The Ruins of Us (29 page)

“No. I don’t think so. Abdul Aziz all but assured me that he would be left alone until his departure. I’m going to find him and tell him.”

“He can probably stay with Randy and Amanda while he works on his applications.”

Abdullah wasn’t terribly fond of Rosalie’s brother, Randy, but he and his wife lived in a large, empty home in Memorial, outside of Houston. Randy had hated it when Rosalie moved to Saudi Arabia, but he loved her and would do whatever she asked of him.

“I could go with him, just to get him settled. Maybe Mariam could come along. I’m sure I could get her an excused leave from school.”

“Yes, it would be good for him to have the company. Where is he?”

“I have no idea. He leaves without telling me. I’ll go get Mariam, she’ll know.” She threw the duvet aside. Her pale nightgown had bunched up around her thighs, and in the shadow cast by the fabric Abdullah imagined the world of heat there.

“Wait. Come here.”

Surprisingly, she obeyed his request, padding over the carpet toward him. She moved to sit next to him but he pulled her onto his lap. He thrust his nose into her hair and breathed in and out, deeply, the air from his exhalation covering his face in warm dampness. He felt the two thin layers of cloth between them. She was still and silent.

“My love. I will take care of everything.”

He made his voice steady. He wanted to be a comfort to her.

“I love you,” he said.

She turned to face him, and her eyes had that drowning look that he’d first seen in them when she had confronted him about Isra. Slowly, she reached over and placed a hand on the side of his face. “I love you.” And then, “Why did you do this to us?”

He kissed the inside of her palm and then gripped it tightly, guiding her to the floor. In his chest, his heart thumped loudly and he felt the sweet, lonely ache of the loves he’d known—Khadija’s face pressed against his tiny child’s face; Ghazi, his first friend, pitting dates before handing them to him to eat; in the souq, the nameless girl with eyes like pools of tar, lashes long as the legs of a dung beetle, whose image had stayed with him until he first made love to Rosalie; Faisal’s red, ancient face opening in a wail when he arrived, messily, into the world. All of it was there as he laid his body over hers. No, he would not forget again. She clutched at his back, pulling him closer.

IT WAS PAST
eight o’clock when he went to find Faisal. He had not wanted to leave Rosalie, and they’d lain on the floor for several silent minutes after they’d finished. In a way, they were again new to each other. They had not been together for so long.

Rosalie had kept her eyes closed the whole time. When he’d finally risen to leave, she had turned onto her stomach and rested her head in the crook of her elbow as if trying to avoid his face. It wasn’t a posture of shyness, but something closer to sadness, or regret. He leaned down and kissed her on the back of the head, then ran his fingers down her long back. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

Mariam’s bedroom was on the other side of the house, and he turned on the hallway lights as he made his way there. Through the door, he could hear the faint sounds of music, something upbeat, a young girl’s voice. He knocked twice and then opened the door.

“Tisbah al-khayr, ya Mimou,” he said.

“I thought you were at the other house tonight.”

He shook his head.

“Little beetle,” he said. “How would you like to go on a special mission with your baba?”

“Where are we going?”

“We need to find Zool. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

She paused. “Is everything OK?”

“Yes. Now, where is your brother?”

“He has to be with Majid. He only has the one friend, Baba.”

“Lead the way.”

If Mariam was with him, then perhaps Faisal would be a bit more compliant. He was protective of his little sister. He wouldn’t want to make a fuss in front of her.

Mariam turned off the music and grabbed her abaya from the hook by the door. Rosalie told him Mariam spent hours on the weekends sewing her own abayas, and he noticed that the latest one was midnight blue. His children, each poised at the opposite end of the revolution.

“THERE, BABA. THAT’S
the house,” Mariam said.

A wooden gate interrupted a low and badly plastered wall. From behind it, an oleander bush grew thick and wild, spilling over the top and obscuring the lantern above the house number. It was a neighborhood with which Abdullah was not familiar, and he struggled to understand what Faisal gained from spending time in such a shabby place.

He pulled alongside the curb and killed the motor.

“Wait here,” he said, before sliding out of the car and closing the door.

At the gate, he pushed aside the sticky oleander and rang the bell. The street was empty save a few stray cats, the other homes looming silently behind similarly inadequate walls. Or perhaps these people, these hardworking men, felt that they had nothing to hide, and that further unnerved Abdullah. A moment later, the gate creaked open and Majid greeted them. Abdullah was suddenly embarrassed about bringing Mariam. Certainly this pious boy would think it irresponsible.

