Date with a Sheesha (18 page)

Neil’s personal digital assistant was a simple model. Before long, I found an address book stored on the device. Then, better yet, a calendar. I scrolled through Neil’s recent schedule. Lectures and meetings. Lectures and meetings. That was his life. The lectures were to fulfill his responsibilities to the University of Dubai.

The meetings, I could only guess, were to fulfill his responsibilities to the University of Saskatchewan, i.e. to get them their rugs.

I moved on to today’s date, Saturday, January 31. The only entry was for eight o’clock that night. It said: Aashiq BAA, followed by a number. I quickly pulled out the detailed itinerary Colin Cardinale had given me. It included all the wheres and who withs of Neil’s time here. I searched the paper document for Saturday, January 31.

Blank.

Discrepancy. I like discrepancies.

I picked up the phone on my desk and dialled Alastair Hallwood’s office extension.

“Greetings,” he answered cheerfully.

“Alastair, it’s Russell Quant.”

“Russell! Is this an invitation to lunch? How grand.”

I glanced down at my watch. It was just after one. I
was
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ting a bit peckish. “Question first,” I responded.

“Shoot, old boy.”

“Does the term Aashiq B-A-A mean anything to you?”

“Hmmm. Aashiq, no. BAA is sometimes used as a nickname.”

“Nickname for what?”

“Burj Al Arab of course. You may have noticed it? Big thumb sticking out of the water?”

“Oh.”

“You’re not thinking of the BAA for lunch are you? We’ll never get in. They take reservations months in advance. They don’t even allow a bloke to set foot on the property unless you’re a paying guest or have a reservation. You even need a reservation for a pint at the bar. Splendid snobbery, isn’t it?”

“Alastair, I understand it was you who identified Neil’s body.” Smooth segues are overrated.

After a brief hesitation he answered, “Well, yes it was. There was no family around, you see. I was…I was his friend as well as his colleague, and, well, it had to be me.”

“I’m sorry to bring all this up. I was a friend of Neil’s too.”

“I understand, old boy. You want…oh what do you Yanks call it…closure? You need to know these things to help you get past this dreadful thing. Especially you, Russell. Having to come all this way to finish what your friend started. Having to work in his office, live in his apartment, work with his colleagues. Ghastly for you, if you ask me. Wasn’t there anyone else? Anyone at all?”

I hated lying to this man, but it was necessary if I was going to get out of him what I needed to. “Just me.” I tried to sound sad sack-ish.

“Well, I hope you know that I am here to help you in any way I can. And Hema too, of course.” He sniggered a bit. “Especially the lovely Hema.”

“There is one thing, Alastair.”

“You want me to pay for lunch?” He sounded quite disappointed.

“How about this: I pay for lunch. Then you take me somewhere I need to go.”

“Done.”

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Chapter 9

My lunch with Alastair turned into a longer affair than I’d planned. Many of the souks close after the morning busy time, and don’t reopen until late afternoon. But, I found, there are less pleasant things than spending a couple of hours with an amusing Brit in Dubai. Afterwards, Umar dropped us off at a place he referred to as the Bur Dubai Abra Station, next to a very active waterway.

“What is this place?” I asked Alastair as he led me closer to the waterfront.

The water was incredibly bright, a vivid turquoise I would have thought impossible in nature. Dancing across the surface were small whitecaps spattered with gold, reflecting off the sheet glass of spectacular high-rises that grew along the opposite bank.

“This is Dubai Creek,” he told me. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”

“A creek? At home this would be called a river.”

“Dubai Creek is the heart of the city,” Alastair told me, donning sunglasses as he surveyed the sight with undisguised affection.

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“What are those?” I said, pointing at a collection of odd-looking craft. Some were sitting against the opposite shore, while others sailed in and out from some point far beyond a distant inlet. If there were dinosaur versions of boats, these would be them. They were long and squat, made of aged wood that looked like a good home for worms and rot. A few were gaily painted, but most were brown like dirt. More than a few appeared as if it they might fall to pieces if a stiff wind came down the creek. Aboard, not a square inch of space was left unused, except for what was needed for the crew to navigate the boat. So loaded were they, it was a wonder they didn’t capsize from the excess weight. Their cargo manifests would make interesting reading. The boats seemed to carry everything under the sun: from cartons of Pepsi, to couches and air conditioners, to sacks brimming over with who knows what. Many of the bows were criss-crossed with lines heavy with laundry and cooking pots and pans, all hung to dry in the sizzling midday sun.

People lived on these small vessels.

“Those are the dhows,” Alastair said. “Mostly from Iran.

Delivering and picking up cargo. You’ll get a closer look when we pass by.”

Uh, what? “Pass by?”

“We need to cross here to get to the Deira souks. That’s where Neil was on the night of his death. That’s what you wanted to see, isn’t it?”

We stepped onto an
abra
, a single-engine craft, wooden too, but much smaller than the dhows. Alastair paid two dirham—

about fifty cents Canadian—to a captain sitting at a cockpit near the centre of the hull. A bench running down each side of the cockpit, shaded by a canopy, seated about twenty passengers at most. We were the last to get on.

And off we went. The captain operated the
abra
’s rudder by a system of ropes and pulleys. My eyes scoured the deck for oars.

Just in case. I grasped the edge of the bench, my knuckles milky white with strain. I’m a champion dog-paddler, but with little other swimming prowess, I was closer to the churning water below than I am normally comfortable with. But, after a minute or two, with the boat making its way across the creek, thankfully at 125

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a leisurely pace, I began to relax. Before long, I found myself mesmerized by the beauty surrounding me. Turquoise water, azure sky, soft, balmy breeze in my face, and a landscape of ancient world mixed with modern on either shore.

