One Night in Dubai

"Excellent suggestion, sir. The hotel will send a car for the midwife," he told his boss.

At least I think he said "midwife." We've had Iranian guests stay with us to deliver inconvenient children in secret, so I know the word. The context here seemed odd though. Perhaps it was some sort of Persian slang. In any case, it's not my place to ask.

Esan returned with Miss Jamshidi and her chaperone a moment later. Instead of the floor length chadors they had arrived in, both women wore colorful, knee-length kameez tunics over loose, breezy palazzo pants. The niqabs had been replaced with open-faced hijabs.

Before greeting me, she kissed her father, and he bid her to enjoy herself, but not to stay out too late. I led both women through the hotel to the waiting limousine and was about to take the seat next to the driver.

"Won't you sit back here with us, Mr. Lee?" Miss Jamshidi asked through the open partition. "You can point out all the sights along the way."

"Certainly, Miss." I instructed the driver to take the more scenic E11.

The ladies sat together and I took the seat across from them. Miss Jamshidi introduced me to her Aunt Lelia, her father's sister-in-law, who did not speak English, so we agreed to speak in Farsi.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope my accent isn't too offensive," I told the older woman good-naturedly.

"Forgive my father," Miss Jamshidi blushed. "He can be quite forgiving in some ways, but in others he is very... something and arrogant."

"Of course, Miss Jamshidi."

"Oh please, call me 'Jaleh'. We don't need to be so formal when my father's not around."

"Your Farsi is really quite good," Aunt Lelia assured me.

"That's kind of you to say, but I'm still learning. I still miss some words. Jaleh's English is excellent, though. Very British. Very..." I struggled to come up with a word in Farsi, and when I couldn't I just used the English. "Very posh."

"Posh!?" Jaleh repeated, her face beaming. She continued in English with a grin "Oh, I'm dead chuffed!" Then switched back to Farsi with a smile. "I just finished a Master's program at Cambridge and I worked very hard to fit in while I was there."

"That certainly explains it."

"Your English is a bit too perfect though," she observed suspiciously. "You're not actually Chinese are you? You're American."

"Yes ma'am. I hope that won't be an issue."

"It doesn't bother me, but I wouldn't mention it to my father."

"Duly noted. So what did you study at Cambridge?" I asked changing the subject. I hate talking politics.

"Mathematics," Jaleh replied. "Differential topology."

"We're very proud of Jaleh's academic career." Lelia smiled, patting her niece's thigh. "She'll earn a PhD someday."

"That's very impressive. Is that what brings you to Dubai?"

"Ah, no," Jaleh demurred. "I'm here to meet my fiancé. Father has decided that it's time for me to marry and let someone else pay for university."

"I see. Congratulations."

Jaleh shrugged with resignation.

"We're all very anxious to meet Salim," Lelia interjected. "He has been very gracious meeting us at his beautiful hotel."

"Salim Varghese?" I was surprised when Lelia nodded. "Well, you could certainly do a lot worse. So you'll be my boss's wife. I'll have to make an extra good impression," I smiled.

"It's not for certain," Jaleh dismissed the idea. "I can still turn down his proposal. Father just feels that it's his duty to find me a husband, and not something I should trouble myself with. But the final decision is mine."

Lelia frowned and looked out the window.

I knew better than to get involved in family affairs, so quickly changed the subject again, pointing out the Burj Khalifa tower on the horizon as it came into view.

***

The skiing was more fun than I had expected. Experiencing Ski Dubai through the eyes of someone who has never seen it always renews the spectacle.

Jaleh had been through damp and grey English winters, but she'd never experienced cold like Ski Dubai's refrigeration. Her aunt had learned to ski as a girl at the resorts north of Tehran, but that had been many years ago. They enjoyed clowning around, laughing and batting at each other in the puffy down jackets they were given.

After much cajoling by her aunt and the assistant manager, Jaleh decided to give skiing a try—but only if we joined her. She was embarrassed to be the only novice.

It's not unheard of for guests to treat me like one of their party. I find that accepting their offers helps me establish a rapport, so I only put up a token objection. But really, when it comes to outdoor recreation, I'm more for sailing and open water than I am for snow.

After an hour or so of lessons, Jaleh and I got in several clumsy runs down the indoor slope. I found it challenging, but I doubt an experienced skier would. Lelia didn't seem to.

