KH02 - City of Veils

by Zoë Ferraris

  He nodded, thinking.

  “When I found it,” she went on, “I didn’t think it was important. But this morning, when I knew someone had been in my house, I figured they were looking for something.” She held up the memory card. “This was the only thing I could think of. And of course whoever it was couldn’t find it because I was with the neighbors.”

  “Let me see the card,” he said. She handed it over. He fished through the desk drawer and found the converter Samir used for downloading digital photos. The converter had various input slots, and the memory card fit into one. He plugged the device into the computer and waited.

  31

  There was a time when Monday nights meant basketball practice, the sound of whistles, referee horns, the squeak of sneakers against a polished floor. That was before the kingdom had banned organized sports for girls, and before the girls’ school where Katya had tutored chemistry students had enforced the ban. She had coached their basketball team for six years, and even if the girls ranted about the injustice of not being recognized internationally because the Saudis wouldn’t send women to the Olympics, they still enjoyed the sport itself, playing it with a kind of churlish ferocity that helped them prove they were just as good as boys. In their complaints she heard only the uninspired echoes of their parents, immigrants from Lebanon and Syria who were appalled by Saudi culture, who felt it was backward and a disgrace to Islam, and who would have given anything to pick up dear Mecca, holiest of cities, and move it away from these righteous louts whose beliefs still lurked in the dark ages of the Bedouin.

  The team had quietly been moved to a women’s center across town, although technically it was still illegal to play. The problem became transportation. Because so few of the girls could coerce their brothers or fathers into driving them, the team roster fell by three quarters, and the few who could come were inconsistent. Finally, they had disbanded.

  Tonight, Katya entered the apartment alone—Ayman had gone to a friend’s house to study, and her father was visiting Abu-Walid. She laid her purse on the kitchen table, helped herself to a plate of leftovers from the fridge, and stared emptily at the front of the oven. A delayed revelation had occurred to her that evening after leaving Nayir at Starbucks. He is just like my father. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Both men were conservative. Devout. Both hid things from her—Abu failing to tell her about Abu-Walid coming to dinner the other night, and now Nayir doing all these things with Miriam behind her back, only telling her afterward, and probably because she forced him to. She understood logically that she was the one who had brought him into the investigation and that Miriam had called him to ask for help, but she was frustrated anyway at being left in the dark.

  Finishing dinner, she went to her room. It was a terrible mess; she didn’t have time to clean. There were old coffee cups on the dresser, clothing jumbled on the closet floor. The bed hadn’t been made in days, the sheets hadn’t been washed in weeks. She went to her desk, pushing aside a stack of boxes that leaned precariously against the wall. Waiting for the computer to power up, she cleared a space for Leila’s DVDs. She didn’t want to lose one in all the clutter.

  That afternoon she’d called Farooha again. The girl had assured her that she knew nothing about Pilgrimage. Yes, Leila had brought the disc to the house, but she had never talked about the new documentary, or even about Mabus. She only talked about Eric Walker.

  “So she really liked him,” Katya had said.

  Farooha had fallen silent. “Well, he was exciting,” she finally replied.

  Katya was inclined to believe Farooha about the documentary. About Leila’s feelings for Eric, she couldn’t be sure how much of the truth Farooha was revealing. The girl did confirm that Leila had never mentioned anything about Abdulrahman attacking her, although Farooha seemed troubled by the suggestion that it could have been her brother.

  “If it was him, I don’t think she would have told me about it,” Farooha said after a heavy pause. “It would have shamed her to admit that her brother hit her.”

  Katya had also called the doctor who had treated Leila’s leg injury. She remembered Leila vividly as “the girl who’d been attacked for filming strangers in public.” Leila had expressed fury at having her camera snatched away and said that she had fought her attacker. Some of his blood was still on her shirt.

