officials, teachers, and other government employees. The way things worked at the hotel was that a customer paid for two rooms: one for himself, and a separate one for the girl with him. Of course, once inside, they met up in the same room. Added to the room charge was a fixed price for “special patrons”—an extra charge so the police would turn a blind eye.
Nezha was one of the familiar faces at the hotel. When she approached the reception with Hamadi—both of them stumbling drunkenly—the doorman quickly greeted them, knowing a generous tip awaited him. Though he was yawning at this late hour, he cheerfully opened the door. There wasn’t really any furniture in the seedy lobby, just a single tattered couch that the doorman slept on, and a chair with a broken leg that looked completely uninviting to sit on. It was clear that the lobby was not designed to welcome any sort of normal guest.
As they approached, the concierge tossed his newspaper aside and pretended to be serious. “Is this man with you?” he asked Nezha, as if he’d never met her.
Nezha glanced at herself in the broken mirror on the wall and fixed her short skirt. “I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before,” she replied.
She lit a cigarette and blew smoke in the concierge’s face. He was young, with stern features. He was overdoing his questioning, as if his job, and the hotel, were respectable. He had run through the formalities of this check-in procedure many a time, and being vigilant demanded that he treat all guests as if they were new arrivals. He placed one key in front of Nezha and a second in front of Hamadi. This part of the night always embarrassed Hamadi. Preferring not to say anything, Hamadi gave the concierge a conspiratorial smile, and then placed the money for the two rooms in front of him, along with an overly generous tip.
The room they shared was lit with a single dull lamp that belonged in a basement, not a hotel room. There was a sagging bed in the middle of the room that had clearly been hastily straightened out. A single long pillow without a cover was perched on the bed, on top of a stained bedsheet. There was no way that sheet was getting clean, no matter what laundry detergent was used. The bathroom emitted a strong smell of something in between bleach and urine. A filthy curtain covered a tightly locked window that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.
Nezha sat down on the edge of the slightly damp bed. As she stretched out on her back a cockroach shot out from under the bed and climbed the curtain. Nezha hitched her dress up higher to reveal her beautiful ivory thighs. Her soft white skin exuded the youthfulness of her tight twenty-year-old body. Quite the opposite of her face, ruined by all the smoking, late nights, alcohol, and makeup. Hamadi studied her for a while, attempting to dismiss whatever was troubling him. Something didn’t feel right this time, and it was spoiling his mood. He looked at his watch. It was two thirty. He gazed at Nezha, but wasn’t turned on at all. She sensed his boredom and began shifting around on the bed, posing in different erotic positions, copying what she had seen in pornos.
Nezha’s antics didn’t do much for Hamadi. What got him going was moaning coming from the bed in the room next door. There were shrieks, gasps, delirious laughter, and other sex noises. In a heartbeat he stripped off his clothes and lay back on the bed. That was really all he had to do, since Nezha was determined that tonight she would help him reach a new horizon of pleasure. She was hoping to fulfill his desires twofold, in hopes that he would be more generous, so she could pay Farqash. Merely the thought of Farqash filled her with dread; she remembered his vile spit in the back of her throat. She refocused, trying to lose herself in lust with Hamadi. This customer could be her savior with his generosity.
She straddled him and began to dance above him, whipping him with her hair and driving him crazy. She started massaging his ruddy, flabby skin, and he moaned as she sucked him off. Every movement she made reflected her total absorption in the task, and Hamadi felt he was going to pass out from pleasure. They were naked on the bed as she embraced him, drew him in, licked him, and teased him with her tongue. She kissed him passionately all over his body, doing everything in her power to keep him erect. Hamadi’s weakness was that his interest would wane halfway through.
She had slept with all types of men, and in the process had liberated herself from feelings of shame, disgust, or superiority. Nezha undertook her work with complete professionalism, and even took satisfaction in doing it well.
Hamadi was overwhelmed, and began moaning and speaking deliriously. Unable to process anything, he simply let out a shriek, like a calf being slaughtered.
Nezha lay beside him, still sweating. He turned toward her and began showering her with compliments. To his weary eyes she seemed so full of life. He was seized by an intense jealousy when he thought about her doing the same thing, with the same vigor, with other men. She lay there, thinking about opening up and telling him everything—divulging the details of her problems with Farqash. She thought about bringing up even more intimate things—her mother’s illness and brother’s unemployment—as a way to tug on his heartstrings, in hopes that he would be more generous with her than last time. But if she started along this path she knew he would withdraw from her, and retreat into a deep slumber.
She lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke as she listened to the far-off moans, creaking beds, and other exclamations of love from the other rooms. She found consolation in taking deep drags from her cigarette and blowing out the smoke. This old man, after a long night, saw nothing but a cheap body he craved for an evening, and that was it.
For the first time ever she imagined her fingers sneaking toward his wallet, which was peeking out of the pocket of the pants tossed on the chair. If she found the cash to free her from her problems she would steal it. She hesitated, and just as she started to creep off the bed she heard the sounds of boots climbing the stairs. She heard knocking on one door after another and voices in the hallway yelled “Police! Police!” Had they come to arrest her just because she’d thought about stealing?
Nezha held her breath. Hamadi opened his eyes, his thoughts racing, and he began scanning the room. They both froze, still naked, waiting for what was to come.
There were two light knocks on the door, as if room service were making an inquiry.
“This is Detective Hanash. Open the door,” said a calm voice.
Shaking, his legs barely able to support him, Hamadi hastily got dressed. He zipped up his fly, on the verge of collapsing.
2
Detective Hanash was in his fifties, and only a few years from retirement. Everything about him suggested a man who had spent a lifetime interrogating criminals, studying murderers, and unraveling clues to crimes. This was how he got the nickname “Hanash,” which meant “snake.” His real name was Mohamed Bineesa. He would change character by “shedding his skin” and then “strike” his prey. Those who met Detective Hanash for the first time immediately got a sense of his strange personality, and those who had met him on multiple occasions tended to find him quite unpleasant. He was tall and slender, but had a smallish head that was always tilted toward his left shoulder. He had beady eyes without eyelashes that cast a confrontational expression. With a furrowed brow, he would stare sharply at his interlocutor with a suspicious and probing glare, as if he were searching for an accusation to pin on him. He had acquired this behavior from the excessive amount of time he spent with criminals. Even in his personal life he was incapable of relinquishing these mannerisms. He always seemed distracted and preoccupied by his thoughts. He never expressed interest in what others said. Nonetheless, everyone attested to his intelligence and total devotion to his work.
After so many years together, his wife, Naeema, had become a carbon copy of him—she was headstrong and extremely suspicious. Her demeanor never changed, no matter how much makeup she put on. She had dreamed of being blonde, but she was a brunette with darker skin. She had a deep, hoarse voice, and words seemed to rattle around in her throat. Despite these attributes, Hanash considered himself lucky. She was the ideal wife for someone in his profession.
In addition to being a skilled housewife, Naeema had learned a tremendous amount from her husband—in particular, his investigative techniques. She was aware of everything that transpired in the neighborhood; nothing got by her. Her speech was circuitous, and she would never reveal her true intentions.