Finding Nouf

by Zoë Ferraris

  "I'm not crazy!"

  "Only one thing could be worse," Nayir said. "What if he believed you but chose to be with her anyway?"

  "He wouldn't do that!"

  "But it's bothering you, isn't it—not knowing what he would have done?"

  She sat glowering at him with all the malice in her being, but he felt immune to it now.

  "Did you ever talk to Nouf about this?" he asked.

  She let out a dry laugh. "You can't talk to Nouf. She doesn't care about anything but herself."

  He found her use of the present tense strangely disturbing. "Did you ever try?"

  "Yes," she snapped. "I tried, but she didn't listen. She was going ahead with the marriage no matter what." Her mouth twisted into a sneer. "That's when I told her I knew what she was doing, and I wanted to marry Qazi, and she had no right to marry him, and do you know what she did?" Her gaze was challenging. "Nothing. She didn't care."

  "So you hated her."

  "Yes." Although she was holding herself rigidly still, she spoke with a frankness that prompted a sudden pity. He could understand her feelings, but the actions that resulted he did not understand; he didn't even come close.

  "In a way, I am more blind than ever," he said, squinting at Abir. "I see the truth now, but I still don't know what's right."

  Abir's neck was rigid, her whole body tense. "You won't turn me in," she said. "You know what they'll do to me." Abruptly she stood up. Her hands were still shaking, and carefully she lifted the velvet bag from the table. "Besides, you have no evidence," she said. Lowering her burqa, she turned toward the door.

  "Wait." Nayir stood and reached into his pocket. "I meant to leave this with the family." He took out Nouf's journal. "I found it in the cabana at the beach."

  She eyed the journal with horror.

  "It's her journal. I think they would want something to remember her by."

  Abir reached for it, but he drew it away. Their eyes made contact. "This is not for you," he said.

  Turning, she stumbled from the room. He made no effort to stop her, feeling certain that she wouldn't go anywhere. His only regret was not seeing the final look on her face.

  Once her footsteps had died away, he reached into his pocket and took out the last item: the origami stork. He touched its tail. It still had its shape, despite having spent so much time in his pocket. He had wanted to return the items to Othman, but now he didn't feel comfortable leaving them here, where Abir could get her hands on them. He put the book and the stork back into his coat.

  The candles had burned down. Outside the window, he could hear the ocean crashing against the rocks below. Funny that he'd never heard the ocean before, not from this high on the island. He opened the terrace door and stepped into the night.

  In the distance he heard a jet-ski's engine cranking to life. He felt the urge to tell someone—to call the police, perhaps even call her fiancé and explain the whole thing. That would at least put an end to her marriage plans. But he didn't have the heart. He felt weakened by what she'd said, because despite the shock of her ruthlessness, despite his anger and disgust, she was right: he knew what they would do to her. But what stopped him was knowing what it would do to her family.

  Something greater was crumbling inside him, the wall that held the strength of his beliefs, and it hurt to feel himself weakening, to feel this much sympathy for women like Nouf who felt trapped by their lives, by prescriptions of modesty and domesticity that might have suited the Prophet's wives but that didn't suit the women of this world, infected as it was by desires to go to school and travel and work and have ever greater options and appetites. He tried not to feel that the world was collapsing, but it was collapsing, and there was nothing he could do, just watch with a painful, bitter sense of loss.

  Stepping up to the marble balustrade, he reached into his pocket. There was another item there. His old misyar. The box for the bride's name was still empty; his own name was fading from the groom's box. He studied the document, ran a finger over its creases, and admired the seal. It looked so authentic. It was a very nice misyar.

  The jet-ski's engine grew louder as it passed below. He could see the headlight cut a crescent on the water. He watched it spin a loop, going round and round, its buzz echoing in the night. He took out a lighter and held it beneath the misyar, feeling the flame's soft breeze rustle the paper. He hesitated once, knowing how difficult it would be to replace. But he knew the truth: he would never use it.

