by Zoë Ferraris
Salwa came back and dumped two massive folders on the table. "Process these as soon as possible." Before Katya could reply, she turned and left, muttering something about needing to dust Abdul-Aziz's office before he arrived. Katya suspected she wanted to use his Italian coffeemaker and perch herself on his thousand-riyal massage chair, where she could watch the news and maybe catch an Oprah rerun before the workday began. Katya and her coworker Maddawi had once peeked into his office.
Katya opened the folders and inspected their contents. She felt crushed. It would take her days to do it all. She had assured Othman that she would do everything possible. She hadn't told him about the risks to her job; he hadn't asked. But he was waiting for answers. The family was waiting. And even if it were being done in the open, the DNA analysis was going to take some time.
She glanced at the door. Salwa wasn't coming back. There were no windows in the room, so Katya couldn't see when someone was coming, but equally, they couldn't see her. Turning back to the counter, she pushed the folders aside, took Nouf's sample from the table, and was just about to slide it under the microscope when the door opened and Salwa came back in. She bustled around, humming to herself, and came over to make sure that Katya was doing her job.
Katya managed to hide Nouf's evidence and make an earnest show of plunging into the new cases, but as she rolled her swivel chair back to the microscope and began to prepare a sample for the plate, she glanced up at the clock—6:15 A.M.—and realized that it was going to be a very long day.
7
NAYIR CHEWED A MISWAK and stared through binoculars across the vast expanse of desert. To the south was a great sheet of sand, firm enough to drive on but in places so rough it could pop a man's tires. Some distance to the north, the foothills of the Hijaz flickered yellow against the brilliant morning light.
He lowered the binoculars. Just one meter away, blocking his perfect scope of the natural world, stood Suleiman Suhail, private investigator and owner of the Benson & Hedges Detective Agency. In the hour they'd spent driving out here, Nayir had expected him to light a cigarette, but apparently he wasn't a smoker. He looked like one, though, scrawny and all dried up.
"Where are we?" Suhail asked.
At the beginning of the journey, Suhail had given him the map, saying, "Take this Bedouin map and tell me if you understand it." Nayir wanted to tell him that "Bedouin map" was an oxymoron, that real Bedouins didn't use or need such tools, but he saw Suhail's point. It was a topographical chart of the western desert with nothing but the Red Sea coastline to orient the casual reader. Someone had penciled GPS coordinates in the margin and a note saying "girl's body" with a date and time. Nayir hoped that the Bedouin had written the note, although it didn't seem likely that they would use GPS coordinates to identify a spot. It was about as likely as the Bedouin owning such a fine map in the first place. It looked rather like the contents of the atlas that Nayir had seen in Othman's duffel bag when they went to the desert, a folder filled with the kind of serious maps he received now and again as a gift from someone in the oil ministry or an Aramco geologist. Something another man would frame and hang above his desk but that Othman, being Othman, would actually want to use. Nayir now imagined that Othman had provided the current chart, penciling in the coordinates when the Bedouin had shown the family where they'd found the body. Curiously, there was a small icon suggesting an oil platform. Nayir knew this part of the desert fairly well—well enough to know that there weren't any oil drilling sites in the vicinity—but perhaps a new research station had gone up. He would have to call Aramco to find out.
"This is the spot the Bedouin marked," Nayir said, checking the coordinates against his own GPS.
He glanced to the west and saw Mutlaq's truck approaching, churning up a thick cloud of dust in its wake. Mutlaq was the best of the Bedouin trackers who'd assisted in the search for Nouf. His coming today was a favor, and although Nayir trusted him completely, he was anxious about the meeting between him and the investigator. Mutlaq could be eccentric, and Suhail didn't seem like the sort of man who would have much patience with or respect for a Bedouin.
"I thought she died in a wadi." Suhail squinted through his sunglasses. "Where's the wadi?"
Before them lay a shallow groove in the land running north to south as far as he could see. Nayir motioned to the length of the groove.
"This whole thing?" Suhail cried. Nayir noticed that his dress shirt was soaked in sweat. "Do you see a crime scene?" Suhail forced a laugh and put a finger on his temple. "These are city eyes, and they don't see a crime scene." He squinted against the sun as well as through the beads of sweat that dripped over his brow. Nayir noticed that his face was dangerously red. He probably never left the quiet of an air-conditioned office.
