Raja Alem - The Dove's Necklace

One day, I’m going to leave a pair of trousers made out of jasmine for you. Just so you can experience the pleasurable suffering of that sweet-smelling freshness for yourself. The dew of the deepest, gentlest touch. I imagined that I was clinging to your back, that the petals were smashed against your solid frame.

I spent the whole night tossing and turning. I couldn’t sleep properly for the disintegrating jasmine and the perfume it released every time I rolled over.

In the morning when I put on my jeans, the jasmine was crushed even further. Imagine what it’s like to face the world in a skin of jasmine.

Attachment: Photo of an amuletthe shape of a half-moon, which Mu’az pilfered from somewhere, having taken a shine to the special trinket, and which then made its way into Mushabbab’s possession. Look at the silver half-moon, one of those old hollow charms which Bedouin women stuff with handwritten scrolls, talismans that can attract, or repel, or make fertile.

For the first time ever, Nasser didn’t shave. He didn’t stare worriedly at the damp patch that was forming on the ceiling above the shower, and the dirty drips from the ceiling didn’t break his train of thought. The gray-haired figure in the bathroom mirror surprised him. That unexpected whiteness was the only evidence of what he’d nearly done the day before: he’d wanted to have sex with a dead woman. Nasser stood there for a long time contemplating that face in the mirror, lost in the truth about himself that had been revealed the day before. Nasser felt a bleak whiteness plundering the Meccan air around him. Was this some disfigurement in the city or was it part of his own body?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a face appeared in his memory. That old man Mu’az had pointed out, whom Nasser had then followed into Mushabbab’s garden where the man was searching for a silver amulet!

Nasser wiped the steam off the mirror then quickly went over to his noticeboard. He found the name and phone number, but then another business card bearing the same name caught his eye. How could he not have noticed that they shared the same last name and phone number? Muflih al-Ghatafani and Son, Research and Investigation, Pilgrimage Research Center. He ran over to his phone to dial the number, not noticing how late it was. It rang and rang, and Nasser thought the number must be out of service, when suddenly a woman’s voice, sluggish and drowsy, picked up: “He’s not in.”

Nothing could daunt the detective. “Where can I find him?” he asked.

He’d woken her up now. “Lying in the National Guard Hospital.”

It was only after Nasser had got dressed and was about to leave the house that he noticed the time.

A Layer of Tar

“T HE NEAREST NATIONAL GUARD HOSPITAL IS IN UMM AL-SALAM, ON THE Jeddah road.” This time he didn’t wait for the elevator that was always dawdling somewhere between floors so that even the attendant could never locate it no matter how much he banged against the door on the ground floor. To Nasser it felt like everything around him was slipping on a thin layer of tar, skidding, still not keeping out a leak of damp. Without hesitating, he scurried down the dark staircase, which was covered in the yellow of the last sandstorm that had blown through Mecca a week before. Nasser headed for the Jeddah road, passing through the Barbie-like facade at the entrance to Mecca in the direction of al-Rusayfa and Road 60. He drove past the cafes and amusement parks and brightly-lit new fish restaurants, finally coming onto the bleak asceticism of the highway that wended between the sand dunes, getting narrower from time to time around volcanic mountains, the expanse only broken by billboards advertising the Sawa and Mobiley cellphone networks or tourism in Malaysia. Nasser felt like he was a long way away from the Lane of Many Heads now, but he wondered whether some stranger was leading him back to the lane and its secrets, which had come to matter more to him than finding out the identity of the murdered woman or her killer.

“Do you have a patient by the name of Muflih al-Ghatafani?” The receptionist’s eyes flicked impassively between Nasser’s face and his police ID a few times, and then consulted the computer:

“Urology ward, room 7.” A moment later, he added, “His doctor signed his discharge papers today.”

Nasser followed the signs until he reached the door of the crowded room with its seven beds. He sighed when he saw the man’s frail body and aged, sunken face. “Mr. al-Ghatafani. We’ve met before. Do you remember me?” The whole row of patients turned to look at him except for the old man, whose eyes were as piercing as a hawk’s.

“Are you from the police? I hope nothing’s the matter,” said a voice behind Nasser, taking him by surprise. He turned around, to discover it was the man’s son.

“We’re still investigating the murder that took place in the Lane of Many Heads, sir. I’ll cut to the chase so I don’t waste your time and mine.” Everyone’s ears perked up. “I know this isn’t a good time, but I wanted to ask you about the silver talisman, uncle.”

“Can’t you see this isn’t the right time for this sort of thing,” the son chided.

“I’m very sorry, but your father’s name has cropped up in Yusuf al-Hujubi’s writings. He mentions that your father owns a lot of old maps and deeds. Can I see them?”

The father cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Really, please don’t drag us into all this crime and terrorism stuff …” He was cut off by the nurse who came in with his discharge papers and a prescription. “Give this to the pharmacist before you leave,” she said.

Nasser could see the man was slipping out of his grasp. The son frowned but said nothing as he helped his father into his wheelchair. He wanted to get away from the suspicious looks around them. He picked up their bag and set it in the old man’s lap, as if claiming innocence of the aspersions cast, knowing well that that booby-trapped word, terrorism, could blow up in their faces.

“I’m begging you, sir. You’re not well enough for me to have you come to the precinct for questioning or to give a statement.” The only response he got was silence, so when they got out in the corridor, the detective caught up with them, unfolded a map showing a line graph and placed it over the bag on al-Ghatafani’s lap. “Have you seen this before?” he asked. Muflih’s wheelchair stopped suddenly and he answered.

“We gave it to Yusuf al-Hujubi. He was doing research on forts in the rural Hijaz at the end of the pre-Islamic period. We gave all our evidence to the son of the slaves, that one with the orchard. This is my cellphone number. You can call and make an appointment any time.”

Nasser followed them down the hospital’s long corridors, to the pharmacy and then out to the parking lot. He helped them into the car and before they shut the door, he leaned down next to Muflih al-Ghatafani and said, “Don’t worry. I’m just trying to gather information. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.”

Muflih al-Ghatafani looked back at him, looked through him, and asked a question that caught him off guard. “Are you working for the police or for Bin al-” Nasser didn’t catch the name; it had been drowned out by the noise of the engine that had been turned on at exactly the same time. The car moved away. Nasser stood stock still, desperately trying to work out what the sounds al-Ghatafani had uttered were: Bin al- …? The car was nearly out of sight by then. Nasser ran to his own car.

Nasser started the engine distractedly. He was passing the guards at the hospital gate when a police car overtook him, siren blaring into the silence. When he reached the highway overpass where one exit led to Mecca and the other to Jeddah, a whole cluster of police cars and their sirens brought him back to reality. From the overpass, he could see a traffic jam below, cars queueing up to rubber-neck, as well as the huge truck and beneath it, flattened like a pancake, a blue car. His heart began to pound before his mind had time to process the information.