“Ahlan wa sahlan. I wonder if my son is here, enjoying your hospitality?”

“Ahlan, na’am. Ya Faisal!” Majid called out. “Nothing is wrong, I hope?”

He seemed serious, but his mouth tricked up on one side. His body was broad against the gateway, as if he were standing guard. There was a shuffling noise behind him, and when he moved to let Faisal past, Abdullah noticed that his left hand was pink with burn. At the sight of the shiny skin, his stump ached. He knew what it was to be a young man with a compromised body. Before he could say anything further, Majid had nodded curtly and closed the gate. Leaves, backlit by the lantern, cast thin shadows on the broken sidewalk.

“Let’s get in the car,” Abdullah said. “We need to talk. We’ll have a powwow. Do you know what a powwow is?”

Faisal didn’t answer, just stared hard at Abdullah before moving toward the passenger side of the car. He did not get in.

“Zool, Baba says that we’re going on a mission,” Mariam said from the backseat.

“Habibti, this was the mission. To get your brother.” He paused. “I have something important to tell you, Faisal.”

He looked at his son’s face across the car roof. It seemed to deflect everything that he said, to crumble the words to dust and scatter them on the still air. He had not noticed this hardness before and it startled him, this anger that sat like a stone among soft lentils. The night was quiet around them, the streetlights cutting perfect circles up and down the deserted road. No wind, just humid stillness. The night holding its breath.

Mariam opened her door and stepped outside.

“The prince . . .” Abdullah paused before deciding on a different tack. There was no need for Faisal to know that he was on a watch list. “Your mother and I have decided that it’s time for you to go to America for school. We know that you’ve been bored, and we think that this will solve that problem.”

“I already told you that I’m going to go to Mecca for university. And I’m not bored.”

“I’m sorry, Faisal, but this is not a request. You’ll stay with your uncle in Houston until you get into a school.” Faisal looked flustered, shifting his weight from foot to foot and refusing to meet Abdullah’s gaze. After a long pause, Faisal looked up and folded his arms in front of his chest.

“I think you would be wise to tend to your own affairs before you interfere in mine,” Faisal said. It was so dark that Abdullah could only see the white flash of his teeth as he spoke.

“Your mother and I . . .”

“Don’t speak to me about my mother!” Faisal brought both hands down on the roof of the car, the metal absorbing the force of his open palms with a dull thud. At the disturbance, a bird stirred from within the oleander and flew away. The night, listening. “Baba, are you really so blind?”

“Zool,” Mariam said.

“Mariam, I’m sorry you must hear this. I found Rosalie and Dan together at the house. It was late and they were alone. God help me, I do not want it to be true, but it is.”

Abdullah’s skin turned hot to the tips of his ears.

“My son, do not attempt to distract me from my purpose with lies. That is not a light accusation. Do you know the punishment for slander?”

“You’re a liar, Faisal. Umma would never.” Mariam turned toward the street and brought her hand to her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mimou,” Faisal said, pressing his sister’s wet face into his side. “Baba, I didn’t mean to tell you like this. But you’re blind if you think that sending me away will solve this family’s problems. I won’t go with you.”

“Our problems? You’re the problem. Look at what you’ve done!” Abdullah shouted.

He had ceased to care about the watching houses, the eavesdropping night. In his stomach, nausea mixed with the perfect, postcoital calm he’d had when he left the house. No. Rosalie loved him; it was as constant as the moon. It had been as if no time had passed. He ran over to Faisal’s side of the car. He pulled Mariam away from her brother, then opened the plastic fingers of his prosthesis and pinched Faisal’s shoulder, hard. Faisal tried to push him away, but Abdullah jerked him closer. Then, swiftly with his good hand, Abdullah backhanded Faisal across the face. His son cried out, but the night did not respond.

“Listen to me, you little beggar. The prince wants you out of the Kingdom. You’ve picked your friends poorly.”

He hesitated. He did not have qualms with lies told for a person’s own protection. Still, he turned the words over in his head before he said them, trying to gauge their power to make Faisal obey. He wasn’t sure, but he found he could not stop himself from saying them.

“Your sheikh is being tortured as we speak; Prince Abdul Aziz told me himself.” He waited for a reaction. “The light of day won’t look good on a dead man’s face. If you value your life or your sheikh’s, you will go to your mother’s house and pack your bags.”

