by Zoë Ferraris
“No,” Osama said. “I’m just curious.”
“No,” Fuad said. “I don’t believe in God.”
51
Qasama. To divide. To cleave in twain. The word kept repeating in Nayir’s mind like a thousand madmen whispering, chanting. Qasama. Qasama. The indecision was back. Being in the desert had been a relief, even dealing with a sandstorm was somehow easier than fighting this uncertainty. Should he have come here today or not? Was it right to condone another death?
Nayir had just finished Friday prayers at the Jufalli mosque and now stood in the parking lot amid a sea of congregants who were milling about casually, waiting to see if the executioner would arrive. It had been a difficult business, focusing on prayers while this parking lot loomed in Nayir’s consciousness as the site of future bloodshed. He had always believed that execution was a just and necessary punishment, but now he couldn’t feel the force of his previous certainty. What was right about denying someone their repentance? Didn’t everyone deserve Allah’s forgiveness?
Executions weren’t announced in advance, but thanks to Osama, he knew he should be here today. He found the detective leaning against an unmarked police car at the edge of the lot. Behind him stretched the lake. Its center was a deep grayish green, but around the edges it was tinged brown and littered with Pepsi bottles and plastic bags. The water smelled unpleasant despite the city’s treatment of it a few years before.
The sky was clear, the smog had left on a morning breeze, and now the sun beat down on Nayir’s head and back. Oddly enough, Osama seemed pleased to be there. For him it was the successful conclusion of a brutal case.
“You’re not wearing a uniform,” Nayir observed. “I thought you’d dress up.”
“I didn’t want to give anything away.”
Nayir nodded. People knew that executions were about to take place only when police cars came blaring into the parking lot.
“We’ve got another half hour,” Osama said. “You want to wait in the shade?”
They made their way to the arcade at the end of the white mosque, but too many people had already claimed the prized spot, so they remained in the sunlight. It reflected off the mosque’s brilliant white exterior with a nuclear intensity. Looking out at the lot, Nayir was surprised to see how many people were already there. Surely more than had actually been praying in the mosque. He stood listening to the banter around him.
People had been reading about the Nawar case in the papers for the past two and a half weeks. They knew the killer had been caught. They knew the victim’s family had not pardoned him for the crime. Some people still suspected that it was the American man who had killed her after all and that the poor bloke they would execute would only be a patsy, perhaps a nameless drug trafficker who’d been framed for the crime because Americans somehow always managed to slip free. It angered Nayir to think of Eric Walker killed by the most selfish of men, and now being maligned by strangers who had no idea what had really happened. It should have been Apollo Mabus they were dragging onto the execution platform today, but Mabus was still in prison, awaiting a trial date while the British consulate furiously attempted to arrange his extradition.
Grimly, Nayir searched for a distraction. He didn’t want to think about Miriam right now. Fumbling in his pocket, he found a miswak. He brushed the lint from the bristles and stuck it in his mouth. The twig was old; its spicy tang was almost gone, but at least it gave him something to do.
Osama stood beside him, eyes obscured behind a pair of Ray-Bans. The sun was shining directly on his head. He had already looked wilted leaning against his car, and now he looked as if some fireman had blasted him with a hose.
“Where’s your hat?” Nayir asked.
“Forgot it.”
“You could borrow my shumagh if you like,” Nayir said, motioning to his headscarf.
Osama snorted. “I’m not wearing that thing.” But then he smiled. Nayir shook his head. He was finding it easier to excuse Osama for being so self-consciously unorthodox.
“So what did Fuad say?” Nayir asked.
Osama kept his eyes on the pavement. “You know when you get a feeling about someone?”
Nayir nodded.
“I just knew he was one of these guys who hated women. He might have been a modern-looking man on the outside, he even said that he didn’t believe in God, but on the inside he still thought like some fundamentalist: Women exist to serve men. They’re disposable.”
Nayir was offended by this slight against religious-minded people but decided to stay on the subject. “You think he killed her just because she was a woman?”
