Finding Nouf

by Zoë Ferraris

  Nayir was stunned. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you see any evidence that she was kidnapped here?"

  "No. Nothing yet." Mutlaq continued to inspect the sand, squatting down in places, tracing outlines with his finger, touching the heel prints, toe prints, feeling for firmness. Nayir watched with admiration. He was like a search-and-rescue man who knows a terrain well enough to know its secrets, only Mutlaq's terrain was a landscape in miniature, the hills and valleys of a footprint ridge. In the fact that Allah sends down sustenance from the sky, and revives the Earth after its death, and in the change of the Winds, are signs for those that are wise. Allah could be known by His signs, and the scenery of the world was one of the biggest; but Mutlaq's scenery, being smaller and manmade, held its own divine secrets.

  Mutlaq made no other discoveries but was able to reaffirm what Nayir had already learned: that Nouf had not been kidnapped here and that she was the last person to have returned the motorcycle to the cabana.

  Nayir felt a terrible, desperate sinking of hope and began scrambling for alternative theories. "Is it possible she was meeting someone here?" he asked. "Maybe she brought the motorcycle back and then got into a car with someone."

  "There is no sign of it. In fact, her freshest footprints lead straight down to the water. I think she got into a boat."

  Nayir thought back to the short section of the journal he'd read. Nouf had met a mysterious man on a boat. It was possible that her kidnapper had arrived on a boat, but if that were the case, then where was the jet-ski she'd used to get to the beach in the first place? Had her kidnapper disposed of it? Or had she in fact gone back to the island?

  It was all becoming muddled, and his one good theory—that Nouf had been kidnapped at the zoo—was about to collapse under this new evidence. Mutlaq noticed his concern. As soon as Nayir explained it, Mutlaq offered to accompany him to the zoo for another look. Gratefully, Nayir agreed.

  24

  THE NEXT DAY Nayir pulled onto the Shrawi island armed with a box of dates from the Balad souk, where they still rolled them by hand, layered them in geometric patterns, and wrapped them in decorative gold foil. He parked in front of the house and carefully lifted the dates from the seat. The box was heavy and warm, and he wanted to keep it, not because of a sudden appetite for dates or because of the sparkling box, but because his mission today was not generous at all, and the giving of such a fine and simple gift smacked of deceit.

  A woman met him at the door. She wore a black house dress and a black burqa through which he could just see her eyes. Glancing at her hands, he saw that the fingernails were modestly short and that a chain of prayer beads was wrapped around her wrist. She quickly bowed her head, tucked her hands into her sleeves, and welcomed Nayir with an Ahlan wa'Sahlan. He averted his gaze.

  "I'm sorry," she said, her voice low and humble. "I can take you to the sitting room."

  "No, no. If you would be so kind as to tell one of the brothers that Nayir ash-Sharqi is waiting at the door."

  Nervously she took a step back and whispered, "Please, Ahlan wa'Sahlan. Make yourself at home. If you know your way to the sitting room, you're welcome to go there yourself." As if embarrassed by her own forwardness, she quickly turned and skittered down the hallway.

  He watched her go. Once she disappeared, he stepped into the hallway and shut the door. As he tiptoed down the hall, he wondered if she would be considerate enough to inform the men of his arrival.

  Ten minutes later a veiled-and-cloaked woman appeared in the doorway bearing a coffee service. The woman seemed nervous, hesitating at the door, her unsteady hands gripping the edge of the tray. Instead of leaving it by the door, she entered the room and attempted to bring it to Nayir, but she was short and the tray was heavy, sloping under the weight of glass cups, a bowl of dates, and a brass coffeepot. To make matters worse, pillows were scattered about, and someone had left a book on the floor, another coffee service, and a deck of cards. Nayir leaped to his feet and reached out to her but couldn't prevent her from stepping on a pillow.

  "Ya 'rub!" she yelped, stumbling. He caught two cups before they slid off the tray.

  He saw her hands and realized she was the same girl who had met him at the door. She extended the coffee service to Nayir and he took it, giving her time to raise her burqa. When she lifted the black veil, Nayir stood back.

  She was the very image of her sister Nouf.

