Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  I turned the page: a different young man appeared, again Sri Lankan, with the same progression. I kept turning through the pages; each of the men I saw called out to me, and most of them I was sure hadn’t walked out the front door like the man did yesterday. I wanted to take the book and show it to someone, give proof of what Mohamed was doing, hold him accountable, stop the abuse of these men from my country. But as I ran through the faces of people in my head, I knew all of us were powerless against this beast. The front doors’ cold security chime immobilized my brain and held me captive as I tried to work through the merits of taking the photos versus not. I dropped them into the compartment, deciding that without Ousha here I had no protection. I shut the lid, flopped the cushion into place, and darted through the secret door. As soon as the door was closed, I was crouched in the dark confines of the passage. I heard Mohamed’s voice vibrate through the walls, calling for me. I knew he wouldn’t dare go into the laundry room and see the open door to the passage. Mohamed despised any part of the house I spent considerable time in. Even so, he would expect me to come to him on command, like an obedient animal.

  I climbed the ladder and, with my hands out, shuffled toward the light of the laundry room. Then I closed the door tightly and emerged into the kitchen, where Mohamed was yelling my name for the fourth time. He appeared deranged, as though he had rolled around in his bed for a week and then came directly to the kitchen looking for food to fuel his madness.

  I hunched my shoulders and bowed my head. My body knew the ways of submission, even if my mind was a tiger poised for attack. He yelled something in his language, letting the words wash by me as the ocean might pass by a tightly anchored buoy. When he was done, I looked in his direction but not in his eyes; I believed you could see the real person in their eyes, and an evil as deep as his wasn’t worth engaging, for even if you won the battle, you were left with an unshakable residue.

  He chucked a glass at me; it sailed past my right shoulder and shattered against the dishwasher. I didn’t flinch; his anger wouldn’t touch me. His face ignited in rage. If it weren’t for Maryam, I would have walked away, but I was the only thing that safeguarded her from this crazed man.

  He had a spoon now and was acting out, shoveling food into his mouth, and then he held his hands up in question. I nodded, and began to prepare a chicken for him. My movement seemingly satisfying him, he stormed out of the room. As I cleaned the chicken and shoved herbs under its skin, my mind drifted back to the pictures, and I reviewed them again in my head. The young men, who could be my brothers, all had journeyed through the same stages: delight, confusion, anger, and despair. What had he promised each of them? The image of the man he was with at the mall came to mind. If he had taken a picture there, it would have shown happiness, almost a wide-eyed fascination with Mohamed. The oven beeped; it was ready for the chicken. I slid it in, then peeled the vegetables.

  The smells from the cooking chicken would soon fill the house and settle Mohamed’s unsteady soul. Cautiously I walked across the sitting room to the doors overlooking the pool. The sun was going down; its light filtered through the two date palms on the property line, casting feathery shapes onto the surface of the water. I looked out at the boats passing; the riders were lying back on the bows, eating and drinking, music pulsing through the air, with the crisp smell of the things only mountains of money could buy. The water was so smooth it looked like I could walk across it. I wished an escape would be that easy … which gave me an idea.

  …

  Minrada took my hand and pumped it. We filed off the bus; two of the other nannies had stayed behind to watch our kids. They said the cold from the ice-skating rink chilled them. Her eyebrows were high with excitement when she stopped at the door. There were four others with us today. They lined up behind me. She had asked us to come here for weeks.

  “You’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “The man Khalid is here … you’re sure?” I asked.

  She said he could be seen here often at night, skating with his male friends. She patted my arm, then added, “I do what I say I’m going to do, no?”

  We stepped through a door, followed by clear strips of plastic that hung above the threshold. The air turned biting cold, and our breaths swirled in front of us. The domed ceiling rose up, with banners I couldn’t read hanging from the exposed trusses. The rink below had a smattering of people gliding along the inside perimeter of the ice. I followed Minrada to the edge and stood there, unsure what to do next.

  “Touch it!” she said.

  I didn’t care about the ice. I was moving my eyes from face to face, looking for Khalid.

  Khalid was there, just as I had remembered him in my village. Wide face, patting backs, tapping children on their heads and rubbing their cheeks. His white leather sandals poked out from his robe, displaying his manicured toes and soft feet.

  It was an offense to see a man with such softness, unworked, simply trading words and favors for money. Even my father, who had ended his life with considerable wealth, had the rough hands and feet of a farmworker. Khalid ran through his act with the others at the ice rink; it seemed rehearsed and stiff. I’d seen this trick before.

  I nudged Minrada. “There he is.”

  “And what do you think, lady? You can just go up to him and ask a question?”

  “I need to talk to him. I want to make sure he knows I’m only staying for a year and my journey home is planned.”

  She threw her head back in laughter. “That’s why you wanted to see him? I thought maybe you had a crush on him.” She laughed harder, covering her mouth.

  I left her side and walked toward him. He didn’t look up from the man he was talking to until I stood a few feet away from him. He appeared friendly at first, eyes crinkled, mouth upturned, ears pitched back. He looked directly at me, his brain searching my face for who I was. Then the connection happened, and he shook the hand of the man he was talking to and let him know he needed to talk to me.

