a clean white robe and an immaculately pressed headscarf held down by a new black goat-hair igal. When he walked, Nayir noticed a pair of dingy old sneakers peeking out from the bottom of his robe—odd considering that his father ran the biggest shoe import business in Jeddah, which Qazi, the oldest son, was set to inherit one day. Yet the shoes looked comfortable and suggested that despite his elegance and refinement, Qazi was a hard worker.
"I only saw her once in person," he said. "And everyone was there—my uncle, my cousins, my father. There were servants in the room. She wasn't allowed to lift her burqa, so I didn't see her face."
"Did you talk to her?" Nayir asked.
"I asked her if she was excited about the wedding and she said yes. That was it."
"Did she sound excited?"
"I don't know. I think she was nervous." Qazi looked down at his workers and grew thoughtful.
"So you had no idea what she looked like?" Nayir asked.
"Well, I saw a picture. Othman showed it to me."
"What was she like?"
Qazi gave an anxious smile.
Ever since meeting Qazi, Nayir had felt protective of him. There was an air of caution about him, and an immediate impression of grace; he was like a giraffe in the savanna, ears sharply poised to listen for danger, and like a giraffe, there was something sad and oddly vulnerable about him.
Nayir looked dolefully at the panorama and tried to imagine what had really prompted him to want to marry Nouf. Family pressure? Money? Love? He didn't seem the sort of man who would rush into a marriage unless every detail was right. With his clear brown eyes and square jaw, he was remarkably handsome. Nayir could imagine women lining up to have him. There must have been a reason he chose Nouf.
"Do you know what happened to her?" Qazi asked.
"As I said, it's still under investigation."
"I thought the police said it was an accident," he whispered.
"They did."
A worker opened the door behind them and, seeing them, apologized for the intrusion.
"It's no problem, Da'ud," Qazi said. "Just give me a few minutes."
"I'm sorry to take your time," Nayir said.
"No, really." Qazi raised his hand. "You sure you don't want coffee?"
"I'm fine, thanks."
"
Then please have a seat. I can give you all the time you need."
Nayir returned to the desk and Qazi joined him, moving the clipboard aside and putting his elbow squarely on the desk as if to say, Go ahead, ask me anything.
"So you never spoke to Nouf except that one time?" Nayir asked.
Qazi pressed his lips together and stared at the desktop with eyes that said, I take that back—ask me something else.
"Getting married—that's a big decision," Nayir said. "You're young."
"I'm nineteen."
"If I'd gotten married when I was your age, I would have wanted to know everything about the woman before making that kind of commitment." Nayir saw his face twitch. "That's a decision for life. I'd want to make sure I was doing the right thing, and then I'd want to make sure again, especially if I didn't know the girl that well."
"I did kind of know her," Qazi said. "We used to play together when we were kids."
"What was she like then?"
He shrugged. "I liked her. She was beautiful."
"That's it?"
"Well"—he smiled wistfully—"I remember one time she beat me at soccer when we were kids. We were on the roof of my parents' house. I think she was six. Anyway, she threw me on the cement and started pounding on my chest. I was taken by surprise. I'm three years older; I didn't want to hurt her. She was screaming that she'd kill me if I let her win again." He laughed. "She thought I was letting her win on purpose."
"Were you?"
"No. I let her believe it until she beat me again and—" He stopped smiling. "Well, we were kids, but the only way to protect myself was to take the offensive, throw her on the ground and punch her." He shook his head. "I gave her a bloody nose. I still can't believe I did it. She told me later that she didn't hold it against me."
"So she was a strong girl," Nayir said. Qazi didn't reply, so he went on. "People change when they get older. If it were me, I would have been curious to see what she'd become."
Qazi chewed his lip.
"Look," Nayir said, "the family didn't ask me to come here—I just wanted to talk to you. You're the only link I have to understanding her. Her brothers—well, they were older than she was. They didn't know her so well. I was hoping you could tell me more. She would have been different with you, am I right?"
"They didn't ask you to come here?"
"No. And I won't say anything. You have my word."
"All right," he said softly. "I called her once or twice." He looked up at Nayir. "It wasn't what you think."
"What was she like on the phone?"
"She was ... I don't know, she sounded sweet." A secretive look stole over his face and he gave the hint of a smile. "She asked me if I liked dogs, and I said yes. And she wanted to know if I'd take her to New York for the honeymoon. She made me promise." He gave a soft laugh. "At first I was worried about it, because she seemed so excited, but she said that she'd always dreamed of going to New York and that she wanted me to be there when she finally made it."
Nayir hoped that his face didn't reveal his woe. It was getting to be too much—this tall, careful, considerate man heading off to New York with no idea at all that his new wife was about to abandon him. It seemed impossible that he could have killed her. Even if he suspected that he was being used, it didn't seem like a strong enough motive for Qazi.
"What else did you talk about?" Nayir asked.
"Mostly New York—what we were going to do, where we were going to stay. She kept asking me if it was all right if she left her face uncovered and only wore her scarf."
"And what did you say?"
"I said it was okay. I wanted her to be able to see New York."
Nayir looked at his lap to conceal a wince. He hated what was happening; he felt his anger coming back, and all the pity he'd felt for Nouf seemed pathetically misplaced. He had to remind himself that she'd probably been murdered and that if anyone stood to be humiliated by her behavior, it would have been Qazi.
