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.
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.
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?
Above him, the mattress creaked. In another bunk a man began to snore. The sounds of deep, heavy breathing seemed to come from all directions. They must have been exhausted, and he supposed that by this time tomorrow he would be, too. He wondered if he would be able to meet the demands of the workday.
Sam reached toward the foot of the bed, groping in the dark for his jacket. He folded it to use as a pillow, then closed his eyes and tried to relax.
Just as he was drifting off he heard bare feet hit the floor, like the sound of a small animal dropping from a tree. Something gripped his bed frame, making it quiver, and he heard quickened breathing. He smelled onions. Ramesh. He tensed, ready to defend himself. There was a low mutter, like an incantation, and sudden movement to his left. The smell of onions was stronger, and when Ramesh spoke next his mouth was only a few inches from his face.
The words were rushed, emphatic, and incomprehensible, some Bengali curse or imprecation. Then the man was gone, the bed trembling as he released his grip. Sam let out a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Now what had that been? A warning? A threat? Some sort of superstitious spell, to ward off Sam’s influence? Whatever it was, it certainly hadn’t sounded like an apology.
There was a creak of springs from across the room as Ramesh climbed back into his bunk, and the room was again at peace. But for the next half hour Sam didn’t close his eyes. He kept wondering whether Ramesh would pay him another visit, this time with more violent intent. The air conditioner droned on, changing in tone from time to time like a truck shifting gears on an uphill grade. Gradually, without realizing it, Sam slipped from wakefulness. And just as quickly, it seemed, he was being jostled awake.
He opened his eyes and felt the bed shake as the man in the overhead bunk jumped to the floor. All around him in the dimness men were rising, pulling on jumpsuits and boots, the scene lit by a lantern in the courtyard that shone through the room’s open door. The air conditioner was off.
“Hurry, or you will not have time to eat,” Vikram said, bending to his side, then quickly rising back out of sight. Sam wrenched himself upright and swung his feet onto the floor. He was groggy, ravenous, and thirsty all at once, and he was already worrying about how high he would have to climb on whatever site the bus took them to.
The workday had begun.
15
Waking up in the Dubai Central Jail wasn’t how Anwar Sharaf had hoped to begin his day, especially when he opened his eyes to see a cockroach eating crumbs from the beard of the inmate in the opposite bunk.
Sharaf reached across the narrow aisle to flick at the big brown bug. It scurried away. With four other cellmates to choose from, the roach had plenty of options for breakfast.
Already Sharaf missed the comforts of nuzzling Amina’s back, his usual harbor on a drowsy morning. He had grown accustomed to her welcoming shift and sigh as he glided against her, hand on her shoulder while his waist bumped her soft curves below. Except, of course, on mornings like the previous one, when she had still been angry from the night before.
Even with only one wife, Sharaf reflected, marriage was complicated. As he slumbered on the jailhouse bunk he
