His brief respite was shattered by a sharp, insistent knock at the door. Startled, Jabr jolted awake, the remnants of sleep slipping away. Janiah’s voice cut through the silence, firm and demanding. With heavy steps, he descended the stairs, each movement weighted by the growing apprehension in his chest.
In the living room, two strangers stood in stark contrast to the cozy familiarity of the space. They wore freshly pressed dishdashas that accentuated their foreignness, and their red and white checkered scarves marked them as Saudi. Their presence seemed to suck the warmth from the room, leaving an icy chill that seeped into Jabr’s bones. Janiah, standing slightly apart, regarded the men with a guarded, wary expression, her usual composure giving way to visible tension.
One of the men, tall and angular, had a face as sharp as his hawkish nose. His smile was courteous but devoid of warmth, his eyes cold and calculating. “Mr. Oslander,” he said smoothly, “we need to have a conversation.”
The words hit Jabr like a physical blow, his heart sinking further with each syllable. He had anticipated this confrontation, but its suddenness and the impersonal manner of the strangers caught him off guard. Were they agents of Al-Bader and Al-Faraj? The world outside might have been bathed in the relentless light of day, but for Jabr, it seemed shrouded in perpetual twilight.
The man’s gaze was unyielding as he continued, “You don’t need to worry about your properties. They hold no value to us. What you must focus on now is finding the money. You have one month. We are aware of your wife and her mother in Cairo. We are also aware of the potential sources where you might access. Solve this problem or face the consequences.”
Jabr felt as if the walls of the room were closing in on him, the oppressive weight of the ultimatum pressing down on his shoulders. The room, once a refuge, now felt like a cage, and the future, once uncertain, seemed to darken with every passing moment.
The visit of those two characters was bad enough, but tomorrow he faced the return of Jomana. Eventually, he would have to let out the truth. Her ship, the freighter Red Sea Devil, an aging coal-burning vessel, was a lifeline between distant ports. It brought supplies from the Mediterranean, threading through the Suez Canal, down the Red Sea, skimming the Arabian Sea, and squeezing through the Strait of Hormuz into the Gulf. It was a journey as old as time, as relentless as the tide, and like the ship, Jomana’s return carried both the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. The ship always had room for a few passengers, and its fare was the cheapest, attracting those who traveled not just out of necessity but out of a deep connection to the region’s maritime rhythms.
The morning came too soon, and Jabr awoke to see the ship anchored out in the harbor, its bulk looming like a dark memory against the dawn. The ship’s draft was too deep to approach the shore, a symbol of the distance Jabr felt growing between his reality and the life he had hoped to share with Jomana. The tender left the dock at 8 a.m., cutting through the still waters, bringing her closer with every churn of its engine. Jabr watched from the shore, his stomach knotted with dread and anticipation.
Soon, Jomana, beaming with news of her own, ran to his arms, her laughter echoing off the quiet morning. He couldn’t help but smile, her joy infectious, temporarily washing away the shadows of his burdens. The truth, the confession that gnawed at him, was pushed aside, buried under the weight of her happiness. With Jomana hanging on his arm, he carried her bags to the house, the familiar path feeling foreign under the strain of his secret.
Janiah, ever vigilant and sharp-eyed, ran out into the street to greet them. Her eyes, dark and discerning, took in every detail. “What’s that expression on your face? What do you have to tell us?” she asked, her tone a mixture of concern and suspicion. Jomana’s smile broadened, her excitement uncontainable. “Come to the kitchen and we’ll have tea,” Janiah suggested, eager to hear her news in the warmth of their home.
The water was already boiling, steam curling up from the kettle like the tension in the room. Breakfast was ready, the bread freshly purchased from the baker two doors down, its aroma filling the air with comfort and familiarity. The butter, melted and golden, glistened in the cup on the table. Janiah, ever the caretaker, looked at Jomana with knowing eyes. “I hope you’re not too hungry. The food on the ship must have been awful.”
Jomana shrugged, a playful glint in her eye. “I couldn’t eat much anyway, no problem.”
“That’s what I thought,” Janiah said, her voice laced with subtle amusement.
