Date with a Sheesha (16 page)

Umar turned off the main road onto a curving driveway leading up to Madinat Jumeirah Al Qasr Hotel. I oooed and ahhed.

Hema sat stone-faced. Al Qasr (The Palace) was built along a kilometre of private beachfront. According to Umar, the idea behind the hotel was to recreate life as it used to be for residents along Dubai Creek, complete with waterways,
abras
, wind towers, and its own bustling souk. Not to mention lusciously appointed rooms. As Hema stepped out of the van, with little more than a mumbled “call me in the morning,” I was confident about leaving her there on her own. Given the deluxe surroundings, I was pretty sure her royal highness would fit right in and be able to take care of herself.

Once Hema and her bags were palmed off on a helpful hotel employee, Umar and I took off for the Dubai Marina. Pranav Gupta had thought it would be a good idea for me to stay in his 107

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son’s apartment, which remained on lease until his contract in Dubai was to have ended.

“You will be happy to know that where you will be living is thanks to Canada,” Umar announced as he skillfully maneuvered the vehicle through traffic that seemed extremely heavy given the time of night.

“Oh, why is that?”

“The Dubai Marina was inspired by and designed to look much like your Concord Pacific Place development along False Creek in your Vancouver, British Columbia. You will no doubt recognize many of the fine features and feel right at home.”

I nodded with a smile. As it happened, Concord, just on the other side of the trendy Yaletown area in Vancouver, was a spot I actually did know, mostly for its restaurants.

“Dubai Marina is considered the new Dubai. It is near Jebel Ali Port, Dubai Internet City, Dubai Media City, and the American University in Dubai. When it is done, it will be the world’s largest man-made marina. Far bigger than your Marina del Rey in your California. It is quite beautiful, you will see. I hope you to enjoy it.”

As I gazed in awe at almost everything I saw outside the car window, I did not doubt it. I asked, “Did you say you have an Internet City?” What the heck is that, I wondered. I pictured living in a computer-animated world. Were the Emiratis that far ahead of us technologically?

“Dubai Internet City is an information technology park, created by the government as a free economic zone,” Umar explained with the easy expertise of a practiced tour guide. “It is a strategic base for companies targeting regional emerging markets. The rules of this specific area allow companies to avail themselves of a number of ownership, taxation, and customs-related benefits, which are guaranteed by law for a period of fifty years. Incredible, isn’t it? They have here your Microsoft, IBM, Cisco, Nokia.

Everyone wants to be in DIC.”

I liked the way Umar talked. It wasn’t really boasting. He was Pakistani, not Emirati-born. As such, he claimed no false personal credit for the astonishing accomplishments of the country he lived in. Instead, he spoke with honest admiration for the many tri-108

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umphant successes that his own homeland could only dream of.

“And Media City?”

“DMC is a tax-free zone,” Umar told me. “It was built by the government to boost the UAE’s media foothold. And the idea has worked brilliantly. This is now the regional hub for many media organizations of all kinds. You will see, Mr. Russell, there are many such ‘cities’ in Dubai.”

My head shook in disbelief, an action I would repeat many times over the next few days.

“We are pulling up to your tower now,” Umar told me. “I hope you to enjoy your new home for your short visit here. I know Mr. Neil enjoyed it very much. There is even a Starbucks Coffee here for your caffeine enjoyment in the morning.”

“Did you know Mr. Gupta well?” I asked, as the car slowed.

“I was his driver on many occasions. He was a very nice man.

I was sorry to hear of his death.”

“What have you heard about how he died, Umar?”

“Only that he was killed by thieves at the marketplace. It was…it was a surprise.”

“Why do you say that?”

Umar was silent as he brought the car to a halt in front of a large building overlooking the charming marina. The place was bustling with Friday night revellers and residents of the area.

“Of course, it is always a surprise to hear of anyone’s death.

Especially one as young as Mr. Neil.”

There was more, I just knew it. So I sat in silence and hoped he’d fill it.

“It is strange that he died where he died. The markets in Dubai are not known for crime. Dubai is not known for crime.