"You think cell phones work out here?" Suhail asked.
"Sometimes."
Suhail reached in the Jeep's window and took out his cell. It wasn't working. He threw it on the seat. "By the way, these are her things," he said, taking a black plastic bag from the back of the Jeep and bringing it to Nayir. "The Bedouin found them with the body. Maybe there's a clue in there."
Surprised that the Shrawis had given Nouf's belongings to the investigator, Nayir took the sack. It would have been even better if he could have spoken to the men who found her, but according to the family, they had disappeared just as soon as they'd left the body at the coroner's. Nayir poked his nose into the sack. It held a dirty white robe—a man's robe. He took it out and unfolded it. One side was blackened, probably from overexposure to the sun, and the whole thing smelled like the examiner's office. There was a spatter of blood on the left shoulder, probably Nouf's. In the bag he also found a narrow gold wristwatch studded with diamonds and a single bright pink shoe. He took it out of the bag. It had a six-inch stiletto heel. Although it was water-stained, no sequins were missing from the strap, and the sole was not scuffed.
"Not exactly a walking shoe." Suhail grinned. "There's only one thing you do with that kind of shoe." Nayir gave him a look. "Sorry," Suhail said, chuckling, "but it's always been my philosophy that the dead shouldn't interfere too much with the pleasures of the living. Don't get me wrong—I think it's terrible that she died. I'm only saying, screams don't disturb the severed head."
Annoyed and vaguely offended, Nayir decided not to encourage him. He took a last look inside the bag. At the bottom was a crumpled yellow piece of paper. He took it out and tried to peel it open but in the unpeeling realized that the folds were intentional. Judging by the crease marks, it was supposed to be a bird—a stork, perhaps, with those slender legs. A very strange object. How had it survived the flood? She must have kept it close to her skin—in her shoe, perhaps, the real shoes she wore, for no one ventures into the desert without a pair of shoes, if only to protect their feet from the sun.
"Find anything?" Suhail asked.
"No." Nayir took the bag to the Jeep and tucked it into his duffel bag. Suhail didn't seem bothered that Nayir was keeping Nouf's belongings; he was studying Nayir's face.
"Stop looking so grave," the investigator said. "Do you really think we're doing something wrong, talking about the girl this way? Insulting her family's honor? Oh, come on. You don't really believe that, do you?" He actually looked worried, but Nayir kept his expression as neutral as possible. "Forgive me, brother," Suhail went on, incredulous, "I didn't realize how righteous you were. I'm a Muslim too, you know, but in Syria we don't practice this strict form of Islam. We're a happier bunch, I'd say."
"I'm Palestinian," Nayir said, as if that explained everything.
"You are? Well, you look Bedu to me."
"I'm not a Bedu."
Nayir walked away from the Jeep, trying to shake off his disgust. Over the course of his desert career, he had worked with many Bedouin tribes. It was impossible not to rely on them for advice, directions, and occasional life-saving assistance. There was a time when being mistaken for a Bedouin had pleased him, and for a while he had cultivated the image of a har
sh, unrefined man of the desert who had no interest in the trivial concerns of urban life. He'd kept a rifle on his shoulder, a curved dagger on his belt. He'd even wrapped his shumagh into a turban. But he'd never felt that he belonged. The Bedouin were hospitable but extremely clannish, and while they had opened their doors to him, he had always been a guest. It had stung him especially to realize that he would never be allowed to meet their daughters, sisters, or wives. And the truth was that he spent most of his time in Jeddah, so that the more he was mistaken for a Bedouin, the more he was reminded that he was not a Saudi either. The recognition was instant: You must be a Bedouin. It meant, You can't be a Saudi. And people were right. He wasn't a Saudi. He belonged nowhere, and like most Palestinians he was essentially stateless.
Mutlaq's truck arrived with a crackle of tires on dirt and a billow of dust. Moments later the man stepped out, brushing his robe with a harsh whip of his palms and kicking sand from his sandals. Seeing Nayir, his dark eyes lit with amusement. "There's too much dust around here."
