by Zoë Ferraris
There was nothing he could do but engage in his own timehonored practice of jihad: giving up his friendship with Othman, a silent but perhaps strongly felt protest against his friend's behavior.
Forgiveness is incumbent upon Allah, it says in the Quran, but only when a man commits a sin in ignorance and immediately repents. Forgiveness is not incumbent for those who go on committing the same sins until death puts an end to them.
Yet the Quran also says that Allah forgives all sins and is oft merciful.
The jet-ski faded away, and he heard a ringing below. It was his cell phone. Annoyed, he took his time laying the pole aside, climbing down the ladder, and fishing through the junk on his desk to find the damned thing. It continued to ring until he flipped it open and heard a crackling.
"Nayir? It's Katya."
"Hi."
"I'm sorry to bother you, but I've been thinking about your question. You know, the one you asked me at the restaurant—whether I would deceive a husband like Nouf was going to do? That day I told you that I probably would, and I still think I would, if I were desperate enough, but I'm not. That's the thing—I don't think I'll ever be."
He wasn't sure what to say.
She sighed. "I'm sorry to call you like this. You must think I'm crazy. It's been bothering me. I think you would have to be desperate to deceive someone. Nouf was deceiving Othman. She didn't tell him anything about Eric or her plans to go to New York until the very last minute. And that's what angered him, that she'd been hiding it. But here's the thing—I think she was leaving because of him, because she was so ashamed of her feelings. She could have had that life here—everything she wanted. But Othman would be here, and no matter who she married, no matter what she did, she would always have to see him."
Nayir remembered a passage from the journal. Shuffling through the papers on the desk, he found the journal, opened it, and flipped through the pages. There it was, a short, simple passage that hadn't made much sense to him before: I can't stay here anymore. I can't bear it. It will always be here, this feeling. I'll never escape it, not here.
When he had first read it, he had thought she was referring to a general sense of oppression, but Katya was right. It was probably specifically about her feelings for Othman.
"What exactly are you saying?" Nayir asked.
"Nouf was desperate enough to run away to New York, but that was just an admission of the fact that she truly loved him. It scared the hell out of her."
"All right."
"She was desperate enough to run away, but I don't think Othman was desperate enough to kill her."
Nayir closed the book and sat down. He had an image of Katya sitting at a desk somewhere, just as he was sitting there now, both of them pondering a way to absolve Othman. He knew what she was thinking—hoping, demanding: that Othman loved her, that he didn't love Nouf. It was sad. He couldn't help feeling sorry for her—more than for himself, because at least he had managed to face the possibility of an awful truth.
She gave an empty laugh. "Othman wasn't enough of an animal. Does that make sense?"
He didn't reply.
"Believe me, he's not."
He realized that he hadn't told her about the journal yet. And he couldn't now. In the journal Othman wasn't an animal exactly, but Nouf's words painted a picture of a desperate man, someone who followed her around at sea, to the zoo. An uneasy silence hung between Nayir and Katya. He couldn't find a single word to break it.
"Nayir."
"Yes."
"Please tell me what you're thinking."
He hesitated. "There are things that can make men turn into animals," he said, "even if they're not normally animals."
Another pause seemed to last forever. "You think I'm just trying to excuse him," she said. "I'm not. Think back. He was the one who hired that private investigator. He sent you to the desert."
"But he was also the one who tried to stop you from analyzing the DNA."
"That's just it," she said. "He didn't want me to find out that he was the baby's father—it's obvious why. But he wanted to find out what happened to Nouf in the desert, because he didn't know."
Nayir had to admit that it explained the inconsistency. "You may be right," he said, fighting a strange mixture of excitement and disappointment. Perhaps Othman wasn't guilty after all. "Then who killed her?" he asked.
"I don't know. Who was desperate enough?"
It felt as if he'd been over this too many times before. Who wanted to silence Nouf? Who had a reason? There was no evidence to direct his thoughts. Once again he was adrift in the sea of his own imagination, floating further and further from an understanding of things.
"I talked to Othman," she said, a hesitation in her voice. "He apologized. And I think he really meant it."
"I would imagine."
"But we decided to call off the wedding."
Nayir's stomach rose into his throat. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yes, well..." She gave a resigned sigh which was meant to convey strength but which managed only to convey how lost she truly felt. Or so it sounded to him.
The remainder of the conversation felt awkward. They talked briefly about fishing and the weather on the sea. He told her about finding the motorcycle at the cabana, and the inconsistent evidence of the footprints they'd found at the zoo. But as he fumbled along, he had the sense that they were supposed to be talking about Othman. Maybe he was failing to ask certain questions, to ride fearlessly into those territories of the heart that he didn't understand. But revealing that ignorance terrified him; he was glad she wanted to know about fish. Only after he hung up did it occur to him that perhaps she didn't want to talk about Othman at all and that their chatter about the weather had provided her with comfort enough. At least, that's what he hoped.
