Finding Nouf (21 page)

She nodded, reflecting, then suddenly shot him a devilish smile. "Then you've got to explain the coat."

He looked at her hands. "How about this: if you answer my question, I'll answer yours. I want to know if you can help me find Eric."

He dared another look at her face, right into her eyes, and found that she couldn't meet his gaze. She picked up her scissors and continued to clip, still chewing her lip. When she looked up again, it was exactly as if she'd veiled herself within.

"That's not a fair deal," she said. "Answering your question is going to have more implications than answering mine."

"How do you know?"

She eyed him. "Then you go first."

"Only if you promise not to laugh," he said.

She smiled, a mercurial spasm. "Okay. I won't."

"All right. I bought the coat because I wanted a ...
tilasm?
"

"A talisman."

"Something to help me when..." He looked up at the ceiling, unable to describe the thing he had not yet described, even to himself.

She set down her scissors, and leaning over the table, she extended a hand. "I'm Juliet," she said. "And you?"

He stared at the hand, considered it, then cupped it with the same care he had taken with the stork. "Nayir ash-Sharqi."

"Nice to meet you." Her smile was warm, curious, no longer so sexy. "I gave the stork to Eric," she said. "Last year. I don't usually make storks—they're so clichéd—but that's what happens when you fall in love. Every dumb cliché..." She wiped the paper scraps from her lap and stood up. "But I really did want to have babies with him. Lots of babies. Like ten. Or twenty." Her eyes betrayed a sadness. "I'm too old now for twenty, but I could still do ten, if I got busy fast."

Nayir gave a polite smile.

"And I don't really know where to find Eric," she said breezily. "We lost touch after we broke up. He used to live at Club Jed, but I've heard he moved in with his boy—" She froze, glanced at Nayir. "Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, thank you."

Nayir looked away and noticed the two men who'd come in earlier, the Arab men in George Bush suits. They were talking to a blond American in a skimpy dress that might have been an undergarment, for all he knew. It was clear that the woman was enjoying the attention and that the men, slightly awkward, were trying to see how far they could go. Testing the Americans. A cultural study. And he was suddenly ashamed, of himself, of his pleasure in talking to a woman he'd known for only ten minutes, who could just as easily have fallen for the men in the suits. She was ridiculously free, Miss Shake-My-Hand-and-Watch-Them-Jiggle, Miss I'll-Give-You-Ten-Children, and by the way what's your name?

"So you don't know where I can find Eric," he said.

She didn't reply.

"Aren't you even curious—" he began, motioning to the stork.

"No." She jerked up. "I don't think I could take it." A wave of the hand. An old wound, yet as soft as an overripe fig.

Nayir plucked the stork from the table. "Well, the woman who had it is dead now."

Juliet looked up. "Who?"

"Her name was Nouf ash-Shrawi. Did you know her?" She kept her eyes fixed on Nayir. "No."

"She died in the desert recently. She had the bird when she died, but it was in better condition. I crushed it by accident."

"And you think Eric did it—that he killed her?"

Nayir shrugged. "Eric may have known her. I'm just looking for him."

She stared blankly at the floor, sifting through what seemed like messy emotions. "I'm sure he had nothing to do with her death." She laughed nervously. "If you're after him for sex crimes, believe me, you're after the wrong man."

"I just need to ask him some questions," he said.

"You're not going to arrest him, are you?"

He shook his head. "I don't have that power."

She started biting her thumbnail.

"Look, if he's innocent, then this will prove it. I'll just get a sample of his DNA and he'll be cleared. No problem."

"How did you find me, anyway?" she asked.

He explained about finding the cookbook. She seemed suspicious when he told her about Eric's apartment, but the suspicion gave way to a certain resignation.

Quietly she began to gather her belongings. She folded them flat, slipped them into plastic folders, and stacked them in a briefcase. Others she placed in boxes—the little scenes, the Cadillac. He felt the impulse to assist but didn't dare; it would have been like touching her skin.

"Eric doesn't live in the compound," she said. "He keeps the apartment, but he's never there. He lives in the old town with a friend of his."

