The Zanzibar Wife

by Deborah Rodriguez

  Maggie laughed and shifted sideways on her stool. “So what’s new with you, Rach?”

  Rachel hesitated before answering. Maggie—after giving Rachel unsolicited advice about her outfit and handing her the card of her hair colorist—had already provided the bullet points on the status of her own life. Husband? A love. His bike shop a huge success. Baby? Not so little anymore. “Almost as tall as you,” she had joked. Job? Good but tough, with all the cuts and consolidation happening in the magazine world. “What’s new with me?” Rachel finally responded in her raspy voice. “Well, let’s see. Um, I got a tattoo.” She rolled up her sleeve and pointed to the spot where her old shrapnel scar had been covered with a tiny blue compass.

  “Lovely.” Maggie frowned. “But come on, Rachel. You know what I mean. Been on any dates lately? Met anyone interesting?”

  Rachel rolled her eyes.

  “So I’ll take that as a no. Seen any good movies? Plays? Got any vacations planned?” she asked, sounding as if she were trying to coax a recalcitrant teenager into recounting a day at school.

  “No, no, and no again.” Rachel popped an oily olive into her mouth and chewed.

  “Jesus, Rach,” Maggie sighed. “What’s happened to you? Don’t you miss being out in the world? Aren’t you bored? Lonely?”

  “I’m fine. I like my life this way,” Rachel answered, her words garbled by the pit she held clenched between her front teeth.

  “Be serious. You can’t like your life this way. Nobody would.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” Rachel spat out the pit and placed it in a minuscule ceramic bowl made just for that purpose.

  Maggie shrugged her shoulders. “I’m just saying. But really, especially you, after all you’ve seen and done—how can you stand being holed up in that tiny apartment day after day?”

  The fact was that holing up in that tiny apartment was about all Rachel had seemed to be able to manage for a while now. That, and the gym, the bicycle, the shrink. She’d arrived back in New York pretty shut down, and it had been only the orderliness of her little life, the self-imposed routine, that had gotten her by since then. And she just couldn’t find it in her to explain all this to Maggie. Instead she simply shrugged.

  Maggie sighed again. “Look,” she said, “maybe it’s none of my business, but I just can’t sit back anymore and watch you do this to yourself. And if you don’t think it’s any of my business, just tell me to shut up.”

  Rachel had just begun to do so when Maggie interrupted.

  “Oh, I get it,” she said. “Believe me I do. I understand how tough it was on you, going where you went, living like you did, seeing what you saw. But you were really something, Rach. You’ve always been the one I talked about. My incredible friend Rachel.”

  Rachel had to laugh. “Oh, so now you talk about your poor, pathetic friend Rachel? Or don’t you talk about me at all? Don’t pity me, Maggie.” She sat back and tucked the choppy ends of her wavy brown hair behind her ears.

  “It’s not pity. And it’s not about me.” Maggie placed her manicured hand gently on Rachel’s arm. “I worry about you. Don’t think I’m not sympathetic to how difficult it all must have been. I’ve heard the stories, I’ve read the books.”

  Rachel signaled to the bartender for another glass of wine. How could her friend, with her tidy little brownstone life, ever truly understand what it was like to wake each morning to the sounds of sirens and shelling, gunfire, the crash of mortar rounds? To hold your breath as you passed through hostile checkpoints and border crossings, your heart nearly bursting from your ribcage with the fear that you’ll be discovered for who you are—or worse, suspected of being a terrorist or a spy? To be on constant lookout for an ambush that could end in kidnapping or death? And even if Maggie could, in her wildest dreams, picture those things, she would still never know of Rachel’s worst fear. It was the recognition of it that had truly driven her out of the game. Her nightmares weren’t of bullets or bombs—they were born from those words flung at her by Jonathan the day of their breakup, and from that morning on the beach at Lesbos. They lived in the coldness that wrapped around her like a boa constrictor, in the distance she kept between herself and others. They echoed in her memories of the attacks on Paris, that instant when she knew she couldn’t go on. And they lingered in the waking moments when Rachel sensed just how forceful the return of all those feelings that had been pushed down so adeptly for so long could be, given a chance.

  Her gaze wandered to the crowd closing in around them. Bare-armed, pierced girls greeting each other with warm hugs and rippling laughs, men dressed like lumberjacks sipping bubbly out of tall glasses, couples locking eyes as if there were nobody else in the room. Who are these people? Sometimes she felt like a ghost, drifting unseen through a world that she was no longer a part of.

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie continued. Rachel straightened at the sound of her voice. “But I can’t stand to see you giving up on something you’re so incredibly talented at. It’s a crime.” Rachel hadn’t mentioned to Maggie that a couple of times lately she’d taken her camera along on her endless bike rides through the city. At first the Leica had felt awkward in her hands, as if she were holding a complete stranger’s child. But looking over some of the shots she’d managed to get, she knew she’d keep going back for more. A homeless guy washing up in a water fountain. A Times Square cop screaming at a panhandling Elmo. A pair of pigeons perched on an old man’s arm as he shared the scraps of his lunch. “And I know you could use the money.”

  “Wait, what? Did I miss something?”

  “Have you even been listening to me, Rachel?”

  “I’m sorry. You mentioned something about money. Which happens to be kind of a trigger for me these days.” Just that afternoon Rachel had been looking through apartment listings, dreaming that she’d somehow miraculously unearth something decent on the Upper West Side for less than the $3500 per month she was currently paying for her tiny street-level sublet. Though she’d made a decent living over the years, New York City ate up money like a hungry Pac-Man.

