When he woke up the next day, however, he had a different idea. Once again he avoided visiting his family. He got to thinking that they might try to disrupt his plans. They would call him crazy. Unless he told them he had some sort of fellowship to study at an English university. Perhaps it was best to lie. But to lie to his own parents, why do such a thing? How dishonest as well as unnecessary for the intrepid warrior he had now become! No. He had to face the situation head on. Except that things might go wrong... They might tell everything to the authorities of the Kingdom and now he had a false ID and bank cards for an astronomically large bank account. He imagined that by now, Sheik Omar must be wondering if he had done the right thing to place so much trust in him. He was seated at the foot of his bed in his hotel room, and that morning, his head seemed to have been turned into a tennis court, with a ball flying back and forth, in a constant exchange of arguments with himself, unable to arrive at any decision. Fed up with his own indecision, he finally ended up deciding to tackle another important task and put off visiting his parents for one more day. His thoughts went back to Afghanistan. He got out his wallet and took from it the precious photo of Nasser’s sister. He stared at it lost in thought. During all this time, since the day Nasser had died in the Khost region, one thought had been engraved in his subconscious: to look for Nasser’s sister. He felt that he owed this to his friend, and now the time had come to do something. The girl was there in the photograph, in the foreground, with those grayish blue eyes that held him like a magnet. He hadn’t said so to Nasser at the time out of modesty, but from the outset he had found her photo extremely beautiful. More than merely beautiful, he had found her beguiling, enigmatic, mysterious. Now, however, he saw supplication in her eyes. Or perhaps he was just seeing what he wanted to see. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the photo again. He still saw exactly the same look of supplication on her face. His thoughts flew to Nasser’s body cruelly riddled with machine gun bullets, falling defenseless to the ground. He turned over the photo and read the name written on the back: Nadia. Then he called the reception desk and ordered a taxi.
20
He knew where Nasser lived. At least, the neighborhood and street. He remembered Nasser telling him in a casual conversation they had shortly after they went to the little town of Jaji together, in the mountains of Afghanistan, to notify Bin Laden that Sheik Tameem was planning an assault on a forward Soviet outpost without his authorization. Well dressed, with new clothes, hair and beard trimmed, Yousef climbed into the cab at the hotel entrance headed for the outskirts of Jeddah to find Nasser’s address. The cab driver knew the street and took him there without any problem. When they arrived, the cab driver started asking around about the brother and sister Nasser and Nadia. He got out of the taxi and approached an elderly man with a very white beard and wrinkles deeply etched in his face who was walking bent over with a cane. Yousef observed their conversation from the car window until at last the cab driver thanked the old man and got back in the car.
“It seems we’re out of luck. I’ll have to ask someone else.”
“How’s that? You were talking quite a while. What did he tell you?” “At first he told me he didn’t know who this Nasser was, but when I
asked him about the sister, he said he actually did know a girl named Nadia just like that, as he told me, with sparkling grayish blue eyes like a cat. He told me if she’s the person he’s thinking of, she lives right down there at the end of this street, and he showed me the house.”
“It must be her! Why did you say we were out of luck?”
“Because then he told me that as far as he knows this Nadia didn’t have any brother traveling abroad and no brother by the name of Nasser. Her brothers are all younger and go to school here nearby, as far as he knows. The old man says he knows the family well. He confided to me that she is not very well regarded in the neighborhood, and let slip that he thinks it unlikely she’ll ever get married because she has a very bad reputation.”
“It must be another Nadia, then. Another one with grayish blue eyes. The girl we’re looking for is Nasser’s sister. And as for Nasser himself, no leads?”
“As for Nasser himself, the old man says that the description is very vague, and he can’t help us. Do you want me to take you to the house of this Nadia or to ask around some more? My time is valuable, you know, for me time is money and… well, a man has to look after himself…”
“But I already gave you twice what this fare is worth to pay for your time!”
