The Zanzibar Wife

by Deborah Rodriguez

  11

  “Allah ma’ik, God be with you,” Hani called out as Miza rushed through the hospital’s glass doors as quickly as her extra burden would allow.

  It had been four days since the accident that put her husband behind the thick walls of this grim fortress, four days filled with the kind of worry and fear that devours a person from the inside out.

  In the elevator she paused to catch her breath, leaning against the cold metal railing behind her for support. Fifth floor, they had told her when she called the hospital in Nizwa, after finally getting word from Hani about the accident that had sent Tariq and his little Toyota spinning across the center divider and into the oncoming traffic. Until Hani’s unexpected visit to bring the news, Miza had been left to the torments of her own imagination, her mind flooded with endless loops of dreadful possibilities that became even more horrendous the longer she remained alone. And she did not dare to go to his house, the one he shared with Maryam. The only thing she could think to do was to check all the hospitals in Muscat. But she found no one matching his name.

  The longer Tariq’s absence remained a mystery, the deeper Miza sunk. It wasn’t until Hani had knocked on the door of her apartment—the apartment he’d apparently loaned to his friend Tariq for his new wife—that her thoughts snapped back into focus, and all her energy turned to the fight for Tariq’s life.

  Of course, Miza thought as the elevator rose, Maryam would have been notified immediately. Perhaps she was even there by his side at this very moment. Miza was worried, but now—knowing the state he was in, knowing that he needed her—there was nothing that would keep her away. All she could hope for was that the other woman would not be interested in keeping a bedside vigil for the man she seemed to care so little about.

  The fifth floor corridor, with its shiny waxed floors and ammonia stink, was as still as a graveyard, with only the sounds of beeping machines and stray coughs to disturb the uneasy silence of the sick and dying. Miza slowed her pace at each doorway, eager—yet not—to recognize the form beneath the sheets as her husband’s. So much illness and pain, so many sad stories. Her dread rose as the baby stirred inside her, reminding her of the hazy uncertainty of the future, as well as the stark reality of the past, that morning when she watched her mother’s eyes close for the last time in a blinding white room of the hospital that was unable to keep her from leaving this world. Even today so many women were still dying while giving birth in Zanzibar and all over Tanzania. That was one of the arguments Tariq had given to convince her to come to Oman for the birth of their child. And now here she was, so near to bringing a new life into the world in a country where she knew no one. Tariq had to get better. He had to survive. She would make sure of that. And then she would return to Zanzibar, and leave this life for one where her love for her husband and her status as his wife were things she could wear with pride and dignity.

  Miza nodded at the polite smiles of two women in green scrubs and blue headscarves. Perhaps doctors, she thought, sighing. There had been a time when she had dreamed of doing this herself, of becoming one who had the power to heal, one who might keep women like her mother from having their lives slip away just as a new one began. To prevent them from being robbed of the gift of the warmth of their newborn child against their breast, of seeing their baby’s first steps, of hearing their voice or drying their tears. To be that person who could make that difference—that is what she had once hoped for. But, she thought now as she rubbed her rounded middle, that’s what it had been. Just a dream, one that came to a halt the minute she traded her books for a life in the sea. But Sabra’s would be a different story, hopefully one that would end happily ever after with a university degree and an important place in the world.

  Miza slowed her pace and clutched at the satchel slung over her shoulder as she neared the end of the long hallway. She stopped at the door second to the last, her legs shaking, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room. But Tariq looked so peaceful, as if he were simply resting from a long day at work. Only the bandage wrapped around his head and the tube in his mouth told of the trauma his body had suffered. She allowed herself to relax a bit, and approached the bed on tiptoes.

  “Tariq, my love,” she whispered softly in his ear. “It’s me. I am here. Mi-mi is here.”

