Welcome to Dubai (The Traveler)

by Omar Tyree

  Looks like they want every dollar they can get here. Or dirham, he thought.

  The scene was very American to him, like a night in New York around Christmas, but without the snow or freezing weather. The only truly unfamiliar scene was the many Muslim women, dressed in white or black abayas with hijab face and head covers. Gary had only seen a few fully cloaked Muslim women in America, but in Dubai, they were everywhere. Only their eyes showed.

  Gary imagined that their eye shapes, sizes and colors were all very important to differentiate them. And as he walked through the downtown streets of Dubai, he found himself looking too intently upon the only part of the Muslim women he could connect to—their eyes. Some of the women wore red embroidered designs in their head dressings.

  This is weird to feel so compelled to look into their eyes like this, Gary told himself. It feels incredibly personal, as if I’m not supposed to.

  I may get myself arrested over here for reckless eyeballing, he joked to himself. But why come out at night at all if you’re so concerned about men looking at you? Is there really a need for them to be out here this late at night?

  It all seemed hypocritical, even Gary’s thoughts of liberating the seemingly oppressed women. Should a woman be forced to remain in the house just because she’s a Muslim? he debated to himself. If they’re all covered up, it’s like wearing a house outside with you anyway.

  He shook it off and mumbled, “To each his own.” While walking the busy streets of the night, Gary remained alert to everything, including a diligent watch of the various foreign men who strolled along the sidewalks with him. They didn’t look as friendly as he figured the people of a tourist nation would be. Obviously, they all had their own lives on their minds.

  Who said you had to smile and be nice to every tourist? Gary reasoned. New York doesn’t do it and neither does Washington.

  There was also an abundance of jewelry stores in Dubai—or maybe just in the downtown area that he was in—with flashing lights of golden designs and gaudy diamond watches. He was thinking so much about Dubai, he nearly forgot that he was hungry—until his stomach growled again.

  Up the street and to the right of the intersection in front of him was a McDonald’s with its famous golden arches. Gary looked up at them and laughed.

  “I didn’t travel halfway around the world to eat at McDonald’s,” he mumbled. But as he neared the intersection, thinking more about food, an Applebee’s popped out from his right. Then he spotted a Red Lobster across the street and an Olive Garden farther up.

  Gary laughed harder and said, “Are you kidding me? Wow!”

  However, in between the familiar American brands were traditional Arab and Asian restaurants. Gary followed his nose and senses and looked inside of the large twenty-foot window of Ali Rashid Cuisine. The decor was beyond elaborate, with tall designer chairs, large tables and booths, dim lighting, rich curtains, golden-framed artwork and attractive servers wearing all black.

  The place looked plenty expensive, but the price of a first-rate meal was not an issue for him. Gary could afford it all, deciding to walk right in.

  “You have a reservation?” the hostess asked him from her booth inside the door. She was a tall and slender Asian woman, with her hair slicked back into a small ponytail. Her naturally tanned skin hinted of Southeast Asia, from Taiwan to the Philippines. The dark, slick hair, height, body size, ponytail and professional poise told him everything. She looked like a well-traveled model who would fit right in on a catwalk in Milan. He could smell the stimulating perfume that she wore and could only imagine how many languages she spoke.

  But before he answered her question about a reservation, Gary pulled out his wallet and handed her a black credit card that spoke for itself.

  “I could find a seat at the bar if you like, but I’d rather have a small table in a corner where I can see everything. If one is available,” he added politely.

  Using his black high-limit credit card with confidence was another one of the many tricks that Gary had picked up from Jonah. But she only used the card in emergencies, and it was his first time trying it.

  The hostess looked at the card and nodded. “A table for only one?”

  Gary stopped himself from flirting with her. “Yes,” he answered.

  “One minute,” she told him, prepared to seek permission.

  “Ah, can I see a menu before you go?”

  He was starving and didn’t want to waste any time with his order.

  “Oh, sure.” She handed him a menu from behind her station.

  “Thank you,” he gushed.

  She smiled back at him and held up her right index finger. “One minute.”

  When she walked away, Gary looked at the twelve-page menu covered in plastic and was overwhelmed by his choices. The food was all listed in Arabic and English, with beef, roast, lamb, steak, salmon, fish, chicken, rice, potatoes and vegetables all served with dozens of different spices.

  Wow, what a menu, he thought. He had no idea where to begin. He decided to ask the hostess once she returned.

  She handed Gary back his card with a smile and said, “Follow me,” with her index finger.

  Gary followed behind her as she led him through the room of money. At every table sat businessmen, significant others, and high rollers who could afford to splurge. But none sat alone until Gary was shown his intimate table with two chairs on the far side of the restaurant, where he could indeed see everything.

  “Is this good?” the hostess stopped and asked him.

  Gary nodded. “This is very good. But what’s the best meal for me to eat?” he hinted with the menu in his hand.

  She grinned and said, “Whatever you like?”

  “Well, what do you like to eat?” he asked her pointedly.

  The hostess continued to grin. “Moroccan beef. And your server will be right out.”

  Gary could feel the tingles of flirtation running up and down his spine and landing at his sweet spot, while he forced himself not to stare at her ass as she walked away.

