Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  When I set the tray on her bed in front of her, she appeared delighted. The swelling had started to recede, and she could give a half smile without pain.

  “Thank you. But I know when something like this comes, there is an ask that comes after it.”

  I wouldn’t lie to her. “I’d like my Friday off, to go into the city.”

  “No problem. You’ve been free all along to take your day off.”

  Then why did she let me work every single day?

  “Would you like me to show you where the formula and diapers are?” I asked.

  She dipped her pita, bit into it, and launched the tray of food at me. The hot tea sailed past me, but the hummus landed as a lump on my leg, the oil soaking into the fabric of my pants. She pointed to me. “You want me to take care of your child? Do you know your place here to even suggest this?”

  This had gone too far.

  “I … I … Ousha, this is your baby. I saw her come from you. I was there; I caught her head and clipped your umbilical cord. Why are we playing this game when it’s only the two of us here? Maryam is yours. You named her!”

  I expected vitriol from her, for disobeying her and steeping her in dishonor and shame. Instead, she cried and reached for me. “He’ll kill us both if he hears you say that.”

  It was the first time I really trusted what she said. Ousha took hold of my hand and squeezed it. “Yes, it was Inesh, and Mohamed hates me for it. This was our solution.”

  “I’ll only be here for a year, though. And then what will you tell people?”

  “A year? No one only stays for a year. Khalid promised us five years with you so the baby could go off to ‘school.’”

  Her words echoed in my head, bouncing around and stunning my brain.

  “No. I’m only here for a year. That’s what he told me. The commitment was for one year; if I wanted to stay longer, I could renew.”

  “It doesn’t matter either way,” she said. “I won’t be here in a year.”

  “Are you leaving him?”

  She realized her mistake when I repeated it back to her.

  “It’s better that you don’t know these things. Leave the baby with me. Mohamed won’t be back for a few days. Jaseem took his clothes, you said?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s fine. Go have your Friday.”

  …

  I prepared Maryam for her day with her mother: I delivered Ousha a fully fed, changed, and happy baby.

  I looked at the clock and sped up my steps so I wouldn’t miss the bus. As I approached the park, Minrada held up one hand to the bus driver and forcefully waved me on with the other. I ran, embarrassed that I was holding everyone up on my first trip.

  “I thought for sure you wouldn’t come.” She patted me on the back as I boarded the bus.

  Sucking wind, I looked up when I was in the aisle. I could have been in my own country. The bus was full of Sri Lankans, with a few Asian faces among them. I found an empty seat and sat next to a Sri Lankan who looked to be a teenager. Her hair was an unusual short cut, and she wore her house uniform with glaring white sneakers.

  “Hi.” She was giddy.

  “Hello. I’m Shula.”

  “You work for Mohamed and Ousha?” She didn’t offer her name.

  I was comfortable with everyone in the town knowing everyone else’s business; this was the way of my small village. But here we were in a city of great proportions and it was still happening.

  “Yes, for almost a month now. Very nice to meet you.” I bowed my head.

  “My brother worked for them.”

  It felt like thunder cracked next to my head and all I could hear was loud ringing. The seat in front of me became a blurry canvas I couldn’t make sense of.

  The girl patted my leg in a reassuring way, letting me know it was okay. I didn’t know what to say. Her hands were creased and swollen, aged a decade beyond her face.

  “That’s nice.” They were the only words that would come out of my mouth. I looked out the window; we were crossing the bridge to the mainland. To try to bring myself back to reality, to clarity, I counted the yachts passing under us. “I didn’t meet him.”

  She sucked in a laugh. “I should hope not. He’s dead.”

  If the mention of Inesh had sent me fuzzy, the knowledge of his death rang me so clear I could see each and every pore on her face.

  “How? While he was here?”

  “Yes, the authorities found him behind the wall. They think he got trapped in there while doing maintenance. When no one could find him, he died of hunger.”

  I knew that was impossible. There were multiple exit points. I felt nauseous thinking about exploring those dark passages alone and then hearing Mohamed in there watching me.

