by Raja Alem
He opened his wardrobe and took out the huge Samsonite case. He opened it and felt about inside to be certain all the papers, which he’d virtually memorized, were still hidden inside, then closed it and left the hotel, his shoulders slumped. Even the exhaustion that had overcome him after the events of the past week was nothing in comparison to the rotten taste rising in his throat. A rat had chosen to burrow a hole into his body and die there. He took a deep breath, afraid of contaminating the air and disturbing the people around, or infecting them too with his rat.
The gleaming white Land Rover’s brakes squealed as it exited the hotel parking lot under watchful eyes. He drove aimlessly, leaving the city and its mosque behind him. He pulled over at the edge of the road north of the city, got out, and stood by the passenger door, at a loss. Then he got the case out, and, with trembling lover’s fingers, took out the blue file, and squatted down by the back wheel of the car. His body shrank as he reached into the file: there, inside, was the essence of his beating heart, the snakelike rollercoaster that lifted him up and twisted him round and whirled him three hundred and sixty degrees only to return him to the point where he’d begun and to the first woman whom he’d wrapped, whose words he’d wrapped, around his neck like a collar before jumping into the void. Siren Man shook at the first touch after a long separation.
“My God, woman …” he moaned, crushing his head against the hot metal of the car. Why didn’t I burn you before, like I was told to? Why did I dare disobey al-Sibaykhan for you when he ordered me to destroy all your emails? Why are we too weak to change our nature? I’m a coward and a traitor to my very last drop of blood, and I’ll die that way. In the end, you led me to confront myself, to confront two choices: run away with you, or pursue Yusuf … And I chose the bank account! Why was I too weak to put up a decent fight against my own emptiness? Why was I too weak to be a better man, Aisha?” Her name rent his chest like the howl of a lost wolf.
“Aisha, only your hands can make me come.” With the flame of his lighter, he set the first email alight, as tears dripped to the scorching sand. Detective Nasser al-Qahtani let himself cry freely, and Siren Man sobbed as the papers, one by one, were consumed by flames.
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This eBook 2016
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Copyright 2010 by Raja Alem
First published in Arabic in 2010 as Tawq al-Hamam
by al-Markaz al-Thaqafi al-‘Arabi, Casablanca
English translation copyright © 2016 by Katharine Halls and Adam Talib
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
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eISBN: 9780715648681
