Fire In The Desert, Pt. III
In which Hugo and Jean-Marc start an investigation.
This is my third short story from the HugoVerse.
Previously: Hugo passed his third test, in spite of failing due to a crazy dust devil that formed in the desert. Plus Jean-Marc shows another face.
There was a lot of anxiety floating in the air. Everybody sensed that a lot was not right. Called-off tests, strange tension surrounding the school officials, now this rushed explanation.
‘Please remain calm. It’s just an urgent personal matter. Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. Evening lecture is called off. You may use this time to practice your drills before tomorrow. Classes resume at 8 am, as usual,’ said a stern voice of deputy head master, Malik’s right hand, Jalal al-Abbadi.
Slowly, the crowd started to dissipate. Some people already turned towards the dining hall. Some sat in the lounge with friends, or with a book.
‘He couldn’t have gone far. Probably Aqaba. It’s just one-hour drive. Most likely, he took the jeep,’ said Jean-Marc.
‘You know this place better. Do we follow him?’ Hugo asked.
‘They won’t let us out. At least, not officially. I wouldn’t risk sneaking out without any reason.’
‘Dinner is a great moment. Everybody is hungry, they won’t notice.’
‘That’s why we’ll use it to investigate,’ Jean-Marc proposed.
‘Surely you don’t mean sneaking into Malik’s office?’
‘I’d love to, and yes, that crossed my mind, too, but that would be unfair to him. Luckily, there are other sources to begin with.’
‘Yes, Monsieur Poirot.’
‘He was Belgian!’
‘I know.’
Jean-Marc squinted his eyes.
‘Anyway. We’ll eat dinner quickly – oh God, I hate doing that – don’t look at me like that, I’m French. Rushed dinners are not something we do.’
‘Yes, French. NOT Belgian.’
‘You know, if you want, you can skip dinner altogether. Call your family and have a serious conversation with them about this place and your skills.’
‘I thought about that. I feel they’re not telling me everything. Those skeletons you mentioned.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘However, it just might be about Malik, not me.’
‘We don’t know that yet. We have to bet on those two horses.’
‘Hopefully, my horse won’t win this race. Anyway, I’m so NOT skipping dinner. I’m exhausted and starving.’
‘Oh, I forgot your ordeal already.’ Jean-Marc sighed, theatrically. ‘And it was supposed to be a quiet, breezy monthly intensive of fire training at 40 degrees with four rough tests to pass in friendly desert environment. Basically like last time. Vous les Polonais, you seem to attract trouble. Don’t take it wrong, I love it. It’s going to be fun.’
The gong told everybody dinner was served.
‘But don’t forget – we’re skipping cheese, dessert, and digestif,’ Hugo warned Jean-Marc.
And they proceeded towards the dining hall, plotting their next move.
*
The rich scents of the Middle Eastern kitchen were like no other. Cardamom, sumac, charcoal-grilled meats. Jean-Marc took a deep breath and gave a (theatrical) sigh of deep contentment.
An elderly woman was directing junior staff with an imperious, decisive voice. Nothing missed her attention. But when she noticed Jean-Marc, her gaze softened.
‘Sayyid1 Jean-Marc!’ She bowed.
‘Masa' al-khair2, Sayida Fatima!” Jean-Marc called out, bowing a bit theatrically. ‘Queen of the kitchen, you have surpassed yourself once more tonight!’
‘Astaghfirullah3! You are impossible! It was just simple food, nothing special!’
She waved her hand dismissively, yet the little smile on her face betrayed her pleasure and contentment. She came to the stove and came back with a few small portions on a plate.
‘You try this. For tomorrow.’
Jean-Marc took one, immediately ate it and rolled his eyes in ecstasy.
‘Ana fil jannah4!’
Sayida Fatima dismissed him, took the plate and came up to Hugo.
‘And one for your friend.’
‘Oh, sorry. This is my new friend, Hugo Czartoryski. He’s Polish. Lahestani.’
She looked at Hugo with an inquisitive gaze. She was thinking intensely about something.
‘Lahestani… You look… Just like Sayyib George!’
Jean-Marc looked at Hugo askingly.
‘Jerzy. It’s my grandfather.’
‘Jaddak5! Sayyib George! He was a good man. Helped my Tariq. In hospital. My son still lives because of him. Allah yarham jedak6. You are always welcome in my kitchen.’
Hugo and Jean-Marc exchanged looks. Jean-Marc had that “See, I told you” grin on his face.
‘Sit! I’ll make tea.’
And she took off to put some water on the stove.
‘I didn’t know you could speak Arabic,’ Hugo said, impressed.
‘A little. There was a woman. I’ll tell you one day.’
*
Half an hour later, they sat at the kitchen table, joined by a young boy, Fatima’s grandson, working as general maintenance staff at the school. His English was quite good, so he could translate Fatima easily without the need to rely on Jean-Marc’s rusty Arabic.
