by Zoë Ferraris
Retreating to her bedroom, she decided to call Othman. She wanted to tell him about her discovery that the skin and blood beneath Nouf's fingernails weren't her own. She'd been putting it off because she wasn't sure how to break the news that Nouf had struggled with someone. She'd already had to tell him about the death, then the pregnancy. She didn't want him to associate her with devastating news. Now, every time she mentioned Nouf's name, he fell silent. She knew his sister's death had affected him deeply, and that Othman in general was hesitant in expressing his feelings, but it worried her that he was so quiet on the subject. She imagined that it was taking a much greater toll on him than he would ever admit.
When he answered, he sounded tired but he apologized, saying he'd been in meetings all day. "I want to see you," he said. "Can we make time this week?"
She agreed with relief. They had spoken at the funeral, but they hadn't been able to see each other. Before that he'd spent ten days in the desert, searching for Nouf. In that time she'd become a zombie; she'd lost sleep every night worrying about him.
It took a while before she marshaled the nerve to tell him about the evidence beneath Nouf's fingernails. He grew quiet, as she'd expected, and she felt a sudden guilt. This could have waited until tomorrow, she thought. After a lengthy silence, she heard him sigh.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I've been thinking about it all day. I really appreciate your help."
"It's no trouble."
"Well, I appreciate it anyway."
"Do you have any idea whom she might have struggled with?"
"No," he said. "Not at all."
"Just one more thing," she said, "and then I won't bother you with any more of this tonight. I'd like to get a DNA sample from her escort. I'm wondering if you could talk to him."
"Why do you need DNA?"
"I think if anyone kidnapped her, it would have been him. I'd like to check his DNA against the trace from her fingernails."
"That's a good idea," Othman said. "But he doesn't like me, you know. It might be better to talk to Nayir. He's going over to talk to Muhammad. Maybe he already has. Let me give you Nayir's number."
Wanting to protest, Katya reluctantly wrote down the number. She didn't want to call Nayir. He was exactly the sort of man who wouldn't speak to a woman on the phone. "I'll call him," she said, "if you think it's all right."
"Of course it's all right. He's a bit traditional, but if you explain what you need, he'll be willing to help."
She was sure he wouldn't be, but she would try.
"If he doesn't answer his cell phone," Othman said, hesitating, "you're going to have to go over to his boat. Or send your driver."
"Oh, I couldn't do that."
"Believe me, it's no problem. I trust you."
She was pleased that Othman trusted her modesty, but that wasn't the problem. "Nayir will be alarmed if I show up at his boat," she said. He would think she was being highly immodest.
"I know it's not exactly appropriate," Othman said, "but sometimes he doesn't answer his cell phone for days at a time. It can be very frustrating when you want to talk to him."
Katya was silent.
"Just go with your escort," Othman said, "and be sure to wear your burqa. It should be fine. Nayir's very Bedouin in his treatment of women, but he's a good man. He'll understand."
She wanted to explain exactly how horrible it would be for her to go to Nayir's boat—she always found it degrading when men ignored her, when they wouldn't meet her eye, and when they acted as if she were a prostitute just for opening her mouth—but Othman held Nayir in such high regard that she didn't want to speak ill of him. "I'll give him a call," she assured her fiancé.
That night she dreamed of baking cookies, warm, luscious sugar cookies exactly like her mother used to make. But when she started to eat them, her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway and warned her not to eat too many. A man doesn't like a fat woman, she said, not until she's had a few children, because otherwise he'll think she eats too much. She'll eat everything, the belching wench—she'll even eat the food for the children, and they'll be skinny, retarded, and a shame to their father. Then what kind of mother will she be?
In the dream, she began to cry.