The cab driver sat up stiffly. Yousef couldn’t let himself get upset over such details. He needed to think. The cab driver stretched his arms out on the steering wheel and stared ahead impatiently.
“What you gave me is enough money for what we’ve done so far. To go around asking more questions, or go to that house the old man showed me, it’s not enough.”
Fast as lightning, Yousef seized him by the collar.
“Listen,” he said, his face stuck in the driver’s. “You’re getting mixed up with the wrong man.” But suddenly, Yousef remembered that in his current situation, he could not get into trouble or attract attention to himself. He pulled himself together and let the man go, then reached for his wallet and took out a large bill. “This is what you’re going to do: you’re going to wait for me while I go talk to the old man. When I get back you’ll get another one of these that you see in my hand, and take me wherever I say. Do we understand each other?”
“I’m at your service.”
“I’m glad.”
“All you had to do was say so,” said the cab driver as Yousef got out of the car.
Yousef approached the old man and greeted him respectfully, but the man recoiled.
“I already told the cab driver everything I know.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to harm you. What happened there in the cab was just a negotiation. You know how cabbies are sometimes, tough to deal with.”
“Uh…”
“I just want to ask you one question. You said you know a girl with grayish blue eyes named Nadia, but this girl doesn’t have any brother traveling abroad.”
“Yes, I already said all I know about that girl.”
“So tell me this: do you by any chance know a boy here who went to Pakistan or to Afghanistan, or about whom it is said that he might have gone there to help fight alongside the mujaheddin?”
The old man looked at him suspiciously. The lines on his face hardened.
“Who are you?”
“A friend. We met in Pakistan,” he improvised. “And he asked me to find his sister and give her a very important message. I promised him I would find her. I swore, do you understand?”
““Uh…”
“Come on, help me find his family.”
The old man looked Yousef straight in the eye, considering.
“By God, I hope I’m doing the right thing... I’m going to tell you a story. Here in the street people talk, you understand? And we don’t always know to what extent some things are true or just gossip... well, the truth is that this girl I told you about, and who fits your description, is not at all well regarded here in the neighborhood, and she’s unlikely ever to find a husband. It’s a very complicated situation for her family. She’s gotten off without being punished even more severely because of whose daughter she is, and because her parents, although they are not very wealthy, have very good connections to the royal family.”
“And what does this have to do with my friend? This girl has no brother who’s traveling abroad, she just has young brothers, so she’s not the sister of my friend, so I don’t see what she has to do with anything.”
“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not? Then you can tell me whether or not it has anything to do with your friend. So, your friend was in Pakistan and Afghanistan fighting against the Soviets with the mujaheddin, right? All right, this girl had a fine arranged marriage with a boy of good family, of excellent social standing, but unfortunately, she let herself get invo
lved with another boy from the neighborhood here. The name of this other boy was Nasser. Precisely the name that you gave me. Apparently, the boy to whom she was engaged for the arranged marriage saw her one day kissing Nasser. From that point on, people started to talk, and naturally she ended up with a terrible reputation. The marriage was called off. It seems the girl’s father punished her brutally, in an effort to avoid a judgment in the public square, as well as an even greater stain on her honor and that of her family. Her poor father, she caused him enormous distress and great harm to his good name! The betrayed fiancé ended up dropping the matter. No one knows for sure what deal he may have made with Nadia’s father, or whether the royal family itself ended up getting involved at some level to clean things up. One thing is certain though, that this Nasser vanished just after this all came out and, apparently, went to Pakistan or Afghanistan to fight against the Soviets, perhaps as a way of punishing himself and running away from it all.”
“That’s quite a story...”
“Well, that’s the story I have to tell you. If you want to get to the bottom of whether this girl is really the Nadia you’re looking for, all you have to do is go to her house and talk to her. There it is down the street, the two-storey house right in front of that tree. Do you see it there at the end?” The man pointed. “That’s all I can tell you, and by God, do not mention that I told you anything at all.”