“No, but that was a part of it. He killed her because he hated what she was. She didn’t act properly. She filmed people in public. She was out all the time, against her brother’s wishes. It all pissed Fuad off. Then she caught him stealing from her brother, and instead of doing the right thing and reporting it to Abdulrahman, she tried to blackmail Fuad into sharing the profits.”
“Don’t you think if she’d reported him, he would have been just as angry?” Nayir asked.
“Yeah, but he wouldn’t have killed her, I think,” Osama said. “He wouldn’t have had the chance. He killed her in a fit of rage. He didn’t plan to do it; he just did it. I think that if she had been a man and she’d gone to confront him, he wouldn’t have killed her. But she was a woman…” Osama shrugged cynically. “You know what got him into the lingerie business in the first place? He used to be obsessed with porn. He had so much of it in his house that we couldn’t find his kitchen table. He got a job at Abdulrahman’s store—started out as a clerk—and we found out later from his brother-in-law it was because he loved handling the manikins. To him, it was all right for a man to look at porn, but for a woman to act with liberty? What really made him angry was that Leila wasn’t being moral. If you ask me, that’s completely ignorant.”
Nayir began to take offense. “You think because a man’s a fundamentalist, he doesn’t respect women?”
Osama regarded him carefully. “What I’m saying is that he wasn’t religious on the outside, but inside he had all the hallmarks of extreme thinking.”
“About religion or about women?” Nayir asked.
“Women. But they go together, don’t you think, religion and women? I mean, can you be a good Muslim if you think women should walk around uncovered?”
Nayir didn’t know exactly what he thought anymore, and it was getting too hot to argue.
“He’s just an extreme case,” Osama went on. “Do you know what he wrote in his will? He left all his belongings to his brother-in-law in Libya. And to his sister? Nothing. But he did waste some paper exhorting her to remember not to wear makeup and not to act like a whore. Doesn’t that sound like a fundamentalist to you?”
Nayir felt he was being baited, so he didn’t reply. The word qasama was running through his head again. He looked out at the plaza, but the unresolved argument hung between them more solidly than the choking, humid air.
There came a rumble from the crowd as the distant sound of sirens broke the air. Immediately people began whipping out their cell phones, no doubt to call friends to report the execution. Seconds later, six police cars came pouring into the lot, their lights flashing wanly against the greater brilliance of the sun and the mosque.
People murmured as they saw the executioner get out of the car. He seemed unremarkable—a forty-something black man of medium height. He wore a red-checkered shumagh and a crisp white robe. What made him stand out was the lavish scimitar at his side. This shining silver object, engraved with what no doubt were words from the Quran, was the cause of much fussing and oohing as the executioner passed through the crowd. His robust face gave an expression of pleasure, but his ordinariness chilled Nayir most of all. The man who chopped off heads for a living could be his neighbor. He probably had a wife and kids.
The crowd followed the executioner like geese. A few women were vying for space as was a white man, possibly American, his bald
head shining gloriously in the sun. Nayir saw a stranger grab the American’s arm. The man looked alarmed, but the stranger was smiling. “Come,” he said, “I’ll get you a good spot.” He pushed through the crowd, and people moved aside to let the American pass.
Once the execution site had been established, the police led Fuad out of a waiting van. His hands were tied in back and he was blindfolded. He stumbled a bit as he walked. Nayir had the impression that it wasn’t because he was blind. His whole body moved in a sloppy, awkward way. Word was that the condemned were drugged before execution to avoid resistance or a dramatic show of emotion. Nayir thought it was probably true.
Fuad was brought to the platform, which was nothing more than a sheet of plastic laid down on the pavement and a block of stone, grooved on one edge in a crescent, where Fuad would soon be laying his head for its final bow to Allah.
Nayir stared at the stone and felt heavy, as if each molecule in his body had suddenly turned to lead. He had never seen a public execution before, and he wasn’t sure he could stomach it. The heat was bearing down, the crowd rising, jostling him. Those more determined to get a view pushed him back to the rear. He was sweating in a painful way, and the sun was like a punishment, burning the back of his neck, prickling his scalp like needles. He strained to keep his eyes on the executioner. Someone thumped his shoulder and he turned to see a woman pushing him aside with her handbag.
