She looked at him, forcing him to look away. She went back to fishing.
Just then someone laid a sweaty hand on his shoulder. Nayir spun around.
"Excuse me," the man said, fixing Nayir with a stare and motioning to Miss Hijazi with a tilt of his head. "In the name of Allah and Allah's peace be upon you. Sir, pardon me, but your wife is not properly veiled."
Nayir felt a stab of panic, but he gazed coolly at the man. He was clean-cut, with short hair, pleated trousers, and a necktie printed with the ninety-nine names of Allah. He looked entirely too Western to be a religious policeman, yet the man's black eyes, seen through thick glasses, blazed with self-righteous indignation.
Nayir frowned. "Are you looking at my wife?" he asked. The man opened his mouth, but Nayir interrupted. "She's
my wife,
" he shouted. "You'd better have a good excuse for staring at her!"
The man took a step back. "Apologies, brother, but you understand it's a matter of decency."
"That's no excuse." Nayir moved closer with a menacing squint. "Don't you have your
own
wife to worry about?"
Blushing, the man turned and walked away, ducking around the next corner. Guilt flooded through Nayir, and he quickly asked forgiveness for the sin of lying. It wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been committing a sin of
zina
in the first place. He turned and saw that Miss Hijazi had lowered her
burqa.
"Is he gone?" she whispered.
"Yes." He laid a hand on his chest to still his heart. "Yes, he's gone."
"Was he religious police?"
"No. Vigilante."
"How can you be sure?" she asked.
"He was wearing Armani."
"Ah." Relief flooded her eyes. She held up a small business card. "I found it."
"
Al-hamdulillah.
" He snatched the card, read the address, and took off.
***
Dr. Ahed Jahiz was once the finest optometrist in Egypt. His business, which began as a microscopic boutique in an alley in downtown Cairo, had blossomed into a three-story, glass-walled emporium through years and years of persistent labor and his utter devotion to the optical arts. He had his own machines for studying the eye, for cutting lenses and polishing frames. He sold Italian bifocals that cost more than the average automobile. He even offered a scholarship program to send country yokels to the finest optical academies in Europe, provided they worked for him when they returned.
But as militant Islamism spread like a plague of sand fleas through the Muslim world, Cairo, that loose-kneed, sluttish sister, became the victim of frequent outbursts of violence, resulting in, among other things, a Chevy sedan driving through the front windows of Jahiz & Co. and blowing twelve customers, five staff members, and three German tourists to Paradise.
Dr. Jahiz, who was in Mali delivering a truckload of cast-off reading glasses to the permanently poor, returned to Cairo to find his building in ruins, gutted the way a pack of hungry children might plunder a birthday cake if left unchecked by adults. The sum of his life's work was strewn over three square blocks of the town. (They found frames in the Nile.) People were dead. Good Muslims were angry, bad Muslims vengeful, and Jahiz decided that it was time to begin life anew. He collected the insurance and set off for Saudi, home of the Prophet—peace be upon him—and site of the holiest city in Islam, a country which he hoped would not prove as nearsighted as his blessed Egypt.
But if Cairo was myopic, then Saudi went blindfold. Jahiz had assumed that the richest population in the Muslim Middle East would appreciate his skill and dedication, his magnificent vision of an optical empire that would one day be able to adjust and repair every single flaw in the human eye, but his assumptions were wrong. Saudis, it turned out, went to
Saudi
optometrists. Perhaps, thought Jahiz, this was because only Saudi optometrists understood that the Saudis were world-renowned for their excellent vision. Few Saudis wore glasses. It had never been fashionable and it never would be. The wearing of glasses was, he discovered, a sensitive subject, since every Bedouin in creation prided himself on his superior ability to see anything, at any distance, at any stage of life. Although the age of the Bedouin had long since passed away and the sedentary Saudis had left many customs in their desert past—spitting every five minutes, traveling by night, and cleaning their babies with camel urine—they had not yet abandoned the erroneous notion that they were all blessed with perfect sight.
