by Zoë Ferraris
Relieved, Katya went to work on blood samples from a case she'd prepared that morning. She glanced at her purse. She hadn't taken the time to look at the printouts, and now it was bothering her. Had either DNA been a match for Nouf's baby? She would have to wait until she got home to find out.
That evening she was distracted. Abu noticed that something was wrong, but when he asked, she lied and said she was coming down with a cold. All through dinner she thought about Othman and wondered how she would tell him what she'd discovered.
After dinner she called Ahmad. Half an hour later he came to the door. Abu invited him in and the two men talked while Katya went to her room, put on her cloak and scarf, and made minute adjustments to her burqa. She hadn't told her father she was leaving, but if she let the men talk long enough, eventually Ahmad would tell him. It was harder for Abu to say no that way.
A while later Abu knocked on the bedroom door. "Katya." He sounded angry.
She came out fully covered. "I'm going out for a little while."
"I know. Ahmad told me. Where are you going?"
"I've got to meet with Othman briefly. It's about his sister."
Abu eyed her dangerously. "Why can't you just call him?"
"It's not something I want to tell him on the phone." She looked pleadingly at her father, but his frown grew even deeper, and he might have stopped her from going if Ahmad had not appeared at the end of the hallway.
"Ready?" Ahmad asked. "Let's make this quick."
Katya wanted to kiss him. He always knew exactly what to say.
Abu turned to his friend. "You keep a good eye on her," he said grouchily. Katya felt his stare on her back all the way down the hall. Ahmad nodded and with his best show of sternness led her to the waiting car.
As they drove through the old town, Katya stared idly out the window at the souks, which were closing for the night, and at the buildings, which were made of coral quarried from Red Sea reefs. She had the impulse to reach out the window and touch one, to feel its rough texture beneath her fingers, something to snap her out of her unending thoughts about people. Abu. Nouf. Nayir. Salwa and Abdul Aziz. Othman.
When they pulled into the parking lot of the children's amusement park, she saw that Othman was already there. He'd driven the silver Porsche, and the top was down. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt, and his hair, thick and curly and black, was shorter than before. But it was the sight of his profile, his long arms, and something in the way his hand draped over the steering wheel that caught in her throat.
Behind him the amusement park was shutting down for the night, and one by one the rides went dark—first the Ferris wheel, then the roller coaster, then the smaller rides. Katya asked Ahmad to wait until the lights were out completely before pulling up to Othman's car. There was less chance they'd be noticed in the dark—and it was already suspicious, two cars in an empty lot exchanging a female passenger. At night the religious police were scarce, but Katya felt edgy.
"Your father will want him to keep the top down," Ahmad said. "But not, of course, if you're going on the freeway."
She smiled at him and got out of the car.
When she climbed into the Porsche, Othman pressed a button that brought the top over them. His eyes were dewy, as if he'd been crying, but she suspected he was just tired. She lifted her burqa. He clasped her hand and kissed it. "It's so good to see you."
She felt a flutter in her stomach. "I've missed you," she said, braving herself to lean over the seat and give his cheek a kiss. It always felt awkward. It will become more comfortable, she told herself, when Ahmad isn't watching.
He accepted the kiss and cradled her face in his hand.
"Are you all right?" she asked, running her hand through his hair.
"Yes."
"I like your haircut."
He smiled. "Do you want to go for a ride?"
"Yes."
Kissing her forehead, he released her hand and started the car. They turned out of the lot. Othman kept an eye on the rearview mirror to be sure that Ahmad was following them, and they drove without talking, letting the growl of the car's engine fill the small space. Now in his presence, she was filled with affection. She couldn't remember why she'd doubted him and suspected that it had been only because of her own stress and the days of silence between them, however unintended they were. One fear rose inside her—the fragility of her loyalty, now kept at bay by frequent glances at his steady hands, his melancholy eyes, the comforting presence of his musky smell.
Twenty minutes later he pulled onto a darkened beach south of the city. There was a series of private beaches here. Like the others, this one had high stone walls on three sides and a small metal door at the corner. They went onto the beach and shut the door behind them. Through the door's iron grate they could see Ahmad in his car, his face half lit by the flickering light of his portable DVD player.
"What's he watching?" Othman asked.
"Bootleg reruns of Hour el Ayn."
"What's that?"
She was mildly surprised that he'd never heard of The Beautiful Virgins. "It's a primetime drama about the recent militant attacks on the American compound."
"And it's called Hour el Ayn?"
"It tells the stories of the people who died and their attackers. I guess there are some virgins in there too."
Othman smiled and shook his head and led her down the sand. There was a cabana near the water, its door locked with a chain.
"Is this your family's beach?" she asked.
"Yes, but I haven't been here in years. We have beaches on the island now."
"It's lovely." She had been on private beaches before, but the protective walls had always extended so far into the water that nearby bathers couldn't reach them without swimming. The walls on this beach ended just a few meters shy of the water's edge, and although Katya heard no sounds of activity from neighboring enclaves, the moon shed a stark light on the water and she didn't feel comfortable taking off her abaaya. Othman suggested they sit on the sand.