  Blushing bright red, she took the service back and bowed her head. Nayir blinked a few times and glanced away, but his eyes were drawn uncontrollably to her face. He had seen only a picture of Nouf, but his memory of the examiner's office was clear enough.

  "Pardon me. You're ... a Shrawi."

  "Yes. My name is Abir."

  "Nouf's sister." The one on the jet-ski. He thought she was the same, but he couldn't be sure. She was the only sister close to Nouf's age. His eyes wouldn't move; he couldn't take them from her face, and the longer he stared, the easier it became to keep his eyes there, to trace the curve of her temples, her chin, her jaw, scanning for an aspect that would prove she wasn't Nouf. At least that's what he told himself. Even though it was foolish, he felt that he knew her, and that in some way she should know him too.

  After a moment the girl summoned her nerve, kicked the pillows aside, and laid the coffee service in a clearing on the floor. She knelt down and poured him a cup of coffee. When she handed it to him, she blushed. He realized he was staring.

  She tucked her hands in her lap. "My father said you were an honest man."

  His whole being shouted, I am an honest man!

  "A desert man," she added, glancing quickly at his face. Suddenly his heart fell. Yes, perhaps she was just like Nouf, a woman who would marry an honest man so she could dump him for a fantasy. The thought sobered him, and he picked up the coffee cup, grateful for something to do with his hands. Whatever she was like, he knew that her presence offered him a chance to learn something about Nouf, but he couldn't think of a single good question; the ones that came to mind all seemed terribly improper. When he looked back, he saw fear in her eyes.

  "Forgive me," she whispered. "I never approach men like this. Please believe me, I'm only doing this because I have to. Our lives have changed so much since Nouf died. We've been confined to the island—we can't go to the mainland anymore. My brothers are afraid we'll turn out like Nouf. That's what they say, but they're really afraid that we'll learn something we shouldn't." There was panic in her voice, and it raised his protective instincts.

  "What is it?"

  "I'm sorry, it's just—I heard that you were investigating what happened to her. I wouldn't ask you otherwise, and I'm sorry to bring this up, but..."

  "No, go ahead, Miss ... Shrawi."

  She took a deep breath. "Miss Hijazi was here asking questions about Nouf. I wanted to tell her what I knew, but I couldn't." She looked down at her hands.

  He wanted to know why she'd withheld information from Miss Hijazi and chose instead to reveal it to him, but he was afraid to break the spell. As the silence went on, he began to get nervous, so gently he said, "What do you know?"

  The girl's eyes flickered wildly from the coffee service to Nayir's knee, as if she were struggling to contain a rising horror. "The day Nouf disappeared," she said, "she had a fight with my brother."

  He felt his stomach harden. "Which one?"

  "Othman."

  He tried to remain passive, but his heart was pounding.

  "It was a bad fight," she said. "They were in the kitchen, arguing about something. I didn't hear it, because they were whispering at first. They were going to walk the dogs, but then suddenly they started screaming. It made no sense to me, what they were saying. Nouf ran back to her room. Othman was standing there. He looked stunned. Then he followed her."

  "What happened then?"

  Her hands were shaking and she glanced at the door. "It started out quiet—they were still arguing in whispers—but then it got louder. She
was screaming, and I don't know what he was doing. I stood outside the door, so I didn't actually see them."

  "What were they saying?" Nayir asked.

  "Something about ... I didn't understand it. Something about not letting this happen. She told him something, and it made him angry. I got the impression that she wanted to do something and Othman didn't want her to do it. I don't know what it was. He was angry. Nouf sounded scared."

  "And what happened? How did it end?"

  "Nouf came running out of her room, and then Othman came out chasing her. She..." Miss Shrawi faltered and pressed a hand to her mouth. "She had blood on her arm. She ran out of the house—through the kitchen door. I think she went down to the beach with the dogs. My mother came in and wanted to know what was going on. Othman said it was nothing, Nouf was nervous about the wedding. And she believed him."

  "And you didn't tell her the truth?"

  "She wouldn't have listened. Not when it's my word against Othman's."

  Nayir sat back, hit by a cold confusion. Othman had told him none of this, and it was difficult picturing his friend so upset. He must have had a good reason. What had Nouf told him? Had she confessed to her pregnancy? Her plan to go to New York? Why would she?