I offered to take pictures while Jaleh and Lelia made another run. Jaleh handed me her phone.

She came down the hill towards me with all the grace one day's experience will grant, her aunt swooping forward and then waiting, swooping and waiting. I watched through the phone screen and tapped picture after picture as they drew closer and closer towards me.

Too late I recognized the panic in Jaleh's eyes as the edge of her ski caught an icy patch and slipped sideways. Instead of braking she sped up, colliding with me, knocking me backwards and falling on top of me in a tangle of limbs and skis and poles.

"Are you alright!?" Jaleh asked with genuine concern in her bright, golden eyes.

"I, uh... I think... I think so," I assured her taking a quick mental inventory. Aside from the weight of her body on my chest and groin, I seemed to be intact. "Are you?"

"I can't... I can't turn... my leg..." she stammered, trying to get one ski flipped around.

"Here, let me... Ah, no." My own hand was locked in the wrist strap of a pole that was somehow underneath me.

"What if I...?"

"Can you...?"

"If I could just..."

A crowd gathered and tried to offer advice. Our instructor eventually got us untangled, and we sheepishly brushed off the snow, both of us embarrassed by the spectacle we'd caused.

That was enough skiing for the day.

When we left Ski Dubai, the sun was low in the sky and I asked the driver to take us through the Marina along King Salam Street so we could watch the sunset over the Gulf. All the beach front hotels block the view, but the orange and teal sky filtered between the skyscrapers with their patchwork of illuminated windows and the street-level neon signs create their own kind of beauty.

We got out of the car to stroll along the Walk and the driver circled ahead to pick us up at the other end. We stopped in a boutique or two, a high-end tea shop, and for the ladies' sunset prayers in a palm-shaded plaza with a view of the ocean.

I rarely get to enjoy a day out like this, and took the time to appreciate Jaleh and Lelia's generosity in inviting me along. I hadn't looked at my phone in hours. But all too soon we were back in the car and headed back to the hotel. So I checked to make sure I hadn't missed anything important.

Aside from the usual staff updates, there was a gushing thank-you text from Nylah, and I found the promised message from Mr. Paria with the contact information of the woman who needed a car to the hotel. Jaleh and her aunt were happily discussing their skiing adventure, so I decided to go ahead and take care of that chore now.

That's when I made a rookie mistake.

"If you'll pardon me for just a moment," I excused myself, "I need to arrange a car for your father's midwife."

"My father's what?" Jaleh looked perplexed, but her aunt's face went ashen.

Shit. I forgot Mr. Paria had said this was a secret. I'd been having so much fun, I'd let my guard down.

"Stop the car," Lelia blurted and when the driver didn't respond, she screamed "Stop the car! Stop the car!" on the verge of hysterics.

The driver didn't understand Farsi and looked back at the commotion in confusion, so I relayed the order in Arabic. "Stop the car. Just pull over to the side and stop!"

"Auntie, what's wrong!?" Jaleh asked, clearly confused by Lelia's outburst.

"He will something you like he something something!" Lelia was obviously agitated and talking very fast. "Your sister something to keep your father something. I thought he had learned, but he will do the same to you!"

"Don't say that, Auntie!" Jaleh snapped. "Something something a tragedy and it hurt Father most of all. How can you be so something?"

"I tell you, she something your father's hand because she something," Lelia insisted. "Jaleh, look me in the eye and tell me you something something. Tell me you didn't something something English man."

Jaleh slapped her.

That was my cue to exit.

"Ladies, I apologize. I've accidentally intruded on some family business," I interrupted raising the partition between us and the driver. "I'm going to step outside and give you some privacy."

"No!" Lelia objected, glaring at me and speaking calmly again. "When Jaleh is found dead like her sister, I want someone to know why."

"My sister Kiana something the day before she met her fiance," Jaleh explained with a sad sigh. At the look of confusion on my face she clarified in English. "She committed suicide. She hanged herself rather than bring dishonor on our family because she... she had been with a man."

"Your father says it was suicide," Lelia objected. "But Kiana was so full of life, happy and witty and excited to marry. We have only your father's word that she was distraught when she confessed her infidelity. But why would she do that? Why say anything? Women have been faking something for thousands of years."

Given the context, I assumed the word I didn't know was 'virginity' or something close to it.