They sat close enough that their legs were touching. Draping his arms on his knees, he looked out at the water with what she recognized as a longing to go in. When he caught her looking, he bowed his head.
"Do you want to swim?" she asked.
"No. No, I'm exhausted."
"Don't hold back on my account."
He sighed. "It's all right. I am genuinely tired. I've been in meetings all day. Always in meetings! I wish I could get away."
"Can you take a day off?"
"Not this week. With my father still in the hospital, we're all working twice as much." He shook his head. "I don't know what we're going to do when—Allah forgive me—when the day comes that he passes away."
The mention of his father brought her thoughts back to Nouf and the DNA samples. She didn't want to plunge right into the matter, so she let Othman talk. It was best to listen for a while, so she could judge his state. Othman went on about work, about one of their donors who made a habit of questioning every donation that the family made, no matter how small. She listened, laughing at the appropriate moments, but her mind was abuzz with a chatter of its own. Talking about Nouf always makes him so sad. I'm afraid of displeasing him. I shouldn't be afraid! If this marriage is going to work, we have to speak openly. He should realize this is important. But I understand his grief...
"You seem distracted," he said finally. It wasn't an accusation but an impartial observation. She felt a swell of relief.
"I'm sorry. I've been worrying about work myself." She noticed that he was looking at her hand. Idly, he took it in his own and began to stroke her fingers. "I saw your sister Abir yesterday."
He smiled. "So I heard." His finger was tracing spirals and brush strokes on her palm. It took her a moment to realize that he was writing a message. She spelled it out: W-A-N-T T-O M-A-R-R-Y S-O-O-N? She smiled and grabbed his palm to write her own message in reply.
Y-E-S.
He squeezed her hand. "So what have
you been worrying about at work?"
"Oh, my boss. The usual," she said. "Actually, I did some work today on Nouf's case."
He stiffened so slightly that she almost missed it. "Ah."
"I'm sorry it's taken so long to get back to you. I've just—I've had to do a lot of the work off the clock."
"You're not putting your job in jeopardy, I hope?" He frowned.
"Not really." She saw that he didn't believe her. "I was quick about it."
There was an awkward silence. He dropped her hand and exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Ya Allah. I never even thought about it."
"No," she said, "don't worry."
"No, no, I should apologize! I'm sorry. It didn't cross my mind that you'd have to ... I don't know, sneak around and hide things. That's what you're doing, isn't it?"
She couldn't deny it.
"I'm such an idiot! Katya—" He took her hand again, more firmly now. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. I want to do it." She squeezed his hand. "Listen, it's no problem. I was just trying to determine the DNA of the baby's father," she said softly. "I was hoping to match it with her escort."
His grip went slack. "Was it a match?"
"No." She wanted to tell him about Eric, but it seemed too much to add. She felt certain suddenly that he didn't know about Eric. How could she explain what Nayir had told her? That Nouf had been making plans to move to New York. That she had been meeting an American. It was a dangerous thing to reveal, especially if Eric still had a connection to the family. I can't say it tonight.
"Do you have any other suspects?" he asked.
She gritted her teeth.
"No, wait," he said. "You don't have to answer that. I'm sorry. It's not even really your job. I feel selfish for putting this on you."
"No, please don't apologize."
"Katya." Suddenly his voice had an edge. "As much as I appreciate your dedication to my sister, I think you should consider your job first."
She felt abashed.
"I mean, not every woman has the courage to work," he said. "I know I've said this before, but I'm really proud of you. I honestly don't want you doing anything that will put your job at risk."
"Trust me," she said. "I'm very careful."
After an awkward pause he nodded, but she felt him draw into himself. There was a look in his eye that reminded her of Nouf just before she would pull away.
Another silence ensued. He put his hands around his legs. The silence, his withdrawal, felt like a rebuke. She told herself that it wasn't personal, that he was grieving and this was how he grieved, but the mood was so dark that it poisoned the air, and she felt they'd never recover from it.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He seemed to snap out of a reverie. "Don't apologize. But listen. I'm grateful for what you've done, and for how much you care about Nouf. You've proven it to me. I know that you care. But what's done is done. Think of what this commitment might cost you. You can't bring her back." He looked at her. "I think this should stop."
She was so taken aback that she didn't know what to say. "What should stop?"
"This—all this work you're doing. I appreciate it. I want to find out what happened to her too. But this is dangerous. And—and this thing about her child, I think it's only going to cause more pain. What will happen if you find out who fathered her child? We don't want to punish anyone—we don't want more suffering."
Katya thought he might cry, and she realized just how difficult it was for him to hold in his feelings all the time.
"I know it's been hard," she said finally. "I don't want to cause you any more pain. But I was thinking that whoever fathered that child might have had something to do with her disappearance."
"That might be," he said, hands gripping the sand, "but then what? Someone gets punished for falling in love? For breaking the rules?" His voice had gone up a pitch. She waited for a moment, letting the silence calm him. "Look, my family is trying to accept her pregnancy right now. Any more news could be devastating. Meanwhile, you're putting your job at risk."
"I'm sorry," she said. "It may be that I'm prying—"
"You're not prying."
"But the father of her child might have hurt her, and wouldn't it be better if you knew who it was?"