  He stepped in close to me. “How is your placement going?”

  “I want to make sure I’ve only signed up for one year. All the other maids tell me this isn’t the case. They say I’m bound for as long as the family wants me.”

  “Of course, of course, one year.” Khalid waved his hand, swatting away the idea as something frivolous.

  “How will I get back to Sri Lanka? How will I get in touch with you?”

  He looked over his shoulder, then over mine. His expression of happiness relaxed, and he pulled his mouth back in a straight line, showing his teeth. “You will find me just like you found me this time. Dubai isn’t that big of a place for those of us who know it. The transportation will depend on the time. Change is always afoot here in Dubai.”

  His words held little meaning. I turned to get back to Minrada. When Khalid forcefully cleared his throat, I turned back to him.

  “Will you tell Minrada something for me?” he asked.

  I shrugged, not thinking of a reason otherwise.

  “Tell her it’s better to respect the snake that protects her than to agitate it.”

  Willing for Change

  Five days passed. Ousha hadn’t returned. Mohamed arrived home from work with a new man, who was slight and joking. They were dressed in hats, sunglasses, polo shirts, shorts, and high-top sneakers. The only thing familiar was Mohamed’s gold watch with the blue face, but this was now on the other man’s wrist.

  Mohamed looked in my direction before they climbed the stairs. I went to the kitchen and fixed them tea, along with coin-size cookies, and set the tray outside the door to his office. I knocked lightly, then darted downstairs so I wouldn’t have to encounter him.

  …

  Five more days passed. Ousha’s mother stood at the front door when I opened it to water the plants in the morning. Her hair looked like black silk. Her gold-and-red eye makeup and formal sari made her look like she was going to a wedding.

  “Where’s my daughter?” She pushed past me a
nd charged into the house. Her expensive shoes clacked against the stone floors.

  “Ousha?” she yelled toward the ceiling. “Ousha? You need to answer me!” As she rounded the corner toward the kitchen, I lost sight of her.

  She returned a minute later, then went upstairs. Mohamed hadn’t come home last night, or if he did, he somehow had evaded the security system. I heard Ousha’s mother slam her hand against the door to Mohamed’s den and yell for him to open up.

  “He’s not there,” I called up. I didn’t want her damaging the door and then get blamed for it and have the cost of repairs taken out of my wages. She was at the top of the stairs now, gripping the railing and staring down at me.

  “What did he do with her?” Her voice sounded like she was talking into a megaphone and shaking it.

  “I don’t know. She’s been gone for ten days.”

  “Animal! That man is an animal.”

  The photos in the album flashed in my mind. The man on the third page stood out to me. Faraway amber eyes, bony forehead, wavy black hair. He seemed hopeful in that first picture, hopeful something wonderful would come out of his relationship with Mohamed.

  She was in front of me when I stopped seeing those pictures. “What do you know?”

  She wasn’t angry with me; I could tell by the way she spun her ring on her finger. It was an agitated but friendly gesture.

  “Nothing.” The number-one rule we were warned about on the flight over was that we should never get involved in family drama. No matter how helpful we might feel we were being.

  “My daughter doesn’t tell me what’s happening here, but I know things go on. Why else would she run away?”

  She knows about the boat escape? Or what is she referring to this time?

  I shrugged again, unsure what else I should do. Maryam started to fuss. “I’ll be in my room,” I said.

  A few moments later, I was sitting on my bed, feeding Maryam a bottle.

  Ousha’s mother stood in my doorway. “Why don’t you breastfeed her?”

  “Because she’s not mine,” I said before I thought.

  She tilted her head, and her sunglasses fell off the top of her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry. I’m not feeling well. Would you mind leaving us alone?” I waved at the door.

  “You don’t tell me when I should leave. Who do you think you are? My daughter owns you.”

  I crinkled my face at the word “own.”

  “In fact, my husband’s company paid for you, so we own you. That’s how it works here. You know that, right?”

  “That wasn’t my understanding, ma’am.”

  “Then your understanding is wrong.” She pulled at the thin folds of brown fabric of her sari, then checked her arms to make sure it fell right.

  I didn’t want to alienate the only person here besides Ousha who spoke my language and had power to help me. But her frenetic energy was draining, and I couldn’t meet her eyes. I could only imagine her moving away from me now. I looked into Maryam’s eyes, focused there, and cooed to her. I heard Ousha’s mother walk away, and it wasn’t until the front door closed that I relaxed.

  I don’t know what it was in that moment that made me think of Ousha’s blue passport with the gold eagle and the words United States of America. It was stuck in the side of her suitcase, behind the suede netting. It made me believe Ousha hadn’t left on her own accord; rather her departure was sudden. I knew a passport, especially from the US, was a tool of freedom. I knew because the women from the park often spoke about different countries with longing, and the United States was spoken of as a magical destination where all things were possible.