Nayir heard an unpleasant emphasis on the word "friend." "Where does this friend live?"

She gave him an address. Nayir thanked her, but she'd become absorbed in her thoughts and only managed a distracted reply.

"Just don't tell him I sent you," she said. "And don't hurt him. I'm trusting you to treat him with respect."

"Of course," Nayir said, and he meant it.

A
MAN OPENED
the giant walnut door. He was in his forties, with graying blond hair and keen blue eyes. He looked Nayir up and down.

"May I help you?"

"I'm looking for Eric Scarberry."

"I am Eric."

"My name is Nayir ash-Sharqi. I'm a friend of the Shrawis. I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind."

Eric seemed to hesitate, but he stepped aside. "Well, any friend of the Shrawis is a friend of mine. Please come in." Nayir entered a cool foyer.

"What is this about?" Eric asked.

"The death of Nouf ash-Shrawi."

Eric nodded sternly and led Nayir down an elegant hallway and into an enormous sitting room at the center of the house. Broad cedar beams studded a majestic ceiling. The dark wood floors offset the white sofas and chairs, and a slanted skylight let in a touch of sun. The room might have been welcoming if not for the books, thousands of them, each as dusty and ragged as if it had been toted to the desert and back. They crowded the walls, the tables, the chairs. They were stacked on the floor, emitting fungal smells. At their highest reaches, they loomed over the room with the threat of a seismic collapse.

"Have a seat," Eric said. "I'll be right back."

Nayir glanced at the books. Archaeology textbooks, every one of them. He had never seen so many in one place. As he picked his way through the intellectual remnants of one man's obsession with All Things Dead, the floorboards creaked dangerously beneath his weight.

The sight of a courtyard caught his attention. Slipping through a pair of French doors, he entered a cool grotto shaded with lemon trees and palms. The ground shimmered with the vibrant blue of medieval tilework, which rose to form a circular fountain in the center of the patio. Nayir dipped his hands in the water and splashed his neck. How much of it would evaporate each day? Gallons, he thought. Only the superrich could afford such waste. He wiped his neck on his sleeve and looked around. Most Ottoman-style homes in the old town were owned by royalty and Jeddah's elite families; the few that went to market cost millions. Yet this one, it seemed, was owned—or rented—by an American.

Nayir remembered how Juliet had referred to Eric's "friend," and he wondered if Eric was gay. It seemed impossible and foolish—a gay American living in Saudi Arabia. Did he know that the kingdom executed gay men for breaking religious law? According to Nayir's friend Azim, there were plenty of gay men in the Corniche district, but they were discreet, and the authorities tended to leave them alone. When the police wanted to capture gay criminals and make an example of them, they went after foreign men.

Eric appeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame, as lithe as a woman. Nayir kept his eyes on a sprawling mosaic that formed a geometric symphony on the southern wall while he studied Eric from his peripheral vision. He wore khaki trousers and a white linen shirt. His hair, swept back like sails in a breeze, shone despite the shade, and with that faint impatience in his slouch, he made Nayir uneasy.

"Tea?" Eric asked. "Or coffee?"

Nayir faced him. He had trouble matching the svelte Eric with his previous image of a man who would live in a cramped hovel in Club Jed, only returning to pay his bills, and killing his bird out of neglect. "Tea is fine, thank you."

Eric nodded and disappeared. He was, Nayir thought, a terrible match for Juliet as well. She was far too open and friendly, yet there had been a genuine sweetness in her. Nayir didn't know many Americans, but he knew a jackal when he saw one.

He returned to the sitting room just as Eric entered with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. He set them on the coffee table and motioned for Nayir to sit in a powder puff chair that looked to offer all the comforts of a Venus flytrap. Eric returned to the kitchen. Carefully Nayir perched on the edge of the seat and watched with amazement as Eric came back with a large plate of meats, bean paste and breads, spinach pastries that blossomed like roses, broiled peppers and eggplants set like leaves. He noticed Eric's arms, reddened as if they'd been scrubbed clean to the elbow.

Eric poured a drink, sat in the opposite chair, and, without formalities, invited Nayir to eat.