The crowd’s shuffling stopped as one of the officers announced Fuad’s crimes. Nayir heard the recitation as if from across a great chasm. This is Fuad Jamia. He was found guilty of murdering a young woman. His sentence is death.
Nayir pushed forward again without understanding why his feet moved ahead or where he found the strength to elbow between strangers and crush the odd toe. He had to get to the front before the sword fell. He spotted Osama craning around to look for him and pushed in that direction, ignoring cries of annoyance, until he reached the first row. Fuad was kneeling on the ground, his head over the block. Sweat was dripping from the tips of his hair.
Osama explained that the man standing beside one of the officers was Leila’s brother Abdulrahman. Beside him was a young man, Leila’s cousin Ra’id. The boy looked pale and withdrawn.
The executioner addressed the brother: “Mr. Nawar, you have one more chance to pardon this man. Will you do it?”
Abdulrahman regarded Fuad, crouched on the pavement like some small, blind animal frozen in fear. He watched him for a long time while the crowd waited breathlessly, taking in Abdulrahman’s tortured face.
“No,” he said finally. “I will not.”
The executioner nodded as briskly as a waiter who’s been told to fetch the check. He turned back to Fuad and commanded him to recite the Shahada. “There is no god but one God, and Mohammed is His prophet.” Halfway through, Fuad broke off.
With a practiced, easy hand, the executioner dug the tip of his scimitar into Fuad’s lower back until Fuad raised his head. Then, with a smooth, dramatic sweep, he raised the sword high. Nayir stared at the sword, qasama spinning wildly through his brain. The blade came down. A glint of light. A thunk of metal on stone. Some gasping and a brief cry of shock. Fuad’s head dropped to the ground.
Blood spurted from the neck, spraying the plastic sheet. Someone behind them fainted, causing a disturbance in the crowd and forcing Nayir to turn around. He saw nothing but the backs of a dozen white robes, a blinding field of white.
There was no sound anymore. The word had stopped repeating. Nayir stared at the ground, at the men stooping over to retrieve the severed head, at the doctor redundantly bending over Fuad’s body to confirm the death. Nayir felt his breathing normalize again, felt a cool chill wash over his body. A new word appeared. Not qasama this time, but its close cousin qismah. Fate. Your portion. Your half of that which was divided.
He decided that Fuad had deserved what he got.
52
Nayir walked beside Katya, their progress slowed now and then by the fact that she was wearing a burqa and that occasionally she would stop, lift the fabric, and gaze at the sunset over the Red Sea. He had to keep an eye on her. More than once he’d turned to discover that he’d left her behind. The little jolt it gave him to realize that he’d lost her, however momentarily, led him to wonder about all the married men walking around, those who marched confidently down the sidewalks with their wives an obedient ten paces behind them. How did they know that their wives were actually following? That they didn’t stop to glance in shop windows or secretly raise their burqas and wink at strange men?
Katya was quieter than usual tonight. While this filled him with dread, he felt a fierce current of generosity flowing out of him, and he imagined that this retreat into silence was the feminine equivalent of going to the desert for a month, an act he had often undertaken himself and therefore could not begrudge her. He wished that she would help keep up the conversation and answer his questions with more than an aywa or a laa. As the sun dipped below the horizon, an eruption of color interrupted these thoughts, and just for a moment the pink and gold light and the green-smelling breeze conspired to make the view from the Corniche as stirring as a Ramadan prayer.
Food was obviously on everyone’s mind. The weather was unseasonably cool, 30 degrees at least, and half of Jeddah had come out to picnic. They laid carpets on the beaches, on roads, and in parking lots. They pitched their tents on sidewalks. Four meters wide, stretching to the horizon, the Corniche sidewalk could probably have accommodated the entire nation. The less prepared sat on the sand beside fast-food kiosks selling balela. Every few feet the warm smell of chickpeas and barbecued lamb wafted over the sidewalk. Although there was a respectful distance among families, the whole scene seemed as busy as a coral reef.
