Finding Nouf (13 page)

Dozens of jacket stalls spread out before them. Othman started to laugh. "I'll never get over a sight like this."

Nayir had to admit, buying outerwear in the world's hottest climate was a little weird. The vendors didn't seem to realize the futility of their profession, because they embraced it with a passion rivaled only by that of the fireplace and central-heating vendors in a separate market on the other side of town. The coat vendors kept their racks lined with sable, mink, rabbit, and fox. Trench coats were always in fashion, as were faux Dalmation swing coats, gray and black pea coats lined with fiberglass stiffeners, and woolen suit coats in sizes that ranged from tiny to utterly grotesque. Each vendor had a flat stall that faced the pedestrian traffic, the jackets in a neat row like a herd of elephants with their noses hanging over the street.

Of the many vendors, Nayir had come to know the Qahtani brothers. He preferred their stalls. They had the biggest selection, they never complained when he tried things on, and they didn't seem to mind that he never actually purchased their goods, just wandered through the racks every few months in search of an intangible something.

Just as they approached the Qahtanis' stall, an entourage of bachelors—rich Saudi men in spanking white robes—descended on the ladies' section. They spread out like soldiers occupying space, their manicured hands deftly fingering the goods. Nayir watched them with disgust and wondered if they were buying coats for their fiancées too. Seeing Othman move into the crowd of bachelors made him uneasy; he looked and acted just like them. They were all hypocrites, because every man knew that the anticipation of travel—the hallmark of any marriage proposal—was in fact its greatest delusion. None of these buffoons had any intention of taking his new wife anywhere, at least not if he could help it. What had Othman promised Miss Hijazi?

Nayir moved in his own direction. He browsed through the coats and tried to imagine which of the many would fit his own future wife. The Russian fur? Too showy. The bomber jacket with the American insignia? In what fantasy world would he ever take a woman to America? No, he would never buy a woman a coat. If she did own a coat, it would have to be one that she purchased herself.

"Bedu!" Eissa came around the cash register to greet him. His brother, Sha'aban, seated on a folding chair behind the counter, poked his head up and smiled.

"Nice to see you!" Eissa said. "It's been a long time. Tell me, you're not here because it's wedding season, are you?"

"No." Nayir gave a dry laugh. "No, thank you."

"What—you don't want to get married?" Sha'aban asked, standing up now. "Why not?"

Nayir shrugged. Eissa and Sha'aban exchanged a look.

"My wife drives me crazy," Sha'aban said, "but I can't live without her. Who else would take care of me?"

"Sha'aban, you are lazy." Eissa turned to Nayir. "He doesn't even know how to make his own tea. What can we do for you, brother?"

"I'm here with a friend. He's shopping for his fiancée."

Eissa's eyebrows shot up. "Well, while you're waiting, let me
show you our latest thing." He slid behind the register and withdrew a plastic dry-cleaning bag through which Nayir saw the ugliest jacket on earth, a cropped leather affair with a fitted waist and a flared, tasseled hem. The stitching on the chest reminded him of something.

"Cowboy," Eissa said. "This is genuine ranch wear."

Seeing the hesitant look on Nayir's face, Sha'aban slapped his brother's arm. "I told you it's ugly."

"It's not ugly!" Eissa lifted the plastic wrap and fingered the tassels with enthusiasm. "Look at the quality. I sold one yesterday. It's just
you,
Sha'aban."

"I think I'm looking for something different," Nayir said.

Eissa laid the cowboy jacket on the counter and motioned at the coats with a sweep of his arm. "It's all yours."

Nayir went back to prowling the racks, pausing at the raincoats, admiring the colors until he came to the trench coats. One in particular caught his eye—beige, lightweight, a classic cut.

Eissa noticed and laid a hand on his belly. "Look, Sha'aban, the Columbo coat."

"Is that what he wants?"

"What did you call it?" Nayir asked.

"You know, Peter Falk." Eissa cocked an air gun. "Bang, bang, private eye." He did some fancy shooting while Nayir slid into the coat. Eissa gasped. "Yesss! It's you! One hundred percent man!" This last was in English, which made them all laugh.