  “Did you see him? After?”

  A group of women erupted in laughter behind us. I wished for a second I was having their conversation instead of mine.

  The girl nodded. “Yes, I flew home with him. Mohamed paid for our trip back and my brother’s funeral. It was beautiful; his favorite purple orchids were everywhere. It was bittersweet for my parents, though. They were happy their son had made such a life for himself abroad, but heartbroken that it had ended so soon. You know, life to us isn’t expected the way it is here. The long arcs these rich people use to talk about their lives amuse me. As if they’re sure the next thirty, forty, or fifty years are theirs to fashion how they like.” Her hands were animated when she spoke.

  “And for you? Did Mohamed and Ousha do anything for you?”

  “No. They honored my brother. They owe me nothing.” She turned her head to stare out the window.

  The bus was passing tall buildings, then slowed. The air brakes engaged and the door opened. We made an orderly disembarking; the girl didn’t say anything else to me. I found Minrada outside with three of her other friends. “This is Shula.” She pointed to me so there would be no mistake for the other ladies. “She’s never been out, so take good care of her.” She came and put her arm around me.

  We walked through the entrance to the shopping mall. The shimmering of glass, lights, high-gloss finishes, and pristine merchandise was overwhelming. I thought this was maybe what Nirvana looked like, a place where there was no suffering and a person might bathe in bright white lights, free to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. The rich aromas of food drifted up from the level below us. The center of the mall was open, with hanging plants and palms, which gave a clean natural scent as the backdrop to the finery laid atop it.

  “I don’t ever want to leave,” I told Minrada.

  “This is why we come, to spend only a few hours here. And the food below is from all over the world. You can travel with your mouth to places you might never go.”

  She threaded her arm in mine, and we shopped the windows with our eyes. I noticed how we were looked at when we entered a store. The shopkeepers spoke to us in Mohamed’s language. I nodded and smiled, knowing I couldn’t afford anything here. Touching the fabrics and imagining wearing them was enough; I didn’t need to buy anything.

  “What else do you know about Inesh?” I asked Minrada.

  “I saw you were sitting next to his sister on the bus; I didn’t realize it until we were going. She’s an awkward girl. Young.”

  “She thinks highly of my employer.” I didn’t want to say his name right now.

  “Where one comes from is very important to how they see where they are.”

  “Anyone can see there’s something wrong.” I stopped from divulging more, but my sense was Minrada would already have a whiff of whatever I told her.

  “I know a place you might like.” She led the way through the dizzying brightness of the mall. We took a lift to the fifth floor, then headed down a hallway. A door opened onto an outdoor space. Shoes were lined up, and I followed custom and took off mine, stepping onto the sand, leading to the artificial beach scene. It was deep enough for me to sink my toes in. Sounds of the ocean mingled with the air and coconut trees were pr
ecisely planted. A small boy ran between them; I imagined he was Mewan. He ran over to me and I picked him up and tickled him. He giggled. His nanny was close by, from Colombo, she said.

  “He’s attracted to you. He’s usually afraid of strangers,” she told me.

  “And me to him. He reminds me of my son.”

  She had to know my son was back in Sri Lanka; she probably had children of her own she’d left behind. We all had a similar story. We all had left something, to strive for more.

  “I’d better give him back to you before he gets too attached,” I said.

  Couples stood at the edge of the water, gazing out at the city. “Makes you wish you had someone, no?” Minrada said.

  “I had someone. He was everything, but everything has an end too.” The white piping over the seams of a black blazer caught my eye. It was the same one Mohamed had. Then I spotted the back of his head, with the same close crop that seemed popular with the men here. He turned with his arm around another man and immediately caught me staring. His face looked different. His jaw was relaxed and his forehead smooth, instead of the insatiable worry always plaguing him in the house as he moved from point to point of dissatisfaction. He ignored me, and when the other man wasn’t paying attention, he gave me a look that dared me to go anywhere near him.

