by Zoë Ferraris
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. She set the shoe in the toolbox and wiped the dirt from her cloak. "Let's say Nouf came to the zoo to meet someone she trusted enough to meet alone. How did she get here? The truck. She drove it down here and waited."
"Why wouldn't she park in the lot?" he asked.
"She probably parked here to be discreet. She was a woman, so even if she was wearing a man's robe, someone might have noticed the outline of her body. The person she was going to meet arrived in his car, and they both got out of their cars. Here." She pointed to the footprints around the tire tracks. "All of these footprints are pretty small. It looks like the person she was meeting was relatively small." She took a tape measure from her box and measured the prints.
Nayir wandered around. "You know, these could all be the same prints."
"They're not all the same pattern, but they're similar." She looked up. "All size thirty-six. And they look like men's shoes." He handed her the mangled stiletto and she measured it, looking at him dolefully. "Also thirty-six."
"If she was going to exchange the shoes, they probably didn't fit well."
"Maybe she was lying," Miss Hijazi said.
"I have the shoe she was wearing in the desert," Nayir said. "It's on my boat. I'll measure it tonight. What about the camel? It seems to me that the kidnapper would have brought it—" He stopped, feeling that the rest was obvious: that if the kidnapper had brought the camel, then he had been to the estate, and he knew enough about the grounds to know how to steal a camel and a truck.
Miss Hijazi looked uneasy. "Well, we don't know that the camel was here."
"I doubt that someone would kidnap Nouf and then go back to the estate to steal the camel with her body in the car."
"All right." She snatched a handful of vials from her toolbox and went back to the drag marks. "The truth is, we don't know what sort of relationship Nouf had with the kidnapper. She might have brought the camel herself, as part of some ... arrangement they had. Who knows?" She sounded breathless. Kneeling down in the dirt, she scooped up two samples and sealed the vials. "Maybe she was running away and someone was trying to stop her. If she was hit here, she still could have run off on her own after the fight. She might have been mobile but disoriented. It might even explain how she lost the shoe, and then later the camel."
"It's possible," he said, "but it wouldn't explain the missing truck. They still haven't found it. If she drove herself to the desert, the truck should have been near the wadi."
"Someone could have stolen the truck in the desert."
He refrained from pointing out that such a thing was extremely unusual. It was best not to argue about the truck at all, since they had no evidence. He watched her take the dirt samples back to the tool kit. "If someone else met her here and knocked her out, then one car would still be here. Where is it?" he asked.
"Maybe the kidnapper left it here," she said, "and then came back later to get rid of it."
It sounded flimsy, but he let it pass. "How did she even know about this place?"
"Would her escort know? He didn't mention the zoo, did he?"
"No," Nayir said. But he smelled like manure. He walked around some more, studying the prints.
She shut her toolbox. "There's evidence that other people were here," she said, "but it's not necessarily connected to Nouf. I think you should go back to Muhammad. He would be able to tell us how she knew about this place and whether she came here more than once. He might also be able to explain the shoes."
"I already asked him about that."
"But think about it—Nouf kept the shoes. Maybe she really was going to exchange them. She would have needed Muhammad to do it, and maybe that's why she brought the shoes here. She was meeting Muhammad." She looked warily at Nayir. "You have to talk to him again. I'll come with you."
"No," he said.
"Yes."
"No." From the look in her eyes, he could tell he was only making matters worse. "It would be better if I went alone," he said, his voice softening. "He trusts me, and I have the feeling he'll open up again, which he won't do if you're there."
Grudgingly, she agreed. For a moment they stood facing each other, too hot or too tired to speak. The sun bore down on their heads, and the air was heavy with dust. In the distance they heard a bird's angry screech. Nayir realized that he was staring at her burqa. He didn't feel like avoiding her gaze just then. It felt all right to study her eyes, to watch her hands move, and to notice the outline of her body through her cloak. The fabric was thin, and in the sunlight he could almost see through it. She had shapely arms and a narrow waist. For a very brief moment he indulged in a fantasy that she wasn't Othman's fiancée, she was just a woman he'd met. He wondered if she had fantasies about him, and he looked at her eyes for a clue, but she was studying his face with suspicion.