  Katya was still no closer to knowing if Abdulrahman had hit Leila or not, but at least one thing became clear: the doctor said that the leg injury hadn’t healed properly because Leila had refused physical therapy. Instead, she’d remained as active as usual. When the doctor had scolded her about it later, Leila had simply shrugged her off.

  Forgetting where she’d left off, Katya picked a DVD at random and slipped it into the drive. The first cut on the disc showed a woman struggling to slip a doughnut through the eye slit of her burqa. Katya was in no mood to laugh. She watched through another half dozen short clips, none of them terribly interesting.

  Eric Walker appeared on the ninth clip. It took her a moment to realize who he was. It was nighttime, and three men were sitting at a patio table, two of them Arab, the other American. They were drinking from glass tumblers, and the Arab men looked unhappy. When one of them spoke, Katya realized that he was drunk. His eyes looked like red onions frying in oil. Eric was grinning and shaking his head. Drunkenly, he said something in a weird mishmash of Arabic and English that she took to mean They can brew the stuff, but they can’t drink it, can they? And from behind the camera, Leila gave a short bark of laughter. She said something in English, the only part of which Katya understood was “Mr. Johnnie Walker!”

  And Walker laughed.

  The next scene showed Walker in his apartment. Katya’s chest tightened when she recognized the dingy lamp on the end table. Had he really brought Leila into his house? She checked the date stamp and saw that indeed, this had happened a full three weeks before Miriam had returned. Walker was speaking in Arabic now, describing his apartment in mock-grandiose style. He pointed to a book lying on the floor and said, “And that belongs to Miriam. She’s coming back in twenty-one days.”

  It seemed a tactless thing to say for a man who was courting a beautiful young woman in his living room. Leila’s camera zoomed in on the book and then expertly back out to Eric.

  Then another man waltzed into the room. He was tall with dark hair. The camera turned to him, focusing on his face. It was handsome, but there was something mean about his eyes. The men were speaking English and she couldn’t understand a word, she simply watched the dark-haired man’s expressions shift from attentiveness to discomfort. Finally, he stared straight at the camera. It was an unnerving, predatory look.

  The disc ended, and Katya removed it from the drive. She labeled it with a sticky-note: Eric Walker. Over the next few hours she scanned through the other DVDs, going faster now that she knew what she was looking for: any sign of the Americans. They made no more appearances. As far as she could tell, there were only those two little segments.

  She awoke a few hours later, her computer screen flickering. Before falling asleep, she had given up watching the DVDs and started watching television online. Now an infomercial for Islamic bathing suits was playing. The Aquaburqa! the announcer proclaimed. Reasonable solutions for Muslim women. She sat up, rubbed her stiff neck, and watched two women walking along a beach in three-piece swimsuits that covered their whole bodies. The drapey tunics had colorful tropical patterns, the black pants were sleek, and the headpieces were simple plastic hoods that covered the hair and neck, with a drawstring around the face so they wouldn’t fall off in the water. She wondered what it would be like wearing one of the suits, which the announcer described as a burqa bikini, also called a burkini!

  For a while, she’d had a fantasy of going sailing with Nayir, of him teaching her to scuba dive, of harpooning a shark. It was such a thrilling fantasy because it might have been real: of course he would approve, he loved sailing and diving, and no one would see her out in the middle o
f the ocean, so she’d be free to swim around. She had the feeling, however, that Nayir would not approve of the burkini. He would think of it as Islam Lite, the sort of fake piety that was everywhere now. He would tell any woman in a burkini to go back to the Hadith, where it says no wearing “form-fitting” clothing, period.

  She wasn’t tired anymore. Instead, there was a dangerous energy rising inside her. It had been building up for days, and now, at two in the morning, she was ready to play a whole basketball game herself. Or clean the entire house. Or finally take care of those boxes stacked against the wall, the trousseau Othman had given her before she’d called off the engagement. She didn’t know what had prevented her from sending them back before, but tucking into the task, she sorted through everything, folded every last pair of underwear neatly, organized all the shirts by color, and packed every single dress and suit coat and shimmery negligee back into the boxes, taping them firmly shut and carrying them out into the hallway, where they would annoy her father and Ayman and force her to get rid of them once and for all.

