Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  I raised an eyebrow. “Inesh?”

  “The young man who used to be at your place, the houseboy.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “A few times,” Minrada said. “More like pleasantries than actually meeting him.” I started to speak, but she cut me off. “Hold on. Let me tell you the rest. Inesh began with them, and for the first six months, everything was normal. They weren’t good or bad to him; they ignored him as he kept their house. Inesh began to have feelings for the wife. He said she would talk to him in our language, which I believed. Why would an Emirati ever learn Sinhala?”

  “She’s half-Sri Lankan.”

  Minrada’s mouth was open, ready to continue her story, but she stopped in midbreath. Then the O of her mouth turned into a smile. “You see, this is why it’s so interesting to tell stories. There’s more discovered each time they’re told. I had no idea. Was she an order bride?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She grew up in the US and moved here for her father’s job.”

  The excitement from Minrada was palpable. She clearly had told this story many times, but now I imagined how she might drop this fact in at the last minute and the listener would give her a reaction.

  “I heard the husband locked him in his room and wouldn’t let him out because he didn’t want him to go near his wife.” She paused; I felt like she might want me to applaud. “We never saw him again.”

  “Did he go back to Sri Lanka?”

  Minrada shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “I have a handful of notes.” I pulled one more out and gave it to her.

  She greedily took it from me and licked her lips. Then she unfolded it and looked around before she read it. “I can’t stand this anymore. I want to make love to you.” She shook the strip. “This is pure gold.” She opened and closed her hand quickly. “Any more?”

  “Not with me.” I weighed telling her about the encounter in the dining room and the picture, but I didn’t want it getting back to Ousha, and with Minrada’s love of gossip, I could tell she wasn’t capable of holding on to information for too long. “I’ll bring more the next time we meet.”

  “On Fridays we all go into town.” With her finger she made a rough circle around all the women at the park. “There are usually ten of us, all from this street. You’re welcome to join.”

  “But I need to watch the baby.” It was obvious Ousha wasn’t going to help me with her.

  “The law requires we get one day off per week.”

  “I don’t …” I thought about Ousha, even bringing up the topic. Maybe when she was in a good mood.

  “Come if you want or can,” Minrada said. “Don’t let them take advantage of you.”

  This was the first time since my family had been wiped away and since I’d come here that I felt like I belonged to something. Dubai tugged at me, and I had an image of Ruka and Mewan sleeping in my room on the floor, where they would be safe, where they could take a shower and maybe go to school and learn things.

  …

  When I returned to the house, Ousha was in the sitting area, staring out the back windows, mindlessly eating from a plastic tray of shortbread. She would take a bite, hold the biscuit near her mouth, then take one more and a third until it was gone; then she’d go for the next. Never looking at the tray. There was a glass of caramel-colored liquid beside her. The scent of alcohol floated through the room.

  “Can I cook you something for lunch?”

  She didn’t turn, but I seemed to break her trance, because she took a gulp of the drink.

  “Maryam and I were at the park, getting some fresh air before it got too hot.” I gave a nervous chuckle at the end. I wanted her to say something.

  She kept eating. I laid Maryam in her crib, then went to the kitchen and made a boiled egg with a piece of spiced chicken. I made one for myself and one for Ousha. I took a cloth napkin from the drawer and a silver fork and knife and brought it to her and set it down on the table. I noticed her glass was empty. The new shelves had an open cabinet; inside was a tall bottle with a blue label outlined in gold with English writing on it. The cap was off. I refilled her glass halfway, closed the cabinet, and returned to the kitchen. Ousha grabbed the drink out of my hand and disappeared. I ate my lunch and cleaned the surfaces in the kitchen. I moved around the counter from different angles to see if the light would catch any spots I’d missed.

  The door swung open forcefully. I thought Mohamed was home, but it was Ousha. Her eyes were bloodshot, her movements uncoordinated. “I want to see my baby.” Her words were thick as she staggered toward me. “She’s mine. You know that, right? She’s my baby, not yours.” I stood frozen. She was drunk. I’d hoped the extra drink would have made her return to bed.