‘I have rarely seen Master Malik so agitated. He asked for something to eat delivered to his study as he was leaving. When I came in with the food, I heard him speaking on the phone. He was saying about someone returning, but he stopped when he heard me knocking on the door,’ Fatima said.
‘You didn’t catch whom he might have been referring to?’ Jean-Marc asked.
‘No. I only heard the voice in the phone saying something about meeting.’
‘Did any of you notice anything happening today, especially in the afternoon, right after Hugo returned from his trial? Think about it, any small detail might be important.’
‘I think one of the cleaning ladies complained about sand in the library, even though she had been sweeping the floors the evening before. But it’s the desert, there’s always sand everywhere.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Well, Mr. Al-Khatib missed dinner tonight. He said he felt unwell and asked for something light to be sent to his room.’
‘That’s so strange?’ asked Jean-Marc.
‘He almost never feels unwell.’
‘Interesting. Very interesting, indeed,’ said Jean-Marc, adopting a pensive, Holmes-like face.
‘We should consult the librarian!’ Hugo exclaimed.
‘Yes, Watson, that’s a brilliant idea!’ retorted Jean-Marc. ‘Let’s go. The library closes very soon.’
‘He’s a very stern man. However, I have a secret weapon,’ Fatima’s eyes twinkled. She went to the table where deserts were prepared to be served the next day. ‘He could never resist my baklava. Take it.’
Hugo and Jean-Marc thanked Fatima and her grandson profusely and dashed off to the library before it closed.
*
The library was modest, but impressive at the same time. Many works kept there were really old – ancient almost. They would make Indiana Jones or Nathan Drake scream with excitement.
The librarian was already getting ready to close it. He was visibly unhappy about late-night visitors that disrupted his closing ritual.
‘Mr. al-Qasim, so nice to see you!’ exclaimed Jean-Marc in his usual cheerful tone.
‘Be quiet, young man. It’s not a cafeteria,’ responded al-Qasim.
‘Apologies, sir. As a truce, let us offer you these,’ Hugo said, taking out a plate of offerings prepared by Fatima.
‘You think you can bribe me?’
‘Oh no, not at all, Ms. Fatima sends it as a token of appreciation of all the hard work you’re doing in the library.’
Al-Qasim was obviously suspicious, but he just couldn’t resist the delicacy. He knew them so well. He looked at it with utmost desire, fighting with himself.
‘What book do you want?’
‘Actually, what we need is some information. We won’t be long,’ said Jean-Marc.
‘Information?’
‘Yes. Did someone ask for anything odd today, or in the afternoon? Did you notice any suspicious inquiry?’ Hugo asked.
‘Why would I tell you any of that? This is not police precinct, and you’re students. Get out of here.’
‘Well, in that case…’ Jean-Marc took the plate of pastries from Hugo. ‘I think Ms. Fatima meant Mr. Al-Khatib, not Mr. Al-Qasim. I must have heard wrongly…’ And then he turned on his feet and went towards the door.
Hugo was impressed. This was a huge bluff, and it might not have worked. Jean-Marc must have been sure of the power of Fatima’s pastries. Hugo turned to follow the Frenchman.
‘Wait.’
They both stopped at the door.
‘She surely couldn’t have meant Al-Khatib.’
Was this hatred in his eyes? This man surely disliked the other guy.
‘Look, Mr. Al-Qasim. I almost died today. There was something strange going on during my test. Now Master Malik left abruptly. We just want to help him, and the school,’ Hugo said, straining his diplomatic abilities to the extreme.
‘All right.’ He stretched out his hand.
Jean-Marc gave him the plate. The librarian immediately took the first piece.
‘Delicious! Tell Ms. Fatima she surpassed herself, as usual.’ Then he took the second one. ‘That’s interesting that you’re asking. There were two incidents, actually. First someone wanted to gain access to the protected section in the morning when I was out and the library was closed. Then Mr. Malik came here in the afternoon and demanded some documents from this particular section, saying that on no account am I to reveal what those were and what they were about.’
‘Did he take them with him?’
‘Yes. Then later, someone asked precisely for the same documents. I was surprised they knew they existed.’
‘A student?’ asked Jean-Marc.
Mr. Al-Qasim was hesitating whether he should reveal this information.
‘Please, it’s important.’
‘Young man, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.’
‘If this concerns me – or my ancestors – in any way, I think I have the right to know,’ Hugo said.
‘Is it about that incident in the desert?’
‘Yes.’
The librarian had a long moment of hesitation. He was obviously battling with himself, hoping the third piece of pastry would help him make a decision.
‘But it didn’t come from me. Swear you won’t tell anybody.’
They swore.
After another moment of hesitation, he revealed the name.
Hugo and Jean-Marc looked at each other.
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Mister/Sir.
Good evening.
I seek forgiveness from God.
I am in paradise!
Your grandfather!
God have mercy on your grandfather.