Nayir grinned and embraced his friend. Mutlaq greeted him with the traditional kiss on the nose, the only Bedouin gesture Nayir had never dared to imitate. Mutlaq was imposing, tall and broad-shouldered. His hands were precise and militant in their habits, and he had the proudest face that Nayir had ever seen. He kept it clean-shaven and was so compulsive about it that he stored a pair of tweezers in his car to pluck stray hairs at traffic lights (when he stopped for them). When Nayir asked him why he didn't grow a beard like every other Bedu, Mutlaq pointed at the mirror and said, "That's my grandfather's face—Allah's mercy be upon him. It shouldn't be covered."
After they had finished their greeting, Nayir stood back. "Thank you for coming," he said.
"It's no problem, brother."
"According to the map, they found her here." He pointed to the wadi behind them. "But we haven't really looked. And I don't know how much we're going to find anyway. The rain might have washed everything away."
"Yes, but most likely the water traveled in the wadi." Mutlaq swept his arm to the north. "Just because it rained over there doesn't mean there won't be footprints here."
Suhail approached them, and Mutlaq stiffened. He greeted the investigator with a firm handshake and an intense scrutiny that took in every wrinkle and fold, every bead of sweat on his body. Nayir introduced the two men, but Mutlaq was already peering over the investigator's shoulder at the footprints he had left in the sand. Suhail turned slowly and looked behind him as if expecting to encounter a lynx.
"What's he doing?" Suhail asked as Mutlaq moved away.
"Studying your footprints," Nayir said.
"He's walking all over them."
"It doesn't matter. He'll remember them anyway."
"Is he tracking me?" Suhail asked.
"Think of it as being fingerprinted. In case your tracks get mixed up with the others, he'll know which ones are yours." Nayir felt the urge to brag. He wanted to tell him that Mutlaq never forgot a footprint. He might forget a name or the particulars of their meeting, but if, five years from now, he came across Suhail's print on a dusty Jeddah street, he would remember the face—and footwear—that went with it.
But opting not to push the limits of credibility, he explained instead that Mutlaq was from the Murrah tribe, a group renowned for tracking skills. Suhail seemed to know what it meant to be a Murrah. He waved off any further explanation and gazed at Mutlaq with new interest.
Mutlaq had finished with Suhail's tracks, and now his full attention was focused on the wadi.
"Has he found the girl's footprints?" asked Suhail.
"Not yet," said Mutlaq over his shoulder. "But I will know when I see them."
Suhail wiped his forehead and shot Nayir a skeptical look.
Mutlaq turned to face them. "There are many girls in the desert, but I bet you only one of them was running scared in a pair of city shoes."
"All right," Suhail said after a pause. "But how do you know when footprints belong to a girl? Maybe she had man-shaped feet."
Mutlaq grinned, but he didn't reply. Instead he went back to his truck and began to rummage through the truck bed. Nayir watched him expectantly. He knew that it was possible to identify the gender of a footprint, but he had never seen it done.
"I have seen it all," Mutlaq said. "People trying to disguise their tracks with every sort of trick. Women wearing men's shoes, men wearing women's shoes. People use old car tires and cardboard. They use a broom to brush away their tracks, forgetting that a broom has a footprint of its own. After a while you learn to tell the difference between the foot and the footwear. You can change your shoes, but you cannot change the way your feet carry you through the world."
Nayir had to admit that Mutlaq made him wish he were a Bedouin. Not only to be an excellent tracker, but to know women well enough to perceive their difference from men in the brush of a foot.
Certainly, given a choice, he would have chosen to be a Murrah. Every police station and counterterrorist unit in the country had at least one tracker working in its ranks, and chances were that he was a Murrah. Mutlaq had once worked for the Jeddah police, but the pay had been terrible. He made more now owning a shoe store at the Corniche shopping center. But he liked to go back to the desert when he could. He was a specialist in firaasa, the ancient skill of identifying blood relationships based on the study of feet. Years ago that had seemed like a questionable talent to Nayir, but Mutlaq had proven it worthy. While he'd worked for the police, he had used his skill to find thieves, terrorists, and missing persons, to assist in inheritance disputes, and to save innocents from charges of adultery. Once he'd even restored a stray donkey to its rightful owner. Sometimes it was hard to believe the things he could do simply by studying disruptions in the sand, but, Nayir thought, in a country so covered in dust, there was always a footprint somewhere.
