Dan Fesperman - Layover in Dubai

One of the men on the floor eyed him carefully, then nodded.

“Go left from the blockhouse,” he said quietly. His English was perfect. “Four hundred meters. The Al Madina market. You will see it.”

“Thank you.”

The man resumed eating without another word.

The Al Madina was tiny and crowded, every aisle jammed with men. To Sam’s surprise there was an abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables. He didn’t know if the prices were decent or not. He piled eggplant, green peppers, bananas, oranges, flatbread, and cooking oil into a basket, along with a two-kilogram bag of rice. Fresh meat was for sale, but at seemingly outrageous rates, so he turned to the freezer. He avoided the frozen carp and some buffalo product labeled as “Bobby Veal,” settling instead on chicken parts. Then he bought soap, a towel, a toothbrush, and a set of sheets. The only ones for sale had a wildly colorful pattern of bright green palm trees against an orange beach.

To his surprise, there were a few other shops as well-a small pharmacy, a narrow restaurant selling rotisserie chicken and kebabs, a jeweler, a cell phone dealer, and a small photography store where you could develop film or buy a disposable camera. He supposed there must be a market for sending pictures home, especially for family members who had been away for years. There was also a lottery kiosk that seemed to be doing a brisk business-the great, faint hope of the world’s dispossessed.

When he returned to the room, Ramesh was still sulking with his back to the others. Sam tried to make as little fuss as possible while making his bed. He put his perishables into one of several small refrigerators set on the floor between the beds. No one had labeled anything, so he supposed there was an honor system.

He took a few pieces of chicken and one of the peppers and chopped them on a table outside. He had to wait half an hour for one of the burners to become available, and it gave him time to work up an appetite. It was only when he was almost finished cooking that he realized he had no plate or utensils. That’s when he noticed the fellow from his room who spoke English hovering nearby.

“Here,” the young man said, handing over the large bowl he had just washed, along with a clean spoon.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“The bed you are in. It belonged to Ramesh’s friend, Sanjay. They came here together, from the same village. That is why he is angry.”

“Tell him that Sanjay can have his bed back, as long as I have somewhere else to sleep.”

“Sanjay is dead. He fell last week from the twenty-seventh story. He was standing at the edge, and the wind came.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ramesh has been a little crazy since then. He believes that a demon was responsible. When he saw your white face taking Sanjay’s bed, he said you were the demon, and had come to disturb his soul. Ramesh has been here eleven years. Too long.”

“Sounds like it. How long have you been here?”

“Three years. It is only this year that I no longer owe money to the people who brought me.”

“How long will you stay, then?”

The young man shook his head, as if those sorts of questions weren’t even remotely answerable.

“I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Vikram.” He didn’t offer a last name. Sam had yet to hear anyone mention one.

“You should hurry,” Vikram said. “Lights-out in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.”

“And take care around Ramesh. When you are working, I mean. If he thinks you are a demon, well…”

“Yes. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So why do you come here?”

He considered offering his own demons as an excuse, but figured the sarcasm would be misunderstood, perhaps even resented. So he offered what he hoped was a safe approximation of the truth.

“I have been having troubles in the city. A friend thought this would be a good place for me to stay until things are better. What time will they wake us in the morning?”

“Five. Before the sun. You must be waiting for the bus at five twenty, or it will leave without you, and you will not be paid.”

Vikram turned to go before Sam could ask more. He ate hastily and washed out the bowl and spoon at an outdoor spigot. There wasn’t time to shower, so he scrubbed his hands and face, and brushed his teeth at the same spigot. When he returned to the room all the other bunks were occupied. A few men were reading magazines or newspapers. Two were playing cards. Vikram was writing a letter. Four snapshots of children were arrayed beside him on the bed. Ramesh was still facing the wall, either asleep or brooding. Someone had switched on the air conditioner, which droned and rattled, and gave off a whiff of mildew.

It was then that he remembered Laleh’s note. He retrieved it from his pocket as he was undressing for bed, stripping down to his briefs. Then he lay on his side in the dim light and opened the folded paper, while hoping that no one would be able to read it over his shoulder.

Dear Mr. Keller…

The handwriting was neat and proper, although not the least bit girlish. The salutation was certainly more formal than he would have preferred, but it struck a tone she maintained throughout, as if she wasn’t at all accustomed to engaging in this sort of correspondence. But a certain warmth also came through.

Thank you for entrusting yourself into Ali’s care. Even though I know you must have reservations, I can assure you that he will only do what he deems to be in your best interests. Nonetheless, I hope that you will also consider me to be an important part of your support network. Ali obviously has valuable connections, but I do as well, and among them are people who neither he nor my father are aware of (or, in my father’s case, would even want to be aware of, as you probably well understand!) .

In other words, please do not think of me as helpless or overly dependent in these matters, as so many men here would be inclined to do. Should an urgent situation arise, do not hesitate to contact me for assistance. I remain at your service, both as my father’s representative, and, I hope, as your friend .

With best regards ,

Laleh Sharaf

He smiled to contemplate how her father would have regarded such a note. It made him hope anew that Sharaf was okay, although the news had sounded grim. With any luck maybe they would both survive long enough for him to see the policeman’s reaction to Laleh’s newfound autonomy. Whatever happened, the old fellow was going to find a changed daughter on his return. The nature of fatherhood, he supposed, thinking fondly of his own dad.

He folded the note and put it back in the pocket of his trousers. Seconds later, without warning, the lights went out. Conversation halted, and he heard the rattle of paper as men put aside their things. Bed frames creaked as everyone settled in. Soon the cramped little room was silent.

A few minutes later the evening call to prayer sounded from a small mosque Sam had seen near the market. No one stirred among the Hindus. It was such a lonely sound, like a voice calling out from across the ocean.

By now, Sam figured, Nanette was probably enjoying a lavish dinner on Pfluger Klaxon’s tab, or watching a pay-per-view movie on her hotel room’s HD screen, bare legs curled beneath her on the large, comfy bed. Or maybe she was huddled at the consulate with Hal Liffey, planning what to do once Sam was finally flushed from cover.

Well, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He would wait them out, and then dodge whoever they left in their wake. He would stay in this work camp for days-even weeks if necessary.

But what if even then no one came to retrieve him? He supposed that at some point he might simply have to walk away from this building, back toward the highway, where he would hitchhike to Media City. If all else failed, Laleh would take him in. Odd to think of her as his closest ally now, but that was certainly what her note was encouraging him to do, and he liked the idea. Was it mostly because her father was a cop? Or was it more because he was attracted to her, and sensed that the feeling was mutual?