Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

It had been a restless night. Amina had returned home from grocery shopping to be scandalized by the unannounced presence of an unfamiliar male. She viewed Keller’s installation as a workplace incursion into her domestic fiefdom. She nonetheless rose to the demands of hospitality by preparing a huge dinner and making strained conversation for a few hours. But just when the mood had started to loosen, Keller had put things back on edge by asking, “So tell me about the living arrangements in your compound. Who lives in the other three houses?”

That was sometimes the problem with Western guests, particularly Americans. Show them a little warmth and they assumed an awkward familiarity. They were always wanting you to “open up,” as if candor equaled friendship.

To make matters worse, Laleh proceeded to answer with unnecessary frankness.

“Well, Salim lives in one. He’s the one you saw arguing with Father. He’s the eldest, with two wives and four children. My brother Rahim has the smallest house, which is just as well, since he is twenty-nine and lives by himself. My two other brothers are both still students, living abroad.”

Not noticing her mother’s chilly glare or her father’s doomed look of woe, Laleh rattled on like a runaway train. Perhaps the American’s appreciative smile was leading her into peril. Amina undoubtedly noticed that as well.

“The third house is the most interesting. It belongs to my aunt and my cousins. My father invited them to build there because he felt sorry for them. His brother shocked everyone by dying without a penny to his name.”

The airing of the last point was especially awkward. Sharaf’s decision had always been a sore point with Amina. Accommodating a fourth house meant the other three had to be smaller, and Amina had never liked Sharaf’s elderly aunt. He understood his wife’s resentment, but there were deeper and more secretive reasons for his generosity, ones that he never intended to share with anyone.

Shortly after Laleh’s soliloquy, Amina stiffly offered her regrets and marched off to bed, leaving the cleanup to her loose-lipped daughter.

Sharaf had braced for the worst when he finally headed for the bedroom.

“I know, I know, I know,” he said preemptively as he joined his wife. He hadn’t even bothered to pour a glass of camel’s milk, knowing it would settle poorly after the beating he was about to take. “Having the American here is an imposition, and I apologize. I’ll have him out of here as soon as possible. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure that Laleh doesn’t say another word to him.”

Amina said nothing in reply. She offered only a glare over her shoulder as she dressed for sleep. When she settled into the mattress she rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. Her matronly hips curved beneath the sheets like a distant, imposing bluff, snowy and insurmountable. Her continuing silence was unnerving. It was like bedding down next to a volcano. Eventually there would be an eruption, and the longer she remained inactive, the more violent the eventual explosion would be. Sharaf decided to vent some steam.

“If it’s any comfort, no one outside our family knows about this. There will be no hint of scandal with regard to Laleh. So if anyone from my office calls, for whatever reason, don’t mention a word.”

“So what you’re doing is also illegal? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Of course not.”

“Wonderful. What crime has this man committed? Fornication? Rape, even?”

“Please, Amina. I can assure you he has committed no crime at all.”

“Which is why no one can know he is here, because he is so pure and innocent. Yes, you’re making perfect sense. Good night, Anwar. Trouble me no more, please.”

Great. He had made her even angrier. Meaning he didn’t dare reveal his own worries, which would have upset her more. Because to Sharaf’s mind, Keller’s presence imperiled far more than social propriety. If word leaked out, he could imagine armed intruders scaling the wall of the family compound to pry open doors and windows in the dead of night. Rogue policemen, or worse, would be at their doorstep.

He tried to relax by reading Dostoevsky, but every line about guilt and torment only reminded him of his predicament, so he soon turned out the light. When he awoke shortly before five he knew it was useless to try to get back to sleep before prayers. So he rose, washed his hands and face, and then retreated to the parlor, where he knelt to pray. First he completed the late prayer from the night before, having forgotten it amid the turmoil of the evening. Then, a few minutes ahead of schedule, he offered the morning prayer, followed by a hasty version of the midday prayer. These three-for-one sessions weren’t exactly by the book, but he had learned to appreciate their economy on the pearling boat. Sharaf doubted God minded a few shortcuts. It was like dealing with any authority figure, he supposed. Show some respect and you’d generally be left to your own devices.

He brewed a pot of coffee and took a steaming cup to his office at the center of the house, where he shut the door, opened his cell phone, and punched in the number for the Minister, another early riser.

“Sharaf?”

“Just checking in.”

“Early, but I’m glad you called. I have something for you. Straight from the heart of the matter.”

“Our Slavic friends?”

“Word from the Tsar himself. Via my contacts, of course.” The Minister claimed to have sources in all sorts of unlikely places. Sharaf didn’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed.

“Big doings tonight. A rare summit conference with the Persians. Eight o’clock.”

“I thought we called them Iranians now. What’s the location?”

“Neutral territory, out in the open. The mall at the Burjuman. Beyond that, my source couldn’t be more specific, but I’m sure you’ll manage to find them.”

“Probably one of the restaurants in the upper courtyard. What’s the agenda?”

“That’s what I want you to find out.”

“Hard to see how, unless they invite me to join them.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a resourceful man.”

“Who tells you these things?”

“About you or the Russians? And what does it matter, as long as it’s correct? By the way, about that American.”

Sharaf tensed. He wondered what the Minister had heard.

“The dead one?”

“The live one. The witness. I’m told he has disappeared.”

“I heard the same thing.”

“You know nothing more?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you were interested in him. You told me so yourself.”

“And you said to steer clear.”

“Come on, Sharaf. I know how you operate. Where do you think he’s gone?”

“To the embassy in Abu Dhabi, if he has any brains.”

“Seeking asylum? Do you really think they would smuggle him out?”

“His employer certainly has the clout. You’re the one with the connections. You tell me.”

Silence. Sharaf suspected the Minister was smiling knowingly, having guessed the truth but trusting Sharaf not to screw things up. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

“Don’t make trouble for us, Sharaf. Don’t get reckless on me.”

“Of course not.”

“And keep me posted on tonight’s events.”

That went without saying.

A few moments later, the dawn call to prayer sounded from the neighborhood mosque, with its signature line, “Prayer is better than sleep.” He heard Laleh groan in disagreement from her bed as he trooped to the kitchen for more coffee. Still not a peep out of Keller. He expected Amina to appear in her robe to make breakfast, as was her custom. When she didn’t he sighed and made it himself, setting out fruit, bread, and yogurt on the table. Then he unfolded the morning’s fresh copy of Gulf News , his daily means of keeping up with the English-speaking world.