I caught Alastair watching me. “It’s something, isn’t it?” he asked, his words only slightly muffled by the gentle wind that accompanied us across Dubai Creek.

“It really is,” I said, giving a little wave to a young boy travelling in an
abra
going the opposite way. To him, this was just another ride in a boat from one side of the creek to the other. To him, being on water was likely as mundane as being on solid ground.

That wasn’t true for me.

Years ago, I found myself living my worst nightmare. I was stranded at sea, in the dark, hanging onto the side of an old, wooden boat—not unlike this one—that was about to be swamped and sink.* With little swimming skill, I doubted I could save my own life, or the lives of the people with me. A prairie boy through and through, I’d grown up surrounded by and loving the land, not water. As an adult, things changed. A little. I’d learned to love being near water. I enjoyed splashing around the shallow end of a pool. But as soon as the bottom was out of sight, out of reach, I was uncomfortable. Yet here I was, doing this. I hadn’t even hesitated. Well, not for long anyway. I still couldn’t swim worth a damn. But maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t so afraid anymore. As for my nightmare at sea, well, let me just say, it’s handy having friends with yachts.

Long before I wanted the trip to be over, the
abra
bumped up against the Deira Old Souk station and we jumped off. Alastair was tall, lanky, and long-legged, and I had to rush to keep up with him. Together we crossed Baniyas Road and headed up Old Baladiya Road.

“When you have the time, Russell, you must return here and visit the other souks. The Covered Souk is where you go for tex-tiles, kitchenwares, and clothing. Maybe you want to pick up some henna for your wife back home? There are souks for per-

*
Tapas on the Ramblas

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fume, gold, electronics. All jolly, fun places.”

“Where are we going now?”

“The Spice Souk. It’s small, maybe only three hundred or so shops, but terribly atmospheric. It’s lovely. One of the oldest in the city, I believe. Ah,” he said, slowing down. “And here we are.”

The first thing that struck me as we wandered into the warren of narrow alleyways lined with small shops was the scent of the place. Pungent aromas promising exotic herbs and spices flavoured the air. The shops were old as dust, with open air fronts, stacked with cardboard cartons, wooden crates, and overflowing jute bags. There were fine powders of beige, red, and brilliant blue, grittier stuff of rust and orange, cracked seeds and nut husks, and dried leaves mulched into fine particles. Most of it I’d never seen or smelled ever before. From the ceilings hung tails of dried chilies, lemons, and other fruits, incense burners and water pipes of every size, shape, and colour.

Even the dying heat of the day was extreme, and the place was still not yet busy. This was good for us, making it easier to traverse the skinny pathways, and see into the many nooks and crannies. This may have been called the Spice Souk, but there was much more on offer here. The concept of one-stop shopping was alive and well in the souks of Dubai.

Alastair came to a sudden halt near one of the nooks. He was peering into a small space, neatly hidden between two merchant stalls. I came up behind him to see what he was looking at. His face was glazed over with a near hypnotic glare.

“This is it,” he said when he sensed my presence, his voice deadened. “This is the place.”

It was a dark corner of the souk, one of many, I guessed. It was probably used for storage, or as a place for garbage until it could be removed. The space was stacked with barrels and bags, old carpets, and cardboard boxes. By the look on Alastair’s face, I knew this had to be where Neil Gupta had died. Or, at least, where his beaten, knifed, lifeless body had been discarded, like just another piece of detritus from a busy day in the market.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know this must bring back unhappy memories for you.”

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He made a muffled sound, but was otherwise uncharacteristically unresponsive.

I used the time to take an inventory of the murder scene.

Other than its obvious exotic nature, the area was rather unremarkable. Just another busy street in the world, where a man can get attacked, be killed, and then stuffed into a corner without anyone seeing a thing. It happens in Dubai. It happens in New York City. It happens in London. It can happen pretty much anywhere.

“He was your friend?” a voice asked.

Standing behind Alastair, staring at the same spot, with great sorrow on his face, was one of the merchants I recognized from a nearby shop. His skin was dark and wrinkled, although he may have only been in his thirties or early forties. He wore the typical garb of a Middle Eastern man. The simple, white, floor-length shirt-dress is known as a
dishdasha
. Although many men wear a loose, white headscarf—a
ghutrah—
fastened by a black head rope called an
agal
, this fellow wore a round, white cap perched atop his grizzled hair.

“He was,” I said, stepping to the man’s side. “You have a shop near here?”

“Yes. You must come visit. I have many fine things.”

“Were you here the day the young man died?”

“Yes. Is there anything in particular you are looking for?

Frankincense? We have only the best, from Oman. Or maybe some cardamom?”

I moved the man slightly away from Hallwood, who still seemed a bit discombobulated. “Did you see anything that day?

Did you see the young man come into the market?”

He shook his head. “Oh no, sir. There are so many people in the market. I only see him when he’s dead.”

I was impressed with the shopkeeper’s command of the English language. And I planned to take advantage of it. “What about the other shopkeepers near here? Do you think they could have seen something?”

“Qasid. He maybe did. Come, I bring you to him. And then you shop in my store.”

Without further discussion on the matter, the man moved off.

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I called to Alastair and we quickly followed.

As it turned out, the fellow in the cap, whose name was Rahim, and Qasid had adjoining stores. Qasid, however, could speak no English.

“Can you ask him if he remembers seeing the young man who was found dead here?” I asked Rahim to translate.

The language was wholly unfamiliar to me, and as far as I knew, Rahim could have been reciting “Little Red Riding Hood”

to Qasid. Eventually, when they were done, Rahim said, “He did see the man. He said he was here in the souk late that day. With other men. Friends, perhaps.”

That made sense. It was to have been a farewell party for Neil.