It?! His sister was now an IT? He cleared his throat and somehow kept his composure. “What do they plan to do with it?”
“They’ll know,” Farid Fendil answered sternly.
Nageeb had never trembled as he now did.
“Ma’a’l salaam,” he heard his father say before he finally hung up.
God had better be with me! If there is a God! Nageeb saw the last goat, zigzagging, searching for the rest of his flock. Suddenly, he felt like the animal—lost and confused.
He drove toward the airport on the newly paved road that stretched for ninety miles along desert land. He remembered an incident that had occurred two years before. A young Jordanian woman right in Al-Balladi had been accused by someone—a family member or neighbor, he wasn’t sure. He had known the family briefly. The young woman, they said, had had a relationship with a man while she was engaged to another. Nageeb’s grandmother had protested vehemently to save the girl. He knew his father had strongly opposed the practice of “honor killing.” After hearing of the accusation, he said he had tried to talk to the family, but they assured him the matter was already resolved. He seemed genuinely upset when they heard that the girl had been executed, by her own brother—supposedly to erase the shame—and Nageeb remembered that his grandmother had been devastated by the terrible news. His father had said he could not control who moved into Al-Balladi. What bothered Nageeb most was that the majority of the families were wealthy and educated, yet it appeared—especially lately—that some had returned to practicing ancient ways. Nageeb had read in a local newspaper that in fact, the law of Jordan had no punishment for honor killings except two months’ probation. The man who executed his own sister had been interviewed on television, and had expressed no regret, and even believed what he did was a rightful deed!
I’m not that type of brother, he thought bitterly. He never would have believed this could ever happen to his own family!
He pulled to the shoulder of the road, praying no one he knew would pass by. Most of all, he hoped no one would stop to see if he had car trouble. Locking the door, he climbed into the back seat, injected Noora with a sedative, cleaned her wounds again, and put on temporary dressings. There was a nasty cut beside her right eye. She needed stitches, but that would have to wait.
Hitting the road again, he called the operator and asked to be connected to the Al-Balladi Morgue.
Sweat pouring out of every pore despite the air conditioning running full blast, Nageeb was glad his friend answered after the first ring.
“Salaam, Moharreb. Nageeb Fendil speaking,” he said, putting on a jovial voice. “How are you, my friend? … Hamdallah. It’s been a long time indeed … Yes, very busy … How is the family?” He glanced over to check on Noora while Moharreb chatted. She was asleep. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “Hamdallah,” Nageeb said. “Glad everyone is doing well. Listen, I have a big favor to ask … It is for an important and confidential cause.”
“I have no doubt it is for a very good cause,” Moharreb said.
Nageeb had known Moharreb since elementary school. He was a kind-hearted, trustworthy, and hard-working young man who had a weakness for American cowboy movies and Pepsi-Cola. Because he drank gallons of the soda, his childhood friends nicknamed him “Pepsi.”
“We are in need of a young body for research.”
“We have two bodies …”
“We just need one, thank you, Moharreb.”
“The one that just arrived last night was of a young woman. Did you need a man?”
“No, a woman. How old?”
“Only twenty years old. Ya haraam, what a shame. Poor thing.”
Please don’t tell me another victim of honor killing! Nageeb thought angrily.
“Luckily, the deceased had no children,” Pepsi continued. “But the family has no money for burial.”
“Can you tell me what was the cause of death?”
“Pancreatic cancer. She went quickly.”
“Moharreb, I am most grateful … Can you meet me at the airport, with …”
“For you, ya habib, anything,” he said. “But I’m wondering about something important, ya Doctoor.”
“Oh?”
“Why you don’t call me Pepsi anymore.”
“Pepsi, Pepsi. My apology. Do you know the Beau Rivage Café?”
“Do I know the Beau Rivage Café? Eh Paisano! Too much studying makes one forget, you know!” Pepsi teased.
The Beau Rivage had once been a favorite local hangout where loud Arabic music blared and travelers met for Turkish coffee, a smoke, and a few rounds of backgammon. Over the years, the Beau Rivage Café had lost its clientele to busy lives–the regulars became involved in business and daily prayer times at the new Al-Balladi mosque, leaving little time for leisure.
