City of Veils (19 page)

“Donia, what a wonderful surprise!” Katya was sure her voice cracked. She greeted her friend with kisses and hugged each of the girls in turn, inviting them all into the room. But her mind was working frantically:
What are they doing here? Why didn’t Abu tell me he’d invited them?

“We came with my father,” Donia said, sitting at the vanity. Katya’s stomach did a plunge. “The girls have been looking forward to wearing their new dresses.”

Katya fawned over the dresses and told them how lovely they were. The girls were clearly pleased, but they glanced meekly at their mother.

Katya had known Donia for many years. Their fathers had met at the mosque and become friends because both men worked in the chemistry field—her father at the plant, and Abu-Walid at the university. However, Katya’s late mother had always felt that Abu-Walid had had a negative effect on her husband. He was extremely devout, and his religious influence began to find its way into their own household. After becoming close to him, Abu began praying five times a day and following all of the niggling Wahhabi rules that seemed, to Katya’s mother at least, nothing more than an outward show of religiosity. Because it was forbidden to alter your body, Abu stopped shaving. He ate only halal meat, and he gave up cigarettes completely. He began to insist that Katya and her mother wear burqas when his friends came to the house. Katya’s mother reminded him that he was Lebanese, but that only made him angry. “I am
Muslim
,” he’d say.

Donia was looking at the makeup case lying open on the vanity table. Katya could see the disapproval in her eyes. Thrown together by parental association, the two women had gotten along for many years by virtue of persistence. Donia was the youngest child in her family, and having been subject to the abuses of seven older brothers, she was shy to the point of obstinacy. Conversations with her tended to be slow. She liked to cook, and keeping a clean house was important to her. She expressed emotion rarely. Most of the time Katya had to strain to hear her voice.

Katya used to pity her. Donia was meek and seemingly battered, the sort of woman an ultradevout household would naturally produce. Only when Katya was older had she come to realize that beneath the sweet, modest exterior, Donia was actually quite tough.

Katya found herself talking nervously about her job and the fun she had in the lab. She left out the details about corpses and murder, feeling certain that the children would be horrified, but she managed to keep up a steady stream of chatter. All the while her mind was racing. Donia’s father was in the men’s sitting room right now, probably wondering why Abu had done the cooking and silently chastising Katya for not having done it herself. Why on earth had her father invited him tonight—and not told her? She couldn’t help feeling betrayed.
He’s just nervous about meeting Nayir
, she thought. After all, Katya had described Nayir’s piety often enough. Perhaps he thought Nayir and Abu-Walid would have a lot in common. But a darker possibility lurked: that he had invited Abu-Walid because his presence would enforce the household’s segregation. Now Katya would eat dinner in the kitchen with Donia and the girls, and the men would stay in the sitting room, the
majlis
. She could imagine her father thinking,
Yes, Katya can have her “friend” over for dinner, but she won’t be allowed to see him.

They went into the empty kitchen. The food had been abandoned in a half-state of doneness. Immediately, Donia felt more at home. She rolled up the sleeves of her cloak and began to help with the preparations. The girls all took seats at the kitchen table. The oldest one offered to help, and her mother put her to work dicing tomatoes for the salad.

“But be careful not to ruin your new dress,” she said.

Fifteen minutes later, Ayman came into the room to check on their progress. Donia quickly covered her face. “Everyone’s hungry,” he said.

“Has Nayir arrived?” Katya asked.

“Yes, he’s in the sitting room.” He smiled. “You didn’t tell us how big he was. I see now why you bought all this extra food.”

Katya smacked his arm. “Don’t make fun of him. You’d better not make him uncomfortable. What’s my father doing?”

“It’s fine,” Ayman said, serious now. “Really!”

The meal was ready, and Ayman insisted on carrying it into the
majlis
himself. He loaded the salad, meat, and rice onto an enormous platter and balanced it on one arm, then scooped another platter of side dishes into the other.