Yousef reached for his wallet and took out a note which he gave to the old man.
“Take it. For your time.” Then he shouted to the cab driver sitting at the steering wheel, “I have no further need of your services. You may go.”
“So what about my money?”
“Your money? It’s no longer your money.”
“Good luck!” shouted the old man, and Yousef started walking.
21
It was a spacious, two-storey house. In the parlor where he was received, Yousef met Nadia’s mother and grandmother. It was afternoon. Outside the sun burned hotter and hotter, but in the parlor the air was agreeably cool. When Yousef reiterated his wish to speak with Nadia, the women’s faces became fraught with concern, and they exchanged fleeting glances of complicity. If this Nadia lived up to the old man’s story, she must receive few visits, if any, thought Yousef, and he decided to tell the two women everything. He told them he was a friend of a certain Nasser whom he had met in Pakistan, how he was a fine young man in all respects, and how terribly he met his death in the mountains fighting against the Soviet oppressors. By this time, the victories of the mujaheddin were spoken of and admired in Saudi Arabia, and their fighters were seen as heroes by most of the population. He told them that Nasser had spoken to him of his sister, and recounted what he knew of her from the words of his fallen comrade. He concluded by saying he very much wanted to meet her to help her as much as possible, owing to the great friendship that bound him to Nasser. In response to this, the grandmother intervened, addressing her daughter directly:
“It’s best to leave this story buried.”
Yousef insisted. This time, he reached into his pocket and took out the photo of Nadia with her face uncovered, and took the chance of showing it to her mother and grandmother.
“This is a photograph that my friend kept with him at all times when we were in Afghanistan. Is this your daughter?”
The mother took the photo and looked at it carefully. The first tears came to her eyes. Then she turned it over, read the inscription on the back and unleashed a flood of bitter tears.
“She is a very good girl, you know,” she said between sobs. “But she can’t live in this world. Not her. She was never able to feel love for the husband who was arranged for her. He was a good husband but she was never able to love him. Worse yet, she fell in love with this friend of yours, and got into such an awful mess. She suffered so much because of this. So did we. God knows all of us in this house suffered, but she suffered even more. And there was nothing I could do.”
Yousef had not counted on this response. He didn’t know what to say or do. He had never known the kind of sorrow that this mother was feeling, and because for him there was never any need to pretend, he didn’t pretend to feel anything, so he asked bluntly:
“May I see her?”
“Yes, do whatever you can to help her. She needs so much help and I no longer have any idea what to do.”
Nadia’s mother pointed to the stairway without looking, and said: “You may go up, second door on the right.”
He went up the stairs and knocked on the door. In the absence of a reply he was about to knock again, but as he reached up the door opened. It was Nadia who opened the door, looked at him for a fleeting moment then dropped her gaze, moving behind the door to let him in. Those fleeting seconds were enough for Yousef to see what he most wished to see, those grayish blue eyes, so bright. He sat down on the edge of the bed and she took a chair by the door, placing her hands on her knees. Her body was covered with a black abaya that concealed her head but showed her face completely.
“Nadia, I don’t have much skill at leading up to things, so I’ll get straight to the point,” said Yousef. She did not look at him. “I’m a friend of Nasser’s.”
Upon hearing this name she raised her gaze and her eyes were absolutely stunning set in her pale face with its fine features.
“Yes, Nadia. It was he who gave me this.”
He held the photo out to her, then shyly asked:
“Would you mind uncovering your head?”
In a delicate gesture, slowly and nervously, she did as he asked. Yousef felt his heart speed up, then it sped up even more when he saw her face completely, her long hair loose, falling to her shoulders. It was she! And how lovely she was... She was more lovely than any other woman he had ever seen in his life. A sincere expression, sweet, shy, long-suffering. He felt an enormous desire to touch her yet managed to hold himself in check. But what happened next would make it even harder for him to control himself.