It's unfortunate that honor killings still happen in this part of the world. Despite the skyscrapers and the helipads, the bars and the discos and the bikinis that present a modern, cosmopolitan visage to the outside world, there is still a very deep conservative vein that runs below the surface of Dubai.

I'm not an expert on Islamic culture. I have no idea how common the practice actually is. But whenever a young Muslim woman takes her own life, or dies alone in a tragic accident, people whisper. Islamic burial law makes autopsies rare in such cases.

"Father would never do such a thing!" Jaleh insisted, tears welling in her eyes. "He's very progressive!"

"No!" Lelia corrected with a scowl. "He only seems to be because you are a dutiful and obedient daughter. He gives you choices instead of orders, because he knows you will always choose his preference. And you always do. Would you ever really decline Salim Varghese's proposal? Are you so naive that you believe you truly have a choice?"

Jaleh started to say something, stopped, started again, and then threw up her hands with scream of frustration.

"You are right that he was devastated when Kiana died," Lelia continued. "I thought he would give up such foolishness then."

"Fine, if that's what he wants to hear, that's what I'll tell him," Jaleh snapped.

"But he will not take your word. That is why he has found a midwife. Did you find this woman, Mr. Lee?" she asked turning suddenly towards me.

"I, uh... No... No, I think Mr. Paria found her. They just asked me to arrange a car for her."

"Maybe this woman will lie for you. Maybe she is as conservative as your father. Do you really want to wager your life on a stranger's mercy?"

"What would you have me do then?"

"Run. Have the driver take us to the airport and get on a plane to England, or anywhere your father can't reach you. Now, before he even suspects."

"I don't have my passport, Auntie," Jaleh sighed. "And what would happen to you? What would happen to Rowan if he came back without me?"

Lelia sort of deflated, her chin on her chest. "...I don't know," she answered at last, looking up with tears in her eyes. "But I won't let what happened to Kiana happen to you... I can't."

I should have kept my damn mouth shut. This was none of my business. I had nothing to gain by getting involved. But as we sat there on the side of the highway with the headlights of passing cars flashing by, I recalled something my mother used to say before going to one of her meetings. "Bad things happen when good people do nothing."

Dammit, Mom.

"Look, what if I called Mr. Varghese? I can ask him to talk to your father, and sort out this whole thing. I'm sure he doesn't want anything... bad... to happen."

"Are you?" Lelia glared at me. "Are you really certain that Mr. Varghese would accept a something for a wife?"

"Auntie!" Jaleh scowled.

My relationship with Salim Varghese was strictly professional. I didn't know much about his personal life, his politics, or his religion. I never wanted to know. It was certainly possible that he was every bit as conservative as Jaleh's father.

"No," I conceded reluctantly. "No, I'm not... "

Going to the police was a non-starter. Back in the States or in Europe there would be social services available to protect a woman in Jaleh's position. There was no such agency here. Her father held all the cards and had all the rights.

"I do have... one other idea, but I hesitate to bring it up. I... I know some people at the American Embassy. Maybe we could ask for asylum for Jaleh."

Lelia's eyes lit up. "Do you think that will work?"

"Honestly," I confessed, dialing Nick's number. "I have no idea."

"Hey, Row!" Nick answered. "Didn't expect to hear from you again today. What's up?"

"Hey Nick, hypothetical question. Say I had a guest who was interested in requesting asylum in the U.S. What would be involved in that?"

"Seriously!?" I could hear Nick exhale. "That uh, that's not really my department... Would your hypothetical guest want to maybe come by the Embassy tomorrow and discuss it with someone?"

"We're on kind of a tight hypothetical timeline. Is it possible to talk to someone tonight?"

"They're all closed up down there for tonight," he explained, "If you're in immediate danger—like, mob chasing you with pitchforks, danger—you can request temporary refuge at the gate."

"Eh... we're not there yet. But we could be soon. Hypothetically."

"Alright," Nick sighed, "you clearly don't want to talk about this on the phone. How about I meet you over at Festival City? I can't make any promises, but you can at least tell me the whole story."

"Oh, um... You?" I tried not to sound too belittling. "I mean... you're a geologist... I was just hoping you could hook me up with someone from the State Department or something?"

"Yeah, I'll see if I can drag someone along with me," Nick conceded. "But honestly, those Foreign Service guys don't take a dump if it's not on their calendar. I know enough to give you some general advice. And once I know the whole story, I may be able to twist the right arm with it."