Nayir went to the cash register and stood in front of the mirror. The coat fit perfectly. He stuck his hand in the pocket, which was lined with satin and a few grains of sand that would be forever jammed in the bottom corner. He buttoned it, unbuttoned it, flipped up the collar, and ran his hands down the front to smooth out the wrinkles.

Othman came over, a grin on his face. "Buying something?" he asked.

Nayir turned away from the mirror. "It's not exactly my style."

"Sure it is." Eissa snorted. "What is this—Eissa Is Stupid Day?"

"It's true." Sha'aban shook his hands at Nayir. "You're Columbo!"

"I don't know." He slid the coat off.

"No!" Eissa seized the coat and held it to Nayir's shoulders. "Come on, it's you! I mean, it's remarkable. I hadn't thought it at first, but that's the way it is with the things that surprise you—you are convinced not because someone tells you to be convinced, you're convinced
because you discovered it yourself.
" He pinched his fingers together and poked the air. "It's yours from then on. It's your own secret island. Your America! You know, I would have put you in Armani thug, maybe Moscow in winter, but not Columbo. But now that I've seen with my own eyes, for me, it is a
fact.
" Eissa was earnest, and Sha'aban nodded, apparently too convinced by fact to say anything. Nayir looked from one to the other, surprised by their unusual excitement.

"I didn't really come here to buy a coat."

Eissa grew stern. "That's fine. I know you're a modest man, but I'll give you the right price."

Nayir hedged. It was ridiculous to buy a coat. What was it? A showy garment, and wasn't one of the greatest sins wearing garments with pride? He couldn't wear it in the desert. He couldn't wear it in the city, except on those two or three days a year when the temperature dropped to the eighties and it actually felt cold. And wasn't it a raincoat, after all? In Jeddah it rained once a year, for approximately five minutes if they were lucky. But he liked it, he
wanted
it. Besides, the Quran said that garments were bestowed upon man to cover his shame but also to adorn him. There was no sin in self-adornment.
O Children of Adam! Wear your beautiful apparel at every time and place ... but waste not by excess.

Othman came up beside him. "It is a modest coat. I think it fits you."

Tentatively Nayir turned back to the mirror. Othman was right: it was a simple coat.

Othman set his own purchases on the counter, half a dozen women's jackets, from leather to fur. Nayir noticed that he was also buying a desert parka. Othman showed him each of the jackets for Miss Hijazi, fussing over each one. "I honestly don't know if they're going to fit her."

Nayir wanted to ask if that really mattered, but he kept his thoughts to himself. The choice amazed him. If the jackets were any indication of their travel plans, the couple would be going to Antarctica for their honeymoon.

"So you're buying the Columbo coat?" Eissa asked.

"Yes," Nayir grumbled. "Why not?"

The brothers charged him fifty riyals. As he stood at the register waiting for Eissa to give him change, he began to feel foolish. He was buying a
coat.
The heat bore down on his head. He looked around for the nearest beverage kiosk, and what he saw drained the blood from his face. Beyond the next stall was a woman, alone. The front of her cloak hung open to expose a naked, well-formed body. She was the softest brown, caramel pudding, glistening with sweat in the neon lights. She smiled at Nayir. A second later she melted into the crowd.

Nayir froze. He tried to counter with another image—Um Tahsin's blind eyes, Samir burping at dinner—but he could see only the woman, her glistening thighs spread slightly apart, her long, firm finger stroking her groin. He glanced around, but it had happened too quickly and no one else had noticed. His cheeks burned red. He instinctively reached to cover his groin. If he had been wearing his robe, he could have leaned forward and avoided the show, but with these dratted trousers clamping his crotch he couldn't even tuck it up and squeeze.

"What's wrong?" Othman asked. "You look sick."

Nayir ducked into the shade behind the register and waved his hand at the crowd. "I just got flashed."

Othman looked around, horrified. "By a man?"

"No, a woman." And as he said it, he thought of the smug look in her eyes, the vanity and self-adoration. He wanted to call the police.

Othman's look of horror slowly resolved into amusement. He started to laugh. "I'm sorry." He tried to stop but couldn't, and the more he suppressed his laughter, the redder his face grew, until even Eissa and Sha'aban noticed. Nayir forced a chuckle.

