Date with a Sheesha (22 page)

“Police and politicians regularly turn a blind eye to such things,” the husky man said. “There is nothing we can do.”

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myself. This was a world I did not know. Things worked differently here. Should I preach the power of fighting for a cause, when doing so could mean death?

“But things are so much better than they once were,” Aashiq spoke, breaking the tension that had begun to smother the table like a cloud of smoke.

I was surprised, given what I’d just heard, to see every head around the table nod in enthusiastic agreement.

God bless hope.

As Aashiq and his friends talked, I couldn’t help but think about my own life in Canada. These men had lost jobs, family, and friends. Some lost their lives. The only thing I stood to lose, the only thing I would have to give up to be with my true love, was my house. I’d been testy and tormented for months, trying to find another way. How absurd it all seemed to me now. I looked down at the wedding ring on my finger. I used my thumb to twist it around and around. I vowed, at that moment, to make things right, as soon as I got home.

If these Middle Eastern gay men thought they’d come a long way, then we in North America have travelled a distance too far to measure. It’s true, we still have a long way to go, but we are free. We need to celebrate that freedom and not take it for grant-ed. I would, I promised myself. I
will
celebrate. With Ethan.

The mood lightened, and as the men laughed and teased and unabashedly flirted with one another, just like any collection of young singles anywhere in the world, I thought about Pranav Gupta. On the one hand, since coming to Dubai, I’d become more and more convinced that Pranav’s belief that Neil’s death was something more than an accidental mugging were accurate. But now, if what these men were telling me were true, and Neil hadn’t had any hassles with anyone over his sexuality, it seemed less and less likely that his murder had to do with his being gay.

At the first call of the horns and whistles of an obviously über

-popular song, Aashiq and most of our table mates jumped up like jacks-in-the-box and made for the dance floor. I was left with the young man named Yash. Once the others were gone, he shuffled closer to me. He smiled, and said, “You must miss your friend 149

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dearly.”

I nodded. “Did you know Neil very well?”

His smile widened, but he said nothing.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We were only friends, not lovers.”

“And Aashiq?” he asked, hinting at great disappointment if my answer was not to his liking. “Are you friends or lovers tonight?”

It must be the air here in Dubai, I thought to myself. Why else was I suddenly so popular?

“Friends,” I confirmed.

He moved even closer. “That’s very good.” There was more smiling and ogling, and a salacious leer that seemed odd coming from someone so young. “Aashiq was Neil’s Abu Dhabi boyfriend,” he told me. “I was his Dubai boyfriend.”

Apparently Neil did not find the Middle East to be as drought-stricken when it came to finding sexual partners as many would have guessed.

“When was the last time you saw Neil?”

“Maybe two weeks ago,” he answered in a way that told me he would quickly become bored with this non-sexual line of conversation. I had to make this snappy. It wouldn’t be long before I lost his attention, or a song he couldn’t sit still to hit the airwaves.

“What did you talk about?”

“Not very much. We drank. We danced. We went to his home for fun.” He smiled and winked. “A lot of fun.”

“Did he ever mention saffron to you?”

The young man gave me a quizzical look. “You mean the spice?”

“I don’t know. Could it be something else?”

“I don’t know. But no, he never mentioned saffron to me.” He waited a second, then added, “The only thing he ever talked about were carpets and men. Those were his two passions.

Carpets and men.” He laughed seductively. “I only have one.”

“Were there other men, boyfriends, like Aashiq and you?”

He nodded. “Yes. Zinko. Fahd.”

Fahd. Could this be the same Fahd mentioned by Darrel Good? He had guessed Fahd might have been a boyfriend of 150

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Neil’s. He might have been very right. From what I was learning tonight, Neil Gupta was certainly not a one-man man. “Are Zinko and Fahd here tonight?”

He shook his head. “These men are not from here.”

“They were from Abu Dhabi, like Aashiq?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know Zinko. But Fahd, he is from Fujairah.”

Did my client’s son have a man in every port? It seemed so.

“Do you know where I might find Fahd?”

Yash draped an arm over my shoulder. “What do you care about Fahd? I’m right here. Ready to go home for some fun right now. Are you ready?”

I felt a hand on my other shoulder. Aashiq was back and pulling me away from Yash. Yash pulled back. It was a Russell Quant tug-of-war. I had to smile. This certainly did not happen to me every day. This didn’t happen to me ever. Dubai was most certainly a land of dreams come true.

For some.

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Chapter 11

Sunday morning, still jet-lagged, tired from being out until nearly three a.m., queasy from too much sheesha, is never the right time for a road trip. Especially not with a companion like Hema.

Her morning disposition made me think of a wasp looking for someone to sting. Regardless, that’s exactly where I was. On the way to Fujairah, eighty-seven miles east of Dubai. To top things off, there wasn’t even any worthwhile scenery, only mile after mile of strangely desolate, sand dune landscape. At first it was kind of spectacular, and certainly a nice change from the snow-banks of home. But after a while, the dunes began to look like sandy brown snow, and it was downhill from there.

“Don’t worry,” Umar cheerfully called back to us from his place behind the wheel. “Soon we will be at the Hajar Mountains.

Much more scenic. And then not far to Fujairah from there.”

I slumped a little lower in my seat and tried to fan away a heat too stifling for any air conditioner to battle on its own.

“Are you sure you can remember everything I told you?”

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Hema, concurrently checking her BlackBerry and laptop screens, questioned me for about the millionth time since leaving Dubai.