“How is work?” he asked, hoping that this was the problem, that it wasn’t something worse—or something about him.
“Good,” she said, another pat answer that invited a riposte, but he didn’t want to pressure her.
They walked in silence another ten minutes, until they reached the restaurant. It was a quiet family place where you could dine cloistered in your own little bungalow, away from prying eyes. He had been here a few times with Samir, and the food had always been excellent.
“This is nice!” Katya exclaimed. “How did you find this place?”
“There’s a popular dive site out there.” He motioned to the water some ten meters down the shore from the restaurant. She looked as if she wanted to say something but didn’t.
A waiter led them to a bungalow just big enough for two. The walls were dark bamboo in tiki-shack style, but one side of the structure was open, giving them a view of a rocky beach and beyond that the Red Sea sparkling in the sunset. A rolled-up screen on top of the wall could be let down if they wanted more privacy.
They sat on cushions placed on a grass mat. The waiter returned with water and menus. Katya asked about the different types of fish, and Nayir gave his advice while his mind drifted back to the events of the afternoon.
He had gone to her house while she was still at work. Her father had welcomed him warily at first; he seemed to know from the look on Nayir’s face what he’d come for. After escorting Nayir into the sitting room, Abu had brought a generous pot of tea and some dates, sat down across from his guest, and said, “So, how have you been, Mr. Sharqi?”
The use of his surname had made the ensuing conversation seem even stiffer. Nayir forced himself through a discussion of the weather, growing more and more tense as he realized that Abu wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. Finally, when he felt he’d done enough chatting, Nayir said, “I’ve come to ask your permission for Katya’s hand in marriage.”
Abu sat back on the sofa and regarded him evenly. Nayir tried not to squirm. He set his teacup on the table and met Abu’s gaze. In the growing silence he felt he ought to say more, explain at least why he wanted to marry her, but his reasons lay flat on his tongue. It would have meant admitting that he had spent enough time
with her to know the many reasons to love her, and while Abu undoubtedly suspected that much, Nayir wasn’t prepared to admit it.
The horrible silence was broken when Abu sat forward again. “You are a good Muslim man, Nayir. I think you would make an excellent match for my daughter.”
And that was it. Taken by surprise, Nayir had let out a happy breath. Seeing Abu’s stern face, he quickly sobered up, but the relief and the thrill of having Abu’s blessing was enough to float him out the door. Even Abu seemed pleased, and shook his hand with a congratulatory vigor.
At the door Abu said one last thing: “I will tell her you have my blessing, but I would prefer it if you talk to her yourself before I say anything.”
“Yes,” Nayir said, perplexed, “I will.” As he left, he felt dread settling over him. The decision was in Katya’s hands now. Of course, Nayir had known that this moment would come. Traditionally, the parents handled the negotiations, but Abu had just thrown the whole thing in Nayir’s lap. If Katya said no, she would tell Nayir herself. Was it only his pride that made the idea seem so horrific?
Nayir suspected, although he couldn’t be sure, that Abu was doing this because of Katya and not because he was a careless or cowardly man. But why he was doing it, and what it meant about her, Nayir couldn’t be sure.
These thoughts weighed on him once the waiter had left and he sat facing Katya. She seemed inexplicably different this evening. She was changing right in front of him, no longer the woman he had yearned for but a woman he might marry, who might become his wife, lover, friend, and as they drank fresh mango juice and ate grouper, he found himself looking at her face more often, studying its contours as if to make sure they hadn’t really changed. They talked about the Nawar case but only briefly, before she switched to the other cases she was working on. He was reminded once again that she loved her job and that marriage and children might not be in her plans, but the question that had been percolating inside him for the past two weeks—or, if he was honest, for the past nine months—was now exploding in his head. He thought of Omran leaping over the edge of a dune as he put down his fork and said, “Katya, will you marry me?”
