The Zanzibar Wife

by Deborah Rodriguez

  She covered the pilau to keep it warm. Why hadn’t Tariq called? He probably forgot to charge his phone again, she thought. But then another thought crossed her mind, the thought that perhaps he actually had chosen to stop at his other wife’s house instead. She took a deep breath and lowered herself onto a stool, her phone tight in her grip, her eyes glued to the ticking clock above the stove as she watched each minute pass.

  4

  Rachel had never seen anything like it. It was as if she were the lone car traveling the wrong way on a rush-hour highway, or a rebel fish trying to escape upstream. The best part was the guy stationed by the mall’s exit, frantically waving two orange light-up batons in the air in a fruitless effort to control the throngs shoving their way through the doors to catch the next show at the dancing fountain outside at the base of the Burj Khalifa. Fountain? To Rachel it looked more like a lake. But then again, from what she already knew and had already seen, along with what she had heard from the taxi driver, everything in Dubai was out of whack. It was a city of superlatives—the biggest, the tallest, the shiniest, the newest.

  Right now it just seemed like the crowdedest. In all her years of traveling through Dubai—always on her way to or from one assignment or another—she’d deliberately never set foot outside the airport. And if she had, the mall would definitely not have been at the top of her list of must-sees. Especially on a Friday night, when the entire population of the city seemed to share the same idea of how to spend an evening out. It was more crowded than the week before Christmas at a mall back home. But, for the most part, not many of these shoppers seemed to be actually shopping at all. There were hundreds of stores in the mall, and behind the windows of almost each one she passed all she saw were yawning clerks with folded arms, shifting impatiently from leg to leg. Most would-be customers were just wandering the broad corridors, as if strolling a Paris boulevard on a lazy afternoon.

  It’s like a parade of nations through a canyon of consumerism, Rachel thought as she followed the signs to the escalator. The men in their crisp, white, ankle-length dishdashas: the Emiratis distinguishable by the keffiyeha secured to their heads with black cords that dangled down their backs, the Kuwaitis set apart by their sharp and pointy collars, and the Saudis by their red-and-white scarves. And then there were the women: the Palestinians in modern dresses and tight headscarves, and the Pakistanis in their shalwar kameez. The Indian women wore saris, and those from the Gulf countries were draped in traditional abayas. They were the ones who made the most of their visible body parts, with designer shoes and handbags that would be right at home on upper Madison Avenue or the streets of Tribeca.

  Of course there were those in more Western clothes as well. Nobody seemed to give her own khakis and Timberland boots a second look. Or even a first. In fact, she noticed, short of an annoying invasion of personal space—cutting in line, bumping, a little pushing—nobody was really acknowledging anyone else’s presence at all. They traveled in packs, like members of street gangs displaying their colors. For her, it actually felt good to once again be blending anonymously into a jumble of cultures. It was almost as if she were invisible. It was true that, as cities went, New York was usually pretty good for that as well, but her own neighborhood had been becoming way too white and wealthy for her taste lately.

  Rachel stumbled off the escalator as it reached the second floor. Jet lag, she thought, her limbs feeling as thick and heavy as tree trunks. She ducked into an empty doorway to fetch the water bottle from a pocket of her backpack, the camera around her neck banging against her knees as she bent to dig. Why the fixer had suggested they meet by the ‘shoes in the mall’ was beyond her, she thought as the stale, warm liquid slithered down her throat. But whatever. She hadn’t had the energy to argue after the thirteen-hour journey from JFK. And where the fuck was the shoe department, anyway?

  Rachel had no choice other than to once again surrender to the thrust of the crowd, and soon found herself being herded past a scene worthy of the grimmest theme parks back home. Clusters of families stood eight-deep in front of a massive window, straining on tiptoe with their glowing cellphones held high like torches in the air. Behind the thick glass, sharks and rays were circling as they eyed the spectators with contempt, as if laying blame for their sorry predicament. She muscled her way through to where the crowd had thinned slightly, past a bowling alley, an ice rink, and a dinosaur skeleton as big as any in the American Museum of Natural History. There were zip-line rides, a football arena, and three men in red fezzes dancing in unison in front of a Turkish restaurant, spinning tassels in the air as they hopped from foot to foot in time to the music. But still, no shoe department. Rachel sighed out loud and wondered if she looked as much like a zombie as she felt. Finally she spied a sign pointing ahead: Shoe District.

