City of Veils

by Zoë Ferraris

  As they got out of the car, she could feel the moral responsibility pulsing off him. It made her feel like a little girl, and she oscillated somewhere between gratitude and annoyance. As they were approaching the building, he stopped abruptly.

  “I know,” she said, raising a hand. “I should put on my burqa.” She sighed and spent a moment fastening the scarf over her face. “Just do me a favor,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Try to make sure I don’t trip on anything.”

  Looking worried, he led her into the building.

  They entered through a large revolving door. Almost at once, her cloak got stuck in the turnstile and she was forced to take it off and go back around to fetch it. Inside, she checked it for rips and put it on again while Nayir stood a few feet away, eyes raised desperately to the ceiling, a blush creeping up his neck.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “Not every woman gets used to these things.”

  The floor was polished and smelled strongly of bleach. At the end of the lobby, a security guard sat behind a desk so high that he had to walk down three stairs to pass them a clipboard. Nayir signed his name and handed it back. Then the guard came down with a handheld metal detector, which he passed over Nayir’s body. He ignored Miriam completely. When he was finished, he said, “Sixth floor,” and motioned vaguely to the left.

  Nayir went down a corridor and Miriam followed, struggling to see through her burqa. She felt like a kid in a Halloween costume, tripping blindly along with a basket in her hands. Nayir walked six feet in front of her, and no matter how hard she tried to keep up, he managed to stay ahead. It had always seemed arrogant to her, making a wife stay behind like a duckling, another reminder of her public inferiority. With grim reluctance, she could now appreciate the usefulness of having someone lead the way.

  They reached an elevator. Two men were waiting but, seeing Miriam, they let her and Nayir get into the next elevator alone. Nayir thanked them and pushed the button.

  When the door had slid shut, Miriam said wryly, “That was nice of them.” Seeing that Nayir wasn’t going to respond, she asked, “Do they really think women are that awful, that they can’t be in an elevator with me?”

  “They did it out of respect,” he replied. He seemed pleased and a bit surprised, as if such behavior were all too rare these days.

  “It makes me feel dirty,” she said.

  He kept his eyes on the glowing panel of numbers above the door. “You’re used to something different, then.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said. “That men don’t treat women with respect in America?” He looked slightly wounded, and she hated herself for getting so angry.

  “You’re right,” she conceded. “I’m used to something different.”

  The door opened, but it wasn’t their floor. No one stood in the hallway.

  “What’s your husband’s name again?” he asked, pressing the elevator button again.

  “Eric, but they call him Abdullah.” She felt foolish in her burqa, the little hem puffing forward every time she spoke. “You know, I think I should do this myself.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said bluntly, glancing at her.

  This time she pulled off her burqa, and his recoil probably gave him whiplash. She knew she was pushing it, but even as she felt guilty, a part of her wanted to grab his chin and force him to look at her. “This is about my husband,” she said.

  The elevator door finally slid shut, and Nayir looked relieved.

  “If they’re hiding something,” he said carefully, “they’ll tell me more if I’m alone, and if they think I don’t know you.”

  He was right, she knew, but she also suspected that the real reason he didn’t think she should be there was that she was a woman.

  “What I mean to say,” he went on, “is that they might know things that they wouldn’t tell you.” His expression made it clear that he meant “man” things.

  “You think Eric was cheating on me?” she said. She gave a soft, derisive snort, but her insides felt leaden. “Well, even if he was, why would they tell you that? Isn’t it a capital crime for a man to cheat on his wife?”

  He seemed to be mulling something over, because he didn’t reply. The elevator door opened with a bing, and she refastened her burqa, this time to hide her entire face. “Wherever you go,” she whispered, “I’m coming with you.”

  SynTech occupied the entire sixth floor. An enormous central office extended back to a row of panoramic windows that faced a collection of drab apartment buildings. A male secretary sat immobile behind a glass desk.

