Daughter of Bad Times

by Rohan Wilson

  The thing I really noticed about Malé were the sea walls. The island looked like a sort of fortress. We walked through a massive steel gate at the end of the pier.

  ‘These gates close when the water rises too high,’ Yamaan said. He pointed out the stacks of concrete tetrapods piled in the water before the walls. ‘These are used to stop erosion.’

  I guess this was the guided tour.

  ‘Sea-level rise,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘Without the walls, Malé would be underwater.’

  ‘I know.’

  We walked along a street full of people. Christ, the people. The cars that came through had to creep along in a low gear, sounding their horns to clear a path. Even though it was midday it felt dim on the streets and I saw, looking up, how every building was a high rise and hardly any sun got through. Basically, a pint-sized, second-world Manhattan. Not only that, but the alleys were choked with shanties cobbled out of corrugated iron or blue tarpaulins. People squatted in front of these shacks, cooking over burners. The internally displaced. Mothers with children. The elderly. They even lived in the unfinished shells of buildings, among the scaffolding, sleeping in rooms rigged up from sheets of plastic and breeze blocks. Some had proper UNHCR tents, white with the blue logo. If UNHCR was here, it made sense Alessandra was too.

  She was a wolf following wounded animals.

  ‘This way,’ Yamaan said.

  On the far side of a road a young woman stopped Yamaan. She was holding a bunch of flowers, big tropical flowers, white and pink and round as saucers. She wore a white hijab and you could tell, even with her hair covered, that she was pretty. My first instinct was to drag Yamaan away. I fought this. Instead, I looked at my wristband over and over to let him know I was impatient. They talked and the young woman tugged free some of the flowers and gave them to Yamaan. She smiled and waved and walked off.

  ‘Aren’t you popular,’ I said.

  ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘My father.’

  ‘She seemed really into you.’

  ‘Meera worked with my father. He’s considered a hero. She asked that I pass on her best wishes.’

  ‘Where did you say your father went?’

  ‘Maafushi island.’

  I said the name to myself a few times. It had a delicious sound. ‘I hope he’s treated like a hero on Maafushi.’

  ‘It’s a jail,’ he said.

  I laughed.

  Yamaan wasn’t laughing.

  ‘What, seriously?’

  ‘He wrote for an independent newspaper. There are links between the mutaween and the gangs and the president. He traced these links.’

  ‘The mutaween. You mean the police.’

  ‘Not police. Religious security.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound that bad.’

  ‘The president called the story defamatory. The trial lasted for two minutes. My father was sent to Maafushi for six years for simply writing the truth. It’s been difficult for us.’

  ‘Wow. Your president sounds like an asshole.’

  He seemed to remember then that he was holding flowers. ‘Here. These are for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I thought you would like them.’

  ‘That’s so nice. Thank you.’

  ‘Not all flowers can be picked,’ he said.

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Some remain on high branches, out of reach.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘One can only admire them.’

  ‘Wait, are you flirting with me?’ I said.

  He smiled—the first time I’d seen him do that—and I felt a whole-body reaction. Looking at him, seeing his cheeks dimple and his eyes soften, I had to actually cork the urge to touch him.

  ‘I would never flirt without your permission,’ he said.

  ‘You have my permission,’ I said, a little too quickly.

  He kept smiling but he looked at me again as if reassessing. I brought the flowers to my nose and inhaled.

  This was getting interesting.

  We walked a long way. The island wasn’t big—you could cross it in twenty minutes. We must have walked to the far side and then further. We passed coffee shops and convenience stores with signage written in the squiggly local language. We passed a fat white mosque with a gold dome. My glasses labelled it as the Friday Mosque. It reminded me of Luciana’s family homestead down in New Mexico, with its white pillars and tall dark windows. I had her live feed running in one corner of my vision to see what new shit she was doing in Cancun, but I was paying less attention to it now that Yamaan walked so closely beside me. As we passed by the mosque, he tapped me on the arm.

  ‘That’s where I live,’ he said and pointed up.