"I'll have to tell Othman about this," she said.
He felt an unpleasant jolt. "What?"
"About the shoe."
He nearly exploded with relief. Allah forgive me for my sinful thoughts.
"It's not the kind of thing we can hide," she added.
"I'll tell him if you like."
She turned and squinted into the sunlight. "That might be better. Why don't you just tell him it was your idea? In fact, don't mention me at all."
"I can't do that."
She turned back to him. "No, you're right. I don't want you to lie." She rubbed her forehead. "I appreciate your coming out here. I hope this doesn't make things awkward for you with Othman. I don't want to cause any trouble between you."
Too late, he thought. "Don't worry."
"You know he talks about you a lot. You're like a hero to him."
He didn't know what to say.
"Maybe it would be best," she said, "if we both told Othman what we found here today. It might make a difference if he hears it from you too."
He nodded. With a tired sigh, Miss Hijazi shut the toolbox, stood up, and turned toward the hill. "I have another hour and a half before I have to be at work. We should talk about what we're going to say. Ahmad has to leave soon. Would you escort me to lunch?"
He could think of ten reasons to say no, but he couldn't force down the eagerness rising in his chest. However, as a matter of principle, he frowned. "I don't see how that's possible."
"I know a place," she said. "Just follow me."
21
NAYIR CLIMBED OUT of the Jeep into a heat that felt dangerous. The humid air gagged him with its industrial stench. They had parked in the last two spots in a tiny lot near al-Balad. The lot, surrounded by tall apartment buildings, was half in shade, but it hardly made a difference. The afternoon sun warped everything like a desert mirage—the cars, the pavement, the billboards overhead. A lone, dry fountain at the head of an alley seemed to be dripping with waves of heat. Only the buildings were immune, sturdy limestone structures heavy with casements and lattice screens that kept out the heat.
A woman scurried by, darting across the lot into the entrance of an alley, glancing around to make sure no one was following her. Nayir felt a familiar twinge of alarm at seeing a woman alone in the street. How did they do it, he wondered—walk so quickly with their faces covered? She slipped into the alley and slowed her pace. Perhaps she was hurrying only because of the heat.
He crossed the lot to Miss Hijazi's car, and by the time he reached it his shirt was soaked and his pant legs were sticking to his ankles. He wished he'd worn a robe.
She was taking her toolbox from the trunk and saying goodbye to Ahmad. The driver gave Nayir a stern look before climbing back into the car. The look was half a warning to treat her with respect, half an acknowledgment of solidarity.
"I'll carry that," Nayir said, motioning to the toolbox.
"I'm fine." She took off, heading down an alley. He followed awkwardly. Walking behind her made him feel like a child, but she was leading, so he couldn't very well walk in front. He would have to walk beside her, although that didn't feel right either. He ima
gined Othman seeing them together. Even husbands and wives didn't walk side by side; the woman walked in back as a sign of respect.
He drew up beside her just as they left the alley. She turned right and slowed, gazing around, her head swiveling with every turn since the burqa clipped her vision. "It's here somewhere," she said.
"Where are we going?"
"It's one of these family buffets where you can take an unmarried woman to lunch."
He'd heard about such places—cafés where women and men could dine together without being confined to family sections. It was a family restaurant, yes, but women were not expected to veil their faces, only their hair. More surprising, women could dine alone—but men could enter too, as long as they had female company. Nayir heard that men hired Filipino girls for the sole purpose of helping them gain access to these cafés. Once inside, they could flirt with any girl in the place. Basically, they were pickup joints, and he hoped to Allah that this wasn't one of those. How would he ever explain that to Othman?