  Miriam’s first thought was that it didn’t seem like the sort of place where bodyguards would work. She had somehow imagined that there would be more men in uniforms, a glimpse of old military fatigues, cold coffee, and boxes of ammunition stacked on a shelf. The office smelled of floor polish and bleach, and the people who worked there kept it neat enough that nothing spoiled the clean lines of the modern furniture.

  With a gentle nod, Nayir motioned for her to take a seat on the hard-looking sofa in a waiting area off to the right. She considered it but decided it was best not to maneuver around the coffee table.

  Nayir approached the secretary and asked for Abdullah Walker. The man shot him a frightened look. He put up his finger and rose nervously, striding across the room to an office door on the left. He tapped on the door. There was a muffled answer and he went inside. A moment later he came out and motioned for Nayir to come forward. Miriam scurried after him despite the secretary’s disapproving stare.

  The office was a bright room with a thick Berber carpet and mahogany chairs. The air was cooler in here, the smell crisp and inviting. The man behind the desk looked slightly misplaced among the palatial appointments. Miriam recognized Taylor Shaw, Eric’s American boss. He was a tall, burly, Paul Bunyan figure with a gigantic slab of a face, a bushy shock of blond hair, and a pair of rough-hewn hands that were always in motion. She had met him at a party on the American compound but they had been introduced only briefly. Shaw was one of those gregarious, whirlwind people who seemed capable of having three conversations at once. In his office, he was naturally more subdued, but there was still a crackling energy about him.

  Shaw didn’t appear to recognize her, but that did nothing for her nerves. Her hands were pale enough to telegraph to most people that she wasn’t an Arab, so she tucked them into her sleeves. She lowered her head and kept her eyes on the floor in an effort to seem as devout as possible. The room was so bright, and her burqa was thin enough, that at a certain angle, Shaw might be able to see the outline of her face.

  “Please have a seat,” Shaw said. Nayir and Miriam took the chairs facing the desk. Even though he was American, Shaw knew the local customs, and he neither glanced at Miriam nor seemed to realize that she was there.

  “I understand you’re here about Eric Walker,” he said.

  “Yes,” Nayir replied. “I’m trying to find him.”

  “I’m afraid we are, too,” he said. “Eric hasn’t been to work for the past month.”

  It took all of Miriam’s effort not to raise her burqa and cry out, What?

  Nayir seemed confused. “Was he on vacation?”

  “He took a leave of absence. He was supposed to have reported back to work four days ago, but he never showed up. We’ve been getting phone calls from his wife. Apparently, she doesn’t know where he is either.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Nayir asked.

  Shaw sat back and squinted at his guest. “Can I ask why you’re looking for him?”

  “I’m part of a police investigation involving his landlord,” Nayir replied calmly. “The only address we have on file for the landlord was Walker’s. When we discovered that Walker was missing, we thought we’d better check it out. I doubt there’s a connection. We’re trying to be thorough.”

  Shaw glanced briefly at Miriam, no doubt wondering if she was with the police as well.
She marveled at the smooth way Nayir had just made the whole thing seem innocent. Her own thoughts were racing in terrible directions.

  Shaw sat forward again. “Well, I can’t tell you anything about that,” he said. “Normally, my foreign workers live on a compound. Eric was an exception, but I don’t know all the details of his living situation. Why are you investigating his landlord?”

  “I’m afraid that’s confidential.” Nayir’s face had become the picture of authority. Shaw took the rebuff badly, gazing at Nayir with a look of amusement that managed to be condescending.

  “Before he left, did Mr. Walker say anything about how he would be spending his vacation?” Nayir asked.

  “No.”

  “Is there anyone at the office who might know where he went?” Nayir asked. His whole demeanor had hardened, and a threatening aura seemed to be spreading through the room.

  “Not at present,” Shaw said coolly. “But I’ll do some asking.” Miriam doubted that.

