angrily from the deck at the idling Sharaf.
“Get to work, you lazy slug, or I’ll cut your share!”
But Sharaf had to see this through. Finally, after another agonizing minute, and more taunts from above, something seemed to burst loose in his chest, like a pigeon fluttering free from a cage. Ali’s rope was still taut in the water next to him. Then it shook twice. The
“Forty feet!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Look at the size of them!”
His bucket overflowed with huge, encrusted shells. The lesson was like a tonic, and from then on Sharaf was never quite as fearful.
And so, as he slid into sleep with his newest doubts and concerns, Sharaf allowed himself to be carried ever deeper, as if again towed by a load of India zinc, while searching the currents of his dreams for answers he might take back to the surface.
Just as he was reaching the limit of his tether, the telephone rang.
Sharaf slowly pulled himself upward, keeping pace with his bubbles until he opened his eyes to the glowing red digits of the bedside clock: 3:37 a.m.
The phone rang again.
His cell phone, he realized, clear across the room on the bureau. Amina, right on cue, grumbled about the terrible demands of his job and rolled onto her side.
He stood, walked slowly to the bureau, and answered in businesslike fashion.
“Sharaf.”
It was the Minister. Not even Amina was privy to this new arrangement, and up to now Sharaf had always taken these calls from a room of his own at the center of the house, a windowless sanctum where he conducted family business and the affairs of his business investments. But the Minister sounded impatient. Sharaf would have to guard his language.
Amina folded her pillow around her ears, but still couldn’t block out the sound. This was the one-way conversation she heard from her side of the bed:
“The York Club? Yes, of course. Nationality?”
Pause.
“If true, that will complicate things. Who’s the attending officer?”
Pause.
“Yes, I am familiar with him.”
Pause.
“He won’t like it. But certainly, I’ll do what’s necessary.”
Pause.
“Yes, I am on my way.”
The phone snapped shut.
Twenty years earlier, Sharaf would have been off and running, forsaking coffee to hop immediately into his car. He would have buttoned his shirt as he drove, not bothering to even loop his belt or lace his boots until he reached the scene.
Nowadays he knew better. He dressed deliberately and marshalled his energy, standing by the bed for a moment to let gravity ease his sleepy joints back into place. The arches of his feet ached as he detoured to the toilet for a pee, a reluctant stream. Amina, despite her misgivings about his work, belted her robe and shuffled loyally to the kitchen to brew coffee. He lingered over his cup, chewing a wedge of bread to soak up the acid.
The Minister had expressed urgency, of course, but Sharaf was better acquainted with how these things worked. A dead body couldn’t flee the scene, and in any event he would have to tread lightly, because another detective had already laid claim to the territory. It would be best to let the players get comfortable in their roles before he arrived. Of course, he would have to concoct an excuse for being there at all, one that didn’t involve the Minister.
“Anwar, what is it?” Amina stood by the stove, frowning. “What’s happening with your job? Something’s changed, hasn’t it? Who was on the phone just now?”
“No one you need to know about. Trust me. It should all be over in a few weeks.”
“Well, don’t wait too late to ask for help. Even if I’m the only one left to ask.”
“Thank you.”
She lingered in case there was more, and for a moment Sharaf considered telling her everything. It would have been a relief. But it would also have been a hazard, mostly for her, so he said nothing. She turned toward the bedroom, resigned to his secrecy. He swallowed the last of his coffee, grabbed his keys, and went out into the cool darkness of the wee hours.
Sharaf drove a Camry, same model as every taxi in town. Cheap and unassuming, but you could hit a hundred if necessary. Practical, like the old ways. Incredibly, after only a few miles he ran into a backup at an underpass, due to yet another cataclysmic accident. The previous week, twenty-one people had been killed on the roads in a span of only three days. This time a Ferrari F430 was wrapped in a fatal embrace with a concrete abutment. A crumpled Jaguar XKR, spun sideways, smoldered next to it. More than a million dirhams worth of rubble. Sharaf crept past with the window down. The traffic police were supervising, an all-Syrian crew as far as he could tell from their accents. From his familiarity with the courthouse schedule, he knew that any survivors would be arraigned later that morning before a Palestinian judge. Oh, well. Someone had to keep the damn country running.
When he arrived at the York, a nervous barmaid with circles under her eyes directed him to the corridor where