This was a sad, unexpected thing.”

“Umar, may I ask you a personal question about Mr. Gupta?”

He turned in his seat and looked at me. “What is it?” he asked, his accent thicker than it had been until now.

“Did you know that Mr. Gupta was gay?”

“We never spoke of it directly,” he answered carefully, “which is the custom here. But I supposed it.”

“Did it bother you?” I was pushing a bit further than I perhaps 109

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should have, but who can account for what jet lag does to reason?

“Of course not. What he did in his personal life was of no concern to me. Just as what I do in mine was no concern of his. Our mutual concern was that I drove him speedily and efficiently and safely to his intended destinations.”

I nodded my appreciation of his attitude. “One more thing, Umar?”

He nodded in acquiescence.

“Did you know any of Mr. Gupta’s friends? Or enemies? Did you know of any people who perhaps were not as accepting of his being gay?”

“No. But why do you ask these questions?”

I pulled back. As far as Umar knew, I was just another rug expert come to finish what Neil Gupta had left undone with his death. “Oh, no reason,” I quickly tried to cover. “He was a friend and colleague. I can’t help but want to know more about his life here.”

“And how he died here?”

Umar was no dummy. I nodded again.

The driver handed me a package. “Here is all the information you need to know about this building and Mr. Neil’s apartment.

As well as two sets of keys. May I help you upstairs with your luggage?”

“Thank you, no, Umar. Everything is on rollers. I’ll do just fine on my own. Thank you for the ride.”

We chatted a bit more about plans for the next day, then Umar left me and my bags on the sidewalk outside my new apartment building. My new Arabian home.

I stood there for a moment, breathing in the salt air, the foreign scent of a new world. I watched the movement and listened to the voices of a thousand people, making an evening of it at the cafés and coffee shops and bars of the marina. For a brief moment I felt disappointment. Somewhere in my unrealistic, romantic mind, I’d pictured spending my first Arabian night in a tent, flaps battened down against hot desert winds, sand running between my toes, the grumbling bleats of camels in the not too far off distance. Not in a high-rise apartment on a marina modelled after home. But, 110

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hey, there was always tomorrow.

It didn’t take me long to find my door on the twenty-second floor of the building. I inserted the key into the lock and pushed my way inside. I flipped open the nearest light switch and thought: Uh oh.

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Chapter 8

Either Neil Gupta was a very messy guy, or someone had ransacked his apartment.

I stepped into the place, every sense on high alert. Was the perpetrator still here? A quick tour of the small apartment—living room, dining room, and kitchen all in one room, one bath and one bedroom in the back—told me I was alone. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. Once I was more settled, I took a second, slower tour, catching every detail I could. Unfortunately, this told me little else, other than that Neil had a nice wardrobe, liked shoes, and was organized in his work, as evidenced by an orderly filing system. One that had obviously been rifled, along with all the rest of Neil’s possessions.

The first glaring fact: Pranav Gupta might just be right. There might actually be something more to his son’s death than a simple mugging in a marketplace gone horribly wrong. But was this a gay thing, as Pranav suspected? Why ransack the apartment?

Was it meant to scare Neil? Or to steal something from him? Was 112

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this where Neil was actually attacked? Maybe he was killed here, then moved to the souk, a place that everyone, including his driver Umar, thought an unlikely place for murder. Or was this simply a robbery that happened after Neil was already gone? Maybe someone knew the apartment was empty and used the opportunity to see what they could get from a dead man’s home.

Several things made me lean towards discounting the theory that Neil had been attacked in his apartment. First, there was no blood anywhere. Second, from all Pranav told me about his discussions with the police, there was no evidence of an altercation here before Neil’s death; no neighbours reported sounds of violence or anything suspicious. Third, the disarray was widespread throughout the apartment. If someone came in—invited? by surprise?—and assaulted Neil, the mess would be more localized to one area. No, I was becoming convinced that whoever did this was looking for something. My job was to figure out what. But how was I ever going to do that when I didn’t know Neil and had never been in his apartment before?