  “Was there anything unusual about Walker’s behavior before he left?” Nayir asked.

  “I didn’t think so at the time.” Shaw got up from his desk and went to a file cabinet in the corner. “But some surveillance equipment went missing—or rather, we noticed it was missing right after he went on leave. I didn’t believe it had anything to do with him at the time, but now I’m not so sure.” He retrieved a file and brought it back to the desk, handing it to Nayir.

  “How much equipment is missing?” Nayir asked.

  “About five thousand dollars’ worth—that’s about twenty thousand riyals.”

  “And what makes you think he might have taken it?”

  Shaw shrugged, a massive gesture that lifted his jacket a good four inches. “He was one of the only people with access to the equipment room, and the stuff disappeared right around the time he did. I never thought of Walker as the dishonest type, but greed is sometimes hard to spot.” He sat down and Miriam’s heart fell with him. The word struck an awful chord: greed. It was one of the things she’d accused Eric of when they fought—that he’d wanted to come here only for the money, that he’d put money above their marriage. But back then she was just looking for a place to punch.

  Miriam realized that she was frozen in her chair and that her fingers were gripping her wrists so tightly that it hurt. She wanted to leave the room now, but she had no way of reaching Nayir. He was on another island. The only thing she could do was kick his foot where Shaw wouldn’t see. Inch by inch, she slid her foot across the floor, but as she moved closer, Nayir pulled his own foot away and set the folder back on the desk.

  “Would you like to report this theft to the police?” Nayir asked calmly.

  Shaw considered a moment and shook his head. “When Walker turns up, I’ll talk to him. Right now I don’t have any hard evidence. Anyway, I thought you were just looking for the landlord.”

  Nayir regarded him. “One more question, Mr. Shaw. Do you know a woman named Leila Nawar?”

  Shaw looked genuinely perplexed. “No,” he said slowly. “I’ve never heard the name. Why?”

  Nayir stood, and Miriam rose with him. Shaw got to his feet. “I’ve already talked to our employees about Walker,” he said, “but I’ll bring it up again, see if anyone knows where he might have gone. If you want to leave your number, I’ll call if I have anything.”

  As she made her way out of the office, Miriam had trouble keeping Nayir in her sights. She couldn’t focus. Why hadn’t Eric told her he’d taken so much time off? What had he been doing all month? Had he stolen the equipment? Her mind flashed on the document she’d found in his briefcase—it was in her purse right now. She couldn’t bear to think about it. Abruptly, she remembered Mabus on the plane. His words echoed back in a portentous rhythm. Just as soon as you’re ready to go home, you’ll find that your husband has fallen in love with the place… Now that she knew Mabus had known Eric, those words filled her with dread.

  27

  Osama stood at the interrogation room window reflecting on the mysterious Leila Nawar. A woman who wore a burqa and showed her picture via Bluetooth. A woman who was courageous enough to film strangers in public. Katya’s words rang true: Leila was chasing controversy.

  In every investigation he wondered at some point, Where would the victim be right now, if she were alive? He closed his eyes and saw Leila in motion, not sitting quietly in the backseat of a car or on a balcony overlooking a city street. She was on a sidewalk, hurrying along, talking on her cell phone, hitching a rucksack up her shoulder, laughing loudly. One of those female pedestrians for whom a cloak and burqa were useless accoutrements, because her presence dominated the energy on the street.

  Her ex-husband was a different matter. Bashir Tabbakh sat on the other side of the interrogation room window, sipping a cup of tea and staring at the wall. He had been there for an hour, unruffled, looking slightly bored but resigned. Bashir had turned himself in after his brother, Hakim, had managed to contact him by phone and convey the details of his imprisonment. In a touching display of brotherly affection, Bashir had come to the station before the noon prayer and apologized to his brother for the inconvenience. Osama suspected that his offer of assisting with Bashir’s expired work visa had provided the right incentive. When Osama entered the room, Bashir turned in his direction and nodded.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Tabbakh,” Osama said, taking a seat across the table.