  32

  For what felt like the thousandth time, Nayir lay in bed just before dawn pondering marriage. In particular, whether it was truly as bad as it often seemed to be. To his long list of miserable friends whose wives badgered and harassed them; spent all their money; failed to cook, clean house, or raise their children properly; stopped taking care of themselves and grew ugly, lost teeth, became depressed, bored, or even suicidal; to that very long list of miserable men he had a new addition: Miriam, whose husband had married another woman, possibly killed her, and then disappeared, while Miriam remained firmly attached to the idea that he was completely innocent. He wondered how he could possibly want something so much when all around him he saw proof of its disappointments.

  It was no comfort that even Americans were miserable in marriage, although he had the notion that Eric had come here and failed to understand that when a woman is cloistered, your duties to her multiply a dozenfold. And he had clearly failed to comprehend that just because your wife was safely tucked away at home did not mean that you could seize any woman who happened to cross your path. Misyar marriage or not, it was forbidden for an infidel to marry a Muslim woman.

  The night before, he and Miriam had been unable to crack the username and password that would have let them view whatever was on the memory card Miriam had found. Samir had even become involved, but the effort had ended in frustration. Because Miriam had taken Samir’s only guest room, Nayir had returned to his boat after promising her that he’d pick her up first thing in the morning and quietly telling his uncle to keep an eye on her.

  His alarm clock went off, ringing an imam’s call to prayer in a squealing electronic voice that was becoming tinnier every week. He turned it off and went to the bathroom to perform his ablutions just as the marina’s loudspeakers blared the official call. He knelt on the floor with a deep sense of gratitude for morning prayer, for the chance to take his mind off his worries and turn his thoughts to greater things. He prayed for lighthearted blessings, for the happiness of strangers, the safety of travelers, good health to the elderly, and a dozen other wishes that came into his mind, and when he stood up, forty minutes had gone by and he felt refreshed.

  He ate a leisurely breakfast and managed to clean up the interior of the boat before heading out for the day with a feeling of completion. His sense of well-being ended abruptly when he went topside and saw a man standing on the pier next to his boat.

  “Mr. Sharqi?” He spoke in a kind way, but Nayir’s instincts told him that he meant no good at all.

  “Yes,” Nayir said.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Osama Ibrahim,” the man replied. “I’d like to have a word.”

  Nayir didn’t suppose he had much of a choice. “Please come in,” he said, motioning to the ramp that led to the boat.

  “Thank you,” Osama said. “But I’d prefer if you’d come with me.”

  So this was what it came to. He should have known better, getting involved in something that wasn’t his business. He felt a flash of anger at Katya. He shouldn’t have put the burden on her anyway, telling her about Miriam. Of course she would have to tell the police. His palms were clammy as he hauled himself onto the ramp and walked numbly up to the pier. “May I ask what this is about?”

  “I’m sure you know already,” Osama said. His tone was frighteningly polite. Nayir realized belatedly that this was the Osama that Katya kept talking about, and while it provided him with a glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t be arrested, interrogated, or humiliated too badly, his mind was filling with unpleasant realizations: that Katya had told him where Nayir’s boat was docked, had told him all about the misyar and about his promise to bring Miriam in for questioning. And evidently it hadn’t been enough for Osama to trust a stranger like Nayir, so he had come here to speed things along.

  They were just approaching a black, unmarked car parked in the marina lot when Osama said, “By the way, congratulations on your success with the Nouf Shrawi case.”

  Nayir was taken aback but made a polite response. He got into the car, grudgingly grateful that it wasn’t a squad car and that the neighbors wouldn’t notice that the police had picked him up. He found it difficult to judge Osama kindly, however. A classically good-looking man, he sported a clean-trimmed mustache and baby-doll eyes. He wore a well-tailored suit and had a businesslike air. Little things made him seem arrogant: manicured nails, a gold watch. This was the man Katya worked with, the man she saw every day and who saw her. The smell of aftershave and cologne that came wafting off him once they’d shut the car doors made Nayir feel sick, but the false politeness really was the crowning touch.