I got it. She didn’t like the plan. But it didn’t make any sense, given how little time we had in Fujairah before the markets closed for midday break, for her to visit all the rug guys herself.

“I’m supposed to be meeting with the three most prominent merchants on Neil’s list of contacts. I cannot come home empty-handed. I know you think your duty here is the most important one, but it isn’t. I have a job to do here too, for my aunt, for the university. Many people are counting on me. I can’t allow you to make a mess of this.”

“I can do this, Hema,” I assured her—also for about the millionth time. “You take care of the first two guys, I’ll do the third.

I’ll have Umar with me to translate. I remember everything you told me about the carpets I’m looking for, and the price I should pay, and how hard to bargain. I can do this.” She obviously hadn’t seen me work my magic with the beach vendors in Puerto Vallarta.

“They won’t believe you are who you say you are,” she fret-ted.

Maybe not, but I just couldn’t work up a big head of steam over the whole thing.

“My reputation is on the line here. Do you understand that?”

I pasted a tight smile on my face, nodding in the affirmative.

Following Neil’s itinerary for carpet acquisitions, I’d be away from Dubai for a number of days. Each of them spent in the glorious company of Hema the Horrible. Hooray for me.

“We’ll go over the pictures again once we get closer to Fujairah. That’ll give you the least possible amount of time to forget what you’re looking for. Don’t even attempt to speak Arabic.

You’ll only make a fool of yourself. Just stick to the simple facts when speaking through Umar. Come to think of it, Umar as your spokesperson may help you appear less ignorant than you might otherwise. Did you study the books Auntie gave you?”

She had been out just as late as the rest of us. Why wasn’t she tired? Just a tad more sedate and quiet would have been much appreciated. I hate morning people.

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and I can walk to the other. You’ll have to drive to the third. I’ve given Umar the directions to your merchant. Umar, you have the directions?”

“Yes, Miss,” he answered from the front, still impressively merry.

She shot me an unhappy glance, then returned her full attention to her technology. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I saw the laptop cowering.

Leaving Hema in our dust at one of the market areas in Fujairah was a good feeling. Even good-natured Umar seemed to be growing a little impatient with her by the time we entered Fujairah city in the emirate next door to Dubai. The town was old, dirty, pollut-ed and grungy in places, and overall much more real. I liked it.

For the first time since arriving, I truly felt as if I was in the Middle East. We headed off to find my rug merchant with whom, according to Hema, I had an ice cream cone’s chance in a camel’s armpit of making a successful buy.

I was too busy admiring the authentic scenery to notice it was taking us quite a while to get to our destination. I was particularly enthralled by the people who actually looked like they were born here and lived their lives among these hot, dusty, time-worn streets. But after about half an hour, I ducked my head into the front seat.

“You do remember the directions, don’t you?” I asked Umar.

“I thought Hema said our market should be only ten or fifteen minutes away from hers.”

Umar, unusually distracted, grunted something in a language I did not understand. His eyes were darting back and forth, from the road in front of him to the rear-view mirror.

“There is bad news and there is bad news,” he said.

I surely did not like the sound of that. “Okay, give me the bad news first.”

“There appears to be a vehicle following us.”

I sat back and snuck a peek out the rear window of the car.

“You mean the Jeep?”

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“I do. I may be mistaken, but it has been behind us ever since we left Miss Hema.”

“What is the bad news?”

He gave a little chuckle, glad I was running with his joke.

“Miss Hema’s directions do not take us anywhere.” He passed me the piece of paper on which Hema had written in precise little letters a series of go-heres and go-theres. “These directions are only taking us in circles. I cannot find this market she spoke of using these instructions.”

I
thought
I’d seen that same camel grazing near that same mosque more than once. I didn’t know if we could do anything about the tail for the moment, if it really was a tail. But we certainly could stop chasing our own. “Can you call someone?”

“Of course.”

Umar was good at what he did. He got on his cellphone and spoke to somebody, first in English and then in another language, then hung up.

“Let’s try this,” he said confidently, making a sharp right turn onto a street we’d definitely not been on before.

I kept a surreptitious eye out the back window, watching the Jeep. It followed us for a short while, and then disappeared.

Before I knew it, we were pulled up next to what looked like an Arabian version of a strip mall.

We jumped out of the car and confirmed that our possible tail was nowhere in sight. Umar led the way, passing quickly down the row of stalls selling everything from transistor radios to lamb shanks. Without warning, he made a sharp right turn, taking us deeper into the souk.

As in Dubai, the marketplace was divided into sections, with merchants in each separate area specializing in specific items.

There was an alley dedicated to jewellery, another for clothing, and another for spices. And finally, the ubiquitous carpets.

Much to my surprise, the carpet salesman I was to meet was ready and waiting to make a deal. But first, we shared a plate of dates and some very sweet, hot tea served from an odd-shaped container that looked like a genie’s lamp. Only then, through Umar, did the negotiations begin for the special carpet Hema was after.

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The man kept his rare carpets in a box in the back (no climate or humidity controlled display area here—I could feel rug experts the world over cringing) We haggled good naturedly for what seemed a respectable amount of time. As soon as that time expired, the salesman clapped his hands and declared the carpet sold. Things could not have gone better.

I had purchased an antique carpet.

Go figure. I was strangely thrilled. Best of all, I got the price I wanted.

Before I knew it, Umar had me and my carpet at a local shipping company around the corner. They took the rug off my hands with the promise of crating it with great care and delivering it to the University of Saskatchewan within a promised time frame.