“Do you have a patient by the name of Muflih al-Ghatafani?” The receptionist’s eyes flicked impassively between Nasser’s face and his police ID a few times, and then consulted the computer:
“Urology ward, room 7.” A moment later, he added, “His doctor signed his discharge papers today.”
Nasser followed the signs until he reached the door of the crowded room with its seven beds. He sighed when he saw the man’s frail body and aged, sunken face. “Mr. al-Ghatafani. We’ve met before. Do you remember me?” The whole row of patients turned to look at him except for the old man, whose eyes were as piercing as a hawk’s.
“Are you from the police? I hope nothing’s the matter,” said a voice behind Nasser, taking him by surprise. He turned around, to discover it was the man’s son.
“We’re still investigating the murder that took place in the Lane of Many Heads, sir. I’ll cut to the chase so I don’t waste your time and mine.” Everyone’s ears perked up. “I know this isn’t a good time, but I wanted to ask you about the silver talisman, uncle.”
“Can’t you see this isn’t the right time for this sort of thing,” the son chided.
“I’m very sorry, but your father’s name has cropped up in Yusuf al-Hujubi’s writings. He mentions that your father owns a lot of old maps and deeds. Can I see them?”
The father cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Really, please don’t drag us into all this crime and terrorism stuff …” He was cut off by the nurse who came in with his discharge papers and a prescription. “Give this to the pharmacist before you leave,” she said.
Nasser could see the man was slipping out of his grasp. The son frowned but said nothing as he helped his father into his wheelchair. He wanted to get away from the suspicious looks around them. He picked up their bag and set it in the old man’s lap, as if claiming innocence of the aspersions cast, knowing well that that booby-trapped word, terrorism, could blow up in their faces.
“I’m begging you, sir. You’re not well enough for me to have you come to the precinct for questioning or to give a statement.” The only response he got was silence, so when they got out in the corridor, the detective caught up with them, unfolded a map showing a line graph and placed it over the bag on al-Ghatafani’s lap. “Have you seen this before?” he asked. Muflih’s wheelchair stopped suddenly and he answered.
“We gave it to Yusuf al-Hujubi. He was doing research on forts in the rural Hijaz at the end of the pre-Islamic period. We gave all our evidence to the son of the slaves, that one with the orchard. This is my cellphone number. You can call and make an appointment any time.”
Nasser followed them down the hospital’s long corridors, to the pharmacy and then out to the parking lot. He helped them into the car and before they shut the door, he leaned down next to Muflih al-Ghatafani and said, “Don’t worry. I’m just trying to gather information. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.”
Muflih al-Ghatafani looked back at him, looked through him, and asked a question that caught him off guard. “Are you working for the police or for Bin al-” Nasser didn’t catch the name; it had been drowned out by the noise of the engine that had been turned on at exactly the same time. The car moved away. Nasser stood stock still, desperately trying to work out what the sounds al-Ghatafani had uttered were: Bin al- …? The car was nearly out of sight by then. Nasser ran to his own car.
Nasser started the engine distractedly. He was passing the guards at the hospital gate when a police car overtook him, siren blaring into the silence. When he reached the highway overpass where one exit led to Mecca and the other to Jeddah, a whole cluster of police cars and their sirens brought him back to reality. From the overpass, he could see a traffic jam below, cars queueing up to rubber-neck, as well as the huge truck and beneath it, flattened like a pancake, a blue car. His heart began to pound before his mind had time to process the information.
“Al-Ghatafani’s car!” He drove back down the bridge, into the oncoming traffic, toward the Jeddah exit. He parked his car and got out, zigzagging through the lines of cars. There was no sign of life in the crushed blue metal; the bag of possessions and medicine lay at the man’s feet. The truck driver wasn’t injured but was sitting stunned at the edge of the highway.
Whiteness spread over Nasser’s skull. This was the death or the gloom that had driven him out of the morgue the day before, piling up everywhere around this case, streaming out icily from Aisha’s fingertips.
Roundabout
NASSER WAS LOOKING THROUGH YUSUF’S DIARY FOR ANYTHING LEADING BACK to Muflih al-Ghatafani when he came across overwrought, preposterous words:
June 5, 2006
I died today.
Without any warning, lighting flashed over the neighborhood and a sandstorm covered the sky when Sheikh Muzahim took Azza over to Mushabbab’s orchard. They married her to him then and there. The registrar and Sheikh Muzahim took their leave as the angels pelted us all with dust.
Damn this diary. Damn this place.
Yusuf
FROM: Aisha.
SUBJECT: Urgent
O God, what’s awaiting Azza in Mushabbab’s beautiful garden? Her father handed her straight over to the son of the Sharifs’ slaves when he saw the colossal amount of money he’d made in the stock market.
Azza followed Sheikh Muzahim without blinking. Or maybe her eyes just got wider. Remember that day you told me, “Don’t pluck your eyebrows. It’ll make your eyes bigger and then they’ll swallow me.”
Without any plucking, and despite the darkness of her eyebrows, Azza’s eyes were wider than all our eyes.
Yusuf limps like a madman up and down the Lane of Many Heads.
Aisha
It was like a bomb had exploded inside Nasser’s head. He couldn’t believe it: Azza had been handed over to marry Mushabbab. Why hadn’t anyone from the neighborhood told him? Something as big as this, why would the neighborhood try to cover it up? Halima, Muzahim, Mu’az, Khalil — none of them had spelled it out for him: Muzahim had agreed to marry Azza to the son of the slaves of the Sharifs. It was a secret. They’d hidden this major event from him, here in these papers, left him to crawl around looking for it all this time, and only told him when they felt like it?
Nasser was gripped by panic. Something had changed, there was no doubt about it. All he had to do was take another look at the case for all the masks to fall, right before his eyes. But right now they were clouded by a comfortable white noise; he wasn’t prepared for this game of pulling off masks.
There was a bitter taste in the back of Nasser’s throat. He took Azza’s marriage as a personal betrayal. He rummaged through letters and diary entries to find out anything else he could about the story.
June 8, 2006