by Judy Nunn
Which made the man’s reaction that morning all the more confusing.
She had seen him in the corridor on several occasions over the past day or so and had presumed, correctly, that he was attending the international conference that the hotel was hosting. Many Western businessmen were staying there for that purpose. She did not know whether the man was English, American or Australian, they all looked and sounded the same to her, but she’d offered her customary greeting.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she had said with a bob and a smile, and each time he’d returned the smile, slowing his pace a little. ‘Good morning,’ he’d said before continuing on his way.
Then on the third day, he’d stepped from his room and appeared deliberately to seek her out. She was a little further down the corridor with her trolley and was working alone that morning, as the maids occasionally did when the hotel was particularly busy. Having finished making up one room, she had moved on to the door of the next.
‘Good morning,’ he said, crossing to her.
‘Good morning, sir.’ A bob and a smile and, presuming he would continue on his way, she turned to check whether the light beside the door of the room was showing green. It was not. The light was red so she turned back to her trolley intending to move on, only to discover the man still there beside her. She gave another smile, another bob, and was about to set off, when …
‘Excuse me,’ the man said.
Azra had a vague understanding of ‘excuse me’, or rather an understanding of where it would lead. ‘Excuse me’ meant the guest was seeking her attention and it always prefaced something quite unintelligible, which she could only presume was a request of some sort. This instance proved no exception and she waited politely for the man to finish whatever it was he was saying before shaking her head.
‘I am sorry,’ she said with her customary smile of apology, ‘I not understand.’ Another bob for good measure.
The man nodded, obviously accepting the fact that she did not speak English, and then pointed down the corridor to his room. ‘Come, come,’ he said beckoning her to follow.
He strode off and she did as she was bade, following him with her trolley; it was clear that he wanted his room made up.
She took a set of fresh towels from the trolley and he stood to one side holding the door open for her.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said as she entered.
‘Thank you,’ he replied.
‘It is my pleasure, sir.’
She didn’t notice him close the door behind them, and even if she had she would probably have given it no thought.
‘The pleasure is all mine I assure you,’ she heard him say as she put the towels on a chair and crossed to the bed.
She did not understand the phrase, but the word ‘pleasure’ was always a polite response so she turned and gave another smile before starting to strip back the bedding.
She had expected he would leave the room, as this was the customary hour of the morning when he passed her in the corridor. Or if not, she expected at least that he would ignore her as she went about her work. But he did neither. Instead he crossed to where she stood and talked directly to her, a fact she found most confusing. Had he not gathered that she did not speak English?
‘I am sorry.’ She repeated her catch phrase, again apologetically, ‘I not understand.’
‘Oh yes, I think you do.’
The man was nodding knowingly, and there was an unpleasantness about his tone and his smile now. Azra’s confusion grew. What did he mean? Something is wrong, she thought.
‘I not understand, sir,’ she said as firmly as she was able, but her voice faltered, fear rising in her throat as the man reached out his hand.
Then everything happened at breakneck speed. She was suddenly on the bed, thrown backwards, the man holding her there, pulling up her skirts, ripping at her underwear.
She tried desperately to fight free of him. Then, feeling the outrage of exposure, she tried with equal desperation to cover herself. This could not be happening, this unspeakable thing. But she was no match for the man’s strength. He held her down with ease, dragging her legs apart, fumbling with his trousers, forcing himself into her.
There was not the slightest chance of escape after that. Trapped beneath the full weight of his body, she could do nothing but endure the vilest of invasion.
Her defilement did not last long. The man had anticipated this moment. He’d been fantasising for two days about the exotic little dusky-skinned girl with the teasing smile. His passion was spent within only minutes.
‘Well then,’ he said, rising and pulling on his trousers, ‘we’ll keep this our little secret, shall we.’
As he turned to pick up the wallet that sat on the bedside table, Azra scrambled to her feet, adjusting her clothing, not daring to think beyond anything but escape.
The man took money from his wallet and, folding the notes, tucked the wad down the shirtfront of her uniform.
She cringed at his touch.
‘I think you’ll find I’ve been more than generous,’ he said affably, leading the way to the door, which he opened for her.
She dived outside, dazed, breathless, still in a state of shock.
Behind her the door closed.
Azra stood in the corridor, her mind struggling to encompass the enormity of what had happened. Her world had changed in such a short space of time. She could not yet grasp fully the consequences, but of one thing she was certain. From this moment on her life would never be the same.
She went directly to a female staff washroom, which was fortunately empty, and washed herself as forcefully as she could, digging her fingers deep inside, trying to cleanse away the Westerner’s filth. But she knew she would never rid herself of the shame.
When she returned home she said nothing of what had happened to her husband, but her shame was multiplied tenfold that night as Karim made love to her. They had intercourse regularly these days, a mutually pleasurable expression of their love, but also in their efforts to conceive a child. Tonight, however, Azra took no pleasure in their lovemaking.