  With a steady hand he held the flame close and watched the paper catch fire, watched it crumble and begin to fall apart. He let go, finally, when the wind caught the charred remains and floated them over the balustrade and down to the sea.

  29

  IN THE BLISTERING HEAT of a weekday afternoon, the children's amusement park was never full. His friend Azim had told him about it, saying that it was the perfect place to take a woman. The other funfairs on the northern Corniche were strictly segregated, but this one was for families, and people would automatically assume they were a couple. It was a bit boring, but they'd be able to talk, and from the top of the Ferris wheel they would have an excellent view of the sea.

  After two days of sailing alone, Nayir had docked at the marina and switched on his cell phone to find that Katya had called him twice. The first was a simple, formal-sounding message: "Please call me back." The second betrayed a craving for food: "How about that family buffet?"

  At first he was shocked that she had called at all, but his indignation had melted like summer ice. He was excited to hear from her. When he called her back, she sounded very pleased, which made him nervous and happy. They made arrangements to meet at the children's park. He insisted that they arrive in separate cars and that Katya be accompanied by her driver.

  At one o'clock the next afternoon, Nayir stood at the entrance to the park. A few families walked by, leaving—it was getting too hot for the children. The women's faces were shrouded in black, and all of the women were accompanied by men. It occurred to him that the men might not be their husbands or brothers, and he studied the couples for indications about their relationships. Sometimes children called them Mommy and Daddy, but there were couples without children, and he watched them closely, memorizing their postures, their gestures, their tones of voice. He noticed that most of them weren't speaking. They looked wilted, ready to leave. One man talked to a woman with an ease that suggested familiarity. Another man spoke almost carelessly to his wife, not even bothering to look at her face. Nayir tried to imagine talking to Katya that way, but he couldn't.

  Katya finally arrived, stepping around the iron entrance gate. Nayir recognized her form even before Ahmad came into view, and for a split second he panicked, thinking that Ahmad hadn't come after all. But the trusty escort appeared, his gray hair shining brilliantly in the sunlight. As Katya drew closer, he could tell that she was smiling behind her burqa.

  "Hello, Nayir," she said. "It's nice to see you."

  "It's nice to see you too."

  Ahmad approached and shook his hand. The three of them headed for the Ferris wheel, but Katya stopped at an ice cream stand, and Nayir stopped with her. Ice cream was a wonderful idea. The only problem, he realized, was the time lapse between buying the ice cream cone and getting to the place where Katya could lift her burqa to eat it. It might take three minutes, if they planned it correctly, to buy the ice cream, buy their tickets, climb into the cage, and wait for the Ferris wheel to lift them up and out of sight. But in three outdoor minutes, no frozen substance stood a chance of survival.

  Nayir explained the problem to the ice cream vendor, who took some time to understand, but when he finally did, he assisted by lending them his portable cooler and a bag of ice. They nestled their cones in the cooler, and promising to return it, they headed for the Ferris wheel.

  Three minutes later Nayir and Katya sat alone in the open carriage, side by side. One car behind them, Ahmad sat reading a newspaper. The attendant, who seemed accustomed to odd, childles
s couples acting like children, said he'd let them ride until they shouted to get off, and he wandered away, giving Katya the privacy to raise her burqa.

  Once the wheel started going around, a light breeze blew over them and they took out their cones. When Katya flipped up her veil, Nayir couldn't resist glancing at her face. It didn't seem different from the last time he'd seen her, but he'd expected more sadness.

  He waited nervously, unable to eat his ice cream, watching it dribble down the back of his hand. One of them had to say something, but nothing came to his mind. As they rode to the zenith, Nayir studied the view of the sea, and as they descended, he studied his ice cream, sea and ice cream, sea and vanilla, until finally Katya plucked up the courage to say, "So have you seen Othman lately?"

  Even though his ice cream was melting, he kept his eyes fixed on the view. "I haven't seen him since that day we met in the parking lot."

  "Ah." A slight pause, followed by more licking and another pause. "Are you two still friends?"