  “Man, it’s good to be rich,” he mumbled and grinned.

  He imagined that Jonah could still hear it all through his cell phone in the holder at his hip. But so what? He would simply have to deal with it. And so would she.

  “Like you said, it’s my life,” he said out loud.

  Then his server walked over, an alluring Russian brunette in her early twenties. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail too, only longer.

  “Anything to drink?” she asked him in heavily accented English.

  Gary looked straight up into her pert breasts from his chair and thought, Jesus! She has them right in front of me.

  He gathered his poise and said, “Yes, I’ll have a glass of Merlot. And I’m ready to make my order.”

  “Oh, okay. What will you like?”

  She pulled out her pen and pad.

  “Ah, the Moroccan beef, chicken, lamb, shrimp—let me try a sample of all of it, with the rice and bread.”

  The server grinned and said, “Really? Wow, you have an appetite.”

  “Yeah, I had a long plane ride in.”

  She nodded and asked, “From the States?”

  “Yeah, Atlanta.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “No, I’m originally from Louisville. That’s in the state of Kentucky. Where are you from?”

  “The Ukraine.”

  “Oh, a break-off from Russia.”

  She smiled again. “Yes. I’ll go put in your food and bring your drink.”

  “Thank you.”

  When she walked away, the rest of her curves were undeniable. Not only was she stunning, but there were two other young women of Indian and Spanish heritage who were just as noticeable. And they were all extremely tactful.

  Gary grumbled, “Man, if I don’t watch myself, I’ll get into all kinds of trouble over here.”

  He was so intrigued by the professionalism and beauty of the women who worked inside the re
staurant that he wondered what the parties of Dubai would look like. In case he had any leftover energies after dinner, Gary had brought along the card of his Sri Lankan driver, Johnny Napur, and decided to use it.

  “Johnny,” the excitable driver answered.

  “This is Mr. No Name, The Traveler,” Gary said. “You still wanna take me around to a couple of parties tonight? And nothing extra, just a normal music party.”

  He didn’t want the guy going out of his way to hook him up with anything; he just wanted to see more of the culture.

  Johnny got all wound up immediately. “Oh yeah, definitely. I was just getting ready. I could pick you up in less than an hour.”

  “Okay, but what should I wear?” Gary asked. Jonah had advised him to pack a variety of clothes for the trip, including two sports jackets and a pair of black dress shoes for more professional attire. “You never know what you may be invited to over there,” she had told him.

  Now, Gary waited for Johnny’s response. “Wear whatever you want,” Johnny said. “They’ll still treat you the same, especially if you’re with me,” he boasted. “No one’s really into dress codes here, unless you’re going to a formal affair with the Emirati.”

  On that note, Gary liked what he had on already. “Okay, well you can pick me up from downtown. I walked out of the hotel to grab a bite to eat. So call me back when you get close.”

  “Oh yeah? What restaurant did you go to?”

  Gary didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want the guy sizing up his income based on his expensive taste in food.

  “Ah, I don’t even know the name of it,” he lied. “I think it’s a Moroccan place. But just call me when you get close, and I’ll wolf down my food.”

  “All right. You’re not at the Ali Rashid, are you?”

  Gary froze. It was a hell of a guess. “Why, is there something wrong with that one?”

  Johnny broke up laughing. “Not at all, my friend. Ali Rashid is a great place to eat. I know a few girls who work there. It’s very international. That’s where I would eat if I was a single guy.”

  Gary had no idea he’d chosen a hot spot. “Well, I won’t do it again. This place looks like it’ll break my budget,” he joked. “So call me when you get close.”

  “All right. I know exactly where you are. Give me forty-five minutes.”

  “Make it an hour so I can eat.”

  “Yeah, and enjoy the view,” Johnny joked back.

  Gary smiled and said, “Exactly.”

  As soon as they hung up, his server from the Ukraine brought back his drink and set it on the table in front of him. She smiled and said, “Enjoy,” while lingering there for an extra second, as if waiting for him to say something else.

  “Thank you,” he said. He promptly took a sip of the dark Merlot to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to say anything else. I guess I’II find out how ready I am to settle down with my girlfriend.

  Chapter 11

  Back in the Hardened working-class district of Palm Deira, pacifist Indian laborer Rasik sat at the bar in a local pub, drinking away his recent pains. He had not been right since the death of his co-worker at the construction site more than a week ago. He continued to have his doubts about how to respond to it. Should he quit, revolt or continue working there without anger or any suspicions?

  Recently, Rasik had gained some inside information on what may have happened that day. After being asked a few questions about his work and what seemed to be troubling him, he began to blab away to a man who offered to pay for his drinks at the bar. And Rasik began to tell him all that he thought he knew about the tragic accident.

  “I keep asking myself, how did everyone know so soon what had happened? The police, the ambulance, the news cameras—they were all there in a matter of minutes when sometimes it takes hours and days for anything to happen at our site,” he explained to the stranger. “All of it was very unusual.”

  “So you believe that someone informed them all in advance?” the man asked. “But this accident happened in broad daylight in the afternoon. Of course they would all arrive there quickly.”