  A narrow apartment building on a corner opposite. It was painted a shade of salmon pink. The walls were cracked and some of the windows broken.

  ‘With my mother,’ he said.

  I crossed my arms. I tried to seem impressed. ‘Looks nice,’ I said.

  ‘We both have to work hard. It’s very expensive.’

  ‘Expensive. I can see that.’

  I know—pathetic. This is all a long time ago. I was young and ignorant and full of my own self-importance. Privilege will do that to you. Try not to hold it against me. Still, it did start me thinking about Alessandra and whether she would buy me an apartment one day. I’d asked her a lot. It also started me thinking about Yamaan living with us on Feydhoo Finolhu. I thought it best to warn Yamaan what might happen.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘My mother. She can be a bit of an asshole.’

  He turned his comely eyes in my direction. I took off my glasses so he could really see me. Guys always told me I looked cuter with them off.

  ‘She has some bad habits. Like, she might touch you. Or whatever. Maybe kiss you.’

  ‘My job is to cook and clean.’

  ‘All I’m saying is, don’t feel like you need to do something you don’t want to do.’

  He thought about this for a while. ‘Your mother sounds lonely,’ he said.

  Right. She was the lonely one. Not me. Not me.

  I was beyond pathetic.

  We walked on. We entered a barren-looking park in the shadows of the sea wall, just a dirt field headed by a low steel pagoda. There were a lot of people here, a lot of motorbikes. As we came around behind the pagoda I saw how the park was full of tents. It must have been some kind of refugee camp. UNHCR tarpaulins. Portable toilets. Solar power for the lights and water. You could see them washing clothes out of buckets and wringing the water by hand. Honestly, life might have been better for some of them in a CYC facility. In that moment, and in my ignorance, I thought maybe Alessandra had the right idea.

  ‘The displaced families have come to Malé and Hulhumalé,’ he said. ‘Their islands have sunk. We take them in.’

  ‘Manhattan is sinking as well. We built a wall around the coastline.’

  He nodded calmly. ‘Some can afford to build walls. Some cannot.’

  This felt like a condemnation. I couldn’t be sure. He spoke with such grace. ‘You have a wall here,’ I said.

  ‘Paid for by the Saudis and the Indians. With enough money, we can protect the main islands. The rest will disappear.’

  He started towards the camp.

  ‘Are we going in there?’

  ‘My cousin is here,’ he said.

  I looked around. The haphazard tents, the teams of children, the dust, the rotten smell, and, away a few yards, a man standing with his hands in the pockets of his shorts staring at me. It was the kind of stare that would make a modest girl flush. I certainly wasn’t modest. All I did was get angry. This man, a boy really, a teenager, was so dark he might have been African. Wearing a Chicago Bulls shirt and a sideways cap. I folded my arms and stared back. Beside him an older man, smoking, also turned to look. They were smiling but it was a grin of lust, not anything welcoming.

  ‘I don’t think I should go in there,’ I said.

  Y
amaan called to them in his language. They ignored him. I began to grow nervous. I mean, I hadn’t seen another American that morning. No one knew where I’d gone either. Alessandra didn’t know. I could vanish, and that would be it. Lost. At that point, I put my glasses back on. For a start, men hardly looked at me when I wore my glasses. But mostly I wanted to understand what they were saying.

  ‘Must be a Chinese tourist,’ the older one said. It floated beside him in bright blue text.

  ‘Looks like a Korean pop star, don’t you think?’ the teenager said.

  ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘What a beautiful neck. I’d like to kiss it.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Watch your mouth.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Be quiet. Her friend will hit you.’

  Yamaan had stepped in front of them, blocking their view. ‘Where is the volunteer?’

  They leaned to look past him. ‘Who’s this girl?’

  ‘Is she famous?’

  ‘Worse,’ he said. ‘She’s rich. Watch out or she’ll have you arrested.’

  ‘From her the cash, from you the dance,’ the older one said. ‘Is that the story?’

  ‘Where’s the volunteer?’ Yamaan said again.

  ‘He’s coming. See?’

