Chapter 7

MORNING

21st of Sha’baan 1417

(January 1, 1997)

Queresh awoke the next morning in the darkness. The blinds had been pulled. Nausea and a headache captured him. He felt for another body but found only tangled sheets and a cold pillow. He reached down to his loins which burned with soreness. And then he remembered what had happened. He saw images: his wife below him. Was she screaming? Her arms fought like nervous tentacles. He felt a burning on his face. Scratches still bled. He ran his hand across the sheets and touched areas of perspiration. The sheets were stained with blood. He tried frantically to piece together last night’s events.

“Was it all a dream?” he heard himself asking.

In an attempt to recover, he lifted his head from the pillow, but the aching and pounding defeated the simple act. He lay his head down just as quickly. The night went by like a taxi cab speeding down Second Avenue. He slept for a few hours more.

He knew nothing of the hour. He awoke later reaching across the bed. The stillness of the bedroom offered no response. He urinated in the bathroom, and yet he could not hear a sound, save for the splashing against the toilet bowl. He checked himself in the mirror and discovered clotted scratch marks about his face. He found the alarm clock flung far across the room. Three p.m. glowed in digital sanity. He turned on the light. His heart jumped. The stained sheets of his bed had not only been tangled but also ripped. He called for his wife. He searched through every room but could find neither his wife nor the baby Imam. He had missed a day’s worth of work and checked his messages. Two messages from Rothenberg asked him to meet at the downtown office. These messages were not that important compared to the third faint message from someone with very broken English. It said:

“Hello, I’m reaching Queresh and Maryam —-. I’m at the Hilton Hotel on Sixth Avenue. Please call to meet me and you.”

Queresh thought he would call again. He wanted, however, a call from his wife who had rarely left the house. He wondered where she could have gone. She didn’t have friends in the area. She didn’t have a job. And suddenly a desperate premonition made his insides turn. He walked to the closet where Maryam had kept her clothes. He opened the wide door and found all of her clothes missing. He rushed to the baby Imam’s room. The baby’s clothing and a few of his stuffed animals were also missing. The phone rang. ‘It must be Maryam,’ he thought. He ran to pick it up before the answering machine played.

“Maryam? Maryam where the hell are you?” he shouted.

“Assalaamualaiykum. It is Vasilla. Good you are home.”

“Vasilla? Oh yes, Vasilla. What can I help you with?”

“I want to see family: you, Maryam, and Mustafa.”

“Listen, I’m really busy here, and besides, Mustafa and Maryam are all out now.”

“When be back?”

“Not sure. Sooner or Later.”

“Excuse?”

“They’re not here. Call back tomorrow.”

“No time tomorrow. Must inform bavasaab tonight. Must see baby.”

“Listen, they’re not home. They’re on vacation, holiday. Call back tomorrow.”

“No, tomorrow. Must see tonight. Must inform bavasaab.”

“They’re not here. Can’t you understand. I’m not speaking Arabic.”

And Queresh hung up the phone. The phone rang again, but the answering machine took the call. He checked the entire apartment. Not a sound. Not a lead as to where Maryam and the baby might have gone. The phone kept ringing.

“Listen, you idiot, I told you they are on holiday.”

“Must see today.”

“I have no idea where they went. Call back tomorrow.”

“No tomorrow. Must see now. Must inform bavasaab.”

“Go to hell with your bavasaab. They’re not here, can’t you understand English.”

“I understand. I’m coming there.”

“Coming where? You mean here?”

“There.”

“There where?”

“Excuse?”

“Goodbye. No one home, okay?”

And he hung up the phone.