Finding Nouf Page 4

  "Nayir's not a Bedouin," Othman remarked.

  "Oh—what are you, then?" the cousin asked, his tone suggesting the existence of a new and fantastical race that would be even funnier and more backward than the Bedouin.

  "Palestinian," Othman said, preempting Nayir.

  "Ah, Palestinian." The cousin plunked onto a sofa and glanced up at Nayir, who stood uncomfortably in the center of the room. There was nothing funny about a Palestinian. All eyes studied his ill-fitting suit, and Nayir wondered for the thousandth time what it was about him that made people stare. Perhaps it was his size, which, coupled with a stern manner, made him seem unfriendly. Either that or he looked like a dolt, a dusty, understimulated man who had spent too long in the stupefying heat.

  "It's good to see you, Nayir. Please, sit down." Tahsin spread his arm in a generous arc, gathered his robe in his fist, and settled onto a sofa. He laid his manicured hands on his lap, one hand poised to fidget with the mammoth ring on his pinkie. "We would offer something, but—"

  Nayir raised a hand. It was gauche to offer well-wishers food until three days after the funeral. Othman motioned him to sit on one of the white foam cushions that hemmed the room, and Nayir accepted with relief.

  He dared a glance at Othman. He was the only brother wearing trousers—the others wore robes—but he looked no more formal; in fact, his shirt was wrinkled and one sleeve was rolled up. Normally he did his best to look and act like his brothers. He was an adopted son, and perhaps inclined to prove that he belonged, or at least to prevent anyone from noticing his difference. He was taller than the others, thinner too, and his large gray eyes were certainly a rarity among the brown-eyed Shrawis. But in his sitting-room behavior he was an impeccable Shrawi—cool, reserved, quietly pious.

  Once water had been served, Nayir felt the familiar gloom of etiquette descend. He knew his place here. He was the desert guide, the outsider whose presence imposed the burden of noblesse oblige on the family's sons. Nayir glanced at Othman, his only ally. Othman looked sallow and tired, but he met Nayir's eye with a look that seemed to say, We have much to discuss.

  Nayir had a million questions for him, but he wouldn't ask them in front of the others. He wondered especially what would happen with Othman's wedding. He was supposed to be married next month. Had they decided to postpone?

  Politely, Nayir inquired about Othman's father, Abu Tahsin, who had undergone heart surgery a week ago—some said because of his daughter's flight—and was politely informed that Father would be home by next week, Allah willing.

  Abu Tahsin's attack had taken everyone by surprise. In all the years Nayir had known him, he'd seemed as healthy as a man half his age. He worked tirelessly for his charities and in his spare time raced camels, motorcycles, and all-terrain vehicles. His interest in his sons never flagged, and he took them wherever he went. By the time they were men, they knew their world well and were just as easy in the palaces of Riyadh as they were in scuba gear at the bottom of the sea. It was because of Abu Tahsin that the family made twice-yearly excursions to the desert.

  Tahsin turned to Nayir. "Brother, thank you for coming. What you've done for Nouf puts us in your debt. I hope you'll give us the chance to return the favor one day."

  Nayir cleared his throat. "May the day never come."

  "Indeed," Tahsin said. Whenever Nayir sat with the brothers, Tahsin did the talking. He was the oldest, and perhaps used to taking charge of things, but in appearance and manner he came across as an oddly self-effacing man. He never looked Nayir in the eye but kept his gaze down. He spoke clearly but softly, and his face reminded Nayir of prey, that delicate mouth unused to vicious acts, the eyes widely spaced to keep watch for danger. Nayir went back and forth between thinking that Tahsin was humble and thinking that it was all an act, because when Tahsin wanted a certain result, he got it.

  "I regret the outcome of my search," Nayir said. Tahsin clucked his tongue, but Nayir pushed on. "I had hoped to find her."

  "We rest assured of your intentions!" Tahsin exclaimed.

  Nayir weighed his next words carefully. "I had also hoped to satisfy your curiosity about why she left." He glanced at his company and saw that their faces were impenetrable masks. Only Othman showed discomfort, but he didn't meet Nayir's eye.