“Are you going back to Cairo today?” Pepsi asked.
“Yes. What I’m asking is confidential, so keep it under your Stetson, cowboy.”
“Habib, that goes without saying. Coming from you, it must be for a great humanitarian cause.”
In front of the Beau Rivage Café, a hand-painted Arabic sign read, “Closed for Remodeling.” Nageeb pulled in behind the establishment. He covered Noora with a clean white sheet.
It didn’t take long for Pepsi’s truck to appear, out of a thick fog of desert dust.
Nageeb remembered his grandmother’s words: “In the face of disaster, an angel always appears.” He could have fallen to the ground and prayed in gratitude.
Moharreb’s yellow American GMC pickup pulled in, enveloping the area in a cloud of dust. The door to the truck creaked open. Tattered and dusty snakeskin boots landed on the dry gravel. Clad in worn-out blue jeans, a Western shirt, and a leather belt with a large silver buckle, Pepsi appeared out of the yellow fog. A cigarette dangled from his lips. He approached Nageeb with a smile. Wearing a cowboy hat, he looked like a young, darker version of Clint Eastwood. A wavy black strand of hair dangled over his forehead. He removed his cigarette long enough to hug Nageeb.
“Habib,” he said, then opened the tailgate of his truck and slid out a black body bag.
Nageeb opened the trunk of his car.
Pepsi carried the corpse in his arms. He did not dump it in the trunk. He held the body bag with respect and lowered it gently.
A gusty wind blew more desert dust around the two men. Nageeb shook Pepsi’s hand. “Thank you, my brother,” he managed to say, trying to swallow the lump stuck in his throat.
When Nageeb arrived at the airport, he could see the helicopter was waiting. Dressed in the customary MOFHAJ gray suit and red tie, a man paced impatiently, squinting at the highway, glancing at his watch. He appeared relieved when he spotted Nageeb’s black Mercedes-Benz S600.
Nageeb was unsure how to handle the situation. He knew Noora could not be seen through the heavily smoked windows. Still, he could not take chances. He slowed his car, and with trembling hands, he reached in the back seat and covered Noora with another bath towel and some of his wet clothes.
He drove around the chopper and stopped several meters away. He popped the trunk open and jumped out of his car, immediately clicking the door locks. The man in the gray suit ran up to Nageeb, introduced himself as Youssef, and they shook hands. Grimly, they loaded the body bag into the helicopter.
Yelling over the roar of the whirling helicopter blades, Youssef told Nageeb he had orders from Mr. Fendil to have his son ride in the helicopter.
Nageeb shouted back over the helicopter noise that he just spoke to his father, and that he was going to drive. He shook the man’s hand vigorously and thanked him several times.
Nageeb’s Mercedes flew across the desert road at over a hundred miles an hour. He adjusted the rearview mirror so he could keep an eye on his sister as he dialed his mobile phone. To his relief, Abdo answered after the first ring.
“I’m on my way to Aqaba. Thank you for fine-tuning my car. Everything is going well; I am pleased, yes, hamdallah,” Nageeb said in one gul
p, trying not to give out too much information, in case someone was listening to their conversation.
Inside Farid Fendil’s museum of cars, Abdo stood numbly next to the wall phone and slowly replaced the receiver. With his shirt sleeve, he wiped his sweaty brow and walked out to the courtyard, beyond the mango tree. Stepping further out into the brilliant sunshine, Abdo looked up, closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer: “Hamdallah.” Praise be to you, O mighty God.
CHAPTER 9
AQABA
Before three in the afternoon, Nageeb checked into the Hotel de Mer near the Red Sea. It was an ancient little inn, catering to students and clandestine travelers from distant shores. He had heard about the establishment when one of the interns in Cairo had boasted about an unforgettable fantasy-filled night with a belly dancer, where he did not have to show a passport or any identification, as long as the room was paid for with cash in advance.
He found a parking space near the entrance. He hated to leave Noora alone in the car while he registered, but he had no choice.