  "I can see why you wouldn't tell Miss Hijazi," he said. "That was considerate of you."

  She nodded nervously. They heard a thump in the hallway and she quickly stood up, but no one came in.

  "May I ask you one more thing?" Nayir said.

  She looked anxiously at the door. "Yes."

  "Did you ever see Nouf go into Othman's room? In particular, did she ever talk about his jackets?"

  She blinked in confusion. "No. Not that I remember. Why?"

  "Othman's jacket is missing."

  She squinted, cogitating. "Now that I think about it, I remember that he was looking for it. One of the servants asked us if we'd seen it. I never saw Nouf go into his bedroom, but it's odd—she did mention his coat once before she left. We were talking about her trousseau. She was eager to see the jackets Qazi had chosen for her. She said something like 'I hope I get a desert jacket like Othman's.' At the time I thought she was just excited about her clothes. She wanted one of everything, even if she would never wear any of it, but it does seem strange now."

  Nayir sat forward. "Was anything else missing besides the coat and the camel?"

  "Yes." She glanced at his face but quickly looked away. "She took her gold. That's why I thought she ran away."

  "How much was missing?"

  She paused. "My brothers don't know any of this."

  "I won't say a word."

  She nodded. "Nearly two million riyals' worth, including the gemstones."

  Nayir froze, startled by the amount. Two million riyals was enough for a person to live comfortably for years. "Why haven't you told your brothers?"

  "I thought she took it, and I didn't want to make matters worse for her. I was afraid that it would betray her somehow. Then later, when I found out she was dead..." She swallowed audibly and spent a moment composing herself. "I was afraid to tell my brothers, because I began thinking, what if she didn't run away? What if someone kidnapped her and stole her money? I was even afraid to tell my mother, because what if she told my brothers ... and what if Oth—what if he knew what had happened to Nouf? I know this sounds crazy." She straightened her shoulders and whispered, "You can't tell anyone what I've told you."

  "I won't," Nayir assured her. "But let me ask one more thing. How would Othman get access to her safe?"

  She was trembling, unable to speak. He watched in horror as the tears began to slide. He fished in his pockets for a tissue, even though he knew he had nothing to offer her.

  Just then they heard footsteps in the hall. Miss Shrawi flipped down her burqa just as the door swung open.

  Tahsin entered, with Fahad on his heels. Nayir tried to compose himself, but no one took notice. Tahsin looked as if he'd just eaten and was ready for a nap. He glanced at the mess, but when he saw Nayir his face lit up slightly.

  "Brother, how are you?" He crossed the room, casting a cursory glance at his sister. She scurried to the door, but Fahad grabbed her arm.

  "Hey!" he snapped.

  Tahsin turned. "Who is that?"

  "Your sister!" Fahad kept a firm grip on her arm. "What are you doing here?"

  "Serving coffee," she murmured.

  "A hundred servants in this house and you're serving coffee?" Fahad reached for her burqa, but she wrestled free and ran out the door. Fahad went after her. Their voices echoed in the hall.

  "Did you show him your face?"

  "I was only serving coffee and dates!"

  "What other sweet things did you put in his lap?"

  Tahsin turned to Nayir. "I'm so sorry—please have a seat."

  "Thank you."

  "Be comfortable."

  Nayir took the box of dates from the table and handed it to Tahsin, who accepted it with a slight bow.

  "I know how much you like the candied ones," Nayir said. "But these are new. They've got peaches inside."

  "Thank you. Please, sit." Tahsin pursed his lips and opened the box. "They look magnificent. Please try one."

  Nayir took a date and chewed mechanically, his mind abuzz. Fahad came back and ate a few dates, and Nayir learned that Othman wasn't expected home for another few hours. He was grateful suddenly to avoid him. The remainder of the conversation was light, and as soon as he could, he took his leave.

  25

  UNBELIEVABLE, the mind of a girl. He pushed the book away and stood up from the dinette, rubbing his eyes. The journal was possibly longer than Quranic commentary and single-mindedly obsessed with love and romantic notions of her future. He had read it with his own obsessive interest, quickly and thoroughly, hoping to finish as soon as he could because it felt like an intrusion, invading the privacy of the dead.