Nayir was unsure about the food. Although refusing it would be awkward and rude, he half wanted to do it, just to see Eric's reaction. But he forced himself to eat a little.

"I always believe in treating guests as if they were kings," Eric said, his nut-brown voice deepened by the food. "It's one of the things I love about this country."

"You're an archaeologist?"

"No, I'm an oil research analyst. My roommate is the archaeologist." He motioned to the books.

"That's an odd combination."

"Well, we do have the desert in common."

"Where exactly do you work?" Nayir asked.

"In the mountains, mostly. The Arabian Shield. There are a number of different sites."

Nayir remembered that the Bedouin map had shown a possible drilling site not too far from the wadi. "I'd like to know precisely where they are, if you don't mind."

Eric hesitated. "Why?"

"Nouf was found in the desert not far from an oil research site."

"You think I had something to do with it?"

"Did you?"

"Of course not!"

Nayir studied his face and decided that his indignation was real. "How do you know the Shrawis?" he asked.

"They've funded my roommate's research in the past. They're very generous donors."

"Is that how you met Nouf?"

If the question alarmed Eric, there was only a slight unease on his face to show for it. "I really didn't know her that well."

"I have it on good word that you were helping her plan an escape to New York."

Eric set his bread on the table. His mouth looked pinched. "I have no idea what you mean."

"I understand that you were meeting Nouf at the Corniche to arrange the terms of your deal."

Eric drew himself up, but Nayir noticed that his hands were shaking. "Listen—Mr. Sharqi, is it? Are you with the police?"

"I'm doing this for the family."

"Yes, fine. Then as a courtesy to the family I'll tell you this. I'm not in the habit of courting young girls from powerful families. If you think her death was suspicious, then I suggest you look into her life, in particular her family life, since that's probably all she knew."

"According to my sources, she was meeting you in various places around the city to arrange a future for herself in New York. You were going to help her get a visa, an apartment, maybe admission to a university—everything she would need."

"And your proof of this is...?"

Nayir reached into his pocket and took out the origami stork. "Have you seen this before?"

"I've seen dozens."

Nayir set the stork on the table. "You gave it to Nouf."

Eric snorted. "I suppose you can prove that."

Unflinching, Nayir reached back into his pocket and took out the key that Muhammad had given him. "And this? Does it look familiar?"

Eric blanched.

"It's a key to your apartment in New York. You also gave this key to Nouf. You told her she could stay there for a while, until her own place was ready." Eric was silent, so Nayir went on. "I think you were helping her. She needed someone to arrange her new life, and she needed an American. You probably liked the idea of assisting. There was money in it. Probably a lot of money. Who knows, maybe you even liked her? She was young and sweet. It was the perfect plan—until you discovered she was pregnant."

Eric sputtered in disbelief, but Nayir ignored it. "That was trouble for you, wasn't it? Even in America. Suddenly she wasn't safe anymore, and you had to get rid of her."

"I did no such thing." Eric stood up. "I think we're finished here."

"If you value your roommate's funding," Nayir growled, "you'll sit down."

Reluctantly Eric slid back into his chair. He crossed his arms and waited.

"Nouf was probably kidnapped and taken to the desert. I'd hazard a guess that one of your drill sites isn't too far from the place where they found her, which makes you the perfect suspect."

Eric didn't reply.

"You can either tell me the truth now and trust me to be discreet, or I'll bring this whole matter to the family," Nayir said. "I'm sure they'll want to know all about it, even if it does ruin their relationship with your ... roommate?"

"All right." Eric exhaled with a noticeable tremor. "I was helping her. She had no one—I was her only link to freedom. But I had absolutely nothing to do with her death. Why would I kill her? She was about to pay me close to half a million riyals." He frowned at his guest. "Now I have nothing."

"So you went to all this trouble to help her and she gave you nothing? Not even a deposit?"

"No—yes, yes, she gave me a little money for the apartment and the university registration. But it wasn't that much."

"A million riyals," Nayir said. "That doesn't seem like a lot to you?" Muhammad had said it was a million riyals. Nayir was willing to concede that the figure might have been overstated, but Eric looked abashed.