“Let me help,” Katya said.

“No.” Ayman gave her a steady look. “I’ll do it.”

She stared at him, feeling suddenly vulnerable and nervous. Donia was watching. “All right,” Katya said. “I’ll bring in the dessert later.”

Ayman quickly left the room.

The women ate at the kitchen table. Perhaps sensing that Katya was anxious, Donia made an effort to start a conversation. She talked about a recipe she’d found online, and about her cousin’s new baby. For once Katya was glad that the discussion didn’t require too much thought. It gave her room to nurse the wound that was opening in her heart. Her father should have told her about inviting guests; his silence was deceitful. If she had been alone, she would have gone into the men’s sitting room, like it or not. Nayir was her friend, after all. But now it would be rude to leave Donia and the girls alone in the kitchen. She thought of poor Nayir, probably doing his best to impress her father—and now her father’s friend—by sitting awkwardly through a meal with strangers when he’d expected to see Katya.

Halfway through the meal, she realized it was rude of her not to greet Nayir, at least to say hello. She got up from the table, adjusted her headscarf, and excused herself, saying she had to go to the bathroom. Creeping down the hallway, she heard Abu-Walid’s deep, resonant voice. She stopped outside the door to the
majlis
and steeled herself to go inside. And interrupt their dinner. And see Nayir look uncomfortable. And put up with Abu-Walid’s disapproving looks. Her father would probably send her out for salt, or napkins, or any contrived errand just to get her out of the room. The thought of it made her angry and redoubled her resolve, but every time she put her hand on the door, she pulled back.
Why am I acting like a child?
She had to greet Nayir—she had invited him! This whole thing was her idea. But she couldn’t do it. She went back to the kitchen, sat at the table, and with a stiff smile tried to finish her meal.

After dinner, her father came into the kitchen. Donia quickly covered her face again. Abu greeted her and the children warmly.

Katya leapt up to get the cake from the refrigerator, but Abu took it from her and bullishly insisted on taking it out himself. “You stay here with Donia. We’re fine in the other room.” And with that he was out the door, leaving Katya to face a sinkful of dishes.

Almost two hours later, Abu returned to announce that Abu-Walid was ready to go home.

“What about Nayir?” Katya asked.

“He’s still here,” her father said.

Donia looked relieved to be going. The girls were getting tired, and they had school in the morning. After hugging each of them and watching them leave, Katya looked down at herself and felt like crying. She had dressed up, for what?

She wasn’t going to let it get to her. Putting the water on—never mind that the men had already had tea—she prepared a tea service and took it to the sitting room. On the way, she passed Ayman’s bedroom door and saw that he was inside watching TV. It filled her with dread. The conversation in the
majlis
must have been profoundly boring to force the funniest man in the house back to his bedroom.

She paused at the
majlis
door. She heard laughter within, the great explosive sound of her father’s delight. Peeking in, she saw that her father and Nayir were sitting on the sofas, talking and laughing and drinking the last of their tea. The scene filled her with anger—and beneath it a worse feeling, something like grief. She didn’t want them to see it on her face, so she steeled herself and, pushing the door open with her foot, entered the room.

They stopped talking. Nayir, whose face had held an expression of warmth a moment before, sat up and looked nervous. She couldn’t bear it, so she glanced at her father and saw his eyes glimmer with—was it triumph?

“I thought you might like some tea,” she said, setting the service on the coffee table.

“We already have tea,” her father said.

“Ah, well, I didn’t know that,” she replied in a tone that her father would recognize as chastisement.
If you’d bothered to tell me, I would have known.

“Thank you,” Abu said. She decided then that she wasn’t going to be afraid anymore. He couldn’t dismiss her with an easy “thank you.” She sat down on the sofa beside her father. Leaning forward, she poured out a cup of tea and offered it to him. He declined, so she turned to Nayir, who also declined.
Fine,
she thought, taking the tea for herself. Her cheeks were beginning to flush with irritation.

