“This is Umm Ali,” Feisal said. “Ali’s mother. Drink your tea, Vicky, she asked if you would prefer something else.”
I would have risked blistering my fingers rather than offend, but in the nick of time I remembered the technique—thumb under the thick glass of the bottom, fingers steadying the rim. I nodded vigorously at the old lady, bared my teeth in a grin, and sipped. The tea was strong and very sweet. Cavities, here I come, it proclaimed.
I was the last to do my duty. As soon as I had done so, Feisal launched into a series of questions. Umm Ali responded. I couldn’t understand a word, so I tried to figure out which of the other women was Ali’s wife, nodding and smiling as my gaze met one pair of brown or black eyes after another. One woman, veiled as well as swathed, had eyes of a paler shade; she ducked her head shyly when I looked at her. To judge by her attire, she was too old to be the wife, but what did I know? Mama was obviously the one in charge. The others were probably part of an extended family, which could include sisters and aunts and even more-distant relatives. They didn’t say a word. A couple of the men present joined in after a while, adding brief comments, but deferring, as the women had done, to the matriarch. From the back part of the house I heard a donkey bray and a duck quack. A chicken wandered into the room, its head cocked in that deceptive look of intelligence chickens have, and tried to get up on my lap. I pushed it off and smiled apologetically at the woman on my left, hoping I had not been rude. I have nothing against chickens except for the fact that they are not housebroken.
Rejected, the chicken approached John. I hoped it would hop up on him, but something in his frozen glare must have penetrated even its feeble chicken brain. It backed off. I had finished most of my tea and was feeling strangely comfortable; the animal sounds and smells took me back to the days of my childhood on my family’s farm in Minnesota, where I learned to love the scent of a well-manured garden.
Feisal broke the mood, addressing me directly. “I don’t suppose you understood any of that. Sorry about the chicken,” he added.
“No problem. Would I be rude to ask for more tea?”
“Yes,” John said firmly.
“No,” Feisal said. “But we shouldn’t spend more time here. I’ll explain after we—”
“I have a question,” Schmidt said.
“Later, Schmidt.”
“But I—”
“Not now!” Feisal’s voice rose. It was his first display of emotion, but I realized he had been holding himself in tight control the whole time.
The concluding formalities took almost as much time as the initial ceremony, but after repeated “shukrans” and “maasalamas” we edged ourselves out. An escort of children followed us down the hillside to the taxi.
“What was in that tea?” John demanded of me. He brushed a few feathers off his sleeve. “You looked as if you were prepared to squat there indefinitely.”
“I was having a nice time,” I said dreamily. “They were all so nice. It was a nice chicken.”
John gave up on me. “Never mind the bloody chicken; what did they say?”
“They believe he is dead,” Schmidt said soberly. “The poor mama asked us to find his body so he can receive a proper burial.”
Feisal closed his mouth with an audible snap. “Why don’t you go ahead and repeat everything that was said? I wasn’t aware your Arabic was that good.”
Schmidt realized he had offended, though he didn’t know why. “I have been studying,” he said humbly. “I understood that much, but not all. I am sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Feisal shook his head. “I’m a little on edge. If they’re right, it’s my fault.”
According to what Mama had told Feisal, the family had no proof of foul play, but the signs weren’t encouraging. Never once had Ali failed to return home after his hours of work. Never once had he stopped at a coffee shop or spent time gossiping with friends. Never once had he taken a trip without telling his mother where he was going and for how long.
“Does he tell the old lady everything?” I asked.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Damn right,” I said, remembering those beady black eyes.
“Not everything, I hope,” John said.
“Not about the—er—theft,” Feisal amended.
“That is what I wanted to ask,” Schmidt said.
“I don’t think so. I couldn’t ask directly. She said something had been worrying him, he had been short-tempered and moody for days, but when she asked, he said nothing was wrong. Then, day before yesterday, he came home looking—I quote—‘as if he had seen a vision of Paradise.’ Great things were in store for him, for all of them.”
“He’d spoken with Ashraf,” John said.
“That would be my guess. Why isn’t this damned taxi moving?”
“Maybe because you haven’t told him where you want to go,” I suggested.
T he sun was setting behind us as we sailed back across the river. Feisal had allowed as how he ought to check in with his office, which was near the Luxor Museum on the East Bank and go to his flat to change before joining us for dinner. I figured I ought to have a look at Schmidt’s wounded finger, which he was exhibiting in an unintentionally (I think) vulgar gesture.
It wasn’t broken, just scraped and bruised; with the first-aid kit Schmidt produced from his magic suitcase I cleaned the digit and wound enough bandages around it to satisfy him. We joined John on the balcony, where he was mumbling into his cell phone. I sat as far from him as I could get and enjoyed the view. The river was ablaze with reflected light and the western cliffs had turned a soft shade of purple. Gorgeous as the view was, I couldn’t recapture the relaxed mood I had enjoyed for too brief a time. Not without a chicken.
I had allowed nostalgic memories to distract me because I didn’t want to think about our reason for being there—about the possibility that the guard’s body might be lying in a shallow grave somewhere in the sand of the West Bank. We’d hashed and rehashed theories all the way back. Had Ali, after all, decided to go into hiding? Possible, but not likely, considering his mother’s testimony as to his habits and mood. Had he seen or heard something during the robbery without realizing at the time that it was important? Plausible, but that opened up a whole list of other unanswerable questions. When had it dawned on him that he had vital information, and what had he done about it? Would he have approached the thieves and tried to blackmail them? Supposing they were responsible for his disappearance, how else could they have found out he had to be silenced?
John finished his conversation and addressed Schmidt. “Ashraf claims Ali said absolutely nothing to him that would indicate he had new information.”
“But how closely did he question Ali?” Schmidt demanded. “Did Ashraf perhaps ask a question or make a statement that triggered a forgotten memory in the mind of the poor fellow?”
“Do you suppose I neglected to ask him that?” John demanded. “If he did, he has no idea what it might have been. You can sit here drinking beer and concocting scenarios all you like, but it won’t get us anywhere.”
The sunset colors had faded into rose and gray and the voices of the muezzins had died into silence. John’s voice had that ugly edge that always rubs me the wrong way. “So what are you doing to get us somewhere?” I inquired. “Not a damn thing that I can see. Time is running out and you—”