"If my family has to believe that Nouf's death was accidental, then that's the way it should be for now." He raised a hand to stop her protest. "For now, I said. If you get caught doing this, I won't forgive you for jeopardizing your career."
She looked away, fighting a turmoil of emotions. She wanted to say that he was acting suspicious—that if he knew who the father was, if he was protecting someone, then he ought to tell her.
"Please don't ruin your life." Othman took her chin and gently guided her face toward his. He looked straight into her eyes. "Nouf is dead," he said, "but you are not."
She nodded, understanding, if not his every statement, at least the impulses behind them. He kissed her softly and nuzzled her cheek, but instead of pulling away, he continued to kiss her with growing passion. She felt a spasm of pleasure when his hand slid around her waist, but they heard a noise behind them—it sounded as if Ahmad had rolled his window down; the noises from his DVD player suddenly got louder—and they both recognized it as a warning: That's enough. Othman withdrew his hand and sat up straight.
His words troubled her. Did he really think that she was pursuing this investigation to prove something to him? And why was he so upset that she might lose her job? She ought to be upset. What if, after they got married, she decided to quit her job? She would probably want to have children one day. Would he forgive her for quitting? Would he understand? The sudden realization that they hadn't talked about children—at least not enough to satisfy her—made her tremendously nervous.
She also felt a creeping doubt. It surprised her that he'd be so adamant about her job. He didn't like talking about Nouf, she knew—he had always become withdrawn. By previous standards tonight had been practically a catharsis for him. Something had caused it, but she didn't want to speculate on what it was. It was late, and she was sick of guessing.
20
HE WAS LYING beneath her. Her long dark hair fell over his chest and face, tickling his cheeks. It was cool in the room, but where her skin touched his, he felt a pleasant heat. He'd dreamed about this woman a hundred times, but he never saw her face. Her hair, cascades of it, long and black, obscured everything, but just when he'd reach up to brush it back, she'd pull away. It felt as if the reach were actually a push and that the more strength he used, the faster she'd disappear. He learned from the dream that the only way to catch her was to stop wanting her, to stop trying and let her hair drape him in darkness, let her body enfold him in a spell of sensation. Someday he'd see her face, but meanwhile he could enjoy the weight of her body, the softness of her skin.
Opening his eyes, Nayir thought he was still in the dream. His groin was throbbing and something tickled his cheeks, but the boat rocked around him and he realized that someone was topside. There was a clatter in the doorway. Pushing off the sheet, he scrambled to his feet and saw Miss Hijazi at the top of the ladder, the hem of her cloak clutched in her fist. "Nayir?" she called. "Are you there?"
He stumbled to the bathroom.
"Nayir? I'm sorry. I have to speak to you. I tried your cell phone, but it was off." There was an awkward silence. "May I come in for a moment?"
He shut the bathroom door and rubbed his face. It had been a few days since he'd seen Miss Hijazi. He'd been trying not to think about her.
"I'm coming down," she said. He thought he heard a catch in her voice. Peeking out the bathroom door, he saw her descend the ladder. He caught a glimpse of her ankle and shut the door again.
"Sorry to intrude," she called out. "Your neighbor was watching."
"So you came in?" he asked.
"I told him I was your sister."
"Oh, no!"
"I had no choice. Listen, Nayir, I've tried calling you.
Why don't you turn your cell phone on?"
"I'm busy. Does Othman know that you're here?"
"This is important. I got the DNA you left. I was finally able to analyze it, and it turns out that neither Eric nor Muhammad fathered Nouf's child."
Annoyed and unable to process what she said, he switched on the tap. The water was lukewarm and slimy. He stared in the mirror instead; he looked exhausted. What time had he fallen asleep? He'd been up all night studying maps of the desert, searching for Eric's research site.
"Did you hear me, Nayir?" She sounded breathless. "Someone else was the father."
Summoning his nerve, he took a robe from the door and put it on. Opening the door just enough to slip through it, he darted into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. From the corners of his eye, he noticed that she kept her back to him, and he was grateful for it. He stripped off his house robe, snatched a pair of pants from the floor, and found a shirt on the bed; both were rumpled. He put them on anyway.
"It means there has to be a third man," she called out.
Moments later he emerged from the bedroom and found her standing in the kitchenette. "Well, it wasn't me."
She spat out a laugh and clapped a hand to her mouth, which was behind a burqa.
He frowned.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"You shouldn't be here," he snapped. "This is a zina crime, you know. Did you tell Othman you were coming here?"
"No, but—"
"And why aren't you at work? I thought you had a job."
"I took the morning off. Look, I'm sorry to intrude." She said it as if she meant it. He averted his gaze. Even though she was wearing a burqa, he still didn't like staring into her eyes. "I need your help with something," she said.
"What?"
"I want to investigate a site that may be connected to Nouf's death."
"What do you need me for? You've got a driver. And a fiancé."
She didn't reply. She turned to the window, crossed her arms, and gripped her elbows. Nayir waited, growing more tense by the second.
"Othman doesn't want me to do this anymore," she said, her voice unsteady. "We talked about it, and he said I was risking my job."