City of Veils (2 page)

It was hard now to imagine that he’d once been so close to a girl, close enough to sleep on the same mat and call each other “best friend.” At eleven, Raja’ had become a “woman,” and her mother had draped her in a veil and sent her off to be with her sisters. He never saw her again. The next winter Dr. Roeghar’s dig had gone on without her, and Nayir soon became mature enough to feel ashamed of any lingering thoughts of her face.

Nayir drank half the bottle of water and resisted the urge to pour the other half over his hair. Their Bedouin guide, Abdullah bin Salim, was standing just outside the garage, unperturbed by the heat. He was staring at the traffic on the boulevard. It was the same look he wore when studying the winter pastures of the Empty Quarter, a look of contemplation and challenge that said
What do you have for me this year?

He frowned as Nayir approached. “Are you sure about this?” Abdullah asked.

Nayir wanted to remind him that he said that every year, no matter what kind of people they were taking to the desert. “I have to admit,” he said, “they don’t seem ready.”

Abdullah didn’t reply.

“Listen,” Nayir said, “I’m sure it will be all right.”

Abdullah’s eyes remained on the boulevard. “How do you know them?”

“Through Samir. He’s known the father for twelve years.”

“These people aren’t Bedouin. They never were. Just looking at them, you can see they were
sharwaya
.” Sheepherders, not the “real” Bedouin, whose lives were tied to camels. It was an insult, but Nayir had heard this remark before as well. The families they took to the desert were seldom good enough for Abdullah. And perhaps it was true that they could never actually survive in the landscape their forefathers had inhabited for six thousand years, but in the greater scheme of things, it was enough that they would try.

Nayir nodded politely. “You’re probably right. So let’s teach them how to be real Bedouin.” His cell phone rang again, and this time he answered it. He listened patiently to his uncle, made a few replies, and once he was finished, excused himself from the preparations and headed quickly to the parking lot for his Jeep.

A
s Miriam Walker made her way to the back of the plane, she could see that the flight to Jeddah was going to be tedious. It was packed with holiday travelers. There were too many overhead items, too many nervous stewards scurrying down the aisles looking for space. She looked back at her seat: 59C, the distance from the bowler to the kingpin. She felt a familiar combination of dread and excitement. She was looking forward to seeing Eric again—she’d been gone for a month—but this simple walk down the aisle marked a return to a world where she would stay indoors for weeks at a time. As the line trudged forward, she pushed ahead, anxious to buckle herself in, as if the seatbelt would prevent her from stepping off the plane and turning her back on it all.

Miriam’s seat assignment turned out to be next to a man. It seemed that Saudia ought to have restrictions against seating women next to unrelated men, but apparently not. The man stared as she approached, a knowing look in his eye. He had the dark eyes and olive skin of an Arab but a shock of natural blond hair. The contrast made him surprisingly handsome. Miriam’s cheeks brightened. A sidestep put her behind a tall man in a turban. Slowly, casually, she straightened her shoulders and licked her front teeth. Another brief glance told her he was still staring. They were technically in New York, but she could feel Saudi Arabia draping over them with every blast of recycled air. She ran a hand through her hair and thought,
Enjoy your last bit of freedom, curly locks
.

She slid into her seat and shot him a casual smile, practiced to hide a crooked incisor. He greeted her with a satisfied look. To stall his talking, she rummaged in her purse, made a show of forcing it beneath the seat in front of her, and spent a few minutes inspecting the contents of the seat pocket. There she found a surprising comfort—a silk drawstring bag that must have been left by the passenger before her. In it was a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a tortoiseshell comb, and a small bottle of Calvin Klein perfume.
Escape
. She smirked.

As the plane backed out of the gate, Miriam felt herself tense.
No going back now.
She never used to be afraid of flying, but traveling to Saudi had done something to her. As they lumbered down the runway, her instincts took over. Palms cold, forehead wet, chest tight. The plane would never go fast enough to rise off the ground. Everyone stared at the windows and walls, which were shuddering violently. An overhead compartment burst open, spilling jackets and a coffee tin on a passenger’s head. She wondered why anyone would take Folgers to Jeddah.