I am not worthy of him, she told herself, I am unclean. If others were to find out they would judge me guilty. My own father and brothers would accuse me of infidelity. They would say I had done something to arouse the Westerner’s lust, they might well kill me for dishonouring our family. But what did I do, she agonised, what did I do that caused this to happen? And if Karim were to find out, he would have every right to divorce me, he too would have the right even to kill me.
Azra knew in her heart Karim would not harm her, nor would he divorce her, their love was too strong, but the knowledge that another man had had her would tarnish their marriage forever.
Her mind in turmoil, sleep evaded her that night, but come the dawn she had made her decision, she knew what she must do. Everything must go on as normal. She must live a lie. Not only for her own sake, but for Karim’s. If Karim were to know what had happened, he would not kill her. He would kill the Westerner. And where would that lead?
They observed their respective prayer rituals that morning, had their breakfast, and he kissed her goodbye as he left, his work day starting earlier than hers.
‘Be safe, God go with you,’ she said as she always did.
The thought of returning to the hotel terrified Azra. She was bound to see the man, as she was assigned to the seventh floor and the man’s room was on the seventh floor. Perhaps she could ask for a change of assignment, but then that would invite inquiry. No, no, she told herself, she must be strong: life must go on as if nothing had happened. She would make sure, though, that this time she was working in the company of another maid. The man would not dare attack her then.
She steeled herself to face him. She would look him directly in the eyes, she decided, defying him to harm her further, perhaps even arousing fear in him that she might report the incident.
But the man was not there. She did not see him in the corridor and his room was empty, fre
shly made up and awaiting the next guest. The three-day international conference was over. The Westerner had carefully chosen the day of his departure to rape her. He had left for the airport that very same morning.
Azra had surprised herself with her show of strength in preparing to confront the man, and over the ensuing weeks she surprised herself further with her newly developed talent to lie.
That night she counted out the money the Westerner had given her, fifty-dollar notes, four of them, two hundred American dollars in all. She refused to dwell upon how she had come by such a sum, forcing herself to be practical instead. Here was a wealth of riches that would add considerably to their hard-earned savings.
The next day she visited a money exchange outlet, changing the fifties to five-dollar notes, and during the weeks that followed she made a habit every now and then of presenting to Karim one or two of the five-dollar notes.
‘Tips from Westerners,’ she explained the first time she produced the money, ‘I am occasionally asked to return their laundry or dry cleaning.’ Then she’d added knowledgeably, ‘The Americans are the best tippers.’ She’d heard this from the girls who delivered room service.
Karim had accepted the explanation without question. ‘How generous,’ he’d said. ‘We must hope the Americans keep choosing to stay at your hotel.’
Living a lie, Azra decided, was not as difficult as she had thought it might be. So long as she could block that horrendous morning from her mind, she would be able to manage. No one need ever know. Her defilement would remain her secret, and hers alone.
She had not counted, however, upon the discovery that should have brought with it such unadulterated joy.
She’d waited until she was absolutely certain. It was not until the doctor she’d visited had confirmed the fact beyond all doubt that she made her announcement.
‘I am with child, Karim,’ she said.
His ecstasy was such that he failed to notice her reaction did not equal his.
‘Our dream has come true, Azra.’ He laughed as he took her in his arms. ‘Our dream has finally come true.’
Yes, she thought, returning his embrace, finally. We have been trying to have a child for three full years, Karim, and only now has it finally happened.
One thought was uppermost in Azra’s mind. Could this child possibly be the product of her unspeakable union? Could the baby now growing in her womb have been fathered by the Westerner?
It was no longer easy, she discovered, to live a lie. The months that followed were fraught with worry as she watched her belly grow. Each stage of her pregnancy, which should have been joyful, only brought her a step closer to discovery. Was her shame to be revealed for the whole world to see? If it were so, then she would kill herself.
Karim’s elation knew no bounds when his wife gave birth to a boy.
‘Hamid,’ he said, gazing lovingly at his newborn; they had discussed the names they planned for their child, Hamid for a boy, Atefa for a girl. ‘Hamid, my son,’ he said with such pride.
Azra studied the baby’s face continuously, searching for any giveaway sign. No feature looked particularly Western, but how could one tell? The child’s skin was a dusky brown, but then so was hers, so this fact did not mean he was without Western blood. She worried that she could see no specific likeness to Karim, but a newborn was a newborn, so again how could one tell?
As the months passed she continued to agonise, seeking signs of her husband’s face in the baby. Are these Karim’s eyes, she would ask herself, or are they the eyes of the Westerner? Is this Karim’s mouth, or the mouth of the Westerner? She could not recall what the Westerner looked like, she’d had no idea at the time; they all looked the same.
Azra loved her baby with a true mother’s passion, but her agony did not let up for one moment. She lived in dread of the day her husband might discover something foreign in the face of his son.
