Date with a Sheesha (25 page)

As the morning wore on, Hema was having great success and making many buys. I, on the other hand, was a little bored and not finding much to help my cause. Although I hate to sound jaded, after a couple of days of visiting them, I was finding that a souk is a souk is a souk. I’d arranged through Fahd in Fujairah, with Umar’s help, to meet with Husain later in the evening. Until then, I was digging as much as I could, but coming up empty-handed. No one in the markets recognized Neil’s picture—or if they did, they weren’t admitting it to me. I tried to bring up the Zinko carpet with the few who understood some English. Most ignored me. Some chided me for believing such foolishness. One fellow became rather irate and called me a troublemaker. I was just doing my job.

After a few blisteringly hot hours in the city, making deals with the Omanis, I was glad when Hema instructed our driver, Ali, to head out of town to Mughsail. She wasn’t a sightseeing kinda gal, but the markets closed during the hottest part of the afternoon and would not reopen until later in the day. She was simply making the most efficient use of her time. And I was being brought along like the bratty younger brother.

Oman is probably not high on the must-see list of the run-of-the-mill sun worshipper. But one look at the coastline would convince all of them to give it a try. In some ways, this was some of the most beautiful scenery I’d seen so far on the Arabian Peninsula. Mile after mile, soft-sand beaches sat deserted below glittering azure skies, against water so sparkling blue it almost 170

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hurt my eyes to look at it for too long. As we got closer to the spectacular Mughsail Bay, near the Yemeni border, dramatic cliffs rose to our right. Although the place was only fifty kilometres out of town, it took us almost an hour to get there. Hema instigated the first stop.

“Do you need to pee?” I asked as I followed her out of the car.

She ignored me and started digging in her purse. If she stopped us just to text someone, I was going to explode. Instead, she pulled out a camera and began clicking away. The tree, her subject, was unremarkable, except for how ugly, scraggly, and gnarled it was.

“We have ugly old trees at home too, you know.” I was being the pill she already thought I was.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she huffed.

She tossed her camera back in her purse, and grabbed my hand with hers. It felt so tiny wrapped around my big one, her skin dry but soft. It was the first time I could remember her touch-ing me on purpose.

She led me closer to the tree. Reaching up to one of the mis-shapen limbs, she scraped the bark with a short nail. She then rubbed her thumb against the wound. With her thumb under my nose, she instructed me to take a whiff.

“Hey, that’s…” I couldn’t quite place the smell.

“Frankincense.”

I stood back, stared at her, stared at the tree, stared at her, stared at the tree. “You mean…frankincense?...Really?”

She nodded and gave me one of her infrequent smiles. Pretty.

A small amber tear of resin had popped up where Hema had touched the tree. I don’t quite know what I expected, or where I thought frankincense actually came from. I probably didn’t even know what it was until now, other than something the wise men gave to Jesus for his birthday. Suddenly I felt heavy in my feet. My mind was overwhelmed. For an astounding, fleeting moment, I was more present and more cognizant of my miniscule place in the history of the world than I had ever been before.

“We’re going to be late.”

Snap.

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Hema was already halfway back to the car.

The moment was gone. But I’d always remember it.

The second, third, and fourth stops along the unexpectedly wide and modern highway to Mughsail were not Hema’s idea, but rather, due to camels. According to Ali, our driver, many camels in Oman, and the rest of Arabia for that matter, were free to roam at will. Sometimes this meant hanging out on the highway. On these occasions, Ali would stop, wait patiently, and then move on only when they did.

Although the conversation was sparse, and there was much peck-ing away at BlackBerry and laptop, Hema and I spent a remarkably pleasant afternoon together at Mughsail. We got soaked at the blowholes near the shore that intermittently shoot up plumes of ocean water through vents. We walked the pristine beach. We enjoyed a small lunch at the sole café.

Then it was back to work.

We toiled in the souks of Salalah until early evening. More rug buying. More dates-in-syrup eating (Omanis reputably have a very sweet tooth). More being called a troublemaker. All in a day’s work.

As the day came to a close, I schemed at how best to ditch Hema before my nighttime appointment with Husain. I suppose she could have come with me. But Fahd had assured me Husain could speak English, and so, after a full day spent together, I thought we could both use a break from each other. In the end, I didn’t need to do a thing. Upon getting back to The Haffa House, she hurriedly abandoned me in the cavernous, gloomy lobby with a curt, “See you in the morning.” No explanation or excuse offered. I guess she was as sick of me as I was of her. How could that be?

After a quick freshen up in my room, I was back in the car with Ali, heading out of town. We started out on the same road we took to Mughsail. We passed by the familiar massive incense burners 172

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Salalah is known for, which dot the roadside like route markers.

But soon we turned off onto another road I didn’t recognize.

Twenty minutes later, we ended up on a switchback heading up a small mountain. Although I’m not fond of narrow winding roads, the view of the sun coming to rest over the plains outside of Salalah was stunning.

As I marvelled at the sight, I remembered that Salalah is the alleged resting place of Nabi Imran, father of the Virgin Mary.

And now I was on my way to the tomb of Job, as in the Job from the “Book of Job” and the Koran. Regardless of religious convic-tions, I thought to myself, this was mind-blowing stuff.

Once atop the hill, Ali parked the car in a large parking lot.

This place was obviously popular with tourists, but at the moment, there were more camels in the lot than cars. We got out, and Ali waited by the car. I headed towards a series of squat, white buildings. Husain was to meet me by Job’s footprint. Yup.

His footprint. I’d had the location translated twice, to make sure I hadn’t gotten it wrong. I hadn’t.