  “Of course,” Bashir said. “I’m sorry to hear about this. Her family must be shattered.”

  Osama opened a folder, mentally noting Bashir’s calm.

  “Am I under suspicion?” Bashir asked.

  “I just need to ask you some questions,” Osama replied. “We want to know a little more about Leila.”

  The sound of her name made Bashir stiffen for an instant. “I don’t know how much I can tell you.”

  Osama took his time setting up the tape recorder and going through the protocol. Bashir watched with growing unease.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Osama asked.

  “I can’t remember the date exactly. She came to the store a few weeks ago. We talked, and she left.” Osama heard the first hint of disgruntlement in the man’s tone.

  “You mean the shop beneath your brother’s apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she often go to the store?” Osama asked.

  “No. Only when she needed money.”

  “Was that a frequent occurrence?”

  “It felt like it, but no.”

  Osama nodded, thinking. “You were divorced by then.”

  Bashir let out a soft laugh. “Sure. When we were married, she didn’t have to come begging for money. I had to hand it over.”

  Osama heard the opening strains of a familiar symphony—the complaint that women always want money. Women were lazy. They were greedy. They nagged and nagged their husbands for money and then they spent it foolishly. So many men expected their wives to stay home and then complained about having to support them. Was there a bigger cliché?

  “Did you give her any money?”

  “No.” Bashir looked disgusted. Osama could almost hear the symphony swelling. “Her family was rich,” Bashir said. “Her brother could have bought me as a slave, and she was coming to me for pocket change? Who does that? What kind of woman do you have to be?” His face was reddening now, but his voice was in control.

  “Did the two of you have a divorce settlement?”

  Bashir took a deep breath. “Yes, well, according to the marriage contract, I was supposed to pay her something like a million riyals.” He barked out a laugh. “But listen, we both wanted that divorce. She agreed to forgo any of the money. A few weeks after the divorce, she started coming to the store to beg for cash. She tried to make me feel guilty; she even threatened to take me back to court.”

  Osama nodded. “Did that worry you?”

  “No.” Bashir almost laughed. “She could have taken me to court, but I still wouldn’t ha
ve had anything to give her.” He looked tough, his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl distorting his thin face, but beneath it was all the insecurity of the penniless immigrant.

  “You weren’t married long—what, two and a half months?” Osama asked.

  Bashir shrugged. “About that.”

  “How did you marry in the first place?”

  “Her mother set it up. My mother and Leila’s had known each other since childhood. They were very good friends. They both lived in Damascus, although her mother is dead now. But before she died, she wanted one thing: to see Leila married, safe, and happy. Leila was her only daughter.” Bashir had spread his arms. One was resting comfortably on the table, the other on his knee. The openness of the gesture was unusual for an interrogation subject. Osama couldn’t help thinking that Bashir really was as comfortable sitting here as he might have been in his own living room, talking with friends. Either Bashir was a very fine actor, or he had nothing to hide.

  “This is strange to say now,” Bashir went on, “but I think we got married to please her mother. She was dying of cancer and we just wanted her to be happy. We divorced a week after she died.”

  “So it was a marriage of convenience.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get along with Leila?”

  He shook his head, looking melancholy. “Not really.”

  “Personality differences?”

  Bashir snorted gently. “You could say that. She was always on a mission. She was going to save somebody. She was going to be a famous filmmaker. She was going to impress someone. It didn’t matter what she set out to do, she always did it with the same attitude, like she thought she was the last hero in the world.” He pursed his lips, choosing his next words with care. “It’s admirable in a person, but it’s a hard thing to live with. Let’s just say the relationship was never about us, because with Leila, everything was always about Leila. You see, she was doing everything for a higher purpose. How can you argue with that?”

  “Let me guess, she didn’t do any housework,” Osama said, nodding conspiratorially.