Once the second cup had been poured, Ibrahim leaned forward
and balanced his teacup on his knee. “They found her,” he said, his eyes
lowered. “They did?” The tension drained out of Nayir so suddenly that it
hurt. “Where?”
“About two kilometers south of the Shrawi campsite. She was in a
wadi.”
“They’ve had men there for a week. Are they certain it’s her?”
“Yes.”
“Who found her?” “We’re not sure. Someone who wasn’t working
for the family. Travelers.”
“How do you know this?”
“Tahsin’s cousin Majid came to our camp and delivered the news.
He’d spoken to the coroner.” Ibrahim took another sip of his tea. “He said that
the travelers took her back to Jeddah. She was already dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes.” Ibrahim sat back. “The travelers took her to the coroner’s
office in Jeddah. They had no idea who she was.”
It was over. He thought about his men outside, wondered if they
would feel relief or disappointment. Probably relief. He wasn’t sure what to tell
them about the girl. It was odd that the family’s own search party had been
stationed near the wadi. A group of cousins and servants must have been
right on top of her, yet they had missed her completely. They had also
missed whoever had been traveling through the area. The travelers must have
returned her body to the city before the Shrawis had even figured out that
they’d passed through. All of this made Nayir uneasy, but he would have to
double-check the information; it wasn’t exactly reliable.
“How did the family find out about it?” he asked.
“Someone at the coroner’s office knows the family and called
them to break the news.”
Nayir nodded, still feeling numb. The teapot was empty. Slowly he
stood and went to the stove. He poured more water into the pot and lit the
match for the stove with a clumsy twitch, burning the tip of his thumb. The
sharpness of the pain lit a spark inside him, a quick, fierce anger. The urge to
find her was still strong. Forgive me for my pride, he thought. I should think
about the family now. But he couldn’t.
He went back and sat down. “Do you know how she died?”
“No.” There was a sad acceptance in the boy’s eyes. “Heat
stroke, I imagine.”
“It’s a terrible way to die,” Nayir said. “I can’t help thinking there’s
something we could have done.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?” Nayir asked. “What do you think happened to her?”
The Bedouin looked him straight in the eye. “Same thing that
happens to any girl, I think.”
“And what’s that?” Nayir asked. Love? Sex? What do you know
about it? Ibrahim’s face told him that it had been wrong to ask; the boy was
blushing. Nayir wanted to know more, to pry the answers out of him, but he
knew too that if Nouf’s death had happened because of love or sex, then any
truthful reply would be less proper still. Modestly, he waited for an
elaboration, but Ibrahim merely sipped his tea, resolute in his silence.
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