"Yeah... Yeah, alright. I guess that's a good place to start. Vanitas?"

"We'd never get a table at Vanitas on such short notice," Nick scoffed.

"Leave that to me. The maitre'd owes me a favor."

"Hey, if you can get us into Vanitas, I'll owe you a favor."

"Great. See you there." I tapped off the call and turned to Jaleh. "Call your father and tell him that you want to see the fountain and light show at Festival City, ok?"

Jaleh nodded and pulled her phone from her purse. Lelia somehow managed to look pensive and relieved at the same time.

***

It was a believable excuse. Festival City is a high-end tourist trap that caters to westerners, but the twice--nightly fountain and light show makes the show at the Bellagio in Vegas look like choreographed lawn sprinklers. Vanitas is a diamond in the rough and serves the best Italian food east of the Mediterranean.

Nick was waiting alone at the bar when I arrived with Jaleh and Lelia. He was grinning like the cat who got the cream, happy to have made it past the maitre'd. Then for just half a second his expression fell, and I thought I saw panic in his eyes. It barely lasted a moment before the smile was back.

"Row can I talk to you privately, for just a quick second?" he asked before I could make introductions.

We stepped over to the bar where I made sure Jaleh and Lelia could still see us.

"What's the problem?" I asked with concern.

"Is that Jaleh Jamshidi?" he hissed under his breath.

"Yeah, how did you-"

"Daughter of Farhad Jamshidi?" he cut me off.

"Yeah."

"Farhad Jamshidi who was just appointed to Iran's Guardian Council?" Nick glared.

"I, uh... Sure, I guess. I don't really follow politics. It's a funny sort of thing for a geologist to know," I observed with a quizzical frown.

"I told you, man. I read a lot," he countered. "Is she seriously seeking asylum? She's like the daughter of... I dunno, we don't have an equivalent... Like, a Supreme Court Justice."

"Does that make a difference?"

"Does that... Shit, man are you trying to start a war?" he whispered. "If Farhad Jamshidi wanted asylum for his whole family, that would be one thing, but this... This could be messy."

"Just... listen to what she has to say, will you?" I pleaded. "She's in trouble, and you're the only person I know who might know how to help."

"Alright, I'll listen," he shook his head, "But you're buying."

I introduced Nick to the ladies, and we ordered dinner.

Jaleh reluctantly relayed the story of her sister's suicide and her aunt's fears, stopping every few minutes to translate and add some extra detail that Lelia insisted on. Nick listened patiently, but without enthusiasm.

"Look, I sympathize with your situation," he shook his head after Jaleh had explained her fears, "but it's not that simple. First, you can't request asylum at an embassy. You have to actually be in the United States for that."

"I thought the embassy counted as U.S. soil," I frowned.

"Yes and no," Nick waved away my interruption and continued. "If you request refugee status, we can get you to the U.S. to apply for asylum, but refugee status takes time—sometimes months. You could go to the embassy tonight and request temporary refuge, but that can backfire. If they tell you 'no' and your father finds out, it could make your situation worse...

"The fact is things with the Iranians are always... tricky. And your father's position in the government complicates things even further."

"So you can do nothing?" Jaleh scowled. "He can do nothing," she translated for her aunt and Lelia looked apoplectic.

"I didn't say that," Nick argued. "If you can get to the U.S., you can request asylum at your port of entry. But of course, you can't do that without a passport. I'd say you should request asylum here in the UAE, if it weren't for your father's influence. There are a couple of other western embassy's here that might have looser procedures, but I'm not sure...

"You have to understand... this... this is not my area of expertise, Ok? Let me call a couple of people and ask around. I'll see if I can come up with a better alternative for you tonight."

Jaleh translated and Lelia spat back "Why are you still sitting here, then!? Make your calls! Ask your questions! Go!"

Nick regarded his unfinished abbacchio alla Romano with disappointment, but he took Lelia's insistence with good humor and left, telling us to sit tight and promising to contact me as soon as he had any definite information.

"We can't count on him," Jaleh observed dryly in Farsi as Nick walked away.

"No," I agreed. "You have to get away from your father tonight... Is there any way that you can get your passport back from Mr. Paria?"

"He would only hand it over to Father," she shook her head.