Finding Nouf (31 page)

"Ah. Yes, of course." The maid smiled delicately, gave a little bow, and left the room.

As soon as she was gone, Katya shut the door and locked it. She set her cloak on the floor and looked around. The men's cloaks were hanging on one side of the room, the women's on the other. She went to the men's side. Getting on her hands and knees, she scanned the floor for hair. She found plenty, and swiftly bagged it. It didn't matter who the hairs belonged to; she just wanted a collection of samples from all the men who were in the house or who had been there recently, servants included.

Neither Muhammad nor Eric had fathered Nouf's child. There were no other leads. The collection of hairs from the cloakroom floor was her best hope. It might not give her a name or a face, but it would prove that the man had been to the house, and if she could prove that, she could begin to ask Othman about the family's visitors over the past few months.

Standing up, she confronted the hanging cloaks. Until now she had studiously avoided any hint that one of the brothers had impregnated Nouf. It was terrible to think of it, but it felt equally wrong to dismiss her darkest suspicions simply because she didn't like them.

She didn't know what the men of the family wore at home, but she knew their scarves and cloaks on sight. Tahsin had the perfect white cloak with the pompous gold trim; Fahad wore a dingy old thing, and Othman's cloak was a pale shade of blue. She found the first two and carefully, quickly scanned them for hair. She took samples from each and bagged them. When she came to Othman's
cloak, an acute self-consciousness forced her to hesitate. Was this a betrayal of her loyalty to him, or was it just that she feared his involvement?
This ought to be easy,
she thought. The DNA would prove he was innocent. She found three hairs on his cloak and slid them into a bag.

After hastily sorting and labeling everything, she snatched her cloak and unlocked the door. The hallway was empty. Deciding not to worry about the consequences, she darted for the front door.

"Katya?"

Stopping short, she turned and saw Nusra standing by the cloakroom door.

"Katya, what are you doing here?"

Katya briefly entertained the idea of pretending to be someone else. But it would never work with Nusra.

"Yes, Um Tahsin, I'm sorry. I got a little lost."

"Where is Aaliyah? She was supposed to take you to a room." Her voice was soft and questioning.

Katya felt obliged to explain herself. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to get away from the sitting room for a while. I sometimes feel very intimidated in there."

After a pause Nusra came closer and put out her arm. "I understand," she said. "It must be hard for you. But you have no reason to worry. We don't judge you."

Katya felt an immense relief. But just then the front door opened and they heard men's voices. Katya whipped the tail end of her scarf out of her collar and held it across her face, leaving only her eyes exposed. Othman came in with another man. Othman glanced at her briefly and turned to his mother.

"
Ay, ummi?
"

Nusra smiled and opened her arms to him. He gave her a kiss on the forehead and introduced his friend. Katya stood rigid. It occurred to her slowly, and then with a terrible punch, that Othman hadn't recognized her and had probably mistaken her for a servant. She watched him fiercely, certain that he wouldn't dare to look at her eyes, not in front of his mother. Did he not recognize her eyes, or the hand that held her scarf, or even the purse on her shoulder? He didn't give her a second glance. She wanted to
be pleased, knowing he was not the sort of man who would look at strange women, but her heart had stopped, and she watched as if seeing him for the first time. He was sweeter, softer, more boyish in his mother's presence. There was an openness in him that he had never demonstrated with her, and it stabbed her deeply. Nusra was transformed too. Her voice was higher, her whole face uplifted. Most striking of all, her gestures were awkward and fumbling, as if she had been blind for only a day and relied on her son to guide her.

Katya waited for Nusra to say something:
Look, Katya is here
or
Don't you recognize your fiancée?
But instead she walked off to escort Othman and his friend to the men's sitting room, leaving Katya standing frozen in the hall, her heart split in half and lying on the ground, her mind torn between wondering who was blinder, Nusra or her son.

They were gone. She turned abruptly and marched straight for the door, hoping desperately that no one would see her leave. Her head was light, but her body felt like an anvil. Some murky emotion was gathering within her—horror, sadness, the urge to laugh until she cried. As soon as she reached the car, it came pouring out.

