That Other Me by Gargash Maha

Author:Gargash, Maha [Gargash, Maha]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

I drive Saeed’s car. He sits next to me and indicates the way. My grip on the steering wheel is tight as I cross Al-Maktoum Bridge and head toward Meena Bazaar in Bur Dubai. Once we reach the Ramada Hotel, I make a U-turn and enter the first of the smaller streets behind it. The buildings here are medium-sized, rising no higher than ten floors. We pass one that has been turned into a hotel. I miss the name but catch the sign at the entrance: VALET PARKING WITH DRIVERS.

It’s 2:15 p.m. A school bus in front of me keeps stopping at curbs and corners. I want to finish this business with Galina the Russian as soon as possible, but I don’t overtake the bus, just stare at the bundles of noisy children hopping off. The delay gives me a chance to think.

Much as I’d like to break her neck as soon as I see her, getting physical would only inflame the situation. She will be angry; of that I am sure. She will probably curse me. I decide I must rise above all that and deal with her using words only—strong words, and perhaps, if she is sensible, a few gentle words, too—as I urge her to take the money. It’s the sight of the dollars, clean and crisp, that will tame her.

“There, right there.” Saeed points to a mud-colored six-story building with cement troughs for balconies, and suddenly I can’t wait to confront her. I honk the horn, and the three cars behind me do the same.

The elevator smells of coconut hair oil and stale sweat. Saeed presses a button. The second-floor corridor is broad and dim. Lunchtime noises seep from behind apartment doors, along with the pungent whiff of fried onions and heavily spiced Indian curry.

Her apartment is three doors down, and Abu-George is outside, punching numbers on his phone as he waits for our arrival. He wears a striped shirt with the top buttons undone, showing off a thick gold chain nestled in chest hair. His jeans are so tight—his flab is pinched into a tube around his waist, his crotch squished in a trap that looks so painful I find I’m jiggling my hips to make sure all the equipment between my legs can move freely—that I wonder why he needs that cowboy belt to hold it up. He puts his phone in his pocket and tells me that the effect of the pill the doctor had given her has worn off. “Now, it won’t help to lose one’s temper,” he adds with some hesitation. “We have to be calm.”

“Of course,” I say, giving him an icy stare.

“Right,” he says, and rakes his hair—shiny and slick with oil—back with his hand before turning toward her apartment. He knocks, but to our surprise the door across the way cracks open in response. We turn around and see a small girl with a red thumbprint bindi on her forehead. She stares at us with big black eyes that brim with distrust.

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