Free Finding Nouf by Zoë Ferraris Page B

bruises.
    "I'm fine," she assured her.
    Salwa dropped her arm and looked straight into Katya's eyes. "The only reason women come here early is to escape their husbands or fathers."
    Katya felt her cheeks flush. Despite the gloss of concern, Salwa had managed to make her feel like an abused woman anyway. "Nobody hits me," she said.
    "So what are you doing here?"
    Katya rolled down her sleeves and slid back into her
abaaya.
"I couldn't sleep."
    Salwa eyed her with a satisfaction more maternal than penal. "Ah. Is this about your upcoming wedding?"
    Katya knew better than to trust her with personal information. Now that their boss, Adara, was on maternity leave—for the second time in a year—Salwa seemed to think that she was permanently in charge. She had been there longer than any of the other women, but she didn't actually do anything except bully the other workers. Her real power was the fact that the division chief, Abdul-Aziz, was her brother-in-law. And because he was family, Salwa could talk to him in person, an advantage that no one else shared. If someone did her job well, Salwa took the credit. If she was sloppy, she made sure that someone else took the blame. With Abdul-Aziz, she was obsequious, rushing to his office whenever he called, attending to his dry cleaning, his lunches, his meeting schedule, and bringing presents for his children at least once a week, but that subservience swung a pendulum of compensation when, returning to the female section of the lab, she subjected the women to her tyrannical demands. Segregated in the building's smallest wing, the female technicians lived in the dark air of her recycled moods. Frustration. Cloying kindness. Privately they called her the Daughter of Saddam.
    But right now Katya had to say something. "I am nervous," she admitted. "Honestly, I can't sleep. I think work is the best remedy for me right now."
    Salwa stuck her pencil back behind her ear and cogitated. Finding this excuse plausible enough, if not wholly satisfying, she drew herself up and said, "Fine. I've got plenty for you to do. But you're not being paid overtime, I hope you understand that."
    "Of course," Katya said, biting back her resentment. As if she expected overtime. As if money were her only concern.
    "What are you working on now?" Salwa asked.
    "Skin cells from the Roderigo case."
    Salwa glanced down at the microscope as if it were a dirty dog. "All right, put that aside. I've got two other cases that have a rush priority."
    Katya nodded, sat down at the microscope, and slid the tray out and set it on the table. She cursed her bad luck and wondered sud
denly why Salwa was here so early. It wasn't as if she ever did any work herself. Maybe
she
was avoiding an abusive man. Or, more likely, avoiding her responsibilities at home—a disabled husband, three young children, and, according to Salwa at least, the most impudent Indonesian housemaid on the planet. Maybe for her work really was an escape.
    Still, Katya couldn't help admiring certain of Salwa's qualities. She was strong enough to demand raises for the women. When Abdul-Aziz was absent and she could get away with it, she assigned men's jobs to her charges. She had sent Katya to fill in for Adara on Nouf's case. And it was Salwa who, in the spirit of making women strong in the workplace, had encouraged her not to wear her
burqa.
"Men don't respect you when you follow the rules all the time. Sometimes you have to address them directly and show them your face, even if you put your
burqa
down later."
    Then Katya wondered what Salwa would have done with her if she
had
discovered bruises on her arms. Would she have fired her? Consoled her? Sent her to a clinic? Most likely she would have reported it to Abdul-Aziz, and there was no telling what he would have done. He existed as a cold, distant authority whose professional decisions—if they were truly his—occasionally angered her.
    Salwa came back and dumped two massive folders on the table.