Kingdom of Strangers

by Zoë Ferraris

  “They think Ubaid and al-Adnan may have known each other,” Osama admitted. “They belonged to the same falconry club. They may even have gone hunting together. But we don’t have any proof that they ever talked about the blackmail together. It’s still a very thin connection.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Would you tell someone you were being blackmailed?”

  “Sure. Maybe. Look, Miss Hijazi told me that Sabria found these men through her connections at Sitteen. She went looking for women who’d been abused by their employers, and that’s how she found her blackmail victims. But Ubaid was the exception. He had to be. She worked with him in Undercover. That’s probably how she found out about his tendencies in the first place.”

  “Maybe,” Osama said. “But it doesn’t mean that he knew she was the blackmailer.”

  Ibrahim sat back. “So back to my question: What’s happening with Ubaid?”

  Osama gritted his teeth. “He’s still claiming that it wasn’t rape, it was consensual. And until we find the woman on the tape, we can’t disprove his claim. You know how these things work.”

  “I want to kill him myself.”

  “Well, don’t go ruining your career now,” Osama said.

  They turned onto a side street that ran parallel with Makhzoumi and took them into Television Street in Ghulail, the notorious car-washing blocks, where African men stood poised on every corner with buckets and cloths, waving at passersby. They ignored the police car, unmarked though it was. Most of the workers were illegal; they had sharp eyes for the law. Some men slid into alleys, but most simply went about their business. The area seemed chaotic, but the men were all governed by a few bosses, a veritable car-washing mafia, although its leaders were kind enough to pay zakat by donating 10 percent of their earnings to those even poorer than the men working for them.

  When the car reached Mahjar Street, Ibrahim saw that they were headed for the King Abdul Aziz Hospital.

  “What’s going on?” he called up to Osama.

  “Just making a quick stop,” Osama replied.

  They drove up the quiet street beneath the shade of palm trees, went through a parking lot surrounded by lush, green shrubbery, and stopped in front of the hospital’s stone façade. Osama left Shaya in charge of the car and motioned Ibrahim and Saffanah out.

  With some surprise and a growing dread, Ibrahim got out, Saffanah on his tail. The hospital was for members and families of the National Guard. He couldn’t imagine what he and Saffanah were doing there. They followed Osama to a side door, past a security desk, and down a long hallway.

  Osama wound them through a labyrinth that ended at a small room. A cloaked-and-veiled woman stood beside the door. She swung it open.

  They went inside. The room was empty.

  From his pocket, Osama removed a folded sheet of paper and a set of keys. “Take these.”

  “What are they?”

  “A set of keys to a car parked around the side of the building and a map of where you’re supposed to be going.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Osama shook his head. “In the car’s glove compartment, you’ll find an envelope with some money in it, a fake passport, and a credit card. You’ll be driving to the marina. There’s a boat there that will take you out of the country. You’ll find a change of clothes on the boat.”

  “You could lose your job over this.”

  “Not if they don’t catch you.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Saffanah’s voice was small, but it stopped them.

  “No.” Ibrahim turned to her. “I’m not going anywhere. We are not going anywhere. We’re going back to the house.”

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “You can’t—” He stopped himself and realized how stupid he was going to sound. Of course she had to go. She was carrying her proof of adultery, and soon it was going to show.

  “She can go with you,” Osama said. “Tell them she’s your wife. She won’t need a passport.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Ibrahim said to Saffanah. “I’ll take you to the marina, and I’ll make sure you get on the boat.”

  “What?” Her voice was sharp now. “I can’t go on my own.”

  “She’s right,” Osama said.

  “You stay out of this,” Ibrahim told him. He turned back to Saffanah and suddenly didn’t know what to say. You should stay here? Face the accusations and punishments that are coming your way?

  She glanced at Osama. “Where is the boat going?”

  “Egypt,” he said.

  She turned to Ibrahim without a moment’s hesitation. “I have to go.”

  “Saffanah…”

  “It’s the only place I can go.” She looked at Osama and then again at Ibrahim.

  Osama must have noticed him capitulate. He motioned them to the window. “Let’s go before we’re caught.”

  Saffanah went first and Ibrahim followed, both making the short leap into the shrubbery below. He told himself he was only going to take her to the boat. His heart was racing, his senses hyperfocused as he scanned for the slightest sign of movement in the bushes. When he turned back to the window, Osama was gone.

  They crept along the side of the building until they reached a parked car half hidden by hedges. He handed Saffanah the map.

  He had to struggle to focus on the road. Information filtered in. Saffanah was talking in nervous spasms. Take a left here. Go right. She had put on her seat belt.

  They arrived at the marina, and Katya’s husband was there, standing on a boat marked plainly with Coast Guard insignia. It all became clear to him then. Of course he couldn’t let Saffanah go alone. He had to escort her out of the country, at least make sure she got set up on her own somewhere. Nayir rushed them on board and down into the hold, where they wouldn’t be seen, and Saffanah led the way without a moment’s hesitation.

  They sat on a small couch built into the hull. When the boat hit choppy waters, Saffanah ran to the bathroom to throw up, and he gripped the seat cushion, swallowed his own nausea, and tried very hard not to think of all he was leaving behind.

