“They stole it off me.” Silence. Yusuf’s plans for escape crumbled before his eyes.
“Maybe we rushed. We missed things … We need to take a few steps back.” His instruction to Yusuf to lie low seemed insufficient. They both knew that it was only a matter of time until he was run over — though by which set of tires and from which direction they’d be coming was anybody’s guess.
The Pilot
IF THEY’D INTERROGATED ME UNDER OATH, I’D HAVE SAID THAT KHALIL WAS THE killer. The tricks he played on his passengers were beyond even Nasser’s twisted imagination. If only he’d consulted with me before summoning Khalil for interrogation … But then Nasser wasn’t capable of forcing a spiteful old alleyway like me to snitch on a head that was like a novelty decoration among my other miserable faces. Khalil was fun to watch, to observe, to challenge and hate, and if it weren’t for him, life would’ve been depressing. To me, Khalil belonged to some cyborg race, and nothing entertained me more than his blind tenacity. He’d simply been programmed. I’d watch him slipping along like a thin, glistening water snake, taking care not to go near any of my filthy corners. This snake didn’t want to have anything to do with me, holding his breath and sticking out his chin as he moved along. He’d stop under Azza’s window, take a deep breath, and repeat his oath—“Either I’ll have you, or the Angel of Death will”—then he’d continue on his way to her father’s store. Sheikh Muzahim never invited him to sit down, never reached out to turn over a cup and pour him some coffee, so Khalil always repeated his request for Azza’s hand standing up, and he continued to do so even after he’d married Ramziya, Yabis’ daughter. At times like that the signs of madness would show on Khalil’s face: a deeply buried disfigurement rose to the surface along with an anger vicious enough to tear your insides apart. Have I mentioned that I was rather proud of this Khalil? No doubt every sensible head resting on my shoulders will despise me for that slip of the tongue. Let’s just say he was the best at Action and Horror. His thirst for sadism certainly did make me uncomfortable, as did his noble descent and family history, and the way he identified with machines like the taxi he earned his living from part-time. In truth, it was a vehicle of deportation, and I felt as if he were draining me, the Lane of Many Heads. His withering looks left scars on my pride. Nevertheless in my mean old age I spend my nights feigning interest in his nostalgia, listening to him resurrect in obsessive-compulsive detail the legend of his father Nuri bin al-Hadrami, known to one and all as The Pilot because he was so very well-traveled. I’m supposed to listen enraptured while he goes on and on, staring at a photo of charming, sunny Nuri, gray adorning his jet-black locks. He went down in history as the first gentleman to bare his head in a public gathering. Every day, from afternoon prayer till midnight, he would hold court — as if a king — from the first-floor balcony of his large house, which was jam-packed with aunts, uncles, and grandparents, and look out over the Sanctuary complex amidst the spellbinding melodies of the famous Taher Catalog’s endless oud playing. Mecca’s men of note would pass by to greet him, or simply linger to listen to the jokes and hearty laughter that rained down from the balcony onto the Sanctuary. Nobles and common people alike would stay up half the night listening to his many stories about the magic of the Nile and its naiads, who dissolve pearls in flutes of champagne for their lovers to sip and light cigarettes rolled from green banknotes. His wild stories were shocking and they multiplied; passersby below would catch refreshing breaths of them, and they would drift through Qarara Hill and Shamiya Hill. The whole city fell under charming Nuri’s spell. They followed his every move. Like how in the pilgrimage season, he’d uproot his entire family tree — branches, leaves, and all — and plant them on the roof while he rented out his castle to visiting pilgrims. That brought in enough to last him the whole year. That was until eventually charming Nuri was lost to the nymphs of the Nile for good. His only son failed to fulfill his dream of becoming a pilot, and poverty dragged Khalil and his sister unceremoniously from their balconies on affluent Qarara Hill all the way to where the Lane of Many Heads gave them refuge. My arms are always spread wide to accommodate the dregs of reputable families who have fallen on hard times.
Even Nasser was captivated by this complicated personality. There he was, up all night, out in my coffee shops, rummaging through his files on Khalil. Not even a few loose stones in a crumbling wall in one of my corners escaped his attention. My throat constricted, I darkened my winding alleys in the hope of spitting him out. The cafe had closed, leaving Nasser seated with a cup of tea — three sugars — going cold in front of him. We were long past midnight. He finally got up and headed toward his car.
As he passed in front of Imam Dawoud’s house, something happened that was beyond my control. A body burst out of the darkness and crashed into Nasser, who sensed fleetingly a mocking hiss before he fell to the ground. In the second it took him to get back to his feet he made out the body of a monster torn out of black with a large square mud-colored head. He heard it roar and watched as it shoved the Imam’s door open and disappeared inside. Nasser rushed to follow when a cry for help rang out: “Someone broke into the Imam’s house and kissed Sa’diya on the mouth while she was asleep in bed next to her brothers and sisters!” Nasser couldn’t believe his ears and started knocking angrily, but the hubbub died down straight away. He could sense Imam Dawoud was irritated when he opened the door. He yawned and eyed Nasser sleepily.
“Are you all okay? Did someone break in?” The words died in Nasser’s throat.
“Faith is our fortress,” replied Dawoud. From where he was standing in the doorway, Nasser could sense Sa’diya lying stunned in her bed inside, licking her bloody lips. He was dying to push the door open and inspect the room, but the Imam’s beatific face obliged him to withdraw. It made him wonder to himself if perhaps he’d imagined the whole thing.
The next thing that caught his attention was Aisha’s front door, which was ajar. It creaked as he pushed it open and slipped into the corridor. The dark was like lumps of coal. He took out his lighter and proceeded carefully, his shadow, tall against the damp, cracked walls, following closely behind him. A faint snapping sound led him to a spot at the bottom of the stairs, and suddenly his foot sank into something soft, terrifying him even more. He bent down with his lighter, and there before him in the meager spotlight lay the coal-black body with the brown square head, the twisted grimace, and the popping eyes. Nasser’s hand trembled and the lighter fell to the ground, ricocheting off into the darkness. He cursed himself for being such a coward and knelt down to feel about for it on the floor. The feeling of silky fabric in his hands filled him with revulsion, but he finally managed to find his lighter and light it. He leaned down closer to examine the body. It was just an old, stretched-out abaya topped with a hideous mask. The thick lips were still wet with Sa’diya’s blood. A forged ghoul, and right at Nasser’s feet. He was certain it was a message meant for him. But who was it who was trying to scare him off with these threatening messages? He couldn’t bring himself to touch the ghoul on the floor; he was still trembling. Something inside him told him he was face to face with Aisha’s ghost.
“That’s Aisha’s ghost!”
Nasser jumped in terror. The voice cutting through the darkness had broadcast his fear out loud. It was Mu’az, standing in the shadows, watching and sniggering. Nasser wanted to break his neck, but he was frozen, like an idiot, to the spot where he knelt on the ground. “Don’t let it frighten you,” teased Mu’az, “it’s just a ghost from our childhood. Every kid in the Lane knows the Veil Monster.” Nasser felt like a fool for falling for the trick.