  It was a shrine to the foot. A ridiculous display of luxury. All marble and glitz, mirrors and gold, glowing lights and soft music. And, all around her, lone shoes resting on columns and pedestals, displayed preciously on glass shelves and showcased in backlit cases. There were plenty of names she recognized: Dolce & Gabbana, Fendi, Louboutin—she never did understand that whole ‘red on the bottom’ thing—Gucci, Manolo Blahnik, Prada. And then there were the dozens more she didn’t. For a moment she fingered the soft suede straps of a Marchesa sandal, straining to understand how someone might get caught up by all this. Then she checked the price and did the math, and dropped the shoe back onto the shelf like a hot potato.

  Rachel was still a good half an hour early and way too drained to take another step. I used to be so much better at this, she thought. Maybe it was the adrenalin that had kept her going back in the old days. Or maybe it was just the stupid mall that was exhausting her now. Either way, when an overstuffed sofa appeared in front of her eyes she thought she was seeing a mirage. She poked at the soft foam and freed her weary shoulders from the heavy backpack, then stretched out across the cushions like a sultan in his den.

  The next thing she knew, she was hearing her name repeated over and over with a question mark at the end, in a lovely, gentle voice that sounded like a bell softly chiming at the top of the hour. Above her stood a large-eyed woman with long shiny hair. Her artfully ripped jeans and half-tucked silk blouse were a studied attempt at appearing casual, accented with a flair by the rings on every one of her fingers and the striped espadrilles with the telltale interlocking “C”s on her feet. It must have taken her at least an hour to get all that makeup to look as if she were barely wearing any, thought Rachel. Except for those eyelashes. Those looked as if she had collected the long black legs from dozens of hairy spiders and superglued them to her lids.

  The woman held out her hand. “I’m Ariana. Ariana Khan. Your fixer?”

  Rachel sat up and attempted to smooth her hair. “Seriously?”

  Ariana raised one of her lush eyebrows. “What do you mean, ‘seriously’?”

  “Nothing.” Rachel yawned. “Sorry. Never mind.” The truth was that she was more used to big beefy guys who could double as bodyguards if need be, or nerdy wonks who had the wherewithal to get access to anyone anywhere. She hadn’t been out of the game long enough for things to have changed this much. Rachel turned her eyes to the bags hanging from the woman’s arm.

  Ariana leaned in conspiratorially. “Tried to return a pair of shoes, as I had second thoughts about spending the money, if you know what I mean. Only wore them once.”

  Rachel nodded dumbly.

  “Well, they wouldn’t let me return them. Claimed there was an issue with the tag. Bloody hell. So what’s a girl to do?” She shrugged. “I guess they were just meant to be mine after all. Come on.” Ariana helped Rachel up from the pillows and picked up her backpack, which Rachel wrestled back from her arms. “Let’s go have some tea.”

  “I see you got in all right,” she called over her shoulder as Rachel struggled to keep up.

  “I did,” Rachel answered to her back.

  “Did you get any rest on the plane?”


  “Not so much.”

  “Oh look, a sale!” Rachel barreled into Ariana as she slammed to a halt at a makeup counter. “And they’ve got my favorite lipstick!” Ariana puckered her lips in front of a little round mirror. “Do you find it too pink?” Rachel shrugged as Ariana stood back and dipped her chin to give her a better look. “You should try it, Rachel. It would look great on you!”

  “That’s okay,” Rachel said, but before the words could even get out of her mouth Ariana was once again ten steps ahead of her, pecking frantically on her phone as she walked. Rachel followed blindly, the promise of caffeine the only thing keeping her from giving in to her fatigue and collapsing in a heap in the middle of the crush, which, to her surprise, didn’t seem to be letting up in the slightest, despite the late hour. Rachel could have easily got lost in the crowd, had it not been for Ariana’s habit of slowing at every shop window and kiosk on the route.