Their faces were so close, the words dissolving between them. Abdullah released him from his grip and opened the back door of the car.

“Get in, Mariam.”

Once she ducked inside, he slammed the door behind her. He looked at his son, whose face remained hard and empty. Quietly, Faisal spoke.

“I pity you.” He paused and rubbed his hand over the red mark on his face. “You have forgotten what family means.”

Abdullah felt the hard bone of his knee meet the soft flesh of the boy’s gut, the delicate curve of his ribs, felt the give of a body that he had created. His mind was a scramble of impulses and, confronted by the stillness of the night and his son, he felt hysterical. He struggled for the cool head that had defined him through his career and much of his life. He walked quickly to the driver’s side. Once inside the car, he sat very still, taking in large gulps of air through his mouth. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

“Everything will be fine, Mariam. Baba will take care of everything. OK?”

“Faisal is lying, isn’t he? About Umma?”

“Yes, my beetle.”

Abdullah had regained his composure, and he replied quickly because it was the only answer. Even if Faisal were telling the truth, it was the only answer. If Rosalie had trespassed, if she had invited Dan to take what was not rightfully his, Abdullah would have to divorce her. He hated the very word, its second syllable like the hiss of some green-blooded, love-killing creature. The trees lining the road moved slowly in the wind, their silhouettes dark in the crepuscular light. From inside the car, the world was soundless. Abdullah felt his certainty returning, along with a new calm. He turned the AC up, the cold, recycled air blasting against his face. In the rearview mirror, he saw Faisal and Majid standing in the road, watching as he drove away.

In the morning, he would tell Rosalie about Isra’s baby.

Chapter Nine

FOR THE FIRST
time in several years, Dan felt as though he were doing something that mattered. He was helping someone worse off than he was. He was glad to support Rosalie, and he was glad to know he was no longer the silt of the emotional world. But civic duty and bolstered pride weren’t the only forces pushing him to help Rosalie get out of the Kingdom. There was still that little expansion of hope in his chest, so that when she texted him the night before and asked him to meet her at Biltagi Brothers’ Grocery at seven thirty p.m.—Abdullah would be at Isra’s—he felt revving adrenaline and experienced the fleeting thought that he should comb his hair and shower before they met. Biltagi Brothers’ would be just right. The Committee never sent people there to monitor, and it had a dusty quiet disrupted only by the occasional housewife doing her shopping. The machinations required to meet Rosalie secretly thrilled him.
Out beyond the Mutawi’in and the al-Saud, there is a place called Mind Your Own Damned Business. I’ll meet you in the dry goods aisle.
Rumi, Saudi-style.

Before he left his apartment, Dan gathered the plane ticket and the travel release form and folded them into his back pocket. In the end, the Tunisian had pulled a copy of an old form for Dan, but he wouldn’t go so far as to forge Abdullah’s signature. Dan had done that part, somewhat sloppily, knowing that he could probably spend years in jail for it but not caring—at least, not caring enough to put an end to the delicious, burning nervousness in his abdomen.

That afternoon, as he skirted the compound courtyard to get to his car, the swimming pool was empty, the men probably inside watching a Premier League game on satellite. Sometimes, if things got a little rowdy at the pool, the Brits full to their eyeballs with homemade siddiqi, he’d hear brawling or awaken to find a neighbor slumped against the cement pillar outside his door. He never learned names, just helped the fellow to his feet and guided him to whichever apartment number he managed to mumble in his drunken stupor.

At Biltagi Brothers’, Dan bought cans of fava beans and cloves of garlic and a small bunch of scallions that still smelled of dirt. He also dropped into his basket a package of cocktail napkins and colorful paper plates with pictures of spaceships on them. For a moment, he considered buying the paper party hats that matched the plates. He was in a celebratory mood. To celebrate her escape out of love and into something a little less dangerous, he and Rosalie would throw a very private going-away party. She would go back to Texas, he’d work another year or two for B-Corp, save enough to retire, then move back too. When she got to Texas, maybe Rosalie would also buy property along the Pedernales and send Mariam to the local high school where Ellie and Joe had gone. Wouldn’t that be something? Later, Mimou might end up at the University of Texas, roaming the same streets named for Texas rivers that he, Abdullah, and Rosalie had cased years before. There was the problem of Faisal and what would become of their connection if she left, but Dan would not press the matter; Rosalie was already hesitant enough.