13
NAYIR RETURNED to the marina after a morning of fruitless searching for Eric Scarsberry. He had visited three American living compounds but had turned up nothing. As he drove from one to the next, his thoughts kept returning to the idea of Nouf's having an American lover and to the ways in which his men had embellished the theory. One evening at the campfire, they had described the sorts of things a man would have to say to seduce a girl like Nouf: "In America, you can shop anytime you want," and "In America, you can have your own car!" The one that stuck in his mind most was "In America, a man can't marry a second wife."
Any mention of a second wife always caught his attention. He liked the idea that it was something to strive for, being an only wife, and in that regard he thought that Nouf might have a good reason to avoid a Saudi marriage after all. He himself rejected the idea of multiple wives. The Quran allowed four, but only with the provision that all four be treated exactly the same, which was to Nayir's way of thinking another method of forbidding polygamy, because what man could treat four women in precisely the same way? Give them each the same attention every day, the same amount of money, the same number of children? The same kisses? The same sex? Any man with that much stamina obviously had nothing else to do. When would he find the time to work? Raise children? Pray? It was ludicrous, and yet he saw these families all the time, these husbands who juggled four wives and twenty children. He saw them picnicking at the Corniche, the children running around like small tribes of bandits, the wives bickering while they laid out enormous rugs and set up elaborate outdoor kitchens with camp stoves and dozens of coolers. He would sit on a bench and watch from a distance, studying the wives all cloaked and veiled, and try to determine if the husband was actually treating them equally. In most cases the husband would sit on a separate rug with other men, above the fray. If the children approached him, they did so with trepidation. The women never approached except to bring food. At least, Nayir thought, the husband was ignoring them all. Equally.
But no matter how often he saw such families, no matter how commonplace they came to seem, it galled him every time to see a man with four wives. It didn't seem fair that some men could have four when others had none.
Exhausted from the midday heat, he pulled his Jeep into the marina lot. Usually he parked in the shade, even though there was only a single wandering strip of it, cast by a ramshackle storage shed. Because he had lived at the marina longer than any of the other residents, they always left the space for him. Never mind that the shade lasted only an hour, or that his Jeep was the oldest piece of junk in the lot; their neighborliness touched him. Today, however, another car had stolen that coveted spot. It was a black Toyota with newish plates and a Quran on the dashboard.
He stood for a moment and puzzled over the car. Perhaps he had a new neighbor. A businessman or a weekend sailor.
As he walked down the unsteady pier, the old wood creaked beneath his weight and the boats bobbed in sympathetic rhythm. He scanned the rows for the new neighbor's boat, but instead he spotted a woman on the pier. He couldn't see who it was; she wore a black robe and a scarf with a burqa. Only her eyes showed.
When she saw Nayir, she stood up straighter, and he knew instantly that it was Miss Hijazi. He didn't know any other women, and she had recognized him. What was she doing here? He nearly tripped on a pile of ropes. As he drew closer, he recognized her eyes and the shape of her shoulders. She waited for him to speak.
"Miss Hijazi," he said.
"Mr. Sharqi," she replied, pointedly not extending her hand. She stared at Nayir's coat, looked it up and down twice but made no comment.
"Ahlan wa'Sahlan," he said, not sure what to do. If the neighbors saw her, they'd start to gossip—who knows, they might even call the religious police
—but he couldn't hide her anywhere; there was nowhere to hide, and inviting her onto the boat was out of the question. It would be like asking her to bed. Just standing beside her made him feel guilty.
"Where's Othman?" he asked, glancing at Majid's boat.
"At work."
"Does he know that you're here?"
"Yes, he gave me the address."
"He did?"
"I'm sorry," she said. "I've tried calling, but your cell phone was off"
He took the phone from his pocket. It was off. "Don't you have an escort?"
"I have a driver." Her voice betrayed a slight annoyance.
"Where is he?"
"Taking a walk."
He didn't say anything. She lowered her eyes. "I didn't come here for the wrong reasons, Mr. Sharqi. My escort has known me since I was a child. He trusts me."