  “Did you hear me?” she screeched. “She’s my baby! Not yours.” She poked my chest. “Not Mohamed’s, mine.” She pointed to herself.

  “Yes, Ousha. Maryam is your baby.”

  “Who?”

  This was odd; she didn’t remember her daughter’s name?

  “Your baby, Maryam.”

  “Her name is …” She rubbed her head as she thought about it.

  “Why don’t you go to your bedroom and I’ll bring her to you?”

  “Where is she?”

  When I gestured to the hallway that led to my room, she took off in that direction. I followed her as she stormed the room. Maryam was up and reaching for the mobile spinning over her head.

  “Why don’t you sit down on the bed and I’ll get her for you? She might need a change.” I pulled a sour face and hoped through her alcohol haze she’d find the thought of having to do any amount of work unappealing.

  Ousha complied and sat down. I took off her slippers and put her feet on the bed, then propped two pillows behind her; her eyelids were heavy. I took Maryam into the bathroom and closed the door. When I emerged a few minutes later, Ousha was snoring. I tiptoed out, catching the light switch on the way and closing the door. I lay Maryam on the floor in the sitting room and cleaned up the mess Ousha had created. I knew Mohamed would be home today, and I didn’t want him to enter anything but a perfect house.

  …

  The front doors opened and the security system chimed. I stiffened. It had been pleasant not having Mohamed home and setting us on edge, knowing he might explode at any time. He went upstairs, and I heard him call for Ousha. It was customary for her to greet him when he walked in. I debated whether I should say she was out or if I should tell him the truth—that she was in my room, dead asleep.

  He yelled her name a few more times, and then his footsteps became heavy and he pounded down the stairs. I picked up Maryam and held her tightly, bracing for the winds of his storm. He caught sight of me. “Where is she?” Mohamed, when standing at ease, was a delicate, handsome man. His body was lean and muscular, his fingers long and perfectly manicured, his hair always styled nicely, his face bright and clear. The anger that welled from him now seemed to possess him more than belong to him. He defied his nature every time he entered this state.

  “She’s in my room.” I told the truth; it was always better that way.

  He ran into the kitchen. I heard thumping, then screaming, followed by Ousha’s screams.

  They got closer and I heard him. “You whore. What are you doing in that filthy room, you whore? You can’t stay away from the filth of your people, can you? Disgusting.”

  The kitchen door swung into the sitting area. Mohamed had a handful of Ousha’s hijab and hair in his hands and was dragging her across the floor like a worker might drag sandbags. She screamed and choked, her eyes bulging, the fabric tight around her throat. He pulled her all the way to the stairs. I heard skin against skin slapping. I didn’t dare go look; it would only provoke an attack on myself. So I went into my room and closed the door. There was a small wedge, which I put under the door. I made my bed, sprayed air freshener, and erased what had happened in the only space that was mine. I had found, after shock and tragedy happen, that it’s
better to return your surroundings to the way they were, an instinct to get us sane again. It was why my village had rebuilt their homes in the exact place where the wave had destroyed them, knowing the risk of their location. But, for now, they needed that normalcy to maybe pretend nothing had happened or reduce the impact of the happening.

  I sang Maryam a lullaby. I heard more thumping from the room above us, and then everything went quiet. There was shuffling, but it was moving closer. The next recognizable sound came to me, the crinkling of the paper on the floor in the passageway. I froze. Mohamed was there, behind the bathroom wall, watching me. Now I was the subject, the prey, and the predator was breathing heavily and waiting.