  The light-brown man showed an extreme level of calmness and understanding. He had noticed Rasik wearing his light-blue construction uniform from work, and he decided to befriend him by asking about his day on the job. He too had worked as a laborer. And as one question led to another, Rasik began to tell him everything. He nodded with his right hand around his fourth small glass and said, “I’ve heard a few things about a vendetta.”

  The stranger frowned. “A vendetta?”

  “Yes. A few older workers who have been here for a number of years …” Rasik stopped momentarily to gather himself as the strong drink began to throw him off balance at his barstool. Even the bartender gave him a knowing look from behind the tall counter.

  On cue, the stranger told him, “I believe you’ve had enough drinks, my friend. Will you be able to make it back home?”

  Rasik nodded profusely. “Yes, I can make it home.” But he was on a roll with his story and wanted to finish it. He felt compelled to complete his statement of what he knew, and the drinks had blocked his better judgment to remain silent.

  “What I was saying was that I was told by some older workers that—”

  “Excuse me, are you certain that you’ve not had too much to drink?” the man interrupted him.

  As Rasik became frustrated, his imbalance was more noticeable. He nearly fell off of his stool as the man moved to catch him. That heightened the bartender’s attention.

  “Are you all right?” the rugged man behind the counter asked him.

  “No more drinks for you, my friend,” the stranger concluded.

  “I’m fine,” Rasik protested to both of them.

  “You are not fine,” the bartender argued. “And you have had enough drinks for one night.” The rugged man was over six feet tall, with a knife scar across his left cheek. If Rasik objected again or became unruly, he was prepared to alert his staff to show the man out, or he would do it himself. He even took the intoxicated man’s drink away.

  “That is enough.”

  Rasik was in no position to argue, and he was not unruly. So he nodded and accepted his fate without telling the rest of his pressing story. He then stood from the barstool and wobbled. The friendly stranger moved again to catch him.

  “Let me help you out,” he offered.

  Rasik accepted and walked gingerly with him to the exit. The bartender continued to watch.

  “Are you sure you can make it back home?” the friendly stranger pressed him.

  Rasik smiled and answered, “Slowly,” with a chuckle. He was suddenly embarrassed that he had had so much to drink. “I just need to get home and lie down.”

  The two men shared a laugh as the man opened the door wide for him.

  “Thank you for the drinks and your kind ear,” Rasik told him.

  The man placed a kind hand across his back. “Don’t mention it, my friend. Anytime.”

  As Rasik made his way outside and back into the streets of Deira, the friendly man returned to his barstool and secretly signaled to a companion across the room who casually stood and walked out behind the drunken construction worker.

  “I feel sorry for the man,” the stranger commented to the bartender. “He seems to have had a rough couple of weeks.”

  The bartender frowned and was unconcerned. “We all have our rough weeks,” he said as he filled another drink order at the bar. There had been plenty of immigrant men with bad days at work who had chosen to drink too much. And their drinking had paid the bartender’s rent.

  *****

  As Rasik headed gingerly down the street toward his small apartment building in the night, the second man from the bar easily spotted him meandering down the sidewalk. The Indian laborer had not gotten very far in his drunkenness. The second man from the bar then signaled to three more men to follow. They had been waiting outside for their instruction for close to an hour. The second man
then returned to the bar and was done with it.

  “Okay, you two watch the streets,” the lead voice of the three men commanded. He was in his thirties and dressed in a heavy, dark jacket to hide his weapon. The two younger men in their twenties wore plain clothes to blend in with the normal pedestrians. They then separated into three different directions. One walked left, the other walked right, and the leader followed behind Rasik.

  After ten o’clock, there were still people, cars and taxis out on the streets of Deira, but not as many as there had been an hour or so earlier and fast decisions and actions could now go undetected. So the man followed the slow-moving and wobbly laborer up the sidewalk, while watching for his cues of his young cohorts, with one in front and behind him. When it appeared there were no onlookers, the man wasted no time in running up and jamming his six-inch hunting knife several times into Rasik’s back.

  “Unnhh!” Rasik squealed. The pain was excruciating and sudden, even with numbness from the alcohol.

  The man quickly stuffed Rasik’s mouth with a rag to keep him from screaming too loudly, while cutting open his pockets to take his belongings. The assault and robbery all took less than twenty seconds before the man ran off into the night.

  Rasik crumbled to the ground and squirmed, bleeding on the sidewalk. By the time five minutes had passed and the first person found him there in a pool of fresh blood, the three assailants were long gone.

  As the Indian laborer slowly slipped into the afterworld, he thought of his wife back home in India and mumbled his last words in Hindu, “Sunita … I’m sorry.”

  Chapter 12

  From the earlier gathering with Mohd Ahmed Nasir, there were a few men of a certain character who were invited to remain behind for one-on-one discussions. Saleem, the rugged Pakistani, was one of them. He was told to wait and be patient, while Mohd conducted conversations with several men before him in a private room. In fact, Saleem was called in last.

  “He wants to see you now,” he was told by Mohd’s personal bodyguard. Bakar, a thick-mustachioed Algerian, was one of the biggest men inside the room; Saleem was sure that he would be a handful in any form of combat.