Mutlaq took a handful of thin wooden stakes from his truck. Striding away from their vehicles, the men approached the wadi's rim and Nayir caught sight of something odd: color, first muted pinks and purples, then a splash of bright yellow. Reaching the rim, they beheld a magnificent carpet of flora. Plants lined the wadi in every direction, bursting with young, fertile greens and jostling one another for a space in the sunlight. In a week or two the flowers would bloom, but already they could see the nascent cornflower blues, magentas, pinks, and pearly whites, minuscule buds and baby globe thistles, succulent leaves and prickly green stems. Nayir had seen deserts bloom before but never anything as plentiful as this.
"Amazing," he said.
"This," whispered Mutlaq, pointing down into the wadi, "is the footprint of the rain."
Gingerly he stepped down the wadi's banks, and Nayir followed, squatting for a closer look. He found borage shoots growing near a purple bed of wild iris, and a peculiar kind of mint that the Bedouin used to treat stomach ailments. He remembered with a poignant mix of pleasure and shame the time a young Bedouin woman and her father had taken him on a walking trip to harvest medicinal plants. The girl, whose name he never learned, had chatted freely with him from behind an ornate burqa rimmed with gold coins. As she'd bent to pluck a milkweed stalk, her burqa had fallen forward, and he'd caught sight of her face. He stared unabashedly, overcome by the innocence of her expression, a look that seemed to mirror his feelings for her. But, noticing his gaze, the girl stood up and turned away. She ignored him for the rest of the hike.
Looking at the flowers now, his marvel was dampened by the memory of Nouf. The rainwater was gone, but its legacy thrived in the riot of plant life. It was testimony, he thought, to the volume of the rain and the likely force of the flood that had killed her.
The wadi's banks weren't steep in either direction, which meant that if Nouf had seen the water coming, she would have been able to scramble out of the riverbed. And most likely she would have noticed a coming flood. She must have been unconscious when the water hit—deeply unconscious, because the water's roar would have been enough to shake the earth.
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Nayir looked down at the plants. They weren't old enough for Nouf to have seen them. So what drew her into the wadi in the first place?
Suhail climbed out of the wadi and went back to the Jeep for a drink of water. Nayir followed Mutlaq down the riverbed, stepping erratically to avoid trampling the flowers and stopping now and then to inspect an odd plant. The men walked for almost half a kilometer, Mutlaq keeping to the wadi's rim to look for tracks on the banks and Nayir staying well within the wadi to keep out of his way.
"Anything interesting?" Nayir asked.
"Fox tracks, some mice. Nothing out of the ordinary. But what's this?" He climbed onto the bank and wandered about. Nayir wanted to follow but didn't dare move for fear of disturbing the sand. Mutlaq came back to the wadi's edge. "Bedouin were here. One truck. Four young men. No camels." He was scanning the flowers in the wadi. "There," he said, pointing just to the left of Nayir's feet.
Nayir looked down and saw nothing but a dense cluster of green. Mutlaq came down, squatted beside him, and began moving stalks aside, studying the dirt beneath them.
"This is where they found her," Mutlaq said. He stood up and, using the stakes, outlined an area the size of a body.
"Hasn't the plant growth disturbed the area?" Nayir asked.
"No, no. This was a heavy indentation. You see, she was brought here by the rain, and then, when she stopped moving, the rain sank into the earth. And so did she. Come closer."
Nayir squatted and saw that indeed there was a significant depression in the ground. "You're right."
"Impressions in wet sand make the easiest reading. Look here, you can even see her fingers."
He was correct: the outline of her hand was nearly perfect. She had been lying on her side, and when they studied the spot where her face had been, they saw the shape of her jaw. It gave Nayir a chill. If the flood had been as strong as he thought, Nouf would have been carried downstream. She might have traveled a good distance before ending up here.