  Dark Places

  The next morning, I chose to rise above my fear. I moved through my routine, taking a shower, fixing my hair the way Ousha had showed me. I even had a stick of eyeliner, which I put on. The night had been harrowing, between periods of not sleeping and then, when I slid out of exhaustion and into unconsciousness, my mind took me to dark places: meeting Mohamed in the passageway, when I was sure he was gone. Mohamed stealing Maryam away, telling me she was his baby and I shouldn’t think she was mine. His striking Ousha repeatedly until she couldn’t move. The morning revealed one of those dreams to be true. I was up early at six, and Ousha was already seated, hunched over a counter; she had a drink in her hand, the same caramel-colored alcohol. The bottle was beside her, more than half empty. She didn’t register my presence until I set down a ceramic bowl, making a sharp sound. Her head lifted, tortoiselike, until her eyes settled on me. The skin around both of them was deep purple, her lip split open and oozing, and there were five angry red depressions the size of fingertips on her throat.

  “Oh, dear.” I ran to the linen closet, pulled out a clean towel, wrapped ice in it, and gingerly pressed it to her face. The alcohol likely was numbing the pain somewhat, both inside and out. Her only reaction to me pressing the ice against her eyes was to reach for her glass. I got her to hold the ice in place, then retrieved an identical glass and filled it with cold camel milk. She needed something nutritious to drink. Ever since I’d arrived here, I’d watched her live off alcohol, biscuits, and tea. I swapped the two glasses while her head had drooped down and her stringy hair covered her side view.

  Mohamed’s heavy footsteps. He yelled Ousha’s name. Something shattered. He moved closer to us in the house. I remembered my dream: him coming for Maryam. I felt a strange tugging to help Ousha, a woman from my land, a woman who was now floating on an island with a lion lurking, but I had to protect Maryam. So I ran for my room, closed the door, and put the wedge in place. I picked up the baby and pushed myself under my bed. I knew if I held her closely, she would be content and silent. We were behind the boxes I had put under the bed. If Mohamed looked under here for us, he wouldn’t see us. His yelling resounded; the bottle broke; a glass was hurled against the cabinetry. More thudding. This time Ousha didn’t make a sound.

  It took two hours for rage to leave the house. I pressed my ear to my door, waiting. Finally, when I heard nothing, I came out. Alcohol occupied my senses. I watched where I stepped, picking up pieces of the bottle. Then I retrieved the sponge mop and cleaned the kitchen within minutes. The real damage, though, was upstairs. I noiselessly moved through the house, looking out the front window. The car was gone, so I engaged the deadbolt on the front door. I climbed the stairs. At the top, my bare feet sank into the carpet, a feeling I’d relished the first time; now it felt like mud sucking me in. I walked the shallow hallway. The door to Mohamed and Ousha’s bedroom was closed. My foot stepped in something sticky. I looked at it; it was warm blood, but it made me feel cold.

  I didn’t knock. I knew I’d find either terror or vacancy on the other side. In either scenario, the occupant wasn’t going to offer me permission to enter. Turn, push, look. The room was torn apart. The curtains ripped from the window, the bedsheets swirled into the center, the nightstand overturned, the lamp broken, red on the white sheets. Maybe Mohamed had taken Ousha to the hospital after he’d rampaged. I stepped farther into the chaos—more stickiness on my feet, which I tried to ignore. I’d walked through animal blood before, on slaughter days. I had imagined it was the same, but it wasn’t. Human blood was sacred.

  I tipped the nightstand back into place and gathered the lamp pieces. Then I pulled the curtains down. I would mix them with the sheets and take them to the trash. I put a knee into the mattress to gather the stained sheets in my arms. On the other side of the bed, I noticed a black mass resting near the nightstand. Out of surprise, I jumped, but I was quickly back on my feet, the sheets left on the bed, my arms rigid at my side. I stepped, one foot in front of the other, until I saw Ousha’s broken body. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her eyes closed, her mouth hanging open, her dress torn. She looked dead. I pressed my palms to the side of my head. Images flashed in front of me: my children after the wave; my father’s dead body, emaciated and dehydrated from the cholera. My mother’s last moments on earth, an image I thought I’d forgotten. Death always brought an extreme focus, a clearing of all the storms circling me on any given day. It was easy to see how ephemeral life was when death stood beside it.