As time passed and the child turned one year old, and then was approaching two, Azra told herself her fears must surely be unfounded. Karim loved his son unquestioningly and with a passion that equalled hers.
Finally, with the child a sturdy three-year-old and their accumulated savings hopefully sufficient, they set off on their journey to Indonesia in search of Benny Hitono and the new life that beckoned.
But doubt still lingered. Without proof, questions remained unanswered. Have I been searching too hard? Azra asked herself. Have I been looking so closely I can no longer see what is there? And is Karim, in his love for Hamid and his pride in his son, blinded to some sign that others might recognise?
‘He is a handsome boy, so like his father.’
Jalila’s words had come like a blessing from God.
Why should this mysterious girl, a complete stranger, say such a thing unless it were true? Here is the proof, Azra told herself, the proof I have been waiting for. This girl who never speaks has chosen to communicate with no one but me. It is surely a message from Allah. The child is Karim’s and I am forgiven.
‘Karim must be very proud,’ she heard the girl say.
‘He is. Oh yes, he is,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you, Jalila,’ and she turned away to hide the magnitude of this moment, which would have seemed to others so inconsequential.
During the days that followed, Hala rejoiced in the connection between the two young women, even noticing on occasion they exchanged the odd word. Always relating to the child, for the little boy remained the only area of interest to Jalila, but at least the girl was finally communicating.
The brief exchanges between the two were of course in Arabic, but for some time now, Hala had had the strangest suspicion the girl may possibly speak English. Or at least that the girl may have an understanding of English. She had mentioned as much to Rassen.
‘Have you noticed the way Jalila pays close attention whenever we discuss Hamid’s condition?’ she asked. This was shortly after they had arrived on the island, when the child was still struggling to survive. ‘She never looks at us and she pretends she’s not listening, but I know she is. And what’s more, I think she understands every word.’
‘Really? No, I hadn’t noticed. How interesting.’
Then the very next day: ‘Do you know, my dear, I believe you may be right,’ Rassen said. ‘She certainly does appear to be listening. I wonder where she learnt the language.’
‘Without knowing where she comes from it’s impossible to say, isn’t it?’ Hala replied. She had the vaguest idea herself, but it being only a theory she chose not to share her thoughts.
‘I think we should keep our suspicions to ourselves though,’ she said. ‘To put Jalila to the test might risk alienating her altogether.’
‘Oh yes, most certainly, I agree.’
Alone, however, Hala gave thought to her theory. Was it Jalila’s companion, the man who had accompanied her on the boat, who had taught her English?
Hala recalled the man vividly. Middle-aged and Lebanese in appearance, she’d presumed at first, given their age difference, he was the girl’s father or uncle or some sort of guardian. But she’d quickly gathered from his body language that he was not. His manner towards the girl was intimate, proprietorial; the girl belonged to him.
Any communication that she’d witnessed between the two had been in Arabic, as had the man’s communication with others aboard the vessel. There was no reason to suppose he spoke English. But he did. At least he had to Hala. And most fluently. She remembered his words with fearful clarity.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘You filthy fucking bitch whore, who do you think you are!’
The man’s vitriol was as shocking as the words he hissed at her, and the fact that the words were English words made his attack all the more alarming. Had he chosen to confront her in Arabic, the language most common on board, she would have presumed he was hysterical and attempted to calm him. Given their predicament, many of the passengers were justifiably panic-stricken and panic often led to unreasonable outbursts. But the man was not in a state
of hysteria. His attack was personal, and Hala was left speechless, staring into the angry black eyes barely inches from hers.
‘What right do you have,’ the man went on, ‘fucking English bitch whore!’
Hala continued to meet his gaze, not daring to avert her eyes in search of Rassen, fearing it would be seen as a sign of weakness, but knowing also that Rassen was some distance away at the stern of the vessel. He was examining several who were showing symptoms of the typhoid fever that was affecting so many, and, Hala thought, in all probability doling out more of their precious Ciprofloxacin tablets. She very much hoped that he was not. The administering of the tablets had been her job, and, through necessity, she had been exceedingly sparing.
‘Who gives you the right to play God!’ the man snarled. ‘What power says you are above the rest of us, that it is you who chooses who shall live or die? Who gives you this right? English bitch whore!’
Hala did not flinch, but her mind was racing as she sought the most effective form of response. The man’s belief she was English was clearly firing his anger, and his assumption was understandable; courtesy of her English mother she certainly appeared so. It was most likely, also, that he’d overheard her talking with Rassen; they always communicated in English when they wished their conversation to be private.
How do I reply, Hala was frantically asking herself, and in which language? Should I tell him in Arabic that I am Syrian and that way hopefully mollify him? But he obviously believes I consider myself superior, so he may think I am patronising him by not responding in English. Perhaps I should simply explain the cold, hard facts, and in the language in which he has chosen to attack me.