  “Look at this!” Ariana stopped in front of a sprawling 3-D model of one of the most obnoxious high-rise apartment complexes Rachel had ever seen. “This is the new development down by Dubai Creek Harbour, isn’t it?” Ariana asked the slickly suited man with an iPad under his arm. She had a million questions for the guy. What’s the size? When will construction be complete? What’s the occupancy rate? What are the prices? Rachel looked around for a chair as Ariana sweetly offered to help enter her contact information into the salesman’s device.

  “Are you looking for a new apartment?” Rachel asked with a yawn as Ariana finally finished and nodded toward the escalator.

  “No.” Ariana shrugged. “Not really. The poor guy just looked so bored and lonely standing there.”

  Next was the Camel Company, across from the restrooms. “You need to take a look in this place. Do you have children? They have some quite adorable gifts,” Ariana said as she urged Rachel toward the shelves of everything camel: mugs and T-shirts and key chains and plush toys and coasters and magnets and—before Rachel knew it, Ariana had excused herself and slipped into the restrooms across the way. Rachel leaned back with her pack against a display rack near the entrance of the shop to wait, ignoring the narrow-eyed glare being cast in her direction by the cashier. She stood there for what felt like forever, struggling to keep her eyes fixed on the ladies’ room door as she waited for Ariana’s return, the sea of people passing in front of her in a blur. What the hell was the woman doing in there? Redoing her entire faceful of makeup?

  Finally she spied Ariana approaching, her eyes glued to her phone. “Thanks so much for waiting.” She smiled sweetly as she reached Rachel’s side, pointing to the restroom entrances, where just above the little man and woman icons there was another sign with an outline of a mosque flanked by two minarets. “I was praying.”

  “No problem,” Rachel answered, her lips sticking to teeth so thick with travel scum it was as if they were wearing sweaters. “About that tea, or, better yet, coffee?”

  “Come.” Ariana looped her arm through Rachel’s. “It’s this way.”

  But Ariana couldn’t seem to go ten steps before she’d become distracted by someone else with something to sell. She’d flash her smile at anyone and everyone who managed to catch her eye, and before Rachel could object they’d be deep in conversation, debating the merits of this phone case over that, or comparing their favorite scents as Ariana held out her wrist for a spritz. She’d ask them where they were from, if they had a family, if they were happy in Dubai. She even stopped to thank a guy emptying trash bins for his hard work. Rachel couldn’t tell if Ariana was truly interested, or if she was just being polite. Either way, it was driving her a little nuts. The last straw was the Filipina woman with the “miracle hairbrush”. “This is perfect for you,” Ariana said as she herded Rachel toward the kiosk.

  “No, really, I—”

  “Come on, it will be fun. You’ll see.”

  The saleswoman grabbed a clump of Rachel’s hair, still snarled from the plane and frizzy from the heat, and began to brush. “This good for you. Make your hair nice and smooth.”

  “But I—” Rachel could feel an uncomfortably hot steam begin to penetrate her scalp.

  “Wow,” Ariana said. “That really works well! How much is it?”

  The saleswoman continued to brush as she and Ariana talked price. “Okay, I’m good,” Rachel interrupted, breaking away from the woman’s grip. “Can we please just go get our coffee now?” she begged Ariana.

  Ariana thanked the salesperson, assuring her they’d be back, and hurried to keep up with Rachel, who’d just caught sight of her own reflection in a shop window. She looked like a walking before and after ad, with one side of her head plastered flat, the other sprouting kinks and curls going every which way. She spied Ariana stifling a laugh.

  Finally, as they approached a long escalator leading to the floor below, she heard the rattling of cup against saucer, and smelled the sweet aroma of Turkish coffee floating up toward her. “So even the coffee is designer?” she snorted when she spied the name on the awning beneath them.

  Ariana leaned against the railing and laughed. “The Armani Café is one of the most popular spots in the mall. Especially on a Friday night. Look.” Rachel followed her finger down to a table with six young men in white robes, each seated behind a small cup with a phone resting at its side. There seemed to be little conversation among them. Across the way was a tableful of women in black abayas, eyes lowered to the screens in their hands while they talked to each other in hushed tones.