As they walked past storefronts displaying perfumes and trinkets, his palms began to sweat. He felt foolish searching for a café that the authorities had probably shut down just as soon as it had opened. But after a few more paces they spotted a metallic sign hanging over a doorway: THE BIG MIX—FAMILIES WELCOME!
"This is it," she said, suppressing her excitement.
He stopped walking. "I don't think this is—"
"Don't worry," she said, looking slightly amused. "It's not what you think." Before he could reply, she turned into the doorway and began to climb a flight of narrow wooden stairs. He followed, wondering if she was leading him into a trap. He imagined a plot: she had decided he was lonely, inept at meeting women, unlucky enough to have no family to arrange a marriage for him. So she'd come up with a plan to drag him here, hoping a spark would catch. If that's what she was thinking, then she didn't know how misguided she was.
At the top of the stairs they entered a glass-walled waiting room. "A friend of mine has been here before," she said. "She told me the food was excellent." A maitre d' greeted them and motioned them into the dining hall.
The room was an enormous glass-domed atrium with a splashing fountain at its center. Filtered through the high windows, sunlight dappled the blue carpets and the glass-topped dining tables in the middle of the room. Beyond those, a set of regal stairs led to separate seating areas where more tables, large and small, were placed for privacy, each shielded by potted palms. The maitre d' told them they could sit where they liked, so Miss Hijazi led him to the top of the room, where a table for two seemed waiting to receive them. Nayir cast a quick glance around. There were a few men in the crowd, but they were far enough away, and busy eating.
Miss Hijazi laid her toolbox on the floor, sat down at the table, and raised her burqa. Having no other choice, he sat across from her and wondered how he would survive a whole lunch with her exposed face in front of him. But she wasn't looking at him; she was staring at the crowd—men, children, women with their faces revealed. "I almost don't believe it," she said. "I've wanted to come here for the longest time, just to see if it was real."
Nayir too took in everything, scrupulously avoiding the exposed female faces, looking instead at the men. There didn't seem to be a single bachelor in the crowd; all of the men were sitting with wives and children. They looked happy and relaxed, not concerned that their wives' faces were exposed in public. Daring a glance at one or two women, he noticed that they were conducting themselves modestly. Most wore cloaks and headscarves and kept their attention focused on their families. He felt relief, mingled with surprise that a restaurant as modern as this one would be filled with good people acting appropriately.
From the corners of his eyes, he noticed Miss Hijazi grinning. She'd been oohing at the silverware and admiring the chandelier, and he was pleased to realize that for all her independence, she was in some ways still a sheltered woman.
Then he realized that this was the first time he'd ever been with a woman in a restaurant. It was a milestone somehow, but it was too fraught with guilt to appreciate fully. He slid a hand into his pocket and touched his misyar, the fake marriage license. He would have to pencil Miss Hijazi's name into the box in case they were caught, but even that felt like a guilty act.
"What do you think?" she asked.
He withdrew his hand. "It's a nice place."
"It's cool, too," she said. "Not cold, like so many stores you go into. And now comes the best part." She stood up. "You can actually get your own food."
"I'll be right there."
She gave him an odd glance but headed down to the buffet. Once she was gone, he took out the misyar and reached into his pocket for a pen. It occurred to him that he'd had the misyar for years, had anticipated its use as a momentous occasion, and now it was happening without warning, and with a woman who was completely unavailable to him. It felt like a sin to put her name in the box. It wasn't what he had wanted.
He folded the misyar, placed it back in his pocket, and went down to the buffet.
He spent twenty minutes exploring the dazzling selection of fruits and pastries, hot sandwiches, skewered meats, vegetables, rice. Yogurts and ice creams. Ten kinds of tea. Coffee, black or American-style. Hot chocolate. Cold chocolate. Ice—ice!—in buckets on every display. When they finally returned to their table, Miss Hijazi was silly with excitement.