From the dark old lobby of the hotel came a pungent odor of stale tobacco mixed with mold—a scent that seemed to impregnate the weave of the ancient tapestries on the walls. In Arabic, Nageeb scribbled “Mr. and Mrs.” in front of a fictitious surname on the faded pages of a dusty ledger.
“It’s our special honeymoon suite,” the boy behind the counter—who could not have been more than fourteen—informed Nageeb with a wink. He handed him an ancient copper key with the number five etched on it. Khamsah—five—a good-luck number in the Middle East, Nageeb thought as he rushed back to his car. He found a few teenagers admiring it. He didn’t think the youths could see Noora through the smoked windows. Still, he was concerned the luxury car attracted too much attention. As soon as the young strangers spotted Nageeb, they took off. Nageeb climbed in the driver’s seat and swiftly pulled out of the parking space, hoping the same spot in front of the hotel would still be available when he returned. Driving along the main street, he searched for a fabric store. It seemed everything closed for lunch—and the traditional afternoon nap. He chided himself for not stopping earlier. Stores probably didn’t open again until three or even four. He drove around a few blocks. Fifteen minutes later, he found a parking space near a small fabric store. Leaving the windows slightly open, Nageeb rushed inside and found two men sitting in the corner on layers of Turkish rugs and mounds of cushions. Sleepy-eyed, the vendors were sipping coffee from demitasses, and they didn’t appear in a hurry to sell their goods.
“Do you have tulle?” Nageeb asked.
The two men looked at each other. “Tulle?” the man wearing a red fez asked his partner.
“White veil,” Nageeb said, glancing over at his car outside.
“We have silk. We have also rayon and acetate. Many types, many colors,” he said, pointing up to a far wall.
Bolts of tulle of all colors, from white to yellow to red were aligned on the very top shelf, just below a cracked and moldy ceiling.
“This one,” Nageeb said, pointing to a white bolt of tulle.
“Ya Wallad!” the vendor with a red fez yelled out. A sleepy-eyed young man in a gallabeya appeared from behind a curtain. The man yelled something in a different dialect. Taking his time, the boy picked up a ladder from a corner and pulled it to the bolts of fabric. Slowly he climbed. For a moment, Nageeb was sure the boy was going to fall off the wobbly ladder. He ran to his help. The boy pulled out the bolt and let it fall to the floor, nearly hitting Nageeb. The vendor with the fez finally rose, not happy about taking time away from his coffee. Holding on to his back and giving a groan, he picked up the bolt. “I hope you want more than one yard after all this trouble. We are not open yet,” he huffed.
“I am very sorry. I’ll take the whole thing,” Nageeb said.
“The whole what?”
“The whole bolt. How much?” Nageeb said, pulling out large bills from his wallet.
“There are at least twenty yards here. How many girls are you marrying?”
“We are decorating a hallway at a hotel.”
“Oh?” The man grinned at the money in Nageeb’s hand. “Sounds like a very big wedding.” He took Nageeb’s paper bills and, after analyzing their authenticity, his smile grew wider. “Let me see, I’ll have to calculate. I may not have the change …”
“Keep the change. Sorry for disturbing your break time,” Nageeb said, grabbing the bolt and rushing out.
Pulling away from the curb, he whispered, “Luck is on our side, Noora.” Please God, let it continue this way.
Back at the Hotel de Mer, the same parking spot was still open.
Nageeb unrolled the yards of fabric until his entire car was filled with white fluff. He tried to tear the material, but it was too strong. He searched for his scissors, which he found in his medicine bag, and cut the veil. Though he was covered in sweat, he put on the black suit jacket Kettayef had left for him. Grabbing at least a half dozen yards of the veil, he wrapped Noora with it. Her head resting on his shoulder, he locked his car. Quickly, he carried her inside like a lifeless mannequin, covered by their grandmother’s white satiny sheet hanging below her feet, several yards of white tulle floated behind.
When Nageeb returned to the lobby, the boy behind the counter had been replaced by a chunky old man, about as wide as he was high.