  I turned and looked for Minrada; she was standing inside the glass doors, checking her phone. I met back up with her. “My boss is here.”

  “Where?” She craned her neck looking for him.

  “No. Don’t do that. He’s with a friend.”

  She nudged me and smiled out of the side of her mouth. “I bet she’s more attractive than his wife.”

  “It’s a he.”

  She looked disappointed at the fact.

  “Let’s catch up with the other women,” she said.

  I didn’t see Mohamed again, and I’m sure he was happier for it.

  Sea Change

  My feet hurt. We’d walked the entire mall several times, then strolled along the water. I was looking forward to cuddling up with Maryam in bed and falling asleep. I unlocked the doors to the house and immediately heard her crying. After setting down my bag, I followed her cries upstairs. Maryam was lying on a blanket on the floor of Ousha’s room.

  “Ousha?” I called.

  No response.

  I picked up Maryam and gave her a pacifier. She appeared to have been crying for some time, and her diaper was full and leaking. The bedroom level was silent, the bathrooms empty. I went downstairs to look for her; the pool was vacant, the kitchen serene. I took one step into the hallway toward my room and saw the storage crates stacked on the threshold of the laundry room.

  “Ousha?”

  Noises this time. Someone was in the laundry room. A door closed, followed by a weak “I’m in here.”

  I stood in front of the door and looked over the crates at her. She had her back to the passageway door.

  “Are you looking for something?” I asked.

  “I … it seems I lost a piece of jewelry, a necklace. I thought maybe it was in—”

  “The crates?”

  She didn’t move from the door; it was as if she didn’t want me to see the door handle. I assumed she would know I would’ve seen it while I was working.

  “No, in the wash.” She pointed to the washer.

  “Maryam was crying when I got in.” I searched her face to see whether the gravity of it registered with her.

  “Shula, can you go to your room now? I don’t need you for anything.”

  Her legs were shaking, and her unwashed hair sprang from her head. She looked weak from her injuries.

  I would appease her. “Sure.”

  She moved hastily, putting the crates in place, bumping into the walls, and then quiet.

  I fell asleep quickly. I woke in the night and heard scraping and weeping behind the wall. Thin beams of light cast out from the holes in the wall Mohamed had watched me through. Who was there now? Mohamed was gone. I would have heard him enter the house because the chime of the front door opening always sounded in my room. I got up and walked into the hallway. The laundry room door was shut. I opened it to look in; it was dark, but the blue glow from the control panels of the washer and dryer let me see that the crates were back in front of the door. Looking for clues, I kept walking. The doors to the pool were open. I stepped into the desert night air; the light in the pool was on, and the water bubbled from the jet. The boat traffic in the canal had died down, and the lights of the homes and tall buildings beyond twinkled in the night sky.

  There was a tote bag on the dock, close to where the stairs led to the boat tied below. I listened in that direction and heard someone below.

  “Hello?”

  The steps clanged. Ousha came into the cascade of the pool lights.

  “Why are you up? Stop spying on me.” She waved me away.

  This time I decided to ignore her. “Are you taking the boat somewhere?”

  She climbed the ladder and came close to me, an inch or two from my face. “I’m leaving. You can’t say anything; he’ll beat me, worse than last time. It gets worse each time.”

  “Go back to your parents.”

  “No, I won’t risk my father’s job and their life. It’s easier for them—for everyone—if I’m suddenly gone.”

  “And what about Maryam?”

  “Why do I have to save everyone? I lost one before, you know. A boy, to make it worse. Mohamed told me I should have saved him. How could I let his son die? It must have been something I gave him. My milk, my body. He called me a filthy piece of refuse. It’s always me. I’m his problem. I’m everyone’s problem.”

  I, maybe better than most, could understand leaving your young for something else, but this situation seemed full of alternatives. This choice was an extreme measure.