“Do you know,” the man beside her said, “on the old Saudia flights, they used to say Mohammed’s prayer for journeys over the loudspeaker?” He spoke with a clear American accent, which surprised her somehow. She had thought he was Arab.

“Oh, really?” She gave a nervous laugh.

“Another tradition lost.” He seemed almost amused.

They felt the pull of their bodies resisting the rise. A man across the aisle began cursing. Miriam wanted to hush him but she was hinged in a twilight of prayer, hoping they wouldn’t fall out of the sky. With a bounce, the plane leveled. It seemed to stop in midair and float like a walrus on top of a balloon. A mechanical lullaby hummed in her head. It was midnight. That and fear combined to make her feel crushingly tired. The only way to escape the terror of flying was to surrender to the void of unconsciousness, but there was no alcohol on Saudia flights, and the dark nestle of sleep would not come closer until they turned out the lights. She shut her eyes, hoping to deter her neighbor from starting a conversation, but he pressed the call button.
Bing.
The steward appeared, looking annoyed. Her neighbor leaned past her, almost touching her breast with his shoulder. “Excuse me,” he said. He asked for two empty cups.

“One for me,” he told the steward, “and one for my girlfriend.”

*    *    *

F
rom the pocket of his jacket he produced two small bottles of wine. Miriam’s chest tightened.

“You know that’s —”

“Forbidden,” he said. “Yes. But what are they going to do, kick us off the plane?” He smiled at her, poured out two cups, and tucked the bottles in the seat pocket. He gave one cup to Miriam. She shook her head but he insisted. “Come on,” he said, “I’m sure the worst they’ll do is make us flush it down the toilet.”

She felt like a teenager again and found herself doing just what she’d done back then. She picked up the cup. “Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. It was a welcome palliative.
Actually,
the worst they’ll do is arrest us and throw us in prison when we land.

“First trip to Jeddah?” he asked.

“No. My second.” Miriam saw the television flicker on, a big arrow showing the direction of Mecca and the time of the next prayer: five hours away, local time. The stewardess came by with amenity kits, followed by a steward passing out coffee and dates. Miriam quickly hid the cup beneath her tray table, but neither of them seemed to notice or care. “What about you,” she said, “is this your first trip?”

“No. By the way, I’m Apollo.” His smile was teasing. “Apollo Mabus.”

“Great name.” She smiled back. “I’m Miriam.”

“Is that a southern accent I hear?”

“I’m from North Carolina.”

“Ah, I’m from New York.” He said it the way people say “checkmate.” She was a lesser species, Elvis perhaps, living in a trailer on processed cheese and grits. The slight was so common, so predictable, that it might have been imagined, but her cheeks flushed anyway and she hid the sting by taking a long sip of wine.

“And what do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a doctor.” She glanced at his reaction, saw his face stiffen, and decided she didn’t like him as much as she’d thought. She certainly wasn’t going to clarify that she had a doctorate in music. “And you? You look like the academic type.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

“Well, you’re squinting, which means you probably left your glasses somewhere. And you’ve got a big callus on your third finger and ink stains on your thumb.” He was trying to hide his discomfort with a look of amusement. The wine was warming her up. “But you don’t seem the tweed jacket type, and those are some pretty big biceps, so tell me, what kind of academic pumps iron?”

“When you spend a lot of time at a desk,” he said slyly, “you need to do something to get the blood pumping.” She thought it was a cheesy thing to say. She took another sip of wine.

“So what brings you to Saudi?” she asked.

He set his elbows on the armrests, and she watched him play with his watchband, turning it around his wrist by fourths. “I’m a professor of Middle Eastern studies. My specialty is Quranic scripture. This trip is for research.”