A cardboard sign taped to the faded, flocked golden wallpaper indicated room numbers, handwritten in black felt-tip pen. Nageeb’s room was at the very end of the dimly lit hallway. By the time he reached his door, the old man from downstairs was breathing down his neck.
“Excuse me, sir …” he said, his mustache fluttering while he cleared his throat. “I am Otto, the owner,” he added, stepping on the veil that trailed down the hall. “Oh, so sorry.” He picked up the tulle and awkwardly stashed it closer to Nageeb and Noora.
“Thank you. We’re fine,” Nageeb said as he fumbled with his key.
“Allow me, please. You have luggage? My nephew did not offer to help … He is lazy …”
“Thank you, we can manage.”
“Very lazy … Allow me,” he said, looking down at his wide metal ring that carried at least a dozen large, old keys.
“I have the key,” Nageeb said impatiently, lifting Noora up and placing her head closer to the crease of his neck. He brought more of the veil up to conceal her head. As he was doing so, he noticed blood oozing out of her mouth again, staining the veil. “We have the key,” he repeated firmly. “We’ve had a big wedding, many relatives, celebrating all night, we want to be alone and get some rest!”
The man took a step back. “Of course. Allow me. Aha, here is the key,” Otto said, stepping around Nageeb and unlocking the door. He pushed it wide open. “Best room in the hotel. Beautiful, with view!”
“Thank you,” Nageeb said, entering the room with Noora. He tried to close the door behind him, but the veil trailed out a few feet. The man gathered the long tulle and pushed it all inside the room, with a grin. “My, I think they say the longer the wedding train of the bride’s dress, the longer the marriage. I am honored you chose my hotel …”
“Thank you, yes,” Nageeb said and closed the door. Sighing deeply, he noticed a drop of blood had dropped down to the sheet below Noora’s waist. He prayed the man didn’t notice.
The moldy smell that filled the room made him wrinkle his nose and sneeze. At least the bright red comforter on the queen-sized bed looked new. He laid Noora down and unraveled the yards of tulle away from her face and body and pulled the bedspread out from under her. If any blood should stain the comforter, it probably wouldn’t show, he thought thankfully. She moaned. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. He turned on the air conditioner.
Sitting on the floor by the bed, he watched his sister with increasing sadness and anxiety.
Resting his head on her arm, he dozed off. An hour passed. The little beeper in his wristwatch went off, startling him and pulling him out of a dream about his grandmother. She h
ad smiled, that same gentle expression, he recognized. She gave him some kind of a message, something he couldn’t quite decipher.
This tragedy would never have happened if his grandmother were alive. Somehow, things began to change after the death of Sultana. He wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t sure about anything right now. How odd, he thought, feeling dizzy from the faint fragrance that enveloped him. He could swear it was Sultana’s Joy perfume. He remembered how she used to keep the perfume in a little antique crystal bottle festooned with tiny pearls. He had once disliked that scent. Now he wished he could linger in it. If only Sultana could materialize and make everything all right.
Leaving the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, Nageeb returned to his car to get his bag of medical supplies. He noticed a small café at the edge of the street, and hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Noora too long, but he felt dizzy. He had to eat something to nourish himself and gain his strength. For Noora.
The old television set in the lobby was turned on when Nageeb returned to the hotel carrying a bag of food. The evening’s movie broadcast featured All About Eve. In a young woman’s clear, dubbed voice that sounded absolutely unlike Bette Davis, the classic American actress announced in Arabic:
“Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!”
“Fasten that seat belt, it’s going to be a bumpy life,” Nageeb mumbled bitterly. He trudged up the steps, which creaked no matter how silent he tried to be, while behind the counter, the hotel owner was dozing off on a stool and shrinking into his balloon belly. His mustache fluttered to the rhythm of his loud breathing.
Relieved to find Noora in the same position he had left her, Nageeb began organizing the medical supplies he had bought. There was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. Wasn’t he supposed to call Uncle Fellous, his father’s brother, who lived in Aqaba? He’d worry about that later. Right now, he had to take care of his sister.
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