I followed the instructions to a tee, but before I reached the first statue, I saw that I had stumbled across Mr. Joe’s bar. I stopped at the end of the street and looked carefully. The metal grate was half-raised, and sudsy water was gushing out into the street. What if I just passed by without looking in? It was impossible for Mr. Joe himself to be present; he never left his establishment before daybreak and would not yet be back. I took a deep breath and moved forward. When I came up to the bar, I slowed down to avoid the muddy puddles forming in front of his door. But a final gush from the rubber drain hose sprayed dirty water over my pants and shoes.

“Forgive me, sir!” shrieked an Ethiopian woman. “Forgive me! I didn’t see you coming!” She bent down to wipe my pants with her wet hands.

I stole a glance inside. The place was empty. She was the only one there, and the chairs, like inverted insects, were set upon the tables, which had been gathered together in the middle. She invited me to come inside and have a seat so she could clean me off better. I complied and followed her inside. She set one of the chairs on the floor and had me sit down. Then she wet a white towel and began wiping off the dirt. I smiled at her and patted her shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry. It will soon dry.”

Her grateful eyes looked up from an ugly, twisted face. I asked if she knew Shaygha, a woman who worked there. Surprised at my question, she said she didn’t associate with the girls and just did her work, which was to clean every morning, before heading off to do a similar job elsewhere. “Are you looking for a housekeeper or a maid?” she asked. I said no and, thanking her, got up to leave. It was clear she couldn’t give me any information.

Suddenly, she put her hand to her head, closed her eyes, and rubbed her forehead.

“Shaygha … Shaygha … ” she repeated softly. “Wasn’t she the Nepalese girl who ran away with her Lebanese friend? I heard Mr. Joe talking about it on the telephone last week when I came to collect my pay. Do you happen to know her? Mr. Joe promised a large reward for anyone who could tell him where she is.”

The tone of the Ethiopian woman had changed, and she began giving me a suspicious look that stopped the blood in my veins. “I’m a regular customer,” I said, “but it’s been a while since I’ve been here. That’s why I asked about her. Maybe she ran away home to her family,” I added.

The woman shook her head. “How could she travel when Mr. Joe has her passport?” she said. Rubbing her first two fingers with her thumb, she added that she could keep me notified if I paid her a bit of money.