  I knelt beside her and touched her arm. Warmth and those micro movements living people have. I put my hand in front of her mouth and took in her weak, rancid breath. I hadn’t realized I was holding my own breath until I relaxed and inhaled the fleeting life of hers.

  Ousha pulled her head up and opened her eyes, tiny slits through swollen skin.

  “You should go to a doctor.” I had no idea how to make that happen, but I knew doctors were like laundries here, plentiful and available twenty-four hours.

  She murmured, her words tangled.

  I was directly in front of her. Ice wouldn’t help this time, but alcohol might, at least for now.

  “I really did love Inesh.” She lay down against the carpet and passed out.

  Restore

  The room looked like nothing had happened. I’d even found a new set of curtains to hang. The only thing missing was a lamp. Ousha was in bed, propped up, sipping vegetable broth and drinking water. When she sobered up, she told me where her stash of bandages and medical tape was, and I did my best to clean her and dress her wounds. It would be at least a week before she would be able to go out.

  “My mother is supposed to come here tomorrow,” she said. “I have to cancel her visit. If she sees me like this, she’ll protest and cause problems with my father’s job.”

  I nodded, knowing better than to interject my thoughts.

  “If she comes to the house, will you run her off?” Ousha asked.

  “How?”

  “Tell her I’ve come down with the flu. No, that won’t work. Tell her …” She was searching for an excuse.

  “Maybe I can say Maryam had you up all night?” I winced at the mention of Maryam, since I didn’t know how it would be received. This time she looked at me lovingly.

  “You’re a sweet, sweet lady, and you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into coming here. But everyone, including my mother, believes the baby is yours.”

  Of course. I had suspected this, but this was the first time it was verbalized.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what Mohamed and I told them. We said we didn’t know you were pregnant when you arrived. Only a few days later you gave birth, but you were so good at your duties we decided to let you stay.”

  “But why?”

  “It was an agreement I made with Mohamed, for reasons that are none of your business.”

  Her words had an apologetic patina. I wanted to ask her about Inesh: the picture of him and then the mumbling of his name when she was drunk, but I restrained myself.

  “Is the broth hot enough for you?” I cupped my hands around the bowl and whisked it away before she could answer.

  I thought through what it meant that Maryam was mine. What would they do when I left in a year? Would they send her with me? As
I carried the soup to the stairwell, the doorbell chimed. When I opened it, a man in a fine suit said something to me in Mohamed’s language. I told him I would be right back and went to Ousha.

  “There is a man at the door, young, well dressed. I’m not sure what he wants.”

  “It’s likely Jaseem. He works for Mohamed, his assistant. He probably needs to get something from the house. Let him in. If he needs anything from this room, tell him no.”

  I felt my heartbeat in my fingertips. Telling a powerful man no wasn’t something I wanted to do; I was only the housekeeper here. I opened the door again, invited him in, and stood out of his way. He politely bowed his head and took to the stairs. He returned a few minutes later with clothes that were hanged and bagged, along with a toiletry case, and let himself out.

  Ousha had two pills in her hand, ready to wash them down, when I entered her room. “What now?” she asked.

  “He left.”

  “Fine.” She swallowed her pills. Within minutes, her world collapsed into itself.

  Before she was completely gone, I seized the opportunity.

  “Ousha?” I said it louder than I might have if she’d been staring at me. “Is Maryam Mohamed’s baby?”

  She only breathed harder.

  …

  Today was Friday and it was important because I desperately wanted to go with Minrada on the shopping trip. After working for three solid weeks, I needed a day away from this house. I prepared breakfast for Ousha. Two boiled eggs, warm pita, a fresh sliced tomato, and a scoop of olive hummus. I’d found better tea in the back of the cabinet, and I made it for her with milk.