  He had to consider the question—first for the spirit in which it was asked (curiosity? jealousy?) and second for the answer, improbable though it was. "Yes, I still consider him a friend."

  "But you're not ... close."

  He noticed her ice cream tipping dangerously over the cone's edge. "Why do you ask?"

  She shrugged. It was the falsest attempt at nonchalance he'd ever seen, but it managed to topple her ice cream, which bounced down her leg and landed on her shoe. "Ya Allah! I can't believe it." She shook her foot and the ice cream flew out of the carriage. It sailed over the attendant's booth and hit the pavement with a splat.

  He wasn't sure whether to laugh or frown, but she looked abashed, so he offered his cone. After a delicate hesitation, she took it. "Thanks."

  He rubbed his fingers on his robe, but it only seemed to make them stickier. A silence fell. He had already told her about his conversation with Abir, but on the phone she hadn't betrayed much of a reaction other than bafflement. He wondered how she felt about it now but was too afraid to ask.

  "By the way," she said, "the division has decided to reopen Nouf's case."

  He glanced at her. "Really?"

  "Yes. I showed my boss the work we'd done and all the samples from the body. She took them to her boss, and he put in the request. The division chief just approved it."

  "So what's going to happen now?"

  "They're sending police to question the family." She shrugged. "The Shrawis are powerful—they might try to cover it up again. But I've already spoken to Nusra about it."

  He looked at her with curiosity. "What did you say?"

  "I told her what we discovered at the zoo—the shoe, I mean. I also told her that we had reason to suspect Abir, based on the cloak in the cabana and the missing gold."

  "I'll bet Abir hid the gold again."

  "I don't know," Katya said. "But when I talked to her, Nusra had no idea what had happened, and she promised to cooperate with the investigators."

  Nayir was filled with admiration not only for Katya's courage in turning over their evidence but for speaking to Nusra, who had already lost one daughter and now stood to lose another. "You amaze me," he said.

  She suppressed a smile. "My boss also took the liberty of calling Qazi to warn him that his fiancée was under investigation."

  Nayir grinned. "That's creative justice."

  "I think so too. I don't know what's going to happen to Abir if they do find her guilty. She'll probably spend some time in jail."

  "It would be well earned, I think."

  "I also wanted to mention," she said, "that the division could use an investigator like you. Have you ever considered working for the government?"

  His eyes popped. "No." Was this why she had asked to see him?

  "Why not?"

  "That's not a good idea."

  "Oh, come on! You're good at detective work. You're better than some of the—"

  "I don't like dead bodies," he said quickly.

  She stopped licking. "Oh, that's right. I forgot about that." She smiled.

  "That's generous of you."

  "But you could get over that." She stifled a laugh.

  "Listen, I can't stay too long." He was flustered, and he took a piece of ice from the cooler and used it to wipe off his hands.

  "Why not?" She seemed disappointed, and he felt glad.

  "I've got an eye appointment," he said finally.

  "Oh! Well, I'll come with you. Is it with that doctor?"

  "Yes, and you don't have to come."

  "But I'd like to." She eyed him—strangely, he thought—and licked her ice cream. "Think of me as a professional escort, in case any women should throw themselves at you. They'll think I'm your wife."

  He felt himself blushing. Idiotically. "Women don't throw themselves at me."

  "Yes, they do. You just haven't been paying attention."

  "I'm so happy you've come back!" Dr. Jahiz led them down a carpeted hallway and into an examination room. "Did you say that the desert was troubling your eyes?"

  "Yes." Nayir guided Katya to a chair near the door and then spent an awkward moment climbing into the patient's seat. "I think it's the dust, aggravating my vision."

  "Of course." Jahiz dimmed the lights and switched on a lighted wall chart of letters arranged into columns. "Let me tell you, it's always the dust!"

  Nayir studied the chart but found that he couldn't read any of the letters. "Actually, I have the most trouble seeing in the city, I don't know why. I can see everything in the desert."