So his business remained a meager empire at best, and while Jahiz never lost his pious regard for the science of the eye, he felt his passions slowly deflating like birthday balloons weeks after the fete. He was growing old. He was impatient and inclined to bursts of phlegm. Worst of all, he scorned his clientele. They were ridiculous—what else could you say about a wealthy society that consciously veiled half its population and pretended the other half could see through brick?
This morning Jahiz entertained himself by polishing the Calvin Klein sunglasses in the display case near the front window. Sunglasses were his hottest item—a new shipment every week. They kept him from bankruptcy and from turning his miserable life to Allah, seer of all things.
Miss Hijazi and Nayir entered the shop, stood at the edge of the great Persian rug, and greeted Jahiz, who pocketed his rag and rose to assist them, blessing them with the formal greeting he used for every client: "May Allah's peace and everlasting mercy be on you." Nayir explained what they wanted, and Jahiz, sighing, stepped into the equipment room to retrieve the order.
"One pair of Sophia Loren frames, size twelve, mauve inlay, brass trim. Clear plastic lenses, no prescription."
Nayir frowned. "No prescription?"
"That's what it says." With a shaking hand, Jahiz pointed to the chart. "She called in last month and requested glasses without a prescription."
"No prescription?" Nayir rubbed his chin and frowned at Miss Hijazi. "None?"
She made no sign that she heard them. Her
burqa
was down, and her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her cloak.
"Okay," Nayir said. "If that's what it says."
"Please ask your wife to sit at the desk."
"They're not for her," Nayir said. "They're for a friend who died."
"Oh." Jahiz's shoulders slumped. "I'm very sorry to hear that."
"Thank you." Nayir watched as Jahiz slid the glasses into a hard leather case. He handed them to Nayir.
"I can see that you're squinting," Jahiz said. "Tell me, do you spend a lot of time in the desert?"
"Ah ... yes." Nayir was taken aback.
"You know, sir, the desert is a very bright place. The sand creates an awful lot of reflected light, which can be damaging to the eyes. Do you clean them regularly?"
"The eyes?"
"Yes, the eyes must be cleaned every week, especially in the desert. All that sand, it gets in the eyes, it
irritates
the lining, it causes bleeding, swelling, eventually infection. It can even lead to certain types of disease. Do you have trouble reading street signs?"
"No ... well, maybe sometimes at night."
"Night vision is the first to go. I think it would be in your best interests to have a checkup, just to make sure your eyes are in their best shape."
"Ah, no," Nayir said. "I have perfect vision."
"Yes," Jahiz cooed, "yes, of course. But sometimes the dust can
aggravate
the eyes, and you never know what the effects will be. I have the best machines. High-class machines, imported from Europe. We could do the exam now, if you'd like. It won't take half an hour."
Nayir glanced at Miss Hijazi, who was pretending to look out the window. "I'm busy now."
"Then maybe we can set up an appointment?"
Nayir continued to decline, but Jahiz was persistent. Finally the doctor offered him a discount on a pair of Gucci sunglasses that had just arrived from Rome. "You know," he said, flapping his hands over his eyes, "sometimes even the falcons need a rest from the overwhelming sights of the world."
Nayir hesitated. "I don't usually wear sunglasses," he said.
Jahiz gave an exasperated sigh. Nayir paid for Nouf's glasses,
thanked Jahiz again, and escorted Miss Hijazi out of the store. They stopped on the sidewalk.
"Why would she buy glasses without a prescription?" he asked.
"Maybe for show?"
He nodded uncertainly and handed her the glasses but realized that she wasn't looking at his hands. "Here," he said. "Take them."
She accepted the glasses, but she seemed lost in her thoughts. For an awkward moment Nayir stood there trying not to look at her, not certain how to say goodbye.
"Thank you, Nayir," she said. "I can walk myself to work from here."
He was so surprised to hear her say his name that his goodbye came too late, after she'd turned away. Confused and embarrassed, he went back to his Jeep.
A
CARDBOARD SIGN
at the doorway read,
WOMEN ONLY.
Yet the doors were wide open, with people passing in and out—women mostly, all unveiled and smiling. Two Arab men strode blithely into the room. Both wore Western suits and were chatting in English, but one man had a string of prayer beads woven through his fingers.
Buttoning his coat, Nayir followed them inside.