  "We will never understand why she ran away," said Tahsin, settling his bulk deeper into the cushion's folds. "A girl like my sister, so naive and pristine, so untouched by the world. Do you know, I never saw her cry? Or frown? Or even turn down her lips? She was bliss in a girl's body, as virtuous as her mother, ism'allah, my Nouf. It's not real. Not even now, with her body as evidence."

  "Yes," Fahad added, his voice whiskery and shy. Everyone turned to him, surprised that he'd spoken. "We thought she'd been kidnapped. We thought she'd never leave on her own. But then it became obvious when we discovered the camel ... gone. She'd run away."

  "There was never a clue," Tahsin continued. "Some passion drove her, but I can recall no evidence of passion in my sister. None!"

  "None confided, at least," Othman remarked.

  An awkward silence took hold. No one looked at Othman, and the brothers seemed to draw into themselves.

  Nayir was inclined to agree with Othman's assessment. Of course Nouf had passions; they just didn't know what those were. He felt no empathy for brothers who had only the vaguest, most superficial impression of their sisters. Certainly women had their own concerns. They lived in a different manner, in other parts of the house. He imagined that their lives barely intersected except during meals, holidays, excursions. But there was no taboo against talking to a sister. A sister, he imagined, should be the most comforting of women—an accessible female with whom one could speak openly, who could explain sensitive things where others might shy from trying. Nayir had no siblings, but he had longed for a sister his entire life. To have seven and no knowledge of them! Did the brothers simply ignore their sisters? Impossible. One of them must have spoken to Nouf sometime. They must have taken at least a passing interest in her schooling, hobbies, her taste in shoes.

  He studied them. Tahsin, with a wife and nine children and his enormous work responsibilities: he was probably too busy, or acted as if he was. Fahad too worked all the time. He and his wife had three young girls, but they didn't live on the island anymore; they had a house in the city and probably didn't see Nouf very often. Only Othman would have seen her regularly. He still lived at home. But on the phone he'd been unable to tell Nayir anything. Perhaps he'd been in shock.

  It wasn't odd that the brothers were being so reserved—they kept their feelings buried, or shared among themselves—and on any other occasion he would have thought nothing of it. But as the minutes ticked by, questions sprang forcefully into his mind. If Nouf had seemed so happy at home, wasn't it still likely that she'd been kidnapped? The kidnapper could have stolen the camel to make it look like she'd run away. Had she ever talked about leaving? If not to her brothers, then to her sisters or a friend? And, most important, did they know about the pregnancy before she ran away? He couldn't find a way to raise his concerns; he couldn't even come up with a subject for idle chatter. He studied each of them in the hope that they would speak, but their silence was heavy and conscientious. It wasn't his place to force the issue. Would any among them ask the difficult question: what had happened to Nouf ? Would anyone take responsibility for, if not her death, then at least the circumstances leading up to it?

  A servant came in with a lighted hookah and set it down beside Tahsin. With a cloth at his waist, the servant wiped the hookah's nozzle and handed it to Tahsin, who accepted it sternly. The servant bowed and left.

  Tahsin held the hookah to his mouth. Everyone stared at him, waiting for the first inhalation. Nayir found himself longing for the comforting slap of water as it bubbled in the pipe, the soft crackle of charcoal lighting the tobacco, any sound to break the silence. Tahsin finally took a drag, and it seemed for a moment that his long exhalation of sweet-smelling smoke was matched
by the relieved exhalations of everyone.

  Slowly the hookah made its way around the circuit. One of the cousins praised the tobacco and asked where it was from, which started a light conversation. Nayir realized that the brothers were done talking about Nouf. He leaned back against the wall. The disappointment of his failed search still troubled him. Why hadn't he sent a team to check out the family's campsite to make sure they knew what they were doing? Accident or not, her death had been preventable. He felt determined to find out what had happened to her. Allah, am I prying? Am I doing this to satisfy my own sickening curiosity? No, he thought. It was the right thing to do, and he felt somehow that he owed it to Othman.