“Ah.” The first rush of alcohol hit her, and she felt a wave of dizziness. Something on the TV caught her eye, and she glanced up to see that the in-flight movie had been censored. Women’s arms and hair moved across the screen in blurred gray patches.

“What about you?” he asked. “What brings you to Jeddah?”

“My husband found a great job —”

“Of course.” He interrupted her with a smirk. “I didn’t think you’d be going into the country by yourself.”

Although she had just spent the past four weeks complaining loudly to her sisters, her father, her nieces, and anyone who would listen about the miseries of being a kept woman in Saudi Arabia, she found herself prickling.

“I think it’s very brave of you,” he went on, “sitting it out in Saudi so that your husband can advance his career. Or are you only in it for the money?”

“Both,” she said as flippantly as she could manage. It wasn’t strictly true. Eric had taken the job as a bodyguard—or rather as an “executive protection specialist”—even though most of his military training had been as an engineer. He had said he wanted to get out of that, into something more practical and engaging, but he could have worked in security anywhere. She didn’t like that he’d chosen Saudi Arabia, even if it was only for a year.

“And how long have you been there?” Mabus asked.

“Six months.”

“Impressive,” he said. “Most women don’t last that long. Western women, that is—and if they do, it’s with the assistance of drugs. But I suppose you live on the compound?”

Miriam looked at her cup. “No.”

“Really? That’s unusual. Do you have a dedicated driver?”

She pursed her lips, shook her head. This was dangerous territory, and she fumbled desperately for a clever way to change the subject, but she was feeling muddled by the wine.

“Tell me,” he soldiered on, oblivious to her discomfort, “what do you do with yourself all day when you’re not allowed to leave the house, drive a car, or even ride a fucking bicycle?” He said it loudly enough that Miriam looked around, expecting a few horrified stares. No one seemed to notice.

His questions had triggered a familiar sensation of self-pity and suppressed rage, and now she was sweating. She didn’t want to think of her confinement anymore, and he was a bastard to ask. Did he want to hear a little whining? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He broke her silence with a laugh, an explosion that shot adrenaline through her. “That’s a wonderful answer,” he said, “an answer by demonstration.” Then his face grew serious. “It’s no place for a woman.”

Miriam nodded. Anything she would say would only fuel his diatribe.

“They hate women,” he said, leaning closer to her. “They fear them and they hate them, and do you know why? Because women are smarter, more biologically gifted, and have always had power over men.” She could smell the wine on his breath, mingling with the crisp woodsy scent of his cologne; it reminded her of a bedroom, closed air, the smell of a man.

“There’s an old Islamic saying,” he went on, “that heaven is crowded with beggars, and hell is overflowing with women.” She frowned at him. “And you haven’t been through the worst of it, believe me.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Now that you’re ready to go back to the States, good and ready, you’ll find that your husband has fallen in love with the place. I’ve seen it a dozen times. Men love Saudi Arabia about as much as their wives seem to hate it.

“If you really want to keep your husband’s heart,” he went on, “then remind him that the religious Saudis believe in the ‘duty of dissociation’ from infidels. This means they have a duty to keep you at a distance. They believe that relating to infidels—that’s you—actually removes the person from the realm of religion. They might be hospitable to your husband, they might give him tea and dates, but they’ll never accept him, not there. It’s more xenophobic than anywhere else on earth. Here’s the Quran for you:
Ye who believe, Take not into your intimacy, Those outside your ranks, They will not fail to corrupt you.
”

“I’m sure that —”
not everyone believes that,
she was going to finish, but it was as if he knew she would try to moderate his views, and he interrupted quickly.

“They say that the Quran is the Word of God,” he said, “and that everything that was written in it is exactly as it was when the message was passed to the Prophet Mohammed.
Exactly as it was
. Even though it was written down by dozens of different people—and translated from Aramaic. But never mind that, they’re so damn proud that not a single diacritical mark has been changed in the holy book since it was written. Did you know that?”