  He had seen only snippets of her before; she'd walked through his head like a woman on the street. Now he finally heard her voice and was able to picture her moving and thinking. He saw her as short and wiry, and imagined that her gestures would have been gentle but firm. She liked peppermint candies, black ribbons for her hair, and she didn't mind getting dirty. She loved animals—all kinds, but especially her dogs, Shams and Thalj, whom she kept in the stables and walked every day. She was occasionally fastidious: she drew pictures of her dogs and labeled their parts in an elegant script. She also took copious notes about their behaviors, a scientific study that would have made Samir proud.

  The great part of her writing was about the mysterious man who had rescued her on his boat, but there were not enough clues to reveal his identity. Even though she was careful not to mention the man's name, she managed to describe him. He was smoldering, secretive, intelligent. He was practically a superhero when he saved her on the boat. Yet he was not someone she spoke to in confidence, rather someone she kept secrets from and saw infrequently. It did not sound like Muhammad. Nayir had the sense that Nouf talked to Muhammad, that they were comfortable together and knew each other well. The man in the journal was a romantic stranger.

  Despite the outpourings of lust and frustration, there was still something missing, a sense of what had turned her girlish fantasies into actual recklessness. When it came to many things—her feelings, her secret meetings, her plans for the future—she was far too trusting. She had been paying Eric, but there was no mention of a contract, only "friendship" and "trust," and she had given him half the money up front, plus little extras here and there. Why was running away to New York the only answer? Couldn't she have found a better way to fulfill her dreams, closer to home, in a safer place? Was she just hopelessly romantic? Or was it that home truly wasn't safe?

  There was no mention of her secret phone calls with Qazi, which was odd considering that she wrote down all the details of her illicit affair. If her lover was Qazi, then the phone calls would have been the least of her sins. Unless Qazi was lying and there had been no calls, only secret meeti
ngs. But Nayir's instinct was telling him that Qazi was not her lover. The only mention of him came in the latter part of the book: "I accepted Qazi's offer of marriage today. It's scary to think of marrying him, but it's the only way."

  The only way to what? Leave the country, he supposed. And why? Because Qazi was just innocent enough not to suspect her schemes, trustworthy enough to keep his promise to take her to New York.

  It was disorienting to see such calculation amid such cloying romanticism. Yet there was one thing about the journal he found diverting. At the top of a page she'd written "The 77 Words for Love," and in her elegant script she'd listed the words along with all of their explanations. There was hubb, which meant love, and also seed; 'ishq, entanglement, and an ivy that strangles a tree; hawa, liking, and error; fitna, passionate desire, also chaos; hayam, wandering thirsty in the desert; sakan, tranquility; and izaz, dignified love. Then the list grew darker, from captivation to confusion and affliction, even to depression, sorrow, and grief, culminating in fanaa, nonexistence. The page stood out as a work of art, with flourishes in the corners and a perfectly symmetrical "In the name of Allah, most righteous, most merciful" written at the top. Each word had been copied in a perfect hand, each diacritic mark stood in its rightful place. It was odd that this page contained the journal's only overt reference to Islam, and also its only philosophical look at love. So she wasn't wrapped up entirely in adolescent dreams.

  What struck him most was the title. Although there was some disputing that all seventy-seven words could be called words for "love," they could certainly describe the condition of lovers. And such a wealth of vocabulary only reinforced his own sense of romantic poverty. How could there be so many kinds of love, and a man could die without knowing half of them? After staring at the page for many minutes, he came to think that that's what Nouf had wanted—to know all the kinds of love, even if some of them were better left alone.

  He stood in the kitchen now, waiting for the coffee to boil. While taking breaks from the journal, he'd sat at the Fatimah's dinette surrounded by his navigational charts, his desert charts and sea charts. Often when he was bored or simply too tired to do anything else, he stared at his maps and found good memories there, as well as a certain peace of mind that only such emptiness could inspire. But tonight he had assembled the maps to help visualize Nouf's journey into the wilderness, as if by plotting the points of her departure and death he might find the missing piece.