A curving pathway, sloping gently upwards as I went, led past serene and holy-looking places. Men in traditional garb stood watch under shade trees and said nothing. The path became narrower and narrower, and eventually I got to a place where I was asked to take off my shoes. By this point, the crowd of tourists and religious pilgrims, which hadn’t seemed so dense before, had grown thick. I deposited my runners on a pile with the others, and progressed further, inch by inch.

I was wondering what the holdup was, when I realized everyone ahead of me was stopping to gaze down at the ground before moving forward. You know what they say: when in Oman, do as the Omanis do. So when it was my turn next to the spot on the ground, I did as the others did. And lo and behold, in a square about eighteen inches long and wide and deep, was an imprint of a very large foot. Job’s footprint.

I immediately looked up to find Husain.

Oh sure. How was I supposed to do that? I had no idea what he looked like.

The crowd began to push behind me. I found myself being 173

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shoved away from the footprint. Playing lemming for the moment, I moved ahead, then up a few steps into a small room.

In the centre of the room was a tomb, close to the ground. It was covered with some kind of thick material, with gold, burgundy, and light green woven into the fabric, creating symbolic designs.

At one end was a small sandbox. Buried in the sand were several small, colourful pottery vessels smoking with incense. The odour was intense but not unpleasant. The most surprising thing was the tomb itself. It had to be at least twelve feet long. How tall was this guy supposed to have been, anyway?

I scoured the faces around me, but no one looked back. No one seemed to be looking for me. I followed the queue back outside.

As I was bending over, trying to tie my shoes without being tram-pled, a voice said: “Follow me.”

I looked up just in time to see a husky, dark-skinned man in beige robes and dark sunglasses move off into the shade. I followed, one of my shoes not quite on. He led me to a less crowded spot beneath a nearby tree.

“Are you Husain?” I asked.

“I am, Mr. Russell. Fahd told me what you looked like. His description was very accurate.” His English was good.

“You know why I’m here?”

“You’ve come a long way for it.”

“You mean the Zi…”

“Shhhhhh!” he warned, a finger held up against his lips. “No one must hear us talking of it. If others found out that we had this thing, there would be pandemonium. Not only right at this moment, but throughout the country. You must know how important this is. How important it is to our country’s culture and history. This is a most significant item.”

And yet, Husain seemed more than willing to sell to me, a foreigner, this important bit of his culture, this significant Arabian artifact.

The look on my face must have spoken for itself. Wordlessly, Husain ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers. His face spread into what in other circumstances might have been classified a lecherous grin. Ah, yes. The great motivator: profit.

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I simply nodded. “I’m also wondering what you and Neil Gupta talked about in regards to this item. Were you two meeting today to negotiate?”

“Oh no, Mr. Russell. Things had progressed much further than that. And I am of great hope, since you are here, that you are a man of honour and will abide by your friend’s promises.”

“When did you last speak with Mr. Gupta?”

“Mr. Neil had been to visit me several times over the past months. I do not recall the exact last time we met. We spoke on the phone only last week. He was prepared to finalize our deal. He was going back to America soon. You, I assume, will be doing the same?”

I felt my heart speed up a tick. The sale of the Zinko was going down right now. This meeting was meant to be the exchange of goods. I surreptitiously felt my pockets to see how many Omani rial I had with me.

Just what I thought. None.

“Is your shop nearby?” I asked. “Is that why we are meeting here?”

“No, no shop. I spend much of my time here, however, in prayer.”

I was confused. “May I see the Z…the item?”

Husain stared into me so hard I thought I might fall over. “You did not speak with Mr. Neil before his death?”

“Unfortunately, no. But I am here to…”

“I do not have this item. I am only here to confirm the final meeting place. As you must know, a sale such as this does not happen directly between buyer and seller. There is much to discuss before this can happen.”

I guess I did know this. The system of “liaisons” Colin Cardinale had told me about. But I didn’t have time to
discuss
.

“Everything you discussed with Mr. Neil (I was catching on to the Arab’s preference for using the first, rather than surname) goes for me as well. As you have already said, I must go home very soon.

I will do whatever needs to be done to have this item with me when I do.” In my head I was saying: Big promises, Quant.

The man’s head moved up and down as he considered this, 175

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and me. “Yes, I see.”

For several seconds, although it seemed much longer, we said nothing to one another. Then Husain reached into the satchel hanging over his shoulder. He pulled out a packet. “In here is what you need to know.” He handed the package to me and turned to walk away. I quickly opened it. It was a single sheet of paper, with what I took to be an address written on it. Above the address was a very familiar word.

“Wait! What is this?” I shook the paper to get his attention.

“Saffron? What do you know about saffron?”

He stopped and turned. “That is your contact. In Jeddah. Mr.

Neil knew about this.”

It was a bloody nickname. Saffron was not meant to put me onto some spice controversy Neil had gotten mixed up in. Saffron was a person. The person with the Zinko carpet. The person Neil was anxious to travel to Saudi Arabia to meet.

Jeddah was in Saudi Arabia. Where Hema and I were set to fly tomorrow morning. The secret itinerary continued.

Saffron, here I come.

Rooms at the Haffa House are old-fashioned but pretty comfortable. And I was all set to take advantage of mine. It had been a long couple of days with a lot of travel, heat, and uncertainty, and little sleep. I was ready for some downtime. Anthony always tells me that the third day of jet lag is always the worst. Had I only been here for three days? I’d arrived Friday night. It was now Monday night. Yup. Three days. Two emirates. One sultanate.

Having travelled in foreign countries before, I knew that, despite how much I relish dipping into different cultures and everything that goes with them, food and drink included, there always comes a time when all I want is something familiar to eat.