  His face remained as still as a plaster mask. Under the blankets his chest rose and fell in a calm, even rhythm. She pulled a metal chair close to the bed and took his cool hand in her own, fighting the return of those same types of dark thoughts that had plagued her during the past few days. Tariq, she thought as she stroked the back of his hand, was nothing but goodness. That he had put up with Maryam’s insults and abuse for so many years was a tribute to his patience. He did nothing to deserve a misfortune like this. And what about their child, not even born, who had done nothing to deserve a life without a father? She shook her head, as if to knock the dark thoughts away. Tariq had to get better, he had to survive. And she must stay positive. She must stay strong.

  Miza jumped at the sounds of footsteps approaching. But it was just a nurse, her rubber soles squeaking on the polished floors like an army of mice. “Salaam alaikum,” she greeted Miza with a question mark in her eyes.

  ‘Wa alaikum a’salaam. And peace be upon you also. I am his wife,” Miza responded to the unasked question.

  The dark woman looked her over. “You are from Zanzibar?” she asked.

  Miza nodded.

  “I am as well,” she answered with a smile. “My name is Neema. I have been watching over your husband.”

  “And I am Miza.” She watched as the woman tapped at the thin tube attached to Tariq’s arm, adjusted the numbers displayed in red on the screen hanging above his shoulder, listened to his heartbeat and put down the stethoscope to gently plump the pillows under his head.

  “Asante sana,” Miza whispered in Swahili. Thank you very much.

  The nurse nodded and left through the door, leaving Miza alone with the motionless Tariq. She scooted closer to the bed and placed his hand on top of her taut belly, hoping that perhaps the movement inside might awaken his spirit, his desire to live. She fingered the cold copper coin hanging from the chain on her neck, worn to protect against evil, and then remembered the vial she kept buried in her bag.

  Miza poured a dribble of water from the vial onto her palm and rubbed it gently onto her husband’s forehead, willing the liquid—said to hold the power of healing in each drop—to do its magic.

  Tariq’s eyelids remained fixed; his hands stayed limp at his sides. She would come back tomorrow and do it again, Miza thought as she eased herself back in the chair and pulled out her phone.

  No answer from Sabra yet. Perhaps she had been too busy with her schoolwork to notice that Miza was trying to check in. More likely she was running around with her friends. Miza stiffened at the guilt of leaving her behind in Stone Town, where she feared her sister was becoming more focused on the local boys than on her lessons.

  She turned her attention once again to Tariq, desperately willing his leaden eyelids to flutter, his listless fingertips to move. Her own eyes brimmed with tears at the thought of a future without this man she had grown to love more than life itself.

  The nurses in their white headscarves revolved through the door like sentries on watch as she sat by her husband’s side with her thoughts, their arrival announced in advance by the squeak of their shoes. Miza soon grew used to the sound, reassured by the signal of caring and attention the footsteps sent. After a while she found herself struggling to keep her eyes open, and there in the chair with her husband’s hand placed once again against her belly, she fell into a sleep.

  Her dreams were of Zanzibar—white dhows sailing across the horizon at sunset, the cool sea breeze on her face, the odors of cinnamon and cloves and nutmeg in the air. They were dreams of her past, but, then again, they also seemed to be of a future, in that mixed-up way dreams can be. Bi-Zena was there, draped in seaweed, her arms held out in invitation for a warm
embrace against her soft breast. And Miza’s sister was there too, but younger, as she had been before they had moved from the city with their father to the village. But there was also Tariq, holding their baby boy proudly in his arms as Miza’s mother leaned in with a wicker rattle in her hand, gently shaking it back and forth to soothe the baby with the rhythm of the clacking beads inside.

  Miza woke abruptly to the harshness of the real world. Yet the noise from her dream continued, the clatter growing louder, now clearly recognizable as a pair of high heels tromping purposefully down the hall. Her eyes darted frantically across the room. Spying a pile of linens, she grabbed a white pillowcase and tied it over her own bright scarf and slid the woven bag under her dress. Around her shoulders she flung the forgotten stethoscope, wearing it in the way the nurse had been when she first came into the room. Miza hurried out the door with her head bowed and her eyes glued to the floor until Maryam passed, the jewels on her fingers flickering like fireflies under the hallway’s fluorescent lights as she turned to enter Tariq’s room.