  The teenager pointed across the tops of the tents.

  You couldn’t miss this guy. Tall and stick-thin, with the posture of a cat. He wore a white robe trimmed with gold and a white cloth draped over his head. The weirdest part? A pair of big black sunglasses. He looked like a priest or whatever the Muslims called them. A mullah? Whatever. He scuffed his sandals as he walked, leaving a fog of dust. I felt a bit safer once I saw him. Yamaan waved his hand.

  ‘Have your money ready,’ he said.

  ‘This guy?’ I said. ‘We’re buying off this guy?’

  ‘We can trust him.’

  ‘This is really weird,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t speak to him,’ Yamaan said.

  ‘What?’

  The priest stopped a few yards short. He looked around the tents. He looked at Yamaan and then at me. Probably getting some kind of read with his glasses. My name. Age. Social media profile. In any case, I tapped the arm of my glasses and took a read of him. Shadi Thoriq (strange fucking name). Twenty-five (he looked older). Single (with that beard, you bet). He had some association with a local mosque, listed only as a volunteer. Volunteering for what? A couple of recent social media posts filtered through as well. In heaven is your provision and whatever you are promised. Do not obey the creation when you’re disobeying the Creator. Sounded like a real fun guy. Last of all it showed a faint yellow outline around both this Shadi Thoriq and then Yamaan, which meant they were related. Cousins—yellow meant cousins. So, this Shadi, the priest, the moral leader, also sold dope in his spare time. Wonderful.

  Yamaan smiled. A few words passed between them. As-salamu-alaikum. How are you. Good. Your parents. Well. At length the cousin looked at me, or at least his head turned in my direction. He said something and the translation appeared as, ‘The unbeliever must cover herself.’

  ‘Is he talking to me?’ I said.

  Yamaan had a pained look. ‘He wants you to cover your throat.’

  ‘My throat?’ I’d wound the scarf high around my head because of the heat. Everyone was looking at me. ‘My throat?’

  ‘Please, Miss Braden.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘My cousin finds it unseemly. I’m sorry.’

  I unfurled the scarf and wrapped my neck. ‘Better?’

  After that, the cousin did not look at me again. It was like I’d vanished.

  We walked with him from the camp below the sea wall, along the street through the crowds, and towards Yamaan’s building. We entered the lobby through a broken autodoor. Plastic plants, faded carpet. On the wall a framed photo of a mosque. The cousin took off his sunglasses. Straight up I could see why he wore them—his eyes were set wide apart in his head and wandered independently. It made him seem aloof, as if nothing he saw deserved attention. Whatever branch of the family he came from, he’d sure missed out on the quality genes Yamaan had picked up. Boy, was he hard to look it. He produced a small white pill bottle from inside the folds of his robe.

  ‘You should pay him,’ Yamaan said.

  ‘How?’

  The cousin brought up his hand. He pointed at the shabby old-style wristband on his arm.

  ‘Altcoins,’ Yamaan said.

  I authorised the transfer. The cousin watched his screen and when he was satisfied he passed the pill bottle to Yamaan.

  ‘Smoke it carefully,’ he said. ‘It comes from Colombo.’

  ‘It’s for her. I don’t smoke anymore.’

  ‘You don’t smoke? Little brother, listen to me. You want to smoke this. It tastes like mango.’

  I didn’t understand the guy. The robes, the head covering. And then he sells Sri Lankan dank?

  ‘What religion is the Chinese girl?’

  ‘I’m Japanese,’ I said, ‘and I don’t have a religion.’

  Yamaan translated this to him. Still the priest wouldn’t look at me.

  ‘God willing, when she smokes the Muslim hash with the Muslim men she will see her error.’ He laughed and it was like the squeal of a horse. He slapped Yamaan on the shoulder. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you, little brother. It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘You’re busy. I understand.’

  ‘Always busy. They are filthy and ignorant in that camp. Someone needs to teach them how to behave.’

  ‘They have lost a lot. Don’t be too hard on them.’

  ‘I’ve become Abu Bakr you know. Not the best man among us but the job falls to me anyway. And you, little brother? You’ve found yourself working for a beautiful slut?’

  ‘What’s his problem?’ I said to Yamaan.

  ‘Cousin, she can understand you.’

  The priest turned his odd loose gaze on me. ‘She can’t understand. If she understood, she would join us.’

  ‘Go fuck a cactus,’ I said to him.

  He shook his head. ‘Obedience to women will have to be repented of, cousin.’

  ‘It’s almost midday,’ Yamaan said and he began to guide his cousin outside. ‘Should you not start bringing them to salat?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right as always. It was good to see you. The hash is good. Smoke the hash.’

  The priest, or whatever he was, replaced his glasses and stepped out into the equatorial sun. He looked up at the sky and looked at his robes. Then he began slowly along the street, nodding and waving at the people there. I’d seen movie stars downtown walking the same way. Really, the ego of that man.

  Yamaan led me out along an esplanade that ran past an artificial beach. Somewhere, he’d taken hold of my hand and was leading me along. The call to prayer started playing from the loudspeakers of the mosques we passed and for a moment I couldn’t orient myself. The island was so crowded with towers and slums it felt like a maze. Yamaan kept sneaking little looks over his shoulder, thinking I didn’t notice. It gave me a serious case of the oh fucks. Was someone following us? I love getting high but I had no urge to see the inside of Maafushi jail.

  ‘Keep walking,’ he said.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Don’t look back.’

  On the ride to Feydhoo Finolhu I sat beside Yamaan, watching the white churn of the wake. The yachts tied to the pier grew distant and the hotels and apartment towers of Malé dimmed and lost detail. Yamaan sat tensely upright on the bench seat. He didn’t speak until we entered open water beyond the harbour and then, just before Feydhoo Finolhu scrolled into view, he looked around at me. He seemed to have been thinking. He cleared his throat.

  ‘My cousin is not a bad man,’ he said.

  ‘What is he? A priest?’

  ‘Mutaween. The president funds them to patrol the camps and keep order. They can detain women for indecency. He could have arrested you.’

  ‘But he sold us weed.’


  ‘That’s a practical matter. We all have to eat.’

  I didn’t answer. I was rolling the pill bottle around in my fingers. I uncapped it. Pure hash oil. Back at the house I’d lie on a sunbed stoned for hours. Maybe I would stream it to Daisy and Luciana. Vaping Maldivian hash. Holy shit. They had to see this.

  ‘What I find most strange,’ Yamaan said, ‘is the coexistence of contrary impulses.’

  ‘The what now?’

  ‘The impulses. Believing that what he does raises him closer to heaven. He believes it but the troops of his Heart rally to fight. After all, how does controlling the way people dress raise you in God’s eyes? That fight has not yet produced the self-knowledge he needs.’

  ‘No shit.’

  He rubbed his chin and watched the deck rise and fall.

  ‘Sometimes family are the worst company you can keep.’

  I said it offhandedly but he gave the words deep consideration. A furrow developed between his eyes. I could already tell this guy did too much thinking. Trying hard to make sense of the world was the source of all misery. Better to just go along with it. Take it at face value. Of course, I would never say this to him. What would I gain from it?

  ‘Miss Braden,’ he said at length. ‘May I ask you a question?’

  This didn’t sound good. I untied the scarf from my head.

  ‘I don’t want to offend you. I’m just curious.’

  ‘Sure. Ask away.’

  ‘Did you enjoy my company today?’

  I tried not to smile. ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘There’s a reef near the house. In the afternoons, you can swim there with the manta rays. They’re very gentle. I could show you, if you like.’

  He didn’t even blink. I had to look away. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

  The boat rose and fell. Our shoulders knocked together with the motion.

  ‘Would you smoke some of this with me?’ I held up the pill bottle.

  ‘Perhaps a little,’ he said.

  ‘If you smoke, I’ll swim.’

  ‘Then we smoke and swim. I’m sure it will cheer you up.’

  I looked at him. ‘Cheer me up?’

  ‘You’re unhappy about something.’