With a heavy sigh, I went to work.

Hours later, I still had no answer. I’d begun with Neil’s personal items. Nothing. I’d left the professional material for last. My thinking was that I’d either find something useful, or the technical and historical manuals covering the A-to-Zs of antique carpets would be a handy sleeping aid.

As it turned out, it was a “Z” that caught my attention.

Neil kept all his papers in a set of hanging files next to a round table he probably used as a desk. Studying his system, I noticed there was only a hanging file if there was an actual file folder to go in it. For instance, there was a “B” hanging file because he had a folder labelled “Bahrain peasant carpet” in it. There was an “F”

hanging file for a folder called “Fujairah carpet.” But there were no “A” or “D” hanging files, presumably because he had nothing to put in them. Made sense. There was, however, a “Z” hanging file. But, there was nothing in it. Could this have been what the thief had taken? Or was I simply desperate to find something, 113

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anything, to make sense of this mess?

I looked at my watch. It was after three-thirty a.m., five-thirty p.m. Friday at home. No wonder my head felt all woozy. My body was confused about whether it should be at rest or getting revved up for the evening.

I’d travelled enough, and knew my body well enough, to know I needed to get acclimatized to the new time zone as soon as possible if I was going to make the most of every waking hour while I was here. I stood up from where I’d been sitting cross-legged, next to the hanging file contraption. I stretched and let out a groan as I flexed my sore muscles.

After brushing my teeth and a quick sponge bath in the bathroom, I headed for the bedroom, pulled the blinds, stripped, and dove under the covers.

Oh god.

There was something weird in this bed.

Underneath me.

I lay completely still. My sleep-deprived mind raced, trying to figure out what it was, there against my bare skin. No go. I then tried to talk myself into believing I was imagining things.

Nope.

The texture of the sheet didn’t feel right. Something was setting my skin on edge. Did I feel something crawling? Was it a bug? Snake?

Oh hell! I jumped out of the bed, tossing the bedspread across the floor. In a crazed dash, I made it to the doorway and switched on the light.

Expecting nothing less than a tarantula, or maybe a moray eel, I looked down at the bed.

“What the hell is that?” I asked the empty room.

I took a cautious step forward, frowning at the unfamiliar sight.

Nothing was moving. Thank goodness. Maybe all my writhing around had killed whatever it was.

I came nearer and bent at the waist to get a closer look.

They were black. Small. About the size of two fingertips.

Closer. Closer.

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I picked one up. I peered at it. Held it up to the light.

Petals?

Petals. Black flower petals.

As arranged, Umar delivered me to the Madinat Jumeirah, Hema’s hotel, at nine the next morning. If I’d thought the traffic was busy last night, this morning it was nothing short of mad-ness. I was glad to be in the passenger’s seat.

We met for breakfast at one of the many choices offered by the hotel. It was a beautiful outdoor spot, with umbrella-shaded tables and oversized, cushioned rattan chairs, and an outstanding view of the famous Burj Al Arab Hotel just down the beach. The Burj Al Arab, with its vaguely sail-boatish shape, helipad hanging off one end of its roof, cocktail bar dangling off the other, and attached to land by a narrow causeway, is perhaps the most rec-ognizable symbol of Dubai.

I was dead tired after spending half the night searching Neil’s apartment and clearing his bed of black flower petals. After tossing and turning a bit I finally fell asleep, only to be awakened at five by an eerie sound. I rushed to the window and threw it open to see what was happening. As I looked out, although still well-lit, the city seemed fast asleep. But winding its way through the towers of glass and dark steel, like a slithering auditory serpent, I could hear a ghostly wail. I knew immediately what it was. The call to prayer. Telling all the faithful that it would soon be time to head for the nearest mosque for morning devotions. It was a hauntingly beautiful sound, one I was to become very familiar with, as the call is repeated five times every day. Exhausted as I was, I stood rooted by the window for several minutes, listening with my eyes closed, my mind going places it hadn’t been before.