  As she widened her view, Rachel could see the same scene repeated around half the tables in the café below. “I don’t get it.”

  Ariana laughed. “They’re all singles. The guys are looking for women.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “They use Bluetooth. For flirting.”

  “And that works how?”

  Ariana took Rachel’s elbow and led her down the escalator. “Easy. Think about it. In this culture, unrelated men and women can’t be seen talking to each other, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But all they have to do is turn on their Bluetooth to see the names of who else is in range.”

  “Do they know each other?”

  “No. But people will click on IDs they think are sexy or cute, like Poster Boy, Sensitive Girl, Lion Heart, Little Princess.”

  “That is so weird. Then what?”

  “Then they exchange phone numbers and photos. Sometimes the girls even share pictures of themselves uncovered and all dolled up. But, of course, it’s better to get someone’s attention directly than on the phone. They do that by being really obvious with their phone, like checking or typing, and then if the other person is interested they’ll do a Bluetooth search and locate you.”

  “So then they meet face to face? How do they do that?”

  “They don’t. At least probably not right then. They still have to be careful.”

  “Well that kind of sucks. It’s hard enough to meet people …”

  Ariana snorted a little. “You’re telling me! Of course, it’s better than the old way of doing it.”

  “What was that?”

  Ariana lowered her voice as the host led them to their table. “They’d throw notes at the women through car windows, or drop them at their feet. Sometimes they’d even just drop a phone right in front of them.”

  Rachel shook her head at the scene around her. “I think it’s kind of sad.”

  “Ah, they’re all just a bunch of players and gold diggers.” Ariana waved away the menus as big as an atlas and ordered one English breakfast tea with milk on the side and a double espresso. And finally, after a first sip of the espresso that hit Rachel like a jolt from a pair of defib paddles, they got down to the business at hand, though it was difficult for her to compete for attention with the phone in Ariana’s hand. She had to wonder if the woman wasn’t also playing virtual footsies with some of the robed men around them. She couldn’t even seem to get a straight answer when she asked Ariana about what h
ad been booked in Oman, who they’d be seeing, where they’d be staying. By the time the check came, all she knew was that they’d be meeting at Dubai airport at ten the next morning for the flight to Muscat.

  “Can I drive you back to your hotel?” Ariana asked as she dabbed at her lips with a napkin and pushed back her chair.

  “Thanks. I do need to check in.” Rachel felt like she could sleep for days.

  Ariana cocked her head. “Where are all your things?”

  Rachel swung the pack over her shoulder and adjusted the camera strap around her neck. “Got it all right here,” she said as she hurried toward the exit before Ariana could find another reason to delay.

  “I thought that was your purse,” came the voice from behind her as Ariana scrambled to keep up.

  5

  The sheer volume of Ariana’s luggage when she showed up at Dubai International the next day should have been Rachel’s first warning. One oversize, hard-sided, glossy black wheelie bag that could turn on a dime, a duffel stuffed to the max and a large pink leather handbag—no doubt some designer thing that Rachel had no clue about. Rachel was dumbfounded, literally. But what was there to say? After all, it was Ariana who was going to have to schlep all that crap around, not her.

  The woman did not stop moving throughout the entire one-hour flight to Muscat. With her phone on airplane mode, Ariana seemed not to know what to do with herself, as was made clear by the way she fiddled with the entertainment system, chatted with the flight attendant, drank two bottles of water and a cup of tea, and climbed over Rachel—who had shut her eyes and was trying to sleep—three times to go to the bathroom. When they finally reached the hotel, Rachel hurried ahead to the reception desk, desperate to check in to her room to have a few moments to herself before they headed to the souk.

  The place was nice—a hell of a lot nicer than what she was used to while on assignment. Usually her accommodations had run along the lines of crappy hotels and guesthouses, or she’d find herself crammed into a rental with dozens of other photographers and correspondents, along with their interpreters and drivers. As an embed she’d stayed in more remote military bases and barracks than she cared to remember. And once she’d spent an entire week sleeping in bunkers and caves. This was a proper hotel, with a marble lobby made bright by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea.