Dubai

“It is no one’s fault,” Ram said in halting English. “His time had come. Look how old he was. It is no one’s fault.”

The Sheikh stared at Ram for a while, as if wondering whether to take Ram seriously. Then, with huge reluctance written over his face, he agreed, “It is no one’s fault. It is Allah’s will.”

“Yes, Allah — Ram, God… he was a very old man.”

There was no shade to move the old man under, no tree, no cover. Everything that was done from then on was bound to be disrespectful. If Ram reported the incident, whether or not the authorities pursued the truth of it, Ram would surely be thrown out of the country. To leave the dead man there was sacrilege, countenanced by no religion or code of honor. And yet what could be done with him? The Sheikh could hardly dump him in his car and bury him somewhere else. If they left him there, the vultures would devour him before morning. He deserved a decent burial — his family, if he had one, around him. If Ram didn’t report it, and if it came to light that he’d wandered off for a considerable time at the same hour, he’d be in much worse trouble than mere deportation. If only there were a grove of trees, some shade, to let the dead man lie in peace, and the police notified anonymously. Yes, that was it! Someone — perhaps the Sheikh himself — could make an anonymous report in a couple of hours, when the construction workers had quit. Ram wasn’t stopping to think about the morality of escape. He didn’t exactly know how the blood-for-blood principle worked among the Arabs in case of accidental slaughter, but it couldn’t have been good for the young Sheikh.

“Go,” Ram waved at the Sheikh, conveying to him in faltering English the outline of his plan. The Sheikh would have to promise to make an anonymous call to the police just after sunset. Ram would be nowhere in the picture. “Go!” Ram said more sternly, because the Sheikh wasn’t showing any indication of leaving. Finally, the Sheikh seemed to sense the wisdom of the idea. What was done was done. Only the future mattered now. As long as it was only an accident, and the Sheikh wasn’t at fault… and he wasn’t.

The Sheikh made Ram write down his exact name and full address, his passport number and date of birth, on a notepad he got out of the glove compartment of the Toyota. Upon arrival in the Emirates, a worker had to turn over his passport and work permit to the recruiting agent or the employer, to be returned only at the time of departure. Ram remembered his own details. He never paused to wonder about the wisdom of sharing his identity with the Sheikh. Ram couldn’t help but memorize the license plate number of the Toyota. He couldn’t stop staring at it.

Then it was all over. He was back at the building site in a few minutes, and things went on as before. He had to go to the same location for a week more, but he never took a break, let alone wander over to the location of the accident. A few months later, when he went to his employer, the Indian builder, to ask him to renew his work permit, he was told not to worry about it. The labor ministry had already taken care of it. When the employer died in a freak accident a few more years later, many of Ram’s fellow workers found themselves scrambling to arrange new employment; some had to leave the country. But Ram was immediately contacted by a new and better employer, who said the labor ministry had asked him to. Over the years, whenever Ram has been in a scrape, or about to get into one, a benevolent invisible hand has seemed to pull him out of it, and set him back on course again. Ram has no doubt the Sheikh who killed the old man has been behind it.

“Keef Halak.” The greeting is issued in a commanding voice. “May I speak with you a moment — sir?”

Ram is finishing the fried plantains. He looks up to see a plump Emirati national wiping the sweat off his thick forehead, and staring at the remains of Ram’s snack as if he finds it a personal affront for anyone to eat in the street. A gleaming black Mercedes is squeezed into the tight parking spot behind his own Datsun. Even before saying yes, Ram wipes off with his palm any imaginary dust and crumbs on the bench next to him, to make room for the stranger. He can be pretty sure who his interlocutor is.

“Shukran,” the Emirati says, sitting down with his legs spread wide. He doesn’t remove his dark sunglasses, taking in the construction clamor emitted from just beyond the horizon of the low-rising buildings in the neighborhood, as if personally approving the continuing spate of action at this normally lax time of the week. “Something about Friday, the end of the week — it makes you take stock of where you’ve been, where you’re going. Doesn’t it? Even if you’re not Muslim. They say our ancestors were great poets. Every man a poet in his home. Imagine, pearl divers, impoverished Bedu, goat herders, dhow-builders, reciting poetry about the beauty of their mundane work. In touch with their essence, their being. A sweet, sweet harmony. But so much has passed away, so rapidly. In another generation — poof ! — no one will have any memory of the ways of our forefathers.” Then he laughs cynically, turning his face to Ram. “But this is all to the good. Sheikh Mo says we must be number one — in everything. There’s nothing difficult about progress. Only cowards are afraid.”