  On the other hand, solving a problem like this would mean learning everything he could about Nouf, and that would be nearly impossible. Only her sisters would know very much, but he wouldn't be allowed to speak with them, nor ask personal questions. He had never met the oldest one, but he had seen a few of the others when they were still young enough not to wear veils. On one occasion years ago, when he'd come to the house to prepare the men for a desert trip, the girls had met him with quiet awkwardness. They'd been a well-behaved bunch, and in the absence of notable personality traits, he'd found it difficult to tell them apart. Perhaps he'd even met Nouf back then. But the only one he remembered was the infant he'd held. For a brief, anguished moment, that little creature had struck him with a sense of his own terrific power. She'd screamed, and he'd quickly handed her back.

  There must be a lot of official cases like this, he thought. Cases where a man has to understand a woman's life—to know the details of her last few days, weeks, months; to know where she spent her time, and why, and with whom; to know her desires, her secrets. But the job's disappointment was probably sharp: women, so used to secrecy, undoubtedly took their mysteries to their graves.

  Othman caught his eye. "Shall we walk?" he asked.

  This was their typical maneuver—taking polite leave to talk alone. Gratefully, Nayir nodded, and they rose and stepped onto the terrace.

  A balustrade snaked around the house. Dusk was beginning to fall, wrapping the sky in a hazy pink. Nayir followed Othman along the winding terrace. Eventually it turned into a dirt stairway with two black walls on either side. Down they went, interminably lower, until they heard the faint grunting of animals settling into sleep.

  5

  AT THE BOTTOM of the stairs they entered a courtyard, and Nayir realized he had been here before, many times in fact, but had always come at it from a different route. Now he recognized the low bower of figs that hung near the stone stables. To his left was the estate's most informal entrance, the rear gate that Nouf must have used. It was a giant wooden door through which two trucks could pass without touching. The door served as a docking bay for the family's foodstuffs and receivables. It was also where Nayir and his men came to load the camels and various accouterments that the Shrawis took with them to the desert.

  But Othman led Nayir off to the right, through an iron gate and into a garden encircled by hedges. A gravel pathway twisted through the shrubs and the trees, and they walked along it, slowing their pace. "I still can't believe this is happening," Othman said.

  "I'm sorry—"

  "I know you did everything you could," he interrupted, and then added, "And thank you for bringing Nouf to the house."

  "No problem," Nayir said, noticing the tension in Othman's face. They came upon a stone bench and an empty fountain, but they went on walking. "The examiner didn't release any paperwork," Nayir said. "I take it that he called you."

  "Yes."

  Nayir thought back to the examiner's office, uncertain whether to tell Othman that he'd seen the body and learned about the manner of her death. He decided to wait for Othman to speak; he seemed to have something to say.

  They walked in a circuit through the garden, exchanging a few words when the silence grew awkward.

  "I spoke with the examiner just before the service," Othman said abruptly. "I was surprised that she drowned."

  Nayir nodded. "The way he saw it, she must have been stuck in a wadi. The floods happen very fast. It can be hard to get out in time."

  "You've heard of this happening before?"

  "Yes, but it's rare."

  "Seems to me she should have been able to see it coming."

  "It's possible she might have been unconscious," Nayir said, "maybe because of the heat. By the way, did you ever find the camel?"

  "Yes. She's here," Othman said. "Although apparently she's not doing well."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know. She nearly injured one of the stable hands, so they shut her in a dark room. It's the only thing that keeps her calm."

  "Where did they find her?"

  "One of the search parties found her not too far from where the body was found, I think. You'd have to look at the map."

  They passed another empty fountain; it distracted them, and the conversation threatened to dry up. "So you've accepted that her death was accidental?" Nayir asked, hoping to sound as casual as he could.

  There was a slight hesitation. "Well, murder seems unlikely."

  Nayir decided to push ahead. "Did the examiner mention that Nouf had defensive wounds on her wrists and a bump on her head?"

  Othman didn't reply.

  "The wounds on her wrists might have been from a camel's reins," Nayir said, "but they didn't seem uniform enough to one of the examiners. There was bruising and scratching, almost as if someone had grabbed her and she'd fought back."