  “What do you want me to say?” Ousha walked past me and into the side door that led into the narrow passage. She returned with a lifejacket and a lantern. Her motions were dulled, her eyes protruded; she appeared under the influence. I watched her load the boat, and when she was ready, she started the engine. “Wish me luck.” The sentiment felt disingenuous, as if she hadn’t thought this through. I looked in the boat; there was a bag stuffed with clothing, a sealed pack of crackers, and one small bottle of water. I didn’t know how far she planned to go, but in this heat, she wouldn’t last long.

  I thought about the future, of my telling Maryam one day about this moment when her mother had sailed off in the night to escape the abuse. I didn’t know if it was bravery or cowardice, but I probably would have made a different choice.

  The engine revved, and Ousha pulled off the final rope that had moored the boat to the seawall. She parted the water and was gone. I watched her until the light at the front of the boat twinkled out.

  When I returned to Maryam, she was still content. I realized it was just us in the house. I could go anywhere and do anything. I felt myself pulled toward Mohamed’s office; there was more I wanted to know about him. He was frustrated and violent, but those emotions don’t rise in a vacuum. What was driving him? If I was going to spend time here with him alone, I’d have to know how to navigate him. At the door, before I even recognized my feet were moving, I reached for the handle and turned. Locked. I went outside and in through the door that Ousha had left open, then felt my way until I could turn on the lights.

  The passage was beginning to feel familiar; the chill of the air conditioner and the dark crevices had lost their creepy feeling. I climbed the ladder to the upper level, making sure I had a hand on the wall at all times. There was a smell I didn’t recognize, a strong astringent, maybe a cleaner. At the juncture I turned left, then bumped into the magazines. Knowing the door was nearby, I lightly ran my hands over it to feel for the handle. It turned, I pushed, and I was standing in his den again. This time I felt bolder. I knew what he had done to his wife, and I saw him at the mall acting as though nothing had happened, a man with no remorse and a broken moral
compass.

  I got close to the bookshelves and looked over what Mohamed was reading. It was all in his language, symbols I didn’t recognize. I pulled at the drawers, each one filled with more books and papers. Under the television, I pulled at the cabinets, which clinked as the doors opened. Thin chains, shined and greasy, partially fell out. I picked them up and then pulled. There were ankle shackles on the end, something brown speckled on them. Blood maybe? I’d seen plenty of that after the wave had come.

  I found small plastic bottles inside, along with gauze and a collection of articles so strange I couldn’t imagine what they were used for. I put them all back, fluffed up the carpet, and kept searching. Mohamed had a laptop computer on his chair, but I didn’t know how to use it, although I’d seen people stare at them for hours. There were pictures on the window ledge. Mohamed with his parents, his brother and sister, a baby, pictures of other young men. I didn’t know who they were; they hadn’t been at the party a week ago.

  The doorbell chimed. I looked out the window, unsure which direction of the house this faced. Then I saw the house beside us. I traced my steps back to the door, stepped into the passage, and closed it. I waited. Voices echoed through the ventilation, and I heard Mohamed’s tinny masculine voice and another man. I hoped he wouldn’t look for me or for Ousha. In the next second, I heard him call for her. Then again. Followed by him running up the stairs. “Ousha?”

  Silence greeted him. He happily called out something in his language. A second running of feet, and I heard them enter the office. I saw the light flicker from under the door. I tried to find a peephole, to spy as I suspected he had done to me, but I couldn’t find one, so I stood next to the door. If he opened it unexpectedly, he wouldn’t see me. I was in a space beyond my past exploration.

  They were in Mohamed’s office now. A type of giggling. Not sounds I’d expect from two grown men. More movement. They were on the couch; I heard their bodies against the leather. Expressions I didn’t understand left their lips, but I knew the emotion behind them. The hurried desperation of desire, followed by increasing movement. Moans of pleasure. I knew the feeling between my husband and me and had even once heard this between two of the village women, who burned with passion for each other after their husbands had died. I didn’t know men could feel this way about each other, and beyond feeling surprised that Mohamed was more interested in men than in women I felt a fleeting affection for him—that he had found love somewhere else in the world.