City of Veils

by Zoë Ferraris

  “I don’t think she can help us,” he replied, but he translated Katya’s words anyway. They were met by more silence.

  They waited. Something screeched at the bottom of the stairs—probably the front door. Katya was staring in a pleading way at the spy hole.

  A minute later, he heard the clack of a bolt. The door opened a few inches and a woman peered out. Even if he hadn’t heard her voice, he would have known that she was foreign. Her burqa was pulled so tightly to her nose that she might as well not have been covering her face at all. Her eyes and forehead were completely exposed, which was probably convenient for vision but it made her eyes pop. They were large and a startling, clear blue.

  “I think Nabih may be the name of my landlord,” she said.

  Nayir kept his gaze on the door frame. “Do you have his address?” he asked.

  The woman nodded and swung the door wide, motioning them into the apartment.

  Nayir entered the foyer, trying not to stare. When he’d first heard her curse, he’d expected—well, he wasn’t sure, but someone larger, rounder, and less covered up. Yet the woman who opened the door was short and slender, and even if her cloak was three inches too short and sticking a little to her sweaty arms, there was an air of modesty—even awkwardness—in the way she moved, staying close to the door, her eyes searching nervously for a safe place to rest.

  Walking in, Nayir turned at once for the men’s sitting room. It was easy to spot, located right by the entrance. But the woman said, “No, no, come on in.” There was no doubt she was American. She didn’t have the same concepts of space. “Come in” meant come all the way in. Make yourself at home, enter any room, follow me into the kitchen, sit at the table, both of you, man and woman. Let’s all sit in the same room.

  She was clearly upset about something, and Nayir suspected that it had nothing to do with their arrival. In the glimpses he managed to steal of her eyes, he could see something bigger. Those eyes, which were a blue he’d never seen before, at least not on a human, momentarily distracted him. They were large and, he discovered with a jolt, capable of gazing at him with an astonishing frankness.

  Peripherally he noticed that Katya was frowning.

  Reluctantly, he followed the women into the apartment. They entered a central room that might have been a women’s sitting room, except that it held only a small, ratty sofa and an end table. There were no decorations on the walls and no windows in the room, so the only light came from a feeble lamp on the end table. There was a book on the floor, and while stepping over this, the American woman stumbled against the table and cursed again. Frustrated, she took off her burqa and turned back to Nayir and Katya. “Watch out for the table.”

  Nayir quickly averted his gaze, but he had already seen her face. It was small featured and precise. Her profile had the delicately rounded edges of a line of script cut into a marble wall. Against the paleness of her skin, her lips were bright red and he wondered, so fleetingly it might have been a spasm, what it would be like to kiss a mouth that small. Allah clean my mind and forgive my sins.

  Katya was staring at him, and he did everything he could not to meet her gaze.

  They entered a small kitchen. The woman invited them to sit at a table pressed into a corner, which they did simply to get out of her way. Standing, the three of them took up the whole space. The woman opened the pantry door, knelt down, and began rummaging.

  Katya lifted her burqa, which left him even fewer safe places to rest his gaze. He studied the empty chair until he realized that Katya might think he was staring at the woman’s rear, which was protruding in plain view. So he glanced at Katya’s hands. And that’s when he saw it: the engagement ring was still on her finger. Trace memories of Othman rose ghostlike in his mind, all the times he’d imagined them together. Apparently, Nayir’s being back in her life hadn’t changed her feelings about her thwarted engagement. The glittering diamond was like a needle in his eye.

  “Ask her if she’s home alone,” Katya said.

  Nayir forced himself to translate. The American turned to them. “Yes,” she answered. “I’m alone.” Something in her voice made him think the question had offended her. She carried a cardboard box to the counter and withdrew a file labeled Apartment. She handed it to Nayir.

  “That’s our lease, I think. It’s in Arabic,” she said. “I can’t read it.”