Ahmad leaped out, put his arm around her, and held her, letting her cry on his shoulder while observing his usual silence. When she was done, he used his
shumagh
to wipe her tears and helped her into the car.

The coffee table was big enough to hold all the evidence, and she laid it out in neat rows: the mud samples from Nouf's wrist and from the zoo, the cedar flakes and dirt from Nouf's head wound, skin cells from the blanket they found at the zoo, DNA samples from everyone, and all the corresponding chemical and trace analyses, printed out on white paper. Before sitting down, she changed into her favorite house robe, made herself a strong cup of coffee, and pinned up her hair. She was ready to work. With a pen and paper, she began to catalogue the evidence, trying to develop yet another picture of the events surrounding Nouf's death.

The dirt from the zoo matched the dirt on Nouf's arm; both carried traces of oleander toxins. There was no evidence of blood mixed in with the dirt, but the presence of manure was enough to show that Nouf—not just her shoe—had been at the zoo before she disappeared.

The blanket they had found at the zoo was more interesting. On it she found cells from two people: Nouf and the baby's father. A perfect match. So Nouf was having sex at the zoo, but not with Muhammad or Eric.

She turned to the DNA samples she'd collected at the Shrawi estate. Feeling urgent and slightly reckless, she'd run them in batches at work. Salwa and a few other workers were home with fevers, so it had taken only a day and half to finish all of the samples. This afternoon she'd stuffed the last batch in her purse before looking at them. Later, riding home in Ahmad's comforting presence, coming back to an empty house—Abu was out playing cards with his friends—and eating a leisurely dinner, she hadn't been able to summon the nerve to study the results. Now they were burning a hole in the table.

Setting her coffee cup down, she reached over and picked up the stack of papers. Ten different hairs from the Shrawi cloakroom, and seven were from men. Surely something from this last batch would give her the answer she sought.

N
AYIR WOKE
to the sounds of a sailing day. The clatter of footsteps on the pier. Boats gunning their engines to leave their slips. Weekend voices calling out orders, and bottles clattering against ice in metal coolers. In the occasional lull he could hear the familiar whipping of a small flap of canvas against the
Fatimah's
mast, signifying a stout wind and the promise of a perfect day at sea.

With vague notions of sailing, he rose and made coffee, propped himself absently against the stove, and took in his surroundings. The cabin was a mess. His water tank was low, and his monthly slip rental fee was two days overdue. He knew without checking that he had no clean clothes. On top of everything else, his thoughts were in such a state of disarray that he couldn't remember why he had to talk to Nouf's escort again or what exactly he and Miss Hijazi had discovered at the zoo. The whipping canvas above his head began to sound like the drumbeat of military discipline. Forgetting his coffee, he performed his ablutions at the kitchen sink, grabbed his prayer rug, and went topside to pray.

He spent the morning tidying up the cabin, doing laundry, and taking care of his debt. The cool air actually made it possible to enjoy the confinement, and as he straightened his living quarters, his mind found an organizing principle of its own. The evidence he had gathered over the past week began to make some sense. Only one question nagged at him: why had Nouf put the stilettos in her pockets?

To answer this, he realized that he first had to figure out when she had changed into the white robe. When she was still on the island? She had to change before she got into the truck. In a black cloak, the chances were too great that she would have been stopped on the freeway. But if she left the island in the truck, wearing a white robe, then why didn't she just put the shoes on the seat beside her? Why in the pockets?

Perhaps she had to sneak around the island in the white robe and she didn't want to be seen carrying the shoes. Nayir took her belongings from their plastic bag and laid them out on the sofa. The white robe had pockets, and it was possible to fit the stilettos inside, although the heel stuck out slightly and the fabric was so thin that the hot pink showed through. It was probably better than carrying them around, but why not put them in a plastic bag?

Did she put them in the pockets and then forget about them? From his own recent experience, he knew it was difficult to forget about a six-inch stiletto in your pocket. Even if she did momentarily forget them, why didn't she then take them out when she got to the zoo—or while she was driving? They would have been a nuisance. To prove it, he put one shoe in each pocket of his house robe and sat on the sofa, but he had to stand up quickly to avoid any damage.