He heard a thump in a nearby boat. It was all the spur he needed to spring to action. "Come," he said, ushering her down the pier. "My boat's over there."
From forty meters, the sight of the Fatimah was a magnificent one. She was a Catalina yacht, nine meters long, with a bright red mainsail and a marine blue jib, both scrolled tightly around their masts. But as they drew closer, Nayir became acutely aware of the dirtiness of the harbor. Torn magazine pictures and chunks of trash floated in the water. He led her down the side ramp. Leaping onto the top deck, he offered her a hand, but she ignored it and hopped onto the boat.
"Tfaddalu" he said, motioning to the cabin entrance. Leaping onto the boat was one thing, climbing down the rickety ladder was another. He descended and turned to help Miss Hijazi, but he didn't want to touch her or appear to be looking up her skirt, so he moved away.
Gracefully she stepped off the ladder.
"Have a seat," he said, motioning to the dinette and the small sofa opposite. Quickly he snatched a pile of navigational charts from the sofa and threw them into the bedroom, but when he returned, he was shocked anew by the discovery of a dried turd on the sofa. It took him a moment to recognize an old cigar, undoubtedly left there by his dear friend Azim. He shoved it into his pocket.
"Tfaddalu. Sit down." He motioned to the sofa. No proper woman would descend on him like this. If the neighbors had seen her, who knew what would happen? Ya Allah, they could be arrested for this. She introduced herself into the space with a cautious drop; she seemed to be holding her breath.
"Something wrong?" he asked. She didn't reply.
He felt guilty for her discomfort even as he was grateful for it—it meant that she at least realized she was imposing on him and her presence was improper. Remembering his manners, he went into the kitchenette and offered her coffee, sweets, and dates, all of which she politely declined. He made coffee anyway and, while he was at it, tasted one of his dates. It had the texture of freshly poured concrete. Discreetly he spit it into the sink and dumped the rest in the trash.
He brought the coffee to the table, poured her a cup, and went back into the kitchen so he could speak to her from the safety of distance. "You didn't say that you knew the family," he said.
"I didn't want the examiner to know that I was connected to them," she said. "He was just looking for an excuse to throw me off the case."
Nayir felt foolish for not having thought of that.
"I've come here for business reasons, Mr. Sharqi. I hope you realize that."
Although the comment was spoken modestly, it prompted him to think of the other reasons she might have come. It was, in a way, an accusation: You think dirty thoughts. He felt a brief indignation.
"I've already processed the samples," he said.
"Which samples?"
"The private investigator gave me a dirt sample from her head wound. It looks as if she didn't get hit in the desert. The dirt from her wound was dark orange with clay mixed in. It didn't match the dirt from the wadi."
"Good." She nodded. "Those are the samples I gave to Othman. I haven't had time to process them yet." She seemed nervous; her fingers worried the hem of her sleeve. "Othman tells me that you know she was pregnant."
He nodded, but she wasn't looking at him, so he had to say "Yes."
"I was hoping you could help me get some DNA samples," she said. "To determine who the baby's father was." She kept her eyes on the floor, and he kept his on the stove. "I need them from everyone," she went on. "I need samples from her fiancé, her cousins, her escort, any man who's been to the house. I'd also like to match them to some skin cells and blood that I took from beneath her fingernails and on her wrists. Whoever fathered the child probably had the strongest motivation to kidnap her."
"Can't you get the brothers' DNA yourself?"
She seemed surprised, and he realized suddenly what the question implied. He felt a hot flush of shame.
Miss Hijazi was flustered, and she sat in tense silence for a full minute. Finally she exhaled. "What are you doing right now?"
He looked around. "What do you mean?"
"Do you have any plans for this afternoon?"
"Yes, I'm busy. What about you? I thought you had a job."
"I took the afternoon off," she said. "Have you spoken with the escort yet?"
Does Othman tell her everything? he wondered.