  Nayir took the file. “Do you live here alone?” he asked.

  “No, with my husband…” She trailed off. “He reads Arabic.”

  He scanned the papers and found that she was right: their landlord was named Nabih. There was an address for him in the Al-Aziziya district. “Thank you,” he said. “I believe this is what we need.”

  “You said you were with the police?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He motioned to Katya. “Miss Hijazi works with the police.”

  “Ah.” The woman crossed her arms and leaned against the counter in a feeble attempt to look casual. “Can I ask what this is about? You said a young girl was murdered.”

  “What’s she saying?” Katya asked.

  “She wants to know about Leila.” He turned to the American and explained what he could. “Have you ever heard the name before—Leila Nawar?” he asked. She shook her head. “She was doing some photography work for your landlord,” Nayir explained. “We just wanted to talk to him about it.”

  “I didn’t know this country had female cops,” she said.

  “She is actually a… I don’t know the word. She works with evidence. She’s a scientist.”

  “A forensic pathologist?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Wow.”

  Katya had pulled back into herself, her expression unreadable.

  “So who are you?” the woman asked. “A driver?”

  Nayir hesitated. “I’m a friend. I came along because your landlord has an art collection of Quranic writing, which is something I know a little bit about. Are you sure you’ve never met your landlord?”

  “Yes.” She turned to the stove. “I’m really sorry I don’t have any tea or coffee in the house. Could I get you guys some water?”

  “No.” Nayir avoided glancing at Katya. “No, thank you. How is it that you rented this place but never met your landlord?”

  She had begun pawing through the refrigerator in an effort, he suspected, to hide her face, because the fridge was almost empty. “Oh,” she said blithely, “my husband arranged the whole apartment thing before I got here.”

  “And where is your husband?”

  She closed the fridge and regarded him. He hadn’t meant for the question to sound like a chastisement, but that’s how she seemed to take it. “He’s not here,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”

  He glanced at Katya, who seemed to notice something odd as well. “I was only thinking that we might ask him about Mr. Nabih, in case we can’t find him at this address.” He motioned to the paperwork. “When will he be back?”

  The question was simple enough, but she struggled to answer it. “Maybe tonight.”

  Nayir felt the inevitable tingling of discovery. “Mrs.…”

  “Walker,” she said. “Miriam Walker.”

  “Mrs. Walker.”

  “Don’t call me that. Just Miriam.”

  Nayir faltered. “I know it’s not my business,” he said, hoping he got the English right, hoping his tone conveyed the right delicacy, “but where could we find your husband?”

  She stood rigidly at the counter, arms stiff at her sides, face frozen in an awful expression that could have been fear or pain or silent fury. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

  Katya gave him a quizzical look but he ignored it.

  “Did he leave?” Nayir asked.

  Miriam shook her head and said very slowly, “I don’t know.” He had never had such an intimate view of a woman on the verge of crying before. Even the one time Katya had done it, she had been behind a burqa. Miriam’s face was rigid with her attempt to control
a trembling that seemed to be shaking her within. The air was pulsing with tension. She looked down and noticed that she was holding a dish towel. She set it on the stove.

  “How long has he been gone?” Nayir asked gently.

  “Oh, ah.” Her voice was trembling. “It happened three nights ago. He picked me up from the airport. I’d been on vacation in the States. And then he went out to get some dinner. I wasn’t really hungry—at least I didn’t think so—but he insisted on going out. That wasn’t odd. But then —” She waved her hand.

  “Then what?” he whispered. He saw a tear spill down her cheek. She wiped it angrily away. “He never came back?”

  Miriam nodded, her lips pressed into a line so they wouldn’t crinkle.

  “And you haven’t heard from him since then?” he asked.

  She shook her head and let out an awkward bark of a laugh. She took a deep breath. “You know what? I’m actually on my way out to visit a friend, and I can’t be late.” Her cheeks were scarlet red, and she was standing close enough that he could see the odd red capillary beneath her strangely frail, translucent skin. He had the urge to do something, anything, to give what comfort he could, but she was retreating with every gesture.