That night he lay on deck, bobbing gently on the sea. Thinking about Fatimah, he realized that the thing he most resented was her cloaking of truth, her failure to tell him that she was entertaining other men while she courted him. Othman's lies of omission were not quite as personal, but they stung in their own awful way, and Nayir wondered, was he doing it himself, lying to others? What wasn't he saying to those he cared for? His jihad against Othman now seemed cowardly. He stood adorned in a dishonorable silence, plumped and feathered with false piety. A passage from the Quran sprang to mind: We have bestowed garments upon you to cover your shame as well as to adorn you, but the garment of righteousness is best. It was said that Allah created man free of evil and shame but that once man was touched by sin, his thoughts and deeds became garments that covered and revealed him, showing him for what he was. Nayir knew that if he were an honest man, he would stop veiling himself to hide the shame of Othman's naked sin; he would have to confront him.
28
STANDING IN FRONT of the Shrawi estate on a white marble courtyard flushed salmon with dusk, Nayir watched the red womb of sunset enclose the world. The front of the house was most beautiful now, when a pale vermilion streaked the clouds and the sea shone the color of its name. He marveled at the details he had missed before: the elegant curve of the tiles on the roof, the complexity of the cliff wall, the fine grain of the marble beneath his feet.
A breeze flapped the hem of his pale blue robe, raising the scent of manure from the stables below. It was a comforting smell. A prayer came to mind, and he whispered it to himself.
By the heaven, and by the nightly visitant!
Would that you knew what the nightly visitant is!
It is the star of piercing brightness.
For every soul there is a guardian watching it.
He hoped for a guardian himself.
Turning, he crossed the courtyard in front of the main door and crept past the windows until he found the path that led down to the stables. He wanted to see the camel one more time. And this, he thought, might be the last time. It was darker than he'd expected, but he had his penlight, which was enough to guide him safely down the stairs.
The lower court
yard was empty. Overhead, houselights lit the scene, so he switched off his penlight and crossed the court to the stable door. It was open; he slipped inside. After a minute the penlight came out again, this time cupped in his hand. Nothing stirred. He made his way down the stalls until he reached the last one on the left. Peering through a crack in the wood, he saw that Nouf's camel was sleeping. He hesitated then, not certain he should wake her. She might startle and wake the others. But he heard a gentle shifting behind the door. He pressed his lips to the crack and gave a soft blow. Ever so soft. Peering back inside, he saw that she had moved.
Just then he heard a rustle behind him. He spun and aimed his penlight down the long corridor, but nothing moved. He waited. Hearing no further sound, feeling no other presence, he turned back to the stall.
The camel was awake. Gingerly he opened the door and stepped inside, reaching out to rub her ears. She nuzzled his arm, and he moved his hand down her neck and back. Eventually his fingers found the burn mark on her leg, and he probed it again, feeling its shape. It was indeed the Honda logo.
He continued stroking the camel, who grunted merrily for the attention. Outside, he heard the rustling again. It sounded like the swish of a robe. He turned and listened. Curious, he crept out of the stall and shut the door. The rustle came again. When he stopped, the sound stopped with him. He felt a presence now. Someone stood on the straw between him and the door. He flicked off his light to let his eyes adjust, took a hesitant step, then another; the rustling continued. He walked toward the sound, keeping as close to the stall doors as possible. The intruder was closing. As soon as he felt the warm aura of body heat, he flipped on his penlight and caught a woman full in the face.
She winced and shrank back. He recognized the camel keeper's daughter; a large brown bruise above one eye was faded but still visible. Although her head was covered with a scarf, her face was fully exposed. She didn't turn away but stood patiently while he stared. His modesty took hold and he lowered the light, but his eyes didn't leave her face.
"How did you get that bruise?" he asked.
Her face tightened with what he thought was anxiety. She raised a shaking finger and beckoned him closer. He stared in surprise, but she was backing up, gesturing. Come, follow me.
He went after her, swept on by curiosity. Halfway down the corridor she stopped at a stall door and put her hand on the latch. She waited for Nayir to approach with the light.
She swung the stall door open so that Nayir stood on one side and she on the other. He was left staring into an empty stall while she waited on the other side of the door, four fingers wound around its edge.
"What..." He cleared his throat. "What do you want me to do?"
He imagined he heard a sigh. "Look inside," she whispered.
With a flash of embarrassment, he looked into the stall. He shone his penlight on the walls. At the back of the stall hung a thick gray tarp, but otherwise, nothing was there.
"On the floor," she said.
His light caught a metallic glint on the ground. It was a handle, a trapdoor. Bending over, he brushed the straw away. The latch came up with a gentle squeak, and he raised the door slowly, revealing a small compartment. He shone his penlight inside and found a black velvet bag as large as a woman's purse. He picked it up and loosened the drawstring.
The bag was full of gold. There were rings and bracelets, earrings and necklaces, all 24 karat. Rubies and diamonds glinted in his penlight. Most of the gold items were stamped with the letter N. He shut the bag and left the stall.
The girl's fingers were still clutching the door. Although he wanted to see her face, he thought it best to keep the door between them.
"Who put this here?" he asked. She didn't reply. "Tell me. Who gave you that bruise? Did he knock you out the day Nouf disappeared?"