The hotel conference room was cavernous. Thick carpets, heavy drapes, and the presence of so many people had a muffling effect, quelling loud voices and the garrulous laughter that always seemed to accompany groups of Americans. Yet the crowd gave off a sense of conclusion. A few Indonesian busboys were clearing the wreckage from a dozen banquet tables while the guests milled about, reluctant to abandon their fun. In passing, Nayir drew a few untroubled glances.
A bazaar curved like a queue through the center of the room. There were three dozen tables of handcrafted gifts, art supplies, books, baked goods, children's clothing. Nayir made his way to a table of books. He picked up
How to Survive a Year in Saudi Arabia: A Handbook for Expat Wives
and
Stitching Like a Bedouin: Authentic Patterns for Macramé, Embroidery, and Weaving Projects!
and thought, finally, there could be no doubt that this was the American Ladies of Jeddah meeting. He scanned the other book tables, studied their occupants from the corner of his eye, and was just about to ask about a cookbook called
1,001 Recipes from Arabia
when a certain stall caught his attention. It had a display of paper art yet was small among the others, and a reminder that sometimes in seeking the obvious one finds the subtle instead.
From the depths of a pocket, Nayir produced the yellow-patterned stork he'd found in Nouf's bag of possessions. He hid the damaged bird in the cup of his fist and drew closer to the stall, grateful that other people stood nearby to deflect from his massive male presence.
The stall's owner, a tiny woman in a T-shirt and jeans, sat on a high, skinny chair. She was absorbed in her work. Nayir's first shock was seeing a woman so close, his second was seeing a woman unveiled, wearing tight clothes and apparently no undergarments. Immediately—almost—he reverted to habit and looked at her hands. They were nimble and quick, wielding scissors better suited to a mouse as they snipped tiny squares from a sheet of red paper. And then a glance at her face: green eyes, warm, ruddy cheeks, dry wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes, odd on such an elfin, youthful girl.
Her artwork lay before her, its humor uncloaking her further still. From delicate colored paper she had recreated a Bedouin teapot, the holy Kaaba, a camel, some sheep, and an entirely too romantic desert scene replete with embroidered cushions and a hookah. Between these Nayir saw a darker component: an obese prince on a throne, on his lap a whole tray of half-eaten origami hamburgers and McDonald's wrappers. Fat thighs spilled over the edge of the seat. He seemed disgusted, stifling a burp. Another scene showed a man standing on a prayer rug with a GPS system embedded in it: "Always pray toward Mecca!" But beside it a voice bubble quoted him shouting into his cell phone, "I'm sick of these infidels invading our culture!" But the worst one of all, the one that made Nayir blush, was a string of origami men in white robes holding hands like paper dolls. She had sketched their faces, and they were smiling lasciviously. A sign beneath their feet read, "Men are more fun."
He wondered if she was so wry about her own culture.
The other customers had wandered away and left him studying her work in a silence that suddenly felt unbreakable. She paused in her cutting.
He forced a look at her face. It was okay, this face. It invited a look. Americans did that. Summoning the English he'd learned from Samir's friends and from his own dealings with desert tourists, he said, "This is your work," not sure if it was a question or a statement until she glanced at him and answered.
"Yep."
The origami stork was now a crumpled ball in his sweaty fist. He set the stork on the table and attempted to straighten it.
The woman leaned forward and took the bird, studying it while adjusting its folds.
"A lovebird," she said. "For fertility. It looks like one of mine. Where did you get it?"
"Do you know a man named Eric Scarberry?"
She let her eyes linger on his coat. "Yep. Sure do. Who's askin'?"
"Me."
She saw that he was serious and laughed, a sweet prickle. "Well, all righty."
He had the sudden urge to satisfy his curiosity: to ask her name, why she was here, was she married, did she have children, and were they all like her, blond and boyish? What was she doing in Saudi, a woman like this, not really a woman but almost a man? Was America in some general way embarrassed by women like her, or was she normal? But what he said was, "Do you know that Eric is missing?"
She set the scissors on the table, reflexively chewing her bottom lip. "You a cop?"
"No."
"What, then?"
"An investigator."
"A police investigator?"
"No, I'm just investigating for a friend."