  I climbed the stairs to Ousha’s room and nudged the door open. I set Maryam on the bed and put her pacifier in her mouth. In Ousha’s closet was the suitcase containing the passport. I undid the shiny latches and pulled it open. The gold print on the front of the book caught the overhead light and beckoned me with a hallucinatory aura. I looked behind me, feeling wrong for thinking about taking it, or even being in here when I wasn’t cleaning. Still, I slid it out from the netting and flipped through the pages of stamps. The second page showed Ousha’s picture. I stared at it until the lines of her face were the lines of my face. The black hair under the head covering was my black hair. Her nose was turned ever so slightly to the left of her face, as mine was. She was me, or she could be. I walked my mind through the border control here and saw that I could walk through as Ousha. I felt the possibility.

  I dropped the passbook into the netting, closed the suitcase, and stood up. I was on the ground floor before I could think my way into any more trouble.

  The front door rattled. I was near the new shelves, and I looked around the corner, expecting to see Ousha’s mother storming in. Someone was pressing the handle outside, then shoving the door. The lock held tightly. As I walked toward it, I was reminded of the people at home walking toward the wall of water before it had slammed our village into oblivion. Something in the danger drew me. Another thump of a body against the door and this time a crack. I stood next to the window and looked out. It was Mohamed. He looked out of sorts, his movements jerky and uncoordinated; perhaps he was drunk. I went to the door and unlocked it, then opened it. He stared at me with glassy eyes, mumbled something, and swayed. He had an erection, and there was a wet spot on his pants.

  I moved out of his way. He entered the house, sat on the steps, and removed his shoes, which were covered in wet cut grass. Then he tipped over and began to snore, his face mashed against the carpet.

  I left him there. The pool area of the house was beginning to appear sandy, with palm berries on the lounge chairs, and I needed to get it clean before he sobered up and became unhappy. Maryam had drifted off during the knocking charade, so I put her in my room, retrieved the broom from the laundry room, and headed outside to sweep. The heat felt good as a balance to the dry coldness of the air-conditioned house. My eyes closed as I swept, savoring the quiet with only the sound of the water slapping against the seawall. The door to the patio clicked shut; it wasn’t locked, nothing to worry about. I picked each of the palm berries off, skimmed the pool, then stepped back to look over the area. I spotted one small stain on the white cushion of a lounger.

  I walked toward the door. A figure moved behind the darkened glass. I waited, my eyes squinting. Was it a reflection or really someone inside? It was likely Mohamed, but he’d seemed so incapacitated not too long ago. Maybe a slog to the kitchen? I gripped the broom in one hand and pulled the door open, then pushed my head through the space, looking back and forth. I almost expected him to jump out of a dark corner like Mewan would do when I wasn’t expecting it. Mewan’s face was in front of me now—it was his look the night before I’d left him, when I’d held my lips on his forehead and inhaled his sweetness as he slept. The image cleared and I entered, pacing my steps to the kitchen. My bare feet against the floor made no sounds at all. I pushed on the swinging door to the kitchen, but no one was there. A glass teacup was on the countertop, near the sink, haphazard drops of water next to it. I placed the broom in the laundry room, then listened for Maryam. Usually I could hear her noises even when she was sleeping. Nothing. I stepped in front of my room and pushed my ear to the space where the door was cracked open. Silence. I held my breath and tried to ignore the heartbeat in my ears. Then I pushed the door open and reached into the shadows of her crib, where I knew she was sleeping. My hands touched the sheets and patted the mattress. Nothing. Could she have gotten out? Impossible.

  I swiped my hands across the length of the crib, expecting to feel her swaddle, and didn’t move my feet in case she’d somehow gotten to the floor. My mind raced for explanations; I told myself for a moment not to turn on the light and wake her up, but then my hand was on the switch, and when I flipped it, my eyes urgently searched the room. One of her socks was on the bed and a pillow was missing. I looked over the floor; pieces of wet grass were on the carpet and the edge of the pillowcase was lodged under h
er crib.

  Chilled Mud

  The room temperature dropped, and cold sweat ran down my torso. I forced myself to the floor. As I did, each of the fibers of the carpet came into crystal-clear focus. I pulled on the pillow, which caught on something and then let loose. I inspected it: a wet spot on the end. I tossed it onto the bed and looked under the crib. I saw the red stripe from the blanket I had wrapped Maryam in. I reached for it; my fingers got a hold of it, and then I pulled and I felt the deadweight unroll from the blanket. Gold stars blocked my vision; when they cleared and allowed me to see, I was sitting on the bed with Maryam in my arms, cradling her and tapping her blue cheek. I held her up and gave her a shake, being careful with her head. Then my memory took me into the sediment again. The sinking cold sludge covered my legs; Mewan was in front of me, facedown, and I was hoping for him to take a breath. Ruka was in the unknown distance. A current meandered through my insides, scooping up the resident warmth and emotion and bringing it elsewhere. The imagery cleared and the cold held tightly. She was gone. I held her and kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, little baby,” I said, just in case within her there was a piece of consciousness that felt scared or alone in these last seconds she was in this place.

  I wrapped her, put her back in her crib, and set her elephant next to her. I’d watched babies die before. I’d held their bodies as their mothers dug their nails into the dirt and convulsed with sadness. I’d placed them in tiny boxes when others couldn’t. I’d witnessed this, but fortunately never with my own. Nothing is permanent and each time a final blink or breath was taken, I knew that for sure.