  12

  “The look on your face! I only wish I’d gotten a picture.” Rachel shook the water from her ear and smoothed back her short hair, still wet from the endless laps she’d swum in the hotel pool.

  How anyone would actually want to swim was a mystery to Ariana, the way it got your hair all wet and ruined your makeup. But then again, this was as close to relaxed as she’d seen Rachel get. “Laugh all you want. How was I supposed to know?” Ariana cringed inside thinking of what had happened earlier when they pulled up to the entryway of the hotel in Nizwa. The porter, rushing to open Hani’s door. The receptionist, clearly impressed by his presence. The manager, scurrying across the lobby to shake his hand. “Márhaba sayed. Welcome back, sir. It is an honor to have you here again. How is your father? And the rest of your family is well, I trust? Will you be taking your usual suite?” the man had said, all the while practically scraping the floor with his chin as he bowed down.

  “I don’t know what I enjoyed more, his reaction or yours.” Rachel stretched back in her chair, clearly enjoying herself at Ariana’s expense. I am their very favorite driver, Hani had said to Ariana with a wink, before saying his goodbyes and returning to the car, where Miza sat waiting. Ariana had wanted to die right there right then, standing on that gleaming marble floor. What an idiot she had been, expressing such a stupid snobbish attitude with her careless comments. She knew better. Her parents did not bring her up to be judgmental of others, to think any less of a person because of how they earned their salary. And now, what Hani must think of her. She could feel her face redden at the mere thought of it.

  “What do you suppose he actually does for a living?” Rachel asked as she perused the menu.

  “Please, I don’t even want to think about him.”

  “From the way you’ve been acting, I’d venture to say he’s just about all you want to think about.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ariana signaled for the waiter. “Why don’t you order yourself a drink?”

  The patio before them had filled quickly with other guests, the lounge chairs occupied by veiled women chatting among themselves while keeping one eye on their splashing children. The men were loud, squaring off against each other over a sagging volleyball net they’d strung across the pool’s surface. Some sort of family party, Ariana thought.

  “Shame the women can’t join in,” Rachel said. “I’ve always felt sorry for women who have to cover in weather like this. Must be miserable.”

  Ariana shrugged her shoulders. “Personally, I’ve always felt sorry for the women who feel the need to let everything hang out.” She pointed with her chin to a blond foreigner prancing around in a tiny bikini, her butt cheeks bouncing with every step. “It’s like they’re trying way too hard.”

  “So you don’t think those other women ever have the urge to just yank it all off and dive in?”

  “Doubtful. They’re comfortable with the way they are.”

  “Well blondie looks like she feels kind of comfortable with herself as well.”

  “Maybe she is. But to us, modesty is part of faith.”

  “So why don’t you cover, Ariana?”

  “Because it really goes beyond what one wears or doesn’t wear. There are actually very few dress guidelines in the Koran. Modesty is more about how you act, about what lies in the heart. What matters most is to be a true believer. The rest I leave up to God.”

  Rachel simply nodded, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly.

  “And you, what do you believe in?” Ariana asked, noting the obvious skepticism.

  Rachel thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Luck? Science? The brutality of nature? The fallibility of man?”

  “That’s cheery.”

  “Sorry. It’s just who I am.”

  The waiter returned with a large bottle of San Pellegrino for Ariana and a vodka tonic for Rachel, who stretched out her muscled legs and rested her bare feet on the seat of an empty chair before taking a long sip through the straw.

  “And your family, they go to church?”

  Rachel laughed a little. “No. No church. Technically we’re Jewish. But my mom put her foot down when Dad wanted to send me to Hebrew School.”

  “You mean she’s an atheist?” Ariana asked in a lowered voice.