  “So, I understand you may know where we can find Miriam Walker,” Osama said, putting the car into gear and taking off slowly, as if waiting for Nayir to direct him. Nayir wanted to say no—every part of him was shouting it—but he had already told Katya that he would bring Miriam in. He wanted to ask what they were planning to do to her, but he sensed that admitting his concern for her would only make matters worse.

  Osama took a left and cut into traffic. He didn’t seem to mind Nayir’s rebellious silence, but then he wasn’t the sort to let a little sincerity get in the way of seeming composed. They encountered traffic at once, which was unusual. Osama rolled down the window and asked a pedestrian what was going on. The man informed them that a motorcycle show was in town, and that the distant roar of what sounded like airplanes was actually belching from the tailpipes of hundreds of Harley-Davidsons, or what the Americans liked to call “hogs.” Osama thanked him and rolled up the window.

  “Hog,” he mused.

  “Isn’t that another word for pig?” Nayir asked.

  Osama glanced at him, apparently taking the comment to mean that he was one of those ridiculously conservative men who took offense at everything. Nayir remained quiet. When traffic began moving again, they saw that the real cause of the congestion was an accident involving a pedestrian. A man was lying on his side on the street, paramedics bent over him. The poor soul was moving, so at least he wasn’t dead.

  A few blocks later traffic stopped again, and the roar of bike engines grew louder. When the Harleys finally came into sight, everything seemed to slow down. Cars stopped. Pedestrians froze. A woman on the sidewalk scooped her son into her arms and lifted her burqa, pointing at the bikers. Her son began to cry, a great wail of fear that was cut off by the roar. A pair of squat black motorcycles rode past on the cross street, riders bedizened in skin-tight leather and sleeveless shirts. Their arms and necks were pink from the blazing sun. Nayir began to sweat just looking at them. Then more bikers came, clustered in groups like vultures descending on a carcass. Some African men, a few Arabs, mostly Europeans and Americans, all processing through clouds of sweat and exhaust and rippling heat waves, making enough noise to drown a call to prayer. Riding a motorcycle would have been difficult in a robe; there was not a single one in sight, only leather and skin, the ripplin
g flesh of muscled arms. The bikes paraded slowly, somehow gruff and flamboyant at once. But the blinding flashes of sunlight on chrome and the thunderous noise made Nayir wish they would hurry out of sight, drive on and be forgotten, this spectacle of American culture.

  Once they were moving again, Osama seemed more relaxed.

  “We’ve done a background check on Eric Walker,” he said casually. “Enough to realize that he and Leila were calling each other frequently up until two days before she disappeared.”

  They drove past a roundabout. “And we also know that Miriam was not in the country when Leila died,” Osama went on. “So we’d just like to bring her in for questioning. Your wife has told me…”

  Nayir didn’t hear the rest. Your wife?

  Osama had finished speaking and was looking at him.

  “Katya told you that?” Nayir asked.

  A small frown played at the corners of Osama’s mouth. “Yes,” he said. “She’s been very open. She cares about this case a lot.”

  Everything was clicking horribly into place. That must be why Katya wore the engagement ring: she had to make her boss believe she was married. She’d obviously had to tell them about Nayir, but how could she explain how she knew him if he wasn’t related to her? He would have to be a relative—but had she really told them he was her husband? Aside from an undercurrent of glee, he was appalled by the blatancy of the lie.

  “Mr. Sharqi, is something wrong?”

  Nayir realized at once that he couldn’t break Katya’s cover. How could he have been so stupid? Of course the police wouldn’t have hired her if she were single. There would have to be a law about these things, and the police of all people wouldn’t be inclined to break it.