  Suddenly, Katya reached up and took Miriam’s hand. It startled everyone, but Miriam forced a smile. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  Without looking at Katya, Nayir explained to her what Miriam had said.

  “Has she called the police?” Katya asked. “Or the consulate?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll figure it out,” Miriam said hastily once Nayir had translated the question. She took her hand out of Katya’s. “Don’t worry about me. Please.” She glanced at the kitchen door in a meaningful way, and Nayir reluctantly got to his feet. Katya stood up, a dark expression on her face.

  They followed Miriam to the front door and she saw them out, not meeting either of their gazes. “Thanks again,” she said in a wavering voice, and then more seriously, “I hope you find the killer.” She was about to shut the door, but Nayir stopped her.

  “Mrs. Walker,” he said, fumbling in the pocket of his robe. He extracted a mangy-looking, creased business card. He always kept one handy in case he met a potential client, but that rarely happened. The card was water-stained as well, but it was the best he could do. He handed it to Miriam. “This is in case you think of anything that might be helpful to us later.”

  Miriam looked at the card and gave a solemn nod. “All right,” she said. “Thanks.”

  Katya had the unique sensation that she was floating on the surface of a very great lake, but beneath it, her mind was busily at work. Any moment now an obvious understanding of what had just happened would pop out of the water like a monstrous whale.

  She peered through the glassy water, looking for the things that should be bothering her—the missing husband, Miriam’s unexplained resistance to clarifying her situation—but instead she saw the wide, slithering back of that familiar creature, jealousy. She pictured Miriam, so petite and exotically lovely with her great blue eyes, black lashes, and cheeks as white and delicate as butterfly wings. And Nayir, who had suddenly become cold to Katya and, in some perverse but appropriate twist, become uncommonly responsive to Miriam, protective and kind, not judgmental at all. Of course, one doesn’t judge the infidels. They don’t live by the same rules, so they can’t be held to them. She had not thought Nayir capable of such a lapse of morality, but apparently a crying female stripped him of his senses.

  Beside her, Nayir seemed lost in his thoughts. She wondered if he was silently chastising himself for having spoken to an American who wasn’t wearing a burqa, for having given her his phone number, for having stared at her face.

  He tensed under her gaze. “Don’t you think it’s odd that we show up at this apartment and find that the renter is missing?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’d say it’s odd. Do you want to check this out now?” He held up the sheet of notepaper on which he’d written down the landlord’s address, but there was nothing in his voice that suggested he actually wanted to continue this lead. He seemed in a hurry to get rid of her.

  “Actually, I have to get back to work,” she said. “I really ought to take the address to Osama.”

  “Osama?”

  “The investigator who’s in charge of this case,” she said.

  Nayir looked as if he might have more to say but wisely refrained. He handed her the paper.

  “I was hoping you’d come back with me to the station,” she said. “Perhaps you could look at the Quranic documents we found in Leila’s room.”

  He didn’t look at her when he replied, somewhat distractedly, “Yes, I’d be glad to.”

  A long silence filled the car.

  “You know,” she said finally, “I found two hairs on Leila’s burqa.” Nayir glanced in her general direction. “They were blond hairs,” she added. “Short ones.”

  “So what are you saying—the victim knew a blond man?”

  “Well, obviously, she’d come into pretty close contact with one.”

  “And you think that this missing husband could be blond?”

  “Arabs generally aren’t,” she replied.

  He ignored the sarcasm. “But that hair could have come from anyone,” he said. “You know how many Americans live in Jeddah?”

  “Of course I know,” she said a little too tartly. “But I’m going to have to tell Osama about the missing husband. It might be important.”

  Nayir looked as if he were going to regret his words but felt compelled to say them anyway. “You shouldn’t do that. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know that they’ll just go and arrest her until they can find her husband.”