"I'm sorry," Othman said, taking a breath.

"No problem."

They thanked the brothers and left, pushing through a crowd that thickened around them like cream. The sun was fierce, and
they stopped to buy Mirandas, but by the time they'd cracked open the cans, the drinks were already warm. Heading back into the crowd, they found the toy boutique and ducked beneath the tasseled lights. When they reached the parking lot, Nayir suffered another image of the woman stroking her groin, and this time it caused an even greater explosion of anger. He couldn't believe it had happened, and now that they were leaving, he wished he had called the police.

Just as abruptly, Nouf appeared in his mind, Nouf on the gurney, sheet slipping away from her thighs, and all at once his anger deflated.

Othman seemed to have sobered as well. "Don't take it personally," he said. "I've heard that it happens here quite frequently." "You're talking about the flasher?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Othman pursed his lips. "Think about it—all these people trying on coats. What better camouflage for a flasher?"

"They must pick their victims," Nayir said with a sudden heat. "They probably have a secret sense that tells them which men will be most offended."

"Have you ever been flashed before?"

"No."

"Then it was random," Othman said. "Although I do think it's true that when people see you, they see a good man."

Nayir shot him a skeptical look. "That's not what I meant."

"Brother," Othman said, smiling, "I would never accuse you of vanity or pride."

Nayir nodded, feeling awkward, still wondering if he had somehow invited the flasher, if she had known that he would be more offended than most men and had preyed on him like a devil. Or was it a sign? A warning that perhaps he was going too far, and that in buying a coat he too was falling prey to vanity?

He thought about vanity the whole way home, and as an antidote to his growing shame, he said the prayer that the Prophet Muhammad always said when putting on a new garment:
O Allah, to You be all praise. You have clothed me with this. I ask You for
the good of it, and the good for which it was made, and I seek refuge with You from the evil of it, and the evil for which it was made. Praise be to Allah.

He said the prayer twice, because the more he looked at it, the more he liked the coat.

T
HAT AFTERNOON
Nayir drove to Kilo Seven and parked on the block that Othman had described. The street was nearly deserted, and the sun beat down on the narrow dirt road, reflecting off the buildings and creating the sort of light that made it possible to see through shut eyes. At the corner a group of Sudanese women sat on woven blankets, selling pumpkin seeds in tiny plastic bags that weighed less than the dime it took to buy them.

He was wearing the coat. At first it had made him feel deeply self-conscious, but he had worn it to the supermarket already and discovered a new feeling of authority. There was a devilish pride in that, but he reminded himself that it was for a good cause and that the pride would disappear soon enough. It always did.

He found the house he was looking for, but when he rapped on the door, he got no reply. The knocks echoed on the other side; a courtyard, perhaps. He rapped again, then stepped back and looked up. From the roof a veiled face peered down at him.

A few minutes later the door swung open. A young man stood there. He looked to be in his twenties. A week-old growth shadowed his jaw and gave him a disheveled look. He wore a rumpled white oxford shirt and loose linen trousers. Because of the sun's glare, Nayir found it difficult to read his expression.

"I'm looking for Muhammad Ramdani," Nayir said.

"Who are you?" The voice squeaked with youth.

"My name is Nayir ash-Sharqi. Does Muhammad live here?"

"Who told you that?"

"Are you Muhammad?"

The man didn't move. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you about Nouf ash-Shrawi. I'm told you were her escort."

The man's face rippled with unease. "Did the family send you?"

"No."

"Are you police?"

"No, I'm an investigator."

Muhammad blinked nervously, and after long, stern scrutiny, he stepped aside, motioning Nayir indoors.

Nayir passed through a courtyard and into the relative darkness of a foyer. A cloak hung on a peg, and a dozen shoes were lined against the wall. He caught a curious, comforting smell. Manure.

"Do you have animals?" he asked.

"No."

"Nothing? No chickens?"

Muhammad looked confused. "No. Why?"

Nayir realized that his questions were slightly offensive. "Never mind," he said.

Muhammad shepherded him down a narrow hallway and into a sitting room. Beside the sitting room door was the entrance to the main part of the house, and just above that doorframe was a Khamsa hand, a five-fingered symbol of protection against the evil eye.