still existed in some quarters under the less charged name of domestic help. There were about fifteen thousand runaway housemaids in the country, plenty of them in Jeddah and not half of them reported. But even if there were only two, that would still be too many single women running around without money, food, shelter, or proper domestic visas. And anyway, if Eve had been killed by her employers, chances were they wouldn’t have reported her missing.
Please, not another housemaid.
Rationally, he knew it was no worse than any other kind of murder, but with housemaids there was the added horror of the victim being so far from family and home and, in most homicide cases, of having been physically, sexually, or emotionally abused, or at the very least subjugated by strangers who thought they were superior.
Osama glanced at the body again. Her jeans, twisted around her ankles, were caked in sand and salt. “The water wouldn’t have torn her jeans off like that. Someone tried to rip them off.”
“Yes,” Majdi said.
“Do you think you’ll find any hairs or fibers on them?”
“Maybe.” Red-faced, Majdi got to his feet and wiped his hands together. “Of course the seawater washed almost everything away, but I’ll do a third check when we get back to the lab.” He gave a weak smile. “She’s also wearing a Metallica T-shirt.”
Osama looked at the body again. “Housemaids don’t usually wear Metallica T-shirts,” he said with a twinge of hope.
5
N ayir knew he wouldn’t be able to eat, but he offered to make dinner anyway. His uncle was looking pale, and he felt that the older man could use the company. Earlier that day Samir had learned of the sudden death of his friend Qadhi.
“The police won’t tell me anything,” Samir said, after half an hour on the phone with them.
Nayir was standing at the counter mashing eggplant with a fork, preparing one of the two cold dishes he knew. It seemed to get hotter every week, which was difficult to imagine in a world of already scandalous temperatures. Nayir’s appetite, typically reliable, had shrunk by degrees so that now he ate only when he felt weak, or when Samir began commenting on his appearance.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to find out more in the morning,” Nayir said.
“Hmmph. Are we ready to eat?” Samir asked.
“Not yet, I have to pray first.”
“Oh.” His uncle’s face fell. “Why don’t you wait until after dinner? It’ll be more satisfying then anyway.”
“Prayer time is now,” Nayir said, glancing at the clock. He left the room before his uncle could give him another lecture on the perils of taking one’s religion too seriously.
“Eating ought to be like prayer to you,” Samir called after him. “You need the nourishment.”
Once Nayir returned, they began the meal. A few months ago he might have been willing to fake a robust appetite to appease his uncle. But he was tired of pretending, and what with the sweat trickling down his back, he could barely manage to sit comfortably in the old vinyl chair. He couldn’t tell anymore if this lethargy was caused by the heat or by a more general discontent that, Samir had rightly noted, seemed to be getting worse.
Samir took a piece of bread from the stack on the table and ate in the room’s heavy silence. “You know,” he said finally, “you might have better luck at getting some answers about Qadhi’s death than I. You could talk to the coroner’s office.”
Nayir was fairly certain that he’d kept his face in control, but the mention of the coroner’s office instantly stirred an image of Katya from his memory.
“It’s only been a day,” he told his uncle. “Maybe the police need time to get their paperwork in order.”
Samir grunted. “You know, when your parents died, it took them six months to figure out what had caused the crash.” He looked at Nayir with sympathy, aware that this was always a sensitive subject. Nayir wanted to tell him not to worry. The
Please, not another housemaid.
Rationally, he knew it was no worse than any other kind of murder, but with housemaids there was the added horror of the victim being so far from family and home and, in most homicide cases, of having been physically, sexually, or emotionally abused, or at the very least subjugated by strangers who thought they were superior.
Osama glanced at the body again. Her jeans, twisted around her ankles, were caked in sand and salt. “The water wouldn’t have torn her jeans off like that. Someone tried to rip them off.”
“Yes,” Majdi said.
“Do you think you’ll find any hairs or fibers on them?”
“Maybe.” Red-faced, Majdi got to his feet and wiped his hands together. “Of course the seawater washed almost everything away, but I’ll do a third check when we get back to the lab.” He gave a weak smile. “She’s also wearing a Metallica T-shirt.”
Osama looked at the body again. “Housemaids don’t usually wear Metallica T-shirts,” he said with a twinge of hope.
5
N ayir knew he wouldn’t be able to eat, but he offered to make dinner anyway. His uncle was looking pale, and he felt that the older man could use the company. Earlier that day Samir had learned of the sudden death of his friend Qadhi.
“The police won’t tell me anything,” Samir said, after half an hour on the phone with them.
Nayir was standing at the counter mashing eggplant with a fork, preparing one of the two cold dishes he knew. It seemed to get hotter every week, which was difficult to imagine in a world of already scandalous temperatures. Nayir’s appetite, typically reliable, had shrunk by degrees so that now he ate only when he felt weak, or when Samir began commenting on his appearance.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to find out more in the morning,” Nayir said.
“Hmmph. Are we ready to eat?” Samir asked.
“Not yet, I have to pray first.”
“Oh.” His uncle’s face fell. “Why don’t you wait until after dinner? It’ll be more satisfying then anyway.”
“Prayer time is now,” Nayir said, glancing at the clock. He left the room before his uncle could give him another lecture on the perils of taking one’s religion too seriously.
“Eating ought to be like prayer to you,” Samir called after him. “You need the nourishment.”
Once Nayir returned, they began the meal. A few months ago he might have been willing to fake a robust appetite to appease his uncle. But he was tired of pretending, and what with the sweat trickling down his back, he could barely manage to sit comfortably in the old vinyl chair. He couldn’t tell anymore if this lethargy was caused by the heat or by a more general discontent that, Samir had rightly noted, seemed to be getting worse.
Samir took a piece of bread from the stack on the table and ate in the room’s heavy silence. “You know,” he said finally, “you might have better luck at getting some answers about Qadhi’s death than I. You could talk to the coroner’s office.”
Nayir was fairly certain that he’d kept his face in control, but the mention of the coroner’s office instantly stirred an image of Katya from his memory.
“It’s only been a day,” he told his uncle. “Maybe the police need time to get their paperwork in order.”
Samir grunted. “You know, when your parents died, it took them six months to figure out what had caused the crash.” He looked at Nayir with sympathy, aware that this was always a sensitive subject. Nayir wanted to tell him not to worry. The