Jabr looked at both women, now more puzzled than ever. “Why couldn’t you eat? Was the crew difficult with you?” he asked, concern creeping into his voice.
“No, they were very kind, considering my condition—not to mention my vomiting.”
Janiah’s eyes sparkled with understanding, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Just tell him, my dear. Sometimes he’s not quick.”
Jomana reached across the table, placing her hand on Jabr’s forearm, her smile soft and tender. “Jabr, I’m pregnant, about four or five months. I think it happened the night before I left. I’m not sure when but no matter.”
Jabr felt the world tilt, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He couldn’t call the right expression to his face, caught between the terrible truth he had to disclose, and the glorious news Jomana had just shared. The battle raged in his head, his heart pulling him in two directions. Within a few seconds, he made a choice—he went with the glorious.
He pulled the light of the news to his face, his cheeks flushing red with a mixture of joy and relief. “Jomana, that’s wonderful! I can’t believe it.” He rose from his chair, just as Janiah got up. They both hugged and kissed Jomana at the same time, their shared happiness a brief respite from the storm brewing inside him.
Jomana laughed, the sound like music in the small kitchen. She gobbled down a large piece of the buttered bread, her appetite returning with her joy. But the sea had left its mark, and she promptly vomited. “You see what I endured as we crossed the sea,” she said, her tone half-joking, half-weary.
Janiah’s eyes softened as she looked at Jomana. “You’ve lost weight. I can see that. We’ll fatten you up with my cooking. And I use less grease than when I was a Bedouin.”
Jabr couldn’t tell her his news yet. The secret weighed heavy, but he was too busy showing his joy, concealing his dread behind a mask of happiness. They spent the day helping Jomana unpack, her laughter filling the spaces between his silences. As the sun dipped below the horizon, they walked along the Gulf in the late evening, the waves lapping gently at the shore, a reminder of the steady passage of time.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he would tell her. But for now, he held onto the moment, clinging to the fragile peace between them.
He awakened early, the first rays of dawn filtering through the thin curtains. The night had offered him little solace; sleep had been elusive, and the few hours he managed were plagued by restless thoughts. Jomana was still asleep beside him, her breathing steady, punctuated by the faintest hint of a snore. He watched her for a moment, feeling a pang of something that wasn’t quite regret but wasn’t quite hope either.
Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body heavy with the weight of his burdens. His head hung low, the thoughts from the night before crowding his mind. He pushed himself up from the mattress, making sure not to disturb Jomana. Each movement felt deliberate, as though the very act of standing might disrupt the fragile peace that clung to the morning.
He made his way to the bathroom, the cold tiles a sharp contrast to the warmth of the bed. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for something—perhaps the courage he knew he needed but didn’t quite feel. He reached for the straight razor, its cold steel a familiar weight in his hand. The act of shaving had always been a ritual of sorts, a way to clear his mind and face the day. Perhaps today it would make him braver.
But his hand was unsteady, and before he knew it, the razor slipped. A sharp sting followed by a thin line of blood appeared on his cheek. He cursed under his breath, grabbing a piece of toilet paper and pressing it to the wound. It clung to his skin stubbornly, a small, ridiculous bandage for a deeper cut he couldn’t see.
When he returned to the bedroom, Jomana was beginning to stir. Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked at him, a sleepy smile spreading across her face. She noticed the makeshift bandage and burst into laughter, a soft, melodic sound that momentarily lightened the weight in his chest. He forced a laugh in return, but it felt hollow, a thin veneer over the dread building inside him. His already fragile courage faltered further. How could he begin to tell her about the financial disaster that loomed over them?
“Jomana,” he began, his voice betraying the uncertainty he felt, “there’s something else we have to talk about.”
But before he could say more, he noticed the shift in her expression. Her smile faded, replaced by something darker, deeper. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over before he could react. His heart twisted at the sight. He wanted to believe that it was just the pregnancy, that hormones were making everything feel more intense, but he knew there was more to it.
“Jabr, I’ve got to tell you about my mother,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must know the truth about her.”