  "They could have been accidental wounds," Othman said finally. "But if they weren't ... I don't know. Someone may have grabbed her, but did they drown her? I don't think they could do that without drowning themselves as well."

  He was right: defensive wounds did not mean murder. But they could mean rape or kidnapping. Nayir wanted to say it, but he felt he'd already gone far enough, and he was running out of nerve.

  "But no," Othman admitted suddenly, "I'm not sure her death was accidental. The truth is, my brothers asked the examiner's office to classify it that way for the family's sake."

  Nayir stopped walking. "They paid for a cover-up?"

  "Tahsin did." Othman looked awkward for a moment. "He doesn't trust the police. And we all felt it would be easier for my mother if she didn't have to explain things to our relatives. It's bad enough for her with my father being ill."

  "I understand," Nayir said, "but the cover-up makes your whole family look suspicious."

  "I know. But I have someone in the lab who is collecting the necessary evidence. She's going to treat this as if it were an open investigation."

  Nayir felt a strange coupling of relief and unease—relief at the family's interest in finding out the truth, even if it was done in an illegal manner, and unease because of the pronoun "she."

  "Is it ... Miss Hijazi?" he asked.

  "Yes," Othman said. "You met her?"

  For a blinding moment Nayir couldn't understand why Miss Hijazi hadn't told him about her connection to the family. He'd suspected it, of course, but he remembered that she'd seemed upset about the cover-up—of which, apparently, she was a part. "She was there," he said. "How do you know her?"

  "She's my fiancée."

  If there was something more surprising he could have said, Nayir couldn't imagine it. The wedding had come up in conversation many times. Nayir knew, for example, that the bride's surname was Hijazi, but there were plenty of Hijazis, and Othman referred to her as "my fiancée" otherwise. He also knew that Othman met her privately; she came with an escort. The girl's mother was dead and Um Tahsin had taken a maternal role with her, helping to organize the wedding details, like the dress and the rings. But Nayir hadn't had the nerve to pry any further. He didn't know what sort of family she was from or what kind of personality she had, and he certainly didn't know what she looked like. He'd simply assumed that she was sweet and decent, a girl from a wealthy family. He had not guessed that she might have a job, especially one
where she would interact with men.

  "Oh, well...," he said, feeling flustered. "I'm sorry, I hadn't made the connection. Is she a cousin of yours?"

  "No, she's not family." Othman seemed embarrassed. "We met through a friend. She didn't tell you who she was?"

  Nayir shook his head. It was probably proper of her to keep her identity hidden, but he couldn't help feeling embarrassed. He wondered how well Othman really knew her. Certainly he would have noticed her boldness. Or was she less bold with him? She'd been too forward for Nayir's comfort, and he couldn't imagine Othman tolerating that sort of behavior either. He was curious to know his friend's thoughts, but he couldn't find a delicate way to broach the subject.

  "Does it surprise you so much?" Othman asked.

  "No, no. She's just—you didn't tell me she worked at the examiner's office."

  Othman actually blushed. "Well, I didn't think it was necessary."

  Nayir turned away, but he was intrigued by Othman's shame. He must really love her, he thought, to tolerate her having a job.

  "Congratulations," Nayir said finally, realizing he should have said it sooner.

  Othman chuckled. "I mean it."

  "Please try!" Othman was grinning. He continued walking.

  "So I take it you're pursuing this case on your own?" Nayir asked, steering the focus away from Miss Hijazi.

  "Yes." Othman stopped smiling. "Actually, I was hoping you would help. We've hired a private investigator, and he wants to see where she was found. We have a map, but I was hoping you could help him find the place."

  Nayir felt another wash of dismay. A private investigator? The family should have asked him first; they knew how well he knew the desert. But this is pride, he told himself. Forgive my pride. "Of course I'll help."

  "Thanks."

  "The private investigator—was that your brother's idea too?"

  "No, that was mine. My family has not decided whether her death was accidental or not." Othman shook his head. "I think we just want answers."