Silence. He almost swung back the door, but he didn't want to scare her.
"Who was it?" he asked gently.
"I don't know," she whispered.
"But you trust me."
She didn't reply.
"You trusted me enough to show me this, so trust me now."
Her fingers disappeared, and he heard her walk toward the stable door.
In the walkway in front of the house, Nusra ash-Shrawi stood in a penumbra between the night and the brightness from the foyer within. When she heard his footsteps coming up the side path, she turned to the sound.
"Nayir," she said.
He kept the velvet bag close to his side and hoped that Nusra wouldn't hear the faint clinking of jewelry. "Good evening, Um Tahsin."
"Where were you?" she asked. "I heard your Jeep, but then you didn't come."
Nayir stopped beside her. "I went to see the camels first."
She chuckled softly, groped for his arm, and steered him toward the house. "You may not be Bedouin by blood," she said, tapping his chest, "but you are in spirit."
"Thank you," he murmured.
"I will take you to the sitting room."
He stepped through the door with trepidation. If Um Tahsin knew he was here, then who else had noticed?
Inside, she released his arm and motioned for him to follow, but instead of the familiar path to the sitting room, she led him deeper into the mansion, down corridors as dark as her blindness. Nayir was forced to slow down and fumble his way through. He wanted to ask where she was taking him, but he didn't have the nerve to break the silence, and for a terrible moment he wondered if she was leading him into a trap.
Abruptly they entered a high-walled courtyard where the starlight twinkled. The air was moist from the spray of fountains. Nusra motioned him through another door, into a narrow hallway, and through a spacious gallery that seemed to have no purpose except as a vast, almost desertlike space for the servants to cross. With a quickness that startled him, she halted.
She took his arm, and her grip was firm. "I may not be able to see," she said, "but I know the workings of my household better than most." She leaned closer, so close that he could feel her warmth. "I knew you were in the camel stalls."
He didn't move. The glow of a nearby candle cast long shadows on her cheeks, deepening her scowl. "I heard you go down there, and now I can smell her on your clothing," she hissed, tightening her grip. "Her name is Asiya. And if you're going to ruin her, you'd better marry her."
Nayir, who had been holding his breath, let out an imperceptible sigh. "Please, Um Tahsin. I'm an honest man."
She raised her chin sternly, and he felt himself blushing. "It's about time you married anyway."
He couldn't speak. After a long, painful wait, she released his arm and stood back, drawing herself up and restoring her usual dignity. "Speaking of marriage," she said, "did Othman tell you our news?"
"No, what is that?"
She turned and led him on. "Our daughter Abir is going to marry next month."
"Congratulations."
"She is marrying her cousin Qazi, the young man who was supposed to marry Nouf."
"Ah. That's convenient." That must have been why Qazi had been at the house that day. Nayir thought of the boy's face, so young and uncomfortable.
"Yes, and prudent as well." She stopped short at the sitting room door. "Abir will be right for him."
Her words hung ominously in the air. Was Abir more right than Nouf? Um Tahsin opened the door and motioned him inside. "I don't believe Othman is home yet, but I will check. Meanwhile, I'll have a servant bring tea."
Without another word, she left.
Nayir looked around the room. Two of the window screens were gone, and a bank of white candles flickered in the windowsills, casting a golden light. He took a seat on the sofa and waited uneasily, imagining Othman's arrival, the awkwardness to which he knew they would both succumb. Everything he had planned to say seemed too harsh now. I know you killed your sister. You hit her, took her to the desert, and abandoned her. You wanted her to die. Wasn't this certainty, in the absence of proof, just another kind of sinful pride?
Reaching in
to his pocket, Nayir took out the bag of gold that had belonged to Nouf. It was possible that Othman had stolen the gold and hidden it to prevent Nouf from leaving. But how had he gotten the combination to the safe where the gold was kept?
Allah, I need your help. Guide my thoughts. Nayir's mind turned back to the sites of his discoveries: the zoo, Eric's apartment, the cabana at the beach. Had he overlooked something? A small detail that was quietly out of place? Help me, Allah. Help me see the detail. He shut his eyes and tried to clear his mind, but his thoughts were racing. What if there was no detail? Perhaps the killer had left no trace, nothing to direct him.
One image persisted in his mind: a map, the city map he'd found in the cabana, half hidden beneath the hem of a robe. What is it? he thought. There was nothing unusual about the map. Nouf had used it to find the zoo. He reached into his pocket and touched his prayer beads. Shutting his eyes, he continued to pray, a long prayer that unspooled like a mesmerizing dream and that found its refrain in a simple stanza:
Oh Allah, my Light, my Guide
Show me the kernel of the truth
Give me the heart of a lion
And a falcon's eye.
He was on his fifth repetition when the door creaked open and a woman entered. Nayir's eyes sprang open. In amazement he stared at the black robe, the burqa, and finally the hands, which belonged to Abir. He stood up.
This time she set the coffee service on the table. Keeping her veil down, she poured a cup and handed it to Nayir, spilling only the slightest drop. He was surprised by her new confidence.
