Date with a Sheesha (27 page)

About who you
really
are. And why you’re here. I’m fine with all that, I am. But I’m worried about Hema. She may come off all rugged like, but don’t let her fool you. She’s not used to all this blazing guns and sword action like you might be.”

I scowled. “I never use swords.”

“You know what I mean. Besides, I haven’t had so much fun in forever. So I thought I’d take a few days off and drop by for a touch, maybe help out where I can. That all right with you, then?

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rather responsible for Hema’s safety.” He sniggered and slapped my shoulder. “And yours too, of course, Russell, there’s a good chap.”

I wasn’t sure if I was “all right” with this. But at the moment, it didn’t look as if I had much choice. “You do know they frown heavily on an unmarried man and woman cavorting in these parts, right?”

“Oh sod that, Russell. I know you’re not
au fait
with the new Jeddah, but this is the wildest, most degenerate, most cosmopolitan town in the kingdom! Don’t worry, mate. Now where is my petal, anyway? Has she said anything to you about me? Do you really think she might be willing to cavort with me?”

I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t about to get involved in this. But I think he got his answer when, a second later, Hema pulled up next to us, a sneer on her face. “What are
you
doing here?”

What followed was a back and forth lobbing of thinly veiled insults (from her) and mismatched love sonnets and candy heart sayings (from him). It was really quite intriguing to watch, as neither seemed quite capable of getting their message across to the other.

Finally I pointed to my watch to indicate that Semir would soon be back to pick us up. “I’m going up to my room to wash my face. If you two want to stand here and continue bickering or lovemaking or whatever it is you’re doing, go right ahead. I’ll meet you at the front doors at eight.”

I glanced back as I was nearing the elevator. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I saw Hema Gupta blushing.

In my business, surprises are not entirely unexpected. When dealing with people’s secrets, lies, and the criminal element, surprises are bound to come up. And this is a good thing. It usually signifies I’m on the right track, or at the very least, provides a new clue to follow up on. But some surprises are wholly unexpected. Like the one that greeted me in my hotel room.

Draped across a chaise longue, overlooking the sea, eating from a scrumptious bunch of luscious grapes, like some kind of 185

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sultana, was Sereena Orion Smith. Sereena is not your average next door neighbour. Her background is as mysterious and baf-fling as the land I now found her in. She’s lived a million lives and bears the fruit and folly of each in her heart, her eyes, her soul.

Her face and figure hide no secrets. Anyone who looks at her will know they are seeing one of the world’s great beauties—less than perfectly preserved, but a beauty nonetheless. Her hair is thick and wild and dark as rich chocolate. Her bright eyes flicker with the reflected memories of a life made worthwhile by great pains and greater loves. She’s lived by the sea, on mountaintops, in grand cities, and in humble countryside villages (well, maybe not too humble). How she ended up in a house next to mine in Saskatoon is thanks to my Uncle Lawrence. He sent Sereena to watch over me when circumstances meant that he no longer could. And she, for reasons of her own, was more than happy to do so. She is my friend, my neighbour, and my guardian angel.

And now, here she was, in my hotel room in Jeddah, like a mirage in the desert.

“Don’t look so shocked, my darling,” she called out to me.

“Close your mouth, and the door behind you while you’re at it, and do come in.”

I did as I was told, in a near somnambulistic trance. I eyed her as I moved forward. Was she real? It seemed so.

She was wearing the Sereena version of a traditional
abeyya
. It was mostly black, but enhanced with fine embroidery in dark, rich colours, wound into complicated patterns. Around her face and hands, and along the hemline, tiny gold disks, like small coins, jingled softly whenever she moved. I wondered what the
mutaween
would think of this.

“Anthony told me you were in Egypt.” I finally managed to speak.

She nodded. “Near Luxor. Maheesh has a house there. A wonderful retreat on the Nile. Very green, peaceful. Lovely people.”

The name made my heart stop. Maheesh Ganesh was the man who’d shared my uncle’s life, a secret life, a life in hiding because of something horrible that happened to them and Sereena many years ago. But all that was in the past. The last I’d seen or heard 186

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from Maheesh, or my Uncle Lawrence, was when we were guests at an Arctic getaway near the top of the world, several years ago.

My uncle was dying then. When we parted, he refused a final good bye.*

But now, I had to know.

“Is…is Maheesh with you?”

“No,” she said gently. She knew where this was going.

“I’m alone, Russell.”

Something in her tone, in her lovely, soulful eyes, told me what I already knew to be true. He was dead. My uncle was dead.

I’d been grieving for a long time, but the certainty was neverthe-less a crushing blow.

I shook my head, still in disbelief that Sereena was sitting in front of me. For her to come to a country where alcohol is prohibited was truly a major sacrifice. For it is rumoured that through my neighbour’s veins run golden rivers of fine champagne.

“Maheesh made all the arrangements,” she told me. “He is, as you know, a connected man in this part of the world.”

“But to come here? Alone?”

“Despite the obvious challenges for women—which I won’t go into until we’re somewhere that serves a decent libation—there are also certain privileges women are accorded in Saudi Arabia. In most situations, they are shown great respect and deference.

Decorum dictates that no man can turn down the appeal for help from a woman. If you want to get to the front of a line, for instance, just be a woman in Saudi Arabia. I’ve simply taken full advantage of this. After all, how do you think I got into your hotel room?

“And really, I’m not at all alone. Maheesh has made sure I have a lovely companion and driver while I’m here. Shekhar will take wonderful care of me…should I require it.”

“But I don’t understand. Why are you…?” I stopped there, my brain chugging away. Then I had it. “It was Ethan. You spoke to Ethan.”