  A phone rang in the outer room, and the doctor slumped. "Excuse me—I'll be right back."

  When he was gone, Katya raised her burqa, crossed her legs, and laid her hands together on her knees. She wants something, he thought. He wondered how he knew that. It wasn't an action he'd seen her do before, but it felt universal, like the gesture for "I'm choking."

  "I wanted to invite you to dinner next week. My father and I are planning a little party, just a few people, and I'd like you to come."

  Nayir raised his eyebrows politely, but his gut yanked him hard in the opposite direction. Dinner? With her father? No, no, he wasn't ready. Not for that.

  "It would mean a lot to me," she said, looking rather sheepish. "I know it might seem strange, but other people will be there, and my father would like to meet you."

  Nayir nodded, although it might have been a tremor.

  "And like I said, other people will be there." Katya raised an eyebrow.

  In the antechamber, Nayir could hear Jahiz's aggravated voice. "Well, you'd better stop the drops at once! No, don't apply heat, it's swollen, ya Allah! Who ever heard of putting heat on swelling?" Katya was waiting for his response. There was no way around it. Not only did she want him to meet her father, but she wanted him to meet her father's friends. The sleeve of his robe got stuck on the arm of the phoropter and he spent a slow, grateful moment prying it free. Jahiz's voice filtered in: "Yes, go ahead and put some ice on it. I'll tell you what, if you can find a cube of ice in this whole damn desert that will stay solid long enough to reduce the swelling, then next time you come in, I'll give you a pair of Gucci sunglasses at a discount price ... Yes, you have my word. Gucci!"

  "Which evening were you going to have this party?" Nayir asked.

  "Thursday night."

  "Aaahhh, I have dinner with my uncle on Thursdays."

  "Oh."

  "I'd like to come, but it would upset my uncle. He has no one else, and—"

  "I understand." She nodded. "I do."

  Instead of relief, he felt bad for having disappointed her. "Let me talk to my uncle," he offered.

  "All right," she said, smiling.

  The doctor returned, and Katya flipped down her veil. Jahiz sat in a rolling chair and kicked himself toward Nayir like an energetic crab. "Now remember to breathe calmly," he said. "This won't hurt."

  Gratefully, Nayir turned his attention to the doctor. Aside from the occasional discouraging rem
ark—"My goodness, a negative five in the left eye! Must be hard to read anything, eh?"—he found the process relaxing. It was dark and still. The complex instruments, handled delicately and in reverential silence, gave him a sense of universal well-being. The doctor could fix his vision. Thanks be to Allah, anything could be fixed, in the proper hands.

  A negative five!

  He remembered the camel's leg, and it made him think of Othman, of his desperate love for Nouf, and of Nouf's feelings in return. She wanted to be like the grouper. But the Nouf of his mind was free already, jetting down the freeway on a Harley-Davidson. She wore a scarab-like helmet, alligator gloves, and a man's white robe. The robe whipped around her ankles as she skirted tractor-trailers and SUVs, a lunatic Bedouin on a space-age camel.

  Jahiz stood up and closed Nayir's chart. "We'll get started on your glasses—it should only take an hour. While you're waiting, perhaps your sister would like an examination too?"

  Nayir glanced at Katya. Her head twitched in what might have been a no.

  "No, thank you," Nayir said, getting out of the chair.

  "You know"—Jahiz's eyes had a cunning look—"not many women get their vision corrected. Men prevent them from doing it. It is only the strong and liberated woman who comes in for an exam."

  Even though Katya was veiled, hands tucked into her sleeves, Nayir could read her sudden hesitation. Slowly she turned toward him as if to say, Not a bad idea!

  "After all," Jahiz went on, "with veils on their faces all day, women only want to see the world, you know. And clearly, my friend, clearly."

  Nayir looked at Katya's burqa, rising gently with her breath. She wanted to say something, she was thinking about it...

  "I think," Nayir said, "that she already has perfect vision."

  He imagined he saw her smile.