"I could come here every day," she said, whipping open her napkin and picking up her fork. Nayir tried to picture her there with Othman. She was so happy that her mood might infect him too. And perhaps that's what he liked about her—this carefree side to leaven his dour moods. Nayir imagined them coming here years from now, their young children sitting at the table around them, and he wondered, would she still be this happy then?
He dared a glance at her face and saw a child's excitement in her eyes. He imagined that a joy like that could last. She smiled, not at him exactly, but in response to his attention, and somehow he allowed the future to become his own. He was sitting at the table with her, surrounded by his children, himself the recipient of that generous smile. It thrilled him, and it choked him. Allah, forgive me. I am a sinful, selfish man. This wouldn't happen if I had a wife.
"I think it's safe to assume she was kidnapped," Miss Hijazi said, returning to the subject of Nouf.
"Maybe."
"But who did it?" She took a bite of her lunch. "Maybe we should think of it this way. What did Nouf do that was most outrageous? She got pregnant. Now who would that upset the most?"
"Her family, if they knew."
"Let's say they knew," she said. "Qazi would have found out on their wedding night that she wasn't a virgin. He would have divorced her. So maybe the family took her out to the desert just to spare themselves the shame of a public discovery of her condition."
"It's not likely," Nayir said.
"It's not quite an honor killing," Miss Hijazi went on. "It's an honor abduction, except they don't take the blame. If they make it look as if she ran away, then it's all her fault, and people will say that she was trying to avoid the wedding." She fell silent, chewing.
"But how could they do that without killing her outright?" he asked. "There would always be a chance she would find her way back, and then what?"
"You're right."
Her speculation made him uneasy. She seemed to notice, because she ate in silence for a while. Nayir had considered the honor-abduction theory in the desert, and again with Uncle Samir, but every time he tried to imagine it, it seemed ridiculous, a piece of comic theater in which a few neatly polished upper-crust gentlemen attempted to haul a camel into the back of a pickup truck without sullying their expensive desert boots, in which they managed to smash their sister over the head with a pipe and drag her out to the desert without splattering their designer shirts with blood. He didn't think they had it in them to murder their sister, especially not for "honor."
"Nayir," she said, "what do you really think about this case?"
Caught off-guard, he wasn't sure what to say.
"Oh, come on. Doesn't anything bother you?"
"Well, yes." It took him a moment to organize his thoughts. "Nouf was going to marry Qazi just to leave the country. That bothers me. She was going to abandon him on their honeymoon."
Her smile vanished. "I know it's awful. I think she must have been desperate."
"Can you imagine what would have happened if she had managed to dump her husband and run off with some American guy? Her family would have gone crazy. Who knows what they would have done to Muhammad? He would have lost his job, at the very least. The family would probably have sent someone out to find Nouf and bring her home. Don't you think he knew that? Don't you think Nouf knew that?"
Miss Hijazi nodded. "It seems her escort cared about her more than he cared about himself."
"Or he was getting something out of it."
"What if he just felt sorry for her?"
"Why?" he asked. "She had everything. Her family let her ride around on a jet-ski. They gave her an escort so she could go shopping. And I know she had money of her own."
Her face showed how little she thought of his assessment. "But she couldn't do the one thing she wanted! They didn't like the idea of sending her to school, and I doubt they would have approved of her having a career—particularly one working with animals. You really have no idea, do you? Nouf had everything her father let her have."
He wiped his face with his napkin. "Most people would be glad to have half of it."
"No. Most people wouldn't be happy." She spoke quietly, and he recognized the change in her speech: the quieter the voice, the stronger the statement. He braced for it.
"Imagine if you couldn't go to the desert," she said. "You couldn't even leave your house without someone's permission. You'd have money and things, but if you wanted to do anything, you wouldn't be allowed. The only thing you could do is get married and have kids."
Nayir wanted to tell her that that was the thing he really wanted, but it was beside the point.