Nayir avoided looking at her face, but she could feel his attention turn to her like the soft touch of a hundred invisible hands. She remembered that this was the first time he’d ever seen her out of her cloak—and in front of her father, too!—and suddenly her anger turned into anxiety. The conversation was dead, and neither man was going to restart it. She could almost hear their thoughts.
Why isn’t she wearing a cloak? What does she want?

This is ridiculous
, she thought.

“How is work?” Nayir asked. It took her a heartbeat to realize that he was talking to her, and her heart exploded with relief.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I really like my new job.”

He nodded. It wasn’t quite the apology she’d been hoping for, but she softened anyway. “What about you? How’s the desert?”

He shrugged. “I was supposed to be there now, but the clients canceled. Business is always slow in summer.”

“I was just telling Nayir that he ought to change careers,” Abu said. Katya felt a stab of embarrassment, which doubled when she realized that she had told Nayir the same thing eight months ago.

Nayir seemed amused. “Your father thinks I should be a Quranic scholar.”

Katya’s insides did an uncomfortable pirouette. The thought made him seem less like the sort of man she could ever be happy with. She forced a smile.

“But we’ve decided,” Abu went on, “that if he doesn’t like the idea of becoming a scholar, then he really ought to consider becoming an investigator. After all, he’s already solved one crime.”

Nayir looked at Katya’s shoe as if he wanted to tell her something but didn’t have the nerve. Privately, she fought a silent battle to dominate her heart. Her father had never said even this much to her—and it was she who had worked so hard to find Nouf’s killer, she who in fact helped solve crimes for a living.

“I would have to agree,” she said, looking at Nayir, “that he would make a very good investigator.”

The men picked up the conversation that she’d interrupted when she came in. She sipped her tea and listened—they were talking politics—but she couldn’t help marveling at their rapport. There was nothing false about the way her father was smiling, and Nayir, although obviously a little nervous, was comfortable enough to express his opinions.

When the conversation slowed, her father stood up and said, “Water, anyone?”

“No, thank you,” Nayir replied, glancing at Katya, who simply shook her head. She couldn’t believe the flips her stomach was doing at the prospect of being left alone with Nayir. Her father went out, and she sat up at once.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come in sooner,” she said. “I was busy in the kitchen.”

“Of course. I understand.” Nayir looked embarrassed, but she couldn’t tell why. Did he think it was bold of her to assume he’d want to see her? Or was he just being awkward?

Dammit,
she thought,
I’m becoming neurotic.

“I did some checking into that friend of your uncle’s,” she said, setting her teacup on the table and leaning closer to him. He didn’t back away. “The coroner had no reason to suspect foul play. Apparently, Qadhi died of a massive coronary. He’d had two heart episodes before.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and he was on medication.”

Nayir looked resigned. “Thank you for checking.”

Her father still hadn’t returned, and she suspected that he was leaving them this time on purpose. But she feared at any moment he would come back into the room.
I’m sure that’s what he wants me to believe.
She had the feeling that, now that she’d told Nayir what he’d come to find out, he’d get up and go.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” she said, not even sure that it was a good idea. It had just occurred to her in their earlier conversation. “We’re working on a new case right now. A young Saudi woman was found murdered on the beach.” It pleased her to see that, despite his natural reluctance about involving himself in the lives of strange women, he was interested, so she told him what she could about Leila Nawar and the few leads the police were following. “But there’s one thing that’s come up in the investigation. The homicide squad, of course, has a lot on its hands. They don’t have the time to follow every lead.” She didn’t tell him her own motivation, that she was hoping to get into investigating herself. “When Leila first disappeared,” she said, “her brother filed a police report. He said she had been photographing a private art collection. It could be completely unrelated, but they can’t find the man she was working for. There’s a street address, but nothing else. They think that his art collection might have included Quranic manuscripts. I would really like to try to find this guy.”