"I realize that she was beautiful and that's what drew you in. But what was it that made you want to marry her?" Nayir asked. "There must have been something special about her."
Qazi gave a soft smile and bowed his head. "Yes. She was beautiful, that's what drew me in, but once I started getting to know her, she seemed happy." He looked up. "She's the only cousin I had who laughed like she did and didn't talk about proper behavior all the time. She talked about her dogs, and taking walks to the beach, and jet-skiing for fun. But she wasn't silly all the time either, she was just ... a perfect balance." He pressed his hands to his mouth. Nayir could see that the loss had affected him deeply and that he hadn't quite dealt with his grief. Tears threatened to fall, but Qazi excused himself and went into a small bathroom adjoining the office. It surprised Nayir to feel so much sadness from him. He had spoken to her on the phone only a few times, had met her once in a burqa, but he must have become deeply attached to her anyway, or at least to the idea of her. And why not? They shared a childhood connection. She was going to be his wife. He must have thought of her as his wife already.
Qazi returned a moment later with redder eyes. He sat back down at the desk and apologized for the interruption. Nayir gave him some time before plunging into his next question.
"When did you find out about ... her behavior?"
Qazi's hands seemed to grow unsteady and he drew them onto his lap. "My father told me at the funeral."
"I see. That's late. You didn't have any idea before then?"
Qazi frowned. "No, of course not."
"Can you tell me where you were on the morning that she disappeared?"
"I was—actually, I was at their house."
"The Shrawi estate?"
"Yes. I had to drop off another part of the trousseau." Glancing nervously at Nayir, he added, "I was only there for fifteen minutes. Othman can vouch for me."
"What time were you there?"
"Before noon," he said. "You don't think I'm involved in this?"
"And where were you after that?"
"I came back here. But first I stopped for lunch, and I drove around for a while." He was tense now, his arms rigidly crossed on his chest. "I had nothing to do with her running away, I hope you know that."
"How long were you out?"
"About an hour. I do that every day at lunchtime. You can ask anyone."
"So no one can really vouch for you around the time that Nouf went missing."
Qazi sighed and sat forward again. "No," he said. "I thought you just wanted to know more about her."
"I do," Nayir said gently. He felt bad for pressing, but Qazi seemed to have handled it well. "But you have to admit, you stood to lose the most from her indiscretions. If anyone found out about her behavior, they could have told you—"
"But why would they?"
"To stop the wedding."
Qazi shook his head sadly. "And my answer to the problem would have been to kidnap her? That's crazy." He looked straight into Nayir's eyes. "If I'd wanted to stop the wedding, I would have called off the wedding. It would have been that easy."
He was right—it would have been easy, and if anyone had asked why, he could have come up with a dozen excuses. He wasn't ready. He'd had a change of heart. No one would have blamed a nineteen-year-old boy for his hesitation. If Nouf's fiancé had kidnapped her, he would have had to be a much more arrogant, prideful man, someone for whom her indiscretion would have been deeply insulting. Qazi just didn't seem like that man.
12
WHEN KATYA OPENED the door, the screech of the blender deafened her. Sighing, she took off her shoes, unwound her scarf, and laid her cloak and purse on the coffee table. A second later the blender stopped.
"I'm home!" she called.
Her father appeared in the kitchen doorway holding a smoothie in a frozen glass.
"Is that for me?" she asked.
"If you like."
She collapsed on the sofa and held out her hand—exactly, she thought, like a chick in a nest. Her father came close
r and, looking down on her, gently handed her the glass. "How was work?"
"Good," she said. He nodded and turned back to the kitchen. "Thank you, Abi," she called after him.
"Othman called this afternoon."
She waited, the smoothie chilling her hands, but Abu was quiet, so she stood up and went to the kitchen doorway. He switched on the tap and began to wash the dishes.
"What did you do today?" she asked. He didn't reply. Tentatively she tasted the smoothie. It was odd and earthy, as if he'd added grass, but she managed to swallow it. "So what's for dinner?" she asked.
He shrugged. "The fridge is almost empty, but we do have some eggs."
She was hungry enough to eat a carton of eggs, but if she asked him to cook them, she knew he would say, "Do it yourself."
The frustration of working long hours was finally beginning to catch up with her. When she'd started this job almost a year ago, she'd been so excited about having a job at all that she never felt tired, or if she did, it was satisfying. But now she felt worn out. She'd been up since six this morning and now had no energy to go to the grocery store or cook a meal. Abu ought to have done it.
He's retired, she thought with a stab of frustration. He has all the time in the world. But the look on his face told her that he didn't have all the energy in the world. Something was bothering him, and it wasn't just Othman.
After Katya's mother had died, he'd quit his job at the chemical plant and settled quickly into retirement. Almost overnight his salt-sprinkled hair had gone completely gray, his sharp black eyes no longer were so keen, and his body, once unusually hearty and tall, had withered somehow. Maybe it was the fact that he no longer wore his well-fitting suits; he wore only his house robe, which made him look permanently frumpy.
Without his job, they had little money. His retirement income wasn't enough to cover expenses. Thankfully, they already owned the apartment, a two-bedroom walkup in the old town, but some months they couldn't afford to pay the bills, and when their phone got disconnected for nonpayment, Katya decided to find a job.