“Nadia, I want to help you. I was the last person to see Nasser alive. He cared for you very deeply. No, that’s not completely true. He loved you. He spoke of you with such great affection.” And Yousef felt like saying he now understood why, but he didn’t. “He was a very brave warrior and an excellent friend. He spoke to me a great deal about you and told me, among other things, that he helped you to attend the University here in Jeddah. When he died, I very much wanted to be able to do something for him and, since I know how much he cared for you, how precious you were to him, I want to help you, just as I know he would want to if he were still alive.”
Nadia surrendered to the deep feeling that filled her heart and tears ran down her face. Once again Yousef did not know how to respond, but this time, in contrast to what had happened when he saw Nadia’s mother crying, he felt an overwhelming desire to reach out his hand and touch her face, he wanted so badly to wipe away her tears and embrace her. As he was thinking this and restraining himself, she wiped away her own tears with the back of her hand.
“Tell me how I can help you. Of course I will help you to attend University, but I don’t want to stop there. I want you to tell me what he did for you, and I will do exactly the same in his honor.”
Nadia got up, went to the door, and looked up and down the hall. She came back into the room, her eyes wet, her black hair flowing, and asked him:
“Do you really want to help me?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
What happened next was completely unexpected. She knelt at his feet.
“Then take me away from here,” she begged.
“You know very well I can’t do that. I cannot take a daughter from her home, from her family.”
“Then you cannot help me. There is nothing you can do for me. Please go away.”
She got up, wiped away her tears once more and opened the door.
“Please go.”
“Nadia… I do want to help you. Really I do.”
“If you really want to help me, you know what to do
. Now go.”
Yousef stared at her for several seconds and finally left the room with an awful tightness in his heart. A few days later he left his native city.
THE ATTACKS
1
London
August, 1990
It was a hot Saturday by London standards. Yousef left the house dressed in jeans and an Arsenal t-shirt. He had been living in London for more than a year, and one of the things he most enjoyed there was soccer – a passion from his childhood days. And so he had become an Arsenal fan, the team closest to where he was living, and he himself played on the university team. He then went into the Swiss Cottage underground station. By now a seasoned user of the tube, he started his journey on the Jubilee Line, changing at Green Park for the Piccadilly Line. He had already grown accustomed to the multinational faces he encountered on the underground. But it was still difficult for him to get used to the fact that certain women sometimes gazed immodestly or returned the immodest gazes of other men in public places, such as the underground. When it happened to him, he was always the first to look away, though he always promised that next time he would face her, as practically everyone did easily in this city. Stranger still was when Yousef would sometimes come across homosexual couples. Or certain men and women, young boys or girls, with earrings in several parts of their body, often with several in their ears, another in their nose, their brow, or in the case of women, at times even in their navel or tongue. Another thing it was hard for him to get used to was the utter lack of decorum on the part of most couples. As it happened, there was a group of young lovers kissing and touching each other wantonly on the train he boarded at Green Park. Two stops later, he got off, then boarded the endless, steep escalators, finally breaking out into the daylight in Knightsbridge, an affluent London neighborhood. He moved along the busy avenue lined with splendidly preserved, lofty buildings, always flooded by the classic, black London cabs and the traditional red double-decker buses. On either side of the street, an abundance of shops, window displays and advertisements. He turned off onto a street on his right and went straight into a glass-fronted Lebanese restaurant. A waiter approached him immediately, solicitously, but Yousef ignored him, looking around at the tables. The restaurant had high ceilings and at the back, a small upper level, a sort of verandah hanging over the rest of the space, also filled with tables. From up above, a familiar figure, long beard, white silk tunic and checkered cloth on his head, waved to him. Yousef crossed the restaurant, continuing to ignore the waiter who up to that point remained fastened at his side, and ascended the narrow stairs giving onto the upper level. It was his old friend Sheik Omar! The Sheik got up from the table and the two greeted each other warmly.
The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller Page 13