  Ali Dossari was beheaded in the parking lot of Jeddah’s Jufalli mosque. Because of the exposure that the criminal trial had brought to the case, the police and the ministry arranged to conduct the execution on a Friday after noon prayers, when everyone was expecting it. The Ministry of the Interior had also decided that the killer’s punishment should be a special one.

  Once the executioner had chopped off Dossari’s head, the doctor who attended all executions—typically to determine if the beheading had in fact killed the criminal—was instructed to sew Dossari’s head back onto his body. The doctor had some practice with this, as certain families requested the procedure before burying their dead. Once the head was sewn back on, the body was strung up on a pole that was affixed to the center of the parking lot. The body remained there for the rest of the day, under police guard, so that people would see what happened to those whose crimes were especially heinous.

  Such “crucifixions” were rare—this was perhaps the second one in thirty years—but the ministry had openly sanctioned it. And while the human rights groups cried foul, anyone who read the Quran would know the justification.

  The punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His Messenger, and strive with might and main for mischief through the land is: execution, or crucifixion, or the cutting off of hands and feet from opposite sides… that is their disgrace in this world, and a heavy punishment is theirs in the Hereafter.

  At the end of the evening, they took down Dossari’s body. They gave him his last rituals, the proper washing and recitations, and buried him in the city graveyard. Even though there were people who said that his actions had perverted Islam and that he did not deserve to be considered a Muslim and so did not deserve an Islamic funeral, the country stuck by its policy that even murderers should be treated as Muslims and given a certain dignity in death.

  46

  In the e
nd, Katya’s wedding was the biggest one she’d ever been to. After her father called his sister in Lebanon and mentioned, mildly, that he was worried that “only a hundred people” would show up, Aunt Nour gave a battle cry and summoned an army of Hijazis from up and down the Levant. Cousins Katya had never heard of came from as far as Gaza, and the ones she did know brought their entire families, including in-laws. How they all paid for their trips to Jeddah, she had no idea, but it touched her deeply that they had made the effort simply to ensure that her wedding was suitably crowded with happy guests.

  For the first half of the banquet she sat in a small corner of the hall on what appeared to be a royal family throne, meeting the women and receiving their good wishes. It seemed that every third person she met was so-and-so, “my friend from Facebook.” It became clear that in their efforts to fill the room, people had dragged in as many Jeddawis as possible, even if they were only Internet friends. But the women were joyful and seemed to be having a wonderful time.

  It was only when she got off her throne and began to wander through the room, escorted by a small battalion of young cousins, that she began to realize that the guests were looking at her with a certain not-too-flattering awe. There was something like disbelief in their faces, and Katya overheard enough whispering to understand their marvel: that a woman her age had managed to arrange a union with such a wealthy fellow—for that’s all that was being whispered about Nayir. His uncle had paid for everything. It naturally followed that Nayir himself was as filthy rich as a prince, and that Katya, being neither exceptionally beautiful nor of an age that was considered desirable, had probably used up a lifetime of luck to win a man of Nayir’s status. She did not disabuse anyone of their notions.

  She wondered how Nayir was faring. The men’s banquet hall was just across the street. According to Aunt Nour, who kept tabs on events there by calling Abu on his cell phone every hour, the men’s hall had already been raided twice by a certain faction of the religious police that was devoted to ensuring that weddings remained segregated. Abu’s opinion was that the mutaween were simply making a bid for free food and a portion of the cake.

  Four hours into it, Aunt Nour found Katya in the crowd and told her it was time for the groom to come in so three hundred women could sit in their seats and take a good look at the husband-to-be. Katya was escorted to a corner of a large stage that had a catwalk and flashing pink and purple lights. Aunt Nour looked out at the crowd with a sigh.

  “They’re nice people,” she said, “but in the end, Katya dear, you shouldn’t give a damn what they think.”

  Nayir stood facing a large black curtain that was thick and heavy and stubbornly unmoved by the circulating air. It hung from a ceiling thirty feet above him and felt both protective and ominous. Beyond the curtain, invisible and muffled, was a roomful of women, all moving to their seats and slowly falling silent as they waited for him to step onto the stage. He would walk like a ridiculous fashion model past the rows of seats so that he could show them his face and convince them, insha’allah, that he was a good man, healthy and solid and honest and strong, someone worthy of Katya’s love.

  These male-model catwalks had been known to go wrong. He’d heard tales of women heckling and hooting lasciviously. He’d heard about booing. He’d heard about men stumbling and falling. But what scared him the most was simply knowing that in a few short minutes, three hundred women were going to be scrutinizing his terrified face.

  He heard rustling near the curtain’s edge. They were coming for him now, and every single atom in his body felt the urge to turn and run away. Was this really necessary? He could simply go out the back door and no one would come after him. He would come back later, in an hour or two, when his face and palms had stopped leaking like taps. It would be easy to do, except that he couldn’t move. His feet were made of stone, his body like boulders piled atop one another. Any movement would send everything tumbling down. Then the curtain parted and Katya appeared.