  “Pretty much. I am too, more or less.”

  Ariana tried her best to hide her surprise. “You know, you really should be careful with that around here. People have a hard time understanding that way of thinking.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “In many Muslim countries atheists are denied the right to marriage or citizenship, and might even be executed for being open about their beliefs.”

  “Or disbeliefs,” Rachel joked.

  “True.” Ariana poured a second glass of sparkling water for herself from the large green bottle. “So what is it that gets you out of bed each morning, gets you jazzed about life? Is it your work?” she asked, determined to pry open any tiny cracks to be found in Rachel’s armor.

  But Rachel didn’t answer, her eyes shifting their focus to something behind Ariana’s back. “Hey, Hani,” she said with a little smile.

  Ariana pulled her caftan over her knees and smoothed her hair. “Shit,” she said in a whisper. “He’s back?”

  Rachel removed her feet from the chair and gestured for Hani to join them. Ariana wished she could disappear, her body disintegrating into a million little pieces of dust that would blow away in the warm breeze that had suddenly kicked up around them. But there he was, looking quite different out of his dishdasha and in a T-shirt and jeans, his plump lips smiling from under the brim of a baseball cap. Hani slipped a room key into his pocket and tossed down his phone before easing himself into the chair and pulling up to the table as if he were settling in for a long business negotiation.

  “Back so soon?” Ariana asked, her voice rising an octave with each word.

  “Yes. My meetings were postponed.”

  “What kind of meetings?” Rachel asked with a sideways glance at Ariana.

  “Oh, some of this, some of that. I am working on some ideas for the city, to bring more visitors.” Hani signaled to the waiter to bring another glass.

  “So you’re a planner?” Rachel asked.

  “In a way.”

  “Or a developer?”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “An architect?”

  “More like a designer.”

  “Hmm. So an entrepreneur.”

  Hani smiled. “I suppose that is what it is called.”

  “Tell Hani about your job, Ariana,” Rachel urged. “I’ll bet he’d find it pretty interesting.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about that,” Ariana answered, burying her face in the menu.

  “But I do,” Hani insisted. “What is it you call what you do?”

  “A fixer,” she answered in a quiet voice.

  “You fix things?”

&
nbsp; “Well, um, in a way. I make arrangements.”

  “Like a travel agent?”

  “Sort of.”

  “A travel agent who travels with their client?”

  “I guess.”

  “A fixer’s job,” Rachel interrupted, her eyes boring into Ariana as she spoke, “is to help arrange a story, to find the sources. To make things easier for the correspondent or photographer.”

  “You must be very good at that,” Hani said.

  “Usually they speak the local language, have some local contacts, that sort of thing,” Rachel explained. “But Ariana’s approach seems to be a little more seat-of-the-pants, if you know what I mean.”

  Ariana squirmed a little in her chair.

  “But don’t get me wrong,” Rachel added with a smirk, “she seems to connect very well with people.”

  “It is easy to understand why,” Hani said with a smile that made Ariana melt a little.

  “My sister calls me ‘crazy bait’. I do seem to attract all kinds,” she said, feeling like an idiot the minute the words left her mouth.

  “And you, Hani,” Rachel asked, her eyes still fixed on Ariana. “Do you come from a big family?”

  “I do. My mother has five daughters, and me.”

  “That must be nice for your wife, to have so many women around.”

  “Oh no, I have no wife. You did not think that, did you?” Hani turned his head from Rachel to Ariana and back again.

  Rachel shrugged. “You never know.”

  “Do not get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t want a wife; it’s just that my work has kept me so busy all of the time. But someday, I hope, inshallah. God willing.”

  “Well I’m sure your god is willing. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  Ariana shot Rachel a warning with two narrowed eyes, but thankfully Hani just laughed. “Yes, of course. This is true. Why wouldn’t he be? Perhaps I should be spending less time thinking about what is in the future and pay more attention to what is in front of my eyes today.”