Drawing
THAT NIGHT WHEN SHE GOT INTO BED, SHE TUMBLED INTO A BOTTOMLESS WELL, hands that reeked of beer and garlic groping her body as she fell. She was woken by a metallic clatter against the marble floor, and a man’s voice. When Nora opened her eyes, she saw it was past midnight. She slipped across the marble floor in bare feet — a rude awakening — and peeked through a crack in the bedroom door. She saw a paunchy man who looked a little like a cartoon character: greasy, oozing evil, about to burst. He bent down to pick up a shiny object from the floor and when she focused, she immediately recognized the key that had been taken from the gravestone in the cemetery of outcasts. A sudden terror came over her and she could no longer breathe. She didn’t want him to see her. She knew he could hurt her and the thought made her hair stand on end. The man compared the key to a sketch on a piece of old parchment he was holding.
“A perfect copy,” he said. “The same wide teeth and a bow in the shape of three mihrabs. But you’re right. It’s obviously a fake.”
The man bit down on the thin layer of gold with his yellowed teeth to reveal the cheap metal underneath.
“Of course, it is, you idiot.” The icy look on the sheikh’s face sent a shiver through Nora’s bones. She could feel his rage on the other side of the door. “You’re a bunch of fuck-ups and you’re wasting my time. You brought me all the way out here to watch you screw everything up?” He snatched the parchment and the forged key and stuffed them into a white envelope before bundling the man out of the suite and walking out himself.
The next morning, Nora’s bags had already been taken to the private plane, which awaited her at the airport. The hotel corridors and basement were a beehive of activity in anticipation of their departure, which she’d been informed of the day before. When he opened the door to her bedroom to collect her, the emptiness hit him like a punch in the face and he fell back against the wall. Her silver earrings, the agarwood perfume he drank from her skin, her inhaler, small possessions were scattered here and there on the table beside her messy, empty bed.
A storm roared through the hotel, turning the entire place upside down in search of Nora, who’d disappeared without a trace.
IT WAS HER DEEP FEAR OF THE SHEIKH THAT HAD CAUSED HER TO SNEAK OUT OF THE hotel before dawn, but by the time she’d reached the Fountain of Neptune, Rafi had already caught up with her.
“Let me take you wherever it is you’re going,” he said, getting out of the car. He was tidying up his papers on the backseat so she’d have somewhere to sit, but she simply opened the passenger-side door and got in the front seat. He hesitated for a second before he got in next to her; it felt awkward to be that close to her.
“Where to?”
“Somewhere that isn’t Madrid. I don’t care where.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Either take me or let me out so I can get in a cab.”
He drove off, in no particular direction, until they found themselves at the highway that led south out of Madrid.
“Please, let me help you. What is it you’re running away from?”
She stared at him for a while and then she told him what she’d seen the night before. “You’re his bodyguard, I’m sure you know all about it. What’s he doing with that key and the man who nearly killed me?”
He was silent for a moment. “I’m glad that you trust me, but the only thing I know is that the sheikh was interested in that grave for some reason. Based on what you just said, I can only assume that he was looking for that key.” She seemed dissatisfied so he elaborated: “A month before you two got here, he came here on his own and went to the cemetery, but he didn’t find what he was looking for. He also went to Toledo for the same reason, I think.”
“Let’s go to Toledo then.”
He hadn’t been expecting that. “Listen, if you think you’re in any danger, then the safest thing to do would be to go in the opposite direction.” He saw the stubborn look in her eye so he started the car.
They drove in total silence along the highway to Toledo, which lay seventy kilometers south of Madrid. They passed the line of fortresses erected by the Muslim rulers of al-Andalus as a barrier between themselves and the Kingdom of Castile.
“Come on, tell me something: something about art, or Andalusia, history, highways, anything.” She seemed amused. “At least we’re following Señora Mirano’s advice. Did you hear her telling me that I had to go to Toledo to see the painting by El Greco in the Church of Santo Tomé? It’s called The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, she said.” He felt for his pistol. “Don’t worry,” she said, laughing, “I’m not planning to do anything bad!” He didn’t say anything. “In any case, I don’t have anything to lose any more even if I do do something bad.”
He relaxed and allowed himself to speak. “If we’re not worried about losing something, that means we don’t deserve to have it in the first place. You’re young and full of life. That in itself is a miracle, and you should be afraid of losing it.”
“The only thing I can lose is the search itself, if I stop trying to find myself. You should have never gotten involved.”
“I’m here to protect you.” The stubborn furrow in his brow met her radiant, if enigmatic, smile; she needed to push things as far they could go: if not to break the monotony, then to test how determined he was to protect her.
“All right, then. We can at least look forward to seeing The Burial of the Count.” She opened the window to enjoy the first breath of release. The soft music, the wind in her air, the endless countryside; it soothed her and she allowed herself to consider the path her life had taken. She’d stumbled from one holding pattern to another, passing by two true loves as she chose a third, leaping blindly into the unknown. Ever since she was a child she’d harbored that suicidal instinct. The only lover she wanted now was herself — it made her laugh how dramatic she was being, but honestly what was wrong with learning to love herself? Had she done all this to punish — who? Her father? Herself? She was young when she’d learned that one wrong turn could take you past the point of no return. She’d called it life’s minefield: one careless step and — boom! Was that what she’d stumbled over during her one and only trip to Nazik the Turkish woman’s basement studio? From now on, she was going to walk the walk and talk the talk — whatever that meant. If the only thing she had left was a last shred of determination, she was going to put it to work to keep herself from going back to where she’d started. At the same time, she knew that the idea of going back to where she’d started was a fantasy. There was no such thing as going back to what had been. If she ever did try to return to her birthplace, she’d find that the city and everyone in it had moved on, in thought and in deed. Nothing was waiting for her exactly as she’d left it; she wasn’t even the same person who’d left. She was in the place best suited to her new and shockingly modern configuration, an island that had shot up to the surface from the bottom of the sea, propelled by a volcanic eruption. She could do nothing except continue to live in places that resembled her, and it was by no means a given that the place that resembled her would be the city in which she’d been born.