"Mr. Sharqi." She drew herself up. "I realize I'm making you uncomfortable—"
"No, you're not," he lied.
"Yes, I am, but I'm doing it for Nouf. This is not about you or me. This is about a woman who died and who needs someone to find the truth. You're the only one Othman trusts, the only one he can count on."
Nayir crossed his arms and said nothing, but the idea that Othman trusted him softened his mood somewhat.
"I'm only asking because I was hoping you could tell me more about the escort. He seems like a primary suspect."
"I don't think so." He gave a brief synopsis of what Muhammad had told him about Eric Scarsberry. Except for a subtle tightening in her shoulders, she did not seem surprised, but neither did she speak. "I trust you not to repeat this to anyone," he said.
"Of course not."
"I was searching for Eric's apartment this morning," he said. "I imagine it's in an American compound. I know of six different ones. I've checked three so far, but I haven't found the right one yet."
For a moment she didn't speak. "I'd like to come with you," she said finally, standing up.
"No. No, no. I can do this alone. You just, you go—"
"You don't have to drive me," she said. "I have my own transportation, if you'd rather follow me."
He hesitated. One part of him revolted against the idea of escorting his friend's fiancée—into an American compound, of all places!—but he knew she was right: they were doing this for Nouf, and ultimately that was what Othman wanted. Still, there was no reason she had to come along, only that she was stubborn, or trying to impress Othman. The more generous part of him suspected that she was genuinely becoming involved in this case. It was no little thing for her to pursue the evidence trail on what had already been classified an accidental death. She was probably going against her boss's wishes, perhaps even jeopardizing her job. Grudgingly, he had to admit that he admired her persistence for the sake of truth.
"All right," he said. "Since you have your own transportation."
14
FOLLOWING MISS HIJAZI'S TOYOTA, Nayir wondered what sort of parents she had who would allow her to work in a mixed environment. They must be Westernized. He could imagine her father wearing a business suit, speaking perfect English; her mother was perhaps one of those women who wrote letters to the king and the ministers complaining about the laws against women. (Why can't we drive cars? Why can't we travel to Mecca without our husbands' permission?) But he had trouble matching this image of the Westernized family with the sort who would socialize with the Shrawis. It was more unusual still that Miss Hijazi herself was marrying into the family. It surprised him that Othman approved of her having a job, not only because it meant she would be interacting with men, but because it implied that s
he needed the money. The Shrawis might not be too happy about that.
They reached the gates of the American compound. To the left, a neon blue sign read CLUB JED in ornate, mock-Arabic script. A security guard approached the Toyota and spent a few minutes talking with the driver. Finally he waved them through, motioning for Nayir to continue on as well.
Inside the compound, the environment changed. These were mostly Saudi-style homes, bright stucco buildings with ornate shutters and flat roofs, but the gardens were strangely American, bursting with flowers he didn't recognize. Americans lived here, as well as other Western workers who signed up for two, maybe three years of work in Saudi. Most of them came because the work was lucrative and completely tax-free; some companies even paid for their employees to fly back to America once or twice a year. There was a strong need for imported labor—a good number of Saudis were wealthy enough not to have to work, and, Nayir thought, they believed that work was beneath them—but despite the necessity for American workers, he still felt a twinge of resentment that they should come here and build their own little worlds, their own private compounds where they lived as if they were still in America.
Nayir followed Miss Hijazi's car along the checkerboard streets to a parking lot that was crowded with pickups and SUVs. They climbed out of their cars. To the right was a footpath that led up a short hill.
"According to the guard, that's a club," Miss Hijazi said, pointing to a building at the crest of the hill. Although the building was squat and grungy, a marble balustrade lent it an air of refinement. "We can ask about Eric there."
"It's a women's club?" he asked.
"An everybody club. A bar."
"A bar?" Even in the compound, alcohol was still forbidden.
"No alcohol, of course," she assured him. "Come on, let's look inside. We might find him there, or someone who knows him."