Her chiselled chin dipped slightly as she selected another

*
Stain of the Berry

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grape. She regarded the fruit circumspectly, as if attempting to assess its potential for sweet over tart. “I spoke with Anthony…who’d spoken with Ethan.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“He was worried about you, Russell. He said you sounded dreadful, and lonely and sad.”

“I don’t think I sounded dreadful.” Lonely and sad I’d give him. “So you came all this way to check up on me?”

“No,” she told me with an authoritative glare. “I came to pick up a few things: a pound of Yemeni coffee, some
Zamzan
from Mecca, and maybe a nice, sharp
jambiya
…I just love a good ceremonial dagger, don’t you? If I happened to run into you while I was here, all the better. Besides, it’s not as if this was a great effort.

Egypt is only a short hop across the Red Sea.”

Sereena has a way of making the world seem exceedingly small. To her, the globe might as well be a tiny community where everything is within driving distance. If you can’t find the right kind of parsley in one town, you just scoot over to the next. So what if there is a sea or mountain range in the way? That would never stop her.

“Anthony filled me in as best he could on why you’re here.

Tell me everything.”

“It will have to be in the elevator. We’re heading into old Jeddah tonight.”

“Al-Balad,” Sereena exclaimed. “A magical place, especially at night. I’m thrilled. Come!” she said, hopping off her couch. “No time to dawdle.”

I’d learned from years of experience, there was no point in arguing. If Sereena Orion Smith wanted to come with you, she came with you.

Souk al-Alawi in Al-Balad (Old Jeddah) is reputed to be the most extensive and traditional in the Kingdom. As the four of us traversed the darkened, aged streets, lined with near-dilapidated buildings towering above crammed market stalls, the wailing call to evening prayer followed our every step. The place was abuzz 188

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with activity as merchants, foreign traders, pilgrims, and locals out to buy daily goods went about their business. The heady scent of spices, musty perfumes and colognes, and freshly tanned leather sat heavy in the evening heat, like a thin layer of oil float-ing on water.

It had been agreed with Husain in Oman that I would meet Saffron at (reputably) the easiest place for a tourist (i.e. me) in Al-Balad to find. Nassif House is an ancient mansion, now restored and used as a museum and cultural centre. When it was time, Sereena and I left Alastair to watch over Hema, despite her vehement protestations. She most definitely did not wish to be watched over. But who was I to intrude on the progress of a great love story?

As promised, we found the five-storey, Turkish-style building without difficulty. I’d been instructed to wait in the front courtyard. By some magic unknown to me, Saffron would recognize me. Something about that made me slightly uneasy.

Sereena and I stood side by side in front of the building, near a neem tree, and waited. Before long, a young child appeared in front of us. He was wrapped in a once-white cotton sheath that covered most of his body and part of his face.

“Quant,” the child barked. Dark eyes, older than their owner, stared up at me through the swaddling. He completely ignored the presence of Sereena. Something, I’m sure, she was altogether unaccustomed to.

“Yes, I am. And who are you?”

“Saffron. You’re here to meet me.”

This was certainly becoming the day of the expected. I thought of what Neil wrote to his then boyfriend: “
sa is coming up
soon im a little unsure about what will happen there im glad to finally
be going but worried the big one still eludes me and I still haven’t found
saffron i need saffron.
”

Neil needed to contact Saffron. He even told Aashiq to have his father find Saffron if he got into trouble. Which he certainly had. And now I find that Saffron is a ten-year-old boy? Good grief.

“Who is the man?” the child demanded in his disarmingly rough voice.

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I must have looked confused because he repeated the question. I was still busy processing that I was now dealing with a minor. “What man?” I asked back.

“The man who is watching you from behind that store over there.” He pointed a dirty little finger to a spot across the street.

I followed the finger. Alastair Hallwood was standing behind a power box, under the partial cover of shade from an overhead awning belonging to a rather modern-looking store. His eyes grew to the size of two boiled eggs when he saw that he was caught. I crooked my own finger at him, indicating that he should join us.

“What are you doing?” I asked him as he sheepishly approached.

“Yes,” the boy asked rather forcefully. “What are you doing?

Why are you watching this other man?”

Sereena eyed Alastair carefully but said nothing.

Alastair’s reedy frame towered above the boy’s. He peered down at the youngster and said, “We’re together. We’re all friends. Isn’t that right, Russell, old chap? Sereena?”

I wasn’t sure I’d go so far as to call us friends. Or necessarily together. He was
supposed
to be watching over Hema. Why
was
he here?

“Hema sent me away, I’m afraid. She said I was slowing her down. You told me you were coming to Nassif House, so I thought I’d join you. I can’t let you two have all the fun. We can catch up with Hema at the hotel later.”

I glanced about. It was getting darker in the souk. People were scurrying about, completing their tasks before going home or to prayer. It didn’t feel right leaving Hema alone in this environment.

He must have read my thoughts, because he said: “Semir is still with her. Apparently
he
doesn’t slow her down,” he added petulantly. “Now, who’s this little fellow?”

“I am no little fellow!” Saffron proclaimed, crossing two arms across a puffed-out chest.

“Now keep your hair on,” Alastair quickly apologized. “I can see my error, now that I get a good look at you.”

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I pulled out a photograph of Neil Gupta. “Do you know this man, Saffron?”

He studied the picture closely. “Yes. He’s dead now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Husain told it to us. He was told by Fahd. Fahd was told by his brother who lives in Dubai.”

Instant communication. Cellphones and Internet. Even here.

Gotta love it. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told me they Tweeted each other the news.