  She was radiant. Even the nervousness in her eyes couldn’t dim the smile lighting up her face. She took his hand and squeezed it.

  “Are you ready for this?”

  They’d been officially married the day before, but they hadn’t spent the night together. The wedding wasn’t over yet. This was the last step, and it surprised him that it should prove the most difficult one of all.

  “You don’t want to do this,” she said.

  Was he crazy? He’d spent so many years wanting to be married, wanting a wife of his own, children, in-laws, a bigger immediate family than his bachelor uncle could provide. This was a doorway to the world he had never been allowed to enter until now, the world of a woman’s voice, her body, her touch. A world of kitchens and bedrooms and shouting children, and now, after so many years, the door was opening.

  “No,” he said. “I’m ready.”

  “It’s only for a few minutes,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  He was going to do something he’d never done before and would probably never do again, and he told himself that this was what he wanted, what he had always wanted, even if he didn’t believe it right now. Without another word, he pulled the curtain aside.

  They met a sheer wall of sound, an audience exploding in joyous ululations and applause. Nayir stepped onto the stage, holding Katya’s hand. She laughed nervously. He squeezed her fingers. They let the sound wash over them as they stood staring, happy and frightened, blinded by the glittering lights.

  Reading Group Guide

  KINGDOM OF STRANGERS

  a novel

  by

  ZOË FERRARIS

  Zoë Ferraris’s playlist for Kingdom of Strangers

  It’s odd writing a playlist for a book about Saudi Arabia, a country where music is technically forbidden. You can sing, of course. Isn’t that what they do from the minarets five times a day? (Okay, it’s chanting.) A little percussion is acceptable. But no pipes or stringed instruments, thank you. At the same time, Saudi has a flourishing underground music scene, including rap, punk, and pop. Jeddah and Riyadh have sponsored outdoor concerts—from heavy metal to teenage boy bands. Yet you’re still not allowed to study music in school. Totalitarian? Tolerant? Even Saudi doesn’t know what it is, which is part of its charm.

  Thanks to being an army brat and a nomad in general, I grew up listening to music from all over the world. My books were inspired by a hodgepodge of influences. While writing them, I followed the advice of the Prophet Mohammed, who said: “Seek knowledge, even in China.”

  “Under Her Feet” by Illmiyah and Arableak (aka Desert Heat)

  I wanted to capture what Jeddah is like today, in particular the way tradition clashes with modernity. And there’s nothing like a little Arabic rap to put me in the right frame of mind. Hip-hop sounds conjure images of East L.A., not the stifling heat of the desert. But the fusion is an excellent reminder that Saudi Arabia is not as traditional as the clerics would have it: the country has been saturated with foreign influences since the Prophet Mohammed worked the spice routes. Today, Saudi sponsors millions of guest workers, who bring cultural influences from all over the world. Most of the characters in my novel have some connection to other countries even as they call Saudi Arabia home.

  This Dubai-based group’s debut album was banned in Saudi Arabia (unlike the albums of some of the local rappers, which do get produced in that country). The song “Terror Alert,” for instance, offers a journey inside the mind of a suicide bomber. But this track is an homage to family and a reference to the Islamic saying that “paradise lies under the feet of mothers.”

  “Vivi Davvero” by Giorgia

  There is of course the other end of the attitudes-about-women spectrum. When I’m writing about the fierce determination of my female characters, who are up against all manner of discrimination, it helps to have some powerhouse female vocals playing. I’ve never seen an official translation of this song, but I have one in my head. It’s an exhortation to be true to your thoughts
and desires.

  Giorgia’s parents named her after Ray Charles’s “Georgia on My Mind,” and although her music is influenced a lot by jazz and blues, she’s good for the powerful pop hit as well. Her music has become so interwoven with my images of Katya, my female protagonist, that I almost couldn’t write her without hearing “Questo è il prezzo che…”

  This is the price

  These times impose on us.

  Living life too quickly

  A woman eats of the fruits of sin,

  And I want a piece of the pie.

  “For the World” by Tan Dun

  I really wish Saudi Arabia had its own Tan Dun, someone to make an orchestral wonder out of that region’s traditional sounds. Melancholy so pervades Tan Dun’s music that it transcends place, for who does not have his share of sadness? But the other tracks on the Hero album also have a good dose of defiance, and for me that’s an electric combination. Most of my characters oscillate between states of despondency and a rebellious urge to change the way of the world, so I find this music very fitting.

  “Sampa” by Caetano Veloso

  Everything from his early album Caetanear seems simple and light, but this song has a particular quality of hangdog self-pity and longing for love that sometimes pervades the mood of my main character Nayir. I probably played it more than I should have while I was writing him.

  “Rock the Casbah” by the Clash

  As a teenager, I completely misunderstood this song. I just assumed the band was singing about ugly Americans dropping bombs on the Arabs. Of course, blame the Americans. At some point I realized that they were singing about the oppression of Sharia law and in particular how it stifles music. I think the song is saying that the people of the Middle East will overcome the oppression and rock.

  Rhabaouine by Gnawa Halwa