  “Osama won’t. He doesn’t just arrest everyone.”

  “You said he just arrested the victim’s ex-husband’s brother.”

  Katya had to admit it was true. Nayir wore a dangerous look she’d seen on him once before, when he’d discovered that the young and innocent Nouf, now dead, had in fact been secretly planning to run away to America.

  “It would be a mistake,” he said carefully, “to make some frail connection between Miriam’s missing husband and Leila Nawar based on—what? A mutual friend? The landlord isn’t even really their friend. The husband probably met him once. If you send your investigators sniffing around, they’ll just throw her in jail.”

  She felt her anger rising but she held it in check. It took such an effort that she had trouble speaking.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t want to frighten her. She was helpful, and I’m grateful. And the truth is, I don’t know what Osama will do. He might not care at all. But the fact that her husband is missing is very odd.”

  “There could be any number of reasons that her husband is gone,” he said. “Maybe he ran off with another woman. Maybe the religious police have him in custody. But don’t you think you’d better check those possibilities out first before saying anything?”

  It would have been too difficult to give a reply. She simply nodded and fell silent.

  19

  Almost three whole days had passed. Miriam hadn’t called the police a second time to report Eric’s disappearance. The consulate had done it for her. The police were supposed to send someone to the house to ask questions sometime that day, but they hadn’t arrived yet—at least not the police she was expecting.

  The day before, she had spent part of the morning buying food and the other part searching the neighborhood for Eric’s truck. She had never had much of a sense of direction, so she had been careful not to get lost. This meant that she had had to search the streets one at a time, walking as far as she thought reasonable before heading back to the apartment. Then she would set off on another street. Their neighborhood was not laid out in square blocks; it had a few winding streets, which always disoriented her. It was a tedious job, and after two hours of it, she had come home overheated, frustrated, and exhausted.

  But she had for
ced herself to try again later that afternoon, once the worst heat of the day had passed. Walking through a scent of jasmine that hung in the air had triggered a memory: getting out of the car after their drive home from the airport, she could remember seeing a large jasmine vine growing just behind a gate in someone’s front yard.

  She had stopped walking then and followed her nose to the jasmine vine. It was the same one. Seeing it triggered another memory, of a blue-painted windowsill farther down the block. Walking a little way, she found that as well. This was the street where they’d parked. She walked up and down checking each of the cars, but Eric’s truck was not there.

  She had found her way home again, only to collapse on the sofa in despair. The truck was gone. Eric’s keys were gone. If she’d had a better memory and had found that spot sooner, she would have learned earlier on that he’d driven away. And she began to get angry. He’d actually left her.

  But now the police who’d appeared at her door raised the possibility that he’d left for a reason that had nothing to do with their marriage: he was somehow involved with a girl who had died. Miriam tried not to panic. The minute the police were gone, she went straight back to the box in the kitchen to write down the landlord’s address. But she couldn’t read Arabic, and she couldn’t tell which part of the lease was his address. She wanted to scream.

  She went blowing through the apartment, digging through drawers and hauling old boxes out of the guest room closet. (Guest room! she thought. Who were we thinking would come here for a vacation?) There had to be an English copy of the lease somewhere in the apartment. But where? She knew this apartment. In the past six months, she’d spent more time between these walls than she’d spent in their last house in two years put together, and she knew that there were only three places they kept papers: the kitchen pantry, the guest room closet, and on Eric’s desk.

  It wasn’t a real desk, just a wooden counter jutting out from the wall in the guest room, but inevitably his papers found their way there. She’d gone on a cleaning spree one afternoon, stacking everything neatly and putting useless miscellanea in a box. She felt strangely guilty touching his stuff. She had never cleaned his desk before—he might have been sloppy once in a while, but thanks to the U.S. military he was usually efficiently neat—but that had changed when they’d moved here. Now he was a slob.