His own confession hung in the air, unfinished, as hers took its place. He wasn’t entirely disappointed by the delay, though he felt a pang of guilt at the relief that coursed through him. He nodded, sliding onto the bed beside her, his arm wrapping around her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. Her body shook with sobs, and he felt helpless in the face of her pain.
“I wanted to think it was all my father,” she continued, her voice cracking with emotion. “I wanted to believe that he was the one who controlled the illegal and unethical money transfers through the Egyptian banks. I know she admitted to knowing about it, but I wanted to believe that’s all there was to it. When he died on our voyage escaping Cairo, he took credit for the whole thing, and my mother let him. She let him take the blame.”
Jabr tightened his hold on her, his mind reeling. He had always known that there were secrets in Jomana’s family, dark corners that had never seen the light of day, but he hadn’t expected this.
“When I got her back to Cairo,” Jomana said, her voice quieter now, as if the words themselves were draining her, “everything became clear. She kept the same house—really a mansion—and re-hired all the same maids and doormen. There was no shame, no attempt to hide the truth. I couldn’t believe her boldness.”
“What can I do?” Jabr asked, feeling the inadequacy of his words even as he spoke them.
“There’s nothing you can do—just listen,” she replied, her voice tinged with despair. “The church hired a young pastor. He’s a fine preacher, but he has no idea what’s going on. I thought our home belonged to the church, but he allows her to continue to live there. The church views her as the honored, widowed wife of their former sainted pastor. It’s all a farce.”
Jabr felt a surge of anger on Jomana’s behalf. He wanted to shake her mother, to demand answers, to make sense of the injustice of it all. But he stayed silent, letting Jomana pour out the story that had been festering inside her for so long.
“I never really understood where the money came from,” Jomana confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not sure I do either,” Jabr admitted.
“But there’s plenty of it. I figured that out myself. It has something to do with exchanging rupees for Egyptian pounds for a fee, a significant fee. She has associates at the Bank of Cairo who do the exchanges for her. The rupees seem to come from higher-up people in Saudi Arabia. After the exchanges, my mother retains a certain amount of the difference and the fee. I don’t know the percentage, but it’s big.”
Jabr nodded, his mind racing. “I’ve heard of schemes like that, and I can guess who the Saudis are. The plan obscures the source of the money. I can guess about that, too.”
“That’s the story as I know it,” Jomana said, her voice filled with exhaustion. “I wanted you to know, too. We must be completely honest with each other.”
Jabr looked at her, the weight of his own secrets pressing down on him. He knew she was right. Honesty was the only way forward, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that accompanied it.
“Yes, I agree. You’re right,” he said finally, his voice soft but resolute. Inside, though, he wondered how they could possibly find a way through the tangled web of lies and deceit that surrounded them. How could he make anything good of all this?
He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently, as if trying to draw strength from the connection. The morning light grew stronger, filling the room with a soft, golden glow. But despite the warmth, the shadows of their pasts lingered, refusing to be dispelled so easily.
No breakfast yet, no summons to the downstairs table, and already the day seemed ruined. Jabr’s mind swirled with dread. How could he possibly launch into the news of his debt now, especially after the revelation Jomana had just dropped? Her news should have brought them closer, but instead, it became the perfect excuse to delay his confession yet again.
They dressed in silence, avoiding each other’s gaze, as if words themselves were too fragile to bear the weight of their unspoken anxieties. When they finally descended the stairs, their faces were drawn, their greetings reduced to a muttered “good morning.” The air in the room was thick with tension as they sat at the table, their movements mechanical, as though they were performing a ritual they’d long since lost the spirit for. Janiah watched them closely, her sharp eyes missing nothing as she poured the coffee, the rich aroma doing little to lift the heavy mood.
“Well, did you two have a good sleep?” she asked, her tone light but her gaze probing. The question hung in the air, unanswered, a silent acknowledgment of the strained atmosphere. Breakfast was a muted affair, each bite taken with a sense of obligation rather than appetite. The painful silence was a stark contrast to the joy that should have filled the room after Jomana’s news of the pregnancy.
