Anatomy of a Disappearance by Hisham Matar

soon as she took the receiver Mona said, “Where on earth have you been?” Then, before he could have possibly had a chance to explain, she said, “Right, well, listen. Have you contacted the journalist? … What do you mean, he’s out of town? Isn’t he meant to be a local reporter? How convenient: on holiday. And did you get hold of that woman? Or has she bloody disappeared too?”
    Barely an hour passed before the receptionist called to say a Monsieur Hass was here. We could not possibly receive him in our tiny room, now smelling of food, so we went down. We found him pacing, his shoes making a high-pitched crack every time they hit the tiles. The three of us sat in the corner of the hotel lounge.
    “You and I know he hasn’t just run off,” Mona said softly.
    He looked at me with concern.
    “Nuri,” Mona said. “Can you please fetch my address book from upstairs?”
    When I returned I approached slowly from behind the sofa where they were sitting, catching some of their conversation.
    “They have a responsibility to protect him. They can’t brush it under the carpet.”
    “Let me see what I can do,” he said.
    When they saw me they stood up.
    “All right then,” she said. “You will call me.”
    “Yes, as soon as I get hold of my friend.”
    I followed her to the lift. She stood just inside the sliding doors. When they drew shut she spoke.
    “Decent fellow, that man,” she said. “He just needs a good kick up the backside.”
    The doors opened, and she marched through them.
    I tried to understand what was going on. I asked whom Hass was going to call.
    “Someone he knows at the Federal Department of Home Affairs.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Their equivalent of the Home Office.”
    “What, like the police?”
    “Above the police.”
    She lay down, crossing her hands over her stomach.
    “I am going to close my eyes for a few minutes,” she said.
    I did not know where to go. I thought I could look out of the window, but the view was of the back of the neighboring building.
    “The curtains,” she suddenly said, her eyes still closed.
    I drew them. The room became oddly dark, as if light were an actual solid substance that had poured out of the room. I shut myself into the windowless bathroom but did not turn on the light. I felt my way to the edge of the bathtub. I descended into its dry black shape. I did not cry. I remained there until I heard the telephone ring. I quickly got out.
    “Good, you got hold of him,” she said, sitting up in bed. “I don’t care that it’s Christmas. We need to see him.… Then why don’t I call him?” she said. She stood up. “OK, OK, then you call him now and tell him that if the minister does not see us tomorrow, I will call every paper in Switzerland and tell them that the Swiss government doesn’t give a shit about the disappearance of a man who has done nothing but call for the freedom of his people.” She listened for a while, then laughed. “Yes, exactly, tell them his wife is crazy.… OK, great, I am waiting by the phone,” she said and hung up.
    For some reason, listening to these words, the easy yet excited voice with which she spoke them, made me feel unsteady. I sat on the floor, my head dangling between my knees.
    “What’s the matter?” she said.
    I shook my head, blinking hard to erase the tiny white blotches.
    She lit a cigarette. The smoke quickly filled the room. She yanked the curtains apart but did not open the window.
    When the telephone rang again, she let it ring a couple of times before answering it.
    “Hi,” she said, then, “Good, good. Great, it worked. What time shall we set off? … OK, we’ll expect you by noon tomorrow.… No, he should definitely come. They need to see his son.”
    She hung up.
    “The bastards,” she said, underneath her breath.
    The light through the window was weak. She began brushing her hair.
    “What shall we do for supper?” she said.

    The following morning Mona and I were back at the