Free Finding Nouf by Zoë Ferraris

Syria. The snow on her hat, the bushy scarf around her neck, were the perfect accessories for the pale, blond, wintry woman. Katya couldn't imagine her in any other setting, and, it seemed, neither could Ahmad. He started every story about her with "I remember the vacation we took to Syria. How much she loved the cold..." Occasionally Katya reminded herself that Ahmad's wife had lived in Jeddah too. She had died here of cancer in the summer of 1968.
    But whereas Abu had gone on to a successful career as a chemist, Ahmad had been content to be a taxi driver and, eventually, a woman's escort, arguing that his chosen profession, while it didn't always pay the bills, at least gave him the satisfaction of protecting young virgins from wily men, the religious police included. Being with Ahmad felt a bit like being with a watered-down version of her father, someone who was reliably concerned for her safety but whose worry lacked the bite of parental anxiety. Most of the time he treated her like royalty, but for all his display of servitude and kindness, Katya knew that in her own small world, Ahmad was king. If not for him, she wouldn't be able to get around at all. There were taxis for women, with nice immigrant drivers, but her father would never allow it.
    Far down the street, she saw men coming out of their homes, answering the call to prayer. It was time to roll up the window. Turning, she looked up one last time at the blushing sky, hoping for a taste of the awe that had struck her, but all she felt was guilt. Guilt for lying to Abu, for not having done her Fajr prayer, for making Ahmad come to work before the light hit the sky. Guilt for doubting Othman. There was only one thing she was determined not to feel guilty about, and that was her work on Nouf's case. Her mother used to say that
salat
was a generous verb. It meant to pray, to bless, to honor, to magnify, but its underlying meaning was "to turn toward." So when she was unable to pray—because of sickness or menstruation—she was still obliged to turn her thoughts to Allah. And wasn't that what she was doing now, turning her mind toward the mysteries of his creation? Especially as they pertained to prayer times and Nouf ? Allah, at least, was with her on that, for in the Quran it said,
If there be but the weight of a mustard seed, and it were hidden in a rock, or anywhere in the heavens or on earth, Allah will bring it forth: for Allah understands the finest mysteries, and is well acquainted with them.
    Still, she knew that it was cheating. She had missed her prayers.
    Ahmad rolled up his prayer rug and brushed the dirt from its fringes. He got back into the car and they sat, waiting for the prayers to be done. Down the street, men were crowding into a mosque. Some were praying on the sidewalk in front of their stores. Ahmad picked up his mug and resumed his sipping. She watched his comforting face in the rearview mirror, wishing she could confide all her doubts about Othman and his family. But inevitably he would tell her father, and she didn't want Abu to know that there was any doubt in her mind. They waited until the prayers were done and the men came pouring back out of the mosque.
    Ahmad started the car and took a turn at the next corner. Every day he took a different route to the lab to show her something new. Even though there were a finite number of ways to get to work, the streets changed so quickly that each trip seemed fresh. Not two weeks before, they had gone down this street, the one with the palm trees, both plastic and real, the real ones chattering with one another over the smaller ones' heads. It had been bustling with construction workers, mostly Yemenis and Asians. A concrete mixing truck had been churning loudly by an empty lot, and across the street a wrecking ball was tearing down a gutted apartment building. Now nothing was left but a gaping lot and a huge drum with electricity cables coiled around it. The workers had sprayed the ground with