The shoes made no sense. More than anything else, they argued for her running away—he couldn't imagine a kidnapper going to the trouble of shoving pink shoes into her pockets.

That day Nayir drove back to Kilo Seven. As he pulled into the alley in front of Muhammad's house, he saw the Sudanese vendors
folding up their blankets. After inching the Jeep into a shady spot, he got out and glanced at his shadow on the road. It was a short shadow, pointing southwest. Zuhr prayers would start soon. He turned quickly toward Muhammad's house, hoping to find him home.

Muhammad answered the door as if he'd been standing right behind it, preparing to leave. He wore slick, expensive trousers and a blue satin shirt. When he met Nayir's gaze, he turned bashful. The shyness became piety, the piety remorse, until it seemed that he belonged in a different suit entirely.

"
Marhaba,
Muhammad."

"I was just heading out."

"Nothing's open but the mosque. You're a religious man, aren't you?"

"Yes." Muhammad swallowed hard. "Of course."

"Then let's pray, shall we?" Nayir began walking. Reluctantly, Muhammad shut the door and followed.

"I found Eric," Nayir said.

"What did he say?"

"We've cleared him for the time being."

"I see." Muhammad seemed edgy. The muezzin's call broke through the air, and Nayir followed the sound, leading his companion through a series of narrow alleys where vendors were pulling down their metal grates and turning off shop lights.

They found the mosque squeezed between a barbershop and a ramshackle tenement building, both of which seemed to have fallen asleep long ago. Men were entering the mosque in oppressive silence, mopping sweat from their brows as if it were blood. Taking off their shoes, Nayir and Muhammad went inside. They cut through the crowd to reach the fountain, mumbling their own versions of
niyyah.
The fountain was crowded, so they had to wait.

When they finally reached the water, Muhammad motioned for Nayir to dip his hands in first—perhaps a gesture of respect; Nayir couldn't be sure. Other men were nearby, absorbed in their thoughts. When he finished cleaning his face, Nayir said, "I've been to the zoo."

Muhammad continued rinsing, but Nayir saw him hesitate.

"I found the second pink shoe there," he went on. Muhammad still had nothing to say. Nayir dipped his fingers in the water and wiped his ears. "I also found the room inside the mountain." He stood up and saw that Muhammad's hands were shaking. His comment had worked; when they entered the prayer hall, Muhammad's face was bleak.

The prayers couldn't quiet Nayir's thoughts. He felt guilty doing the work of Allah by sabotaging ritual. But no matter, he told himself, Allah would understand. Beside him, Muhammad's voice seemed loud in recitation. "Forgive me with Your forgiveness and have mercy on me. Surely You are the Forgiver, the Merciful."

When they said the last of their
salah
and rose to leave, Muhammad again waited for Nayir to lead. They returned to the fountain in the antechamber, where men were congregating to talk. Muhammad seemed to think that Nayir would steer him outside, but, reluctant to leave the mosque, Nayir led him to a niche behind the fountain, where they sat on a stone bench built into the wall. Other men stood nearby, but the splashing water muffled their conversation.

"Someone was meeting Nouf at the zoo," Nayir said, "and I believe it was you. I smelled it on your clothing the last time we met."

Muhammad blanched. Nayir knew he wasn't the baby's father—the DNA tests had proven it—but he wanted to push him anyway.

"I know she used to go there," Muhammad muttered.

"To meet with you."

"No," he whispered.

"Someone was having sex with Nouf at the zoo," Nayir said more loudly. "That's probably where she became pregnant."

"I swear it wasn't—"

"As far as I know, you're the only person who even knows about the zoo."

"It's not what you're thinking!" Muhammad blurted. Two men looked over, and he lowered his voice, fighting to compose himself. "All right. I used to meet her there, but only because she wanted me to run errands for her."

"You didn't take her there?"

"No." Muhammad crossed his arms. "She went by herself."

Nayir felt a terrible excitement churning in his gut. "Then how did she get there?"

"She had a motorcycle. She knew how to ride. She used to ride with her sister around the estate all day."