  “So then it’s settled. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.” Maggie picked up her phone to set a reminder.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Maggie heaved an exasperated sigh. “The job? In Oman? For my magazine?”

  “Come on, Maggie, you know I don’t take assignments anymore.”

  “No, I know that you haven’t said yes to one since Lesbos. But that doesn’t mean you will never say yes again.”

  “I won’t say yes again. To you, or anyone else.” Rachel turned her attention to her wineglass.

  “Stop being an idiot, Rachel. I’m handing you several months’ rent on a silver platter. And even more importantly, in my opinion—which you obviously don’t appear to value, thank you very much—a chance to get out of the box you’ve put yourself in, to break out of your little life and once again be a part of a world bigger than spin class and takeout Thai.”

  “But I like takeout Thai.”

  Maggie growled, sounding a lot like the nasty bulldog Rachel had photographed earlier that day in the park. “Well then do it for me, Rach. It would be a big deal for me, the struggling assistant photo editor, to land you, Ms. big time award-winning world-famous photojournalist, for the gig.”

  Rachel took a long, slow sip of her wine before answering. “You said Oman? What the fuck is going on in Oman?”

  Maggie laughed. “Nothing! That’s exactly it. It’s the perfect assignment for you.”

  Rachel bent over to re-lace her boot and to avoid the smug look on her friend’s face. Admittedly the money was tempting, and the truth was she was sort of enjoying being behind the lens again. But Oman?

  “No, really, Rachel,” Maggie chimed in as if reading her mind. “Oman is supposed to be an amazing place. Clean white beaches and turquoise water, windswept deserts and miles of palm trees. And they say the people are lovely, totally welcoming and inviting. And it’s peaceful. Safe. Even in the middle of
the shitshow happening around it, it’s like an oasis of calm in the Arabian Sea.”

  “No wonder I’ve never been sent there. And you sound like a fucking travel brochure. So what’s the assignment again?”

  “It’s easy. You’ll be able to do it with your eyes closed and one arm tied behind your back. But please don’t.” Maggie flicked her long blond hair over her shoulders and leaned in toward Rachel. “Now, what we’re looking for is a spread on the regional crafts and the people who make them—you know, like pottery, silver jewelry, daggers, swords. Oh, and there are the Bedouin women who make these incredible masks—they call them Omani burqas, and—”

  “Sounds thrilling.”

  “Oh, come on, Rachel. Do you want the job or don’t you?”

  Even though they had parted ways without Rachel giving her answer, she now found herself boarding the subway car with her mind on the question of what to pack. Why not? It would be a short trip, maybe ten days, two weeks tops. Easy money. And even though she’d never admit it to her face, perhaps Maggie was just a little bit right. A change of scenery might do her good. Nothing else seemed to be doing the trick, not the therapist, not the Prozac or the Ambien, not the meditation, not the miles logged on the treadmill under the spell of her favorite old-school hip-hop playlist.

  Rachel’s ears popped as the train traveled far beneath the East River. The car was crowded but surprisingly quiet, full of kitchen workers winding down from their shifts, playing endless mindless games on their phones; young men wrapped in headphones, with their legs spread as wide as the river itself, moving to a beat only they could hear; tired moms with strollers and sleeping babies out way too late; transit workers in full uniform heading out to begin overnight repairs. Directly across from her, a dozing redhead nestled up against her boyfriend’s shoulder, counting on him to keep a vigilant watch as she slept. Rachel tried to remember if she had ever allowed herself to feel that way, so fully trusting in another’s arms. But before her mind could dive too deep into thoughts she did not want to think, she slipped her hand into her backpack and pulled the Leica into her grip.

  2

  Dubai, April 2017

  Ariana Khan exchanged the paper sack in the boy’s hand for a generous fistful of dirhams and thanked him, shutting the door with a click as he turned to press the button for the lift. She slapped across the spotless tiled floor in her gold flip-flops, back to the spot on the sofa that was still warm from her bum despite the chill from the humming air conditioner above. This, she thought, is the beauty of Dubai, where you can pick up a phone to save a trip down thirty-nine stories for one measly Starbucks.

  Across the way, the lights from the neighboring towers winked back at her as if they knew something she didn’t, like the meaning of life or the secret to happiness, or where her spare set of keys had got to, or how she was going to come up with enough money to pay the rent.

  The clamor from the busy marina below seeped through the sliding glass doors leading to her balcony, just like it did every night. Music thumping, horns honking, laughter echoing across the concrete canyons. Dubai was a late-night town, with everyone and their cousin emerging from their climate-controlled cocoons as the temperature dropped. Even the children seemed to never sleep, dragged and wheeled by their parents along the glitzy waterfront that had once been only desert, or herded through the gargantuan malls that had sprouted from the sand.

  She twisted the black face of her knockoff Rolex toward her. Too late to check in with her parents. Even with the three-hour time difference, she knew they’d both be in bed by now. A call from her would only set off unnecessary panic in the house in St Albans. Ariana sighed loudly. Sooner or later she’d have to come clean about her job. She hated not being truthful with her parents.

  They’d been so proud of her when she’d first received the offer in Dubai from the bank, all their hard work and encouragement given credit by her accomplishment. She’d actually done quite well as an analyst, and had earned a more-than-decent salary, but it was clear that her heart truly wasn’t into spending her days with a computer as her closest companion. Ariana was a people person. So when her department was downsized and decent severance packages were dangled as an incentive for voluntary departures, Ariana leaped at the chance to jump ship. But then the reality of having to tell her parents hit her, and she just couldn’t bring herself to do that. They would never have understood her decision. And they definitely would have wanted her to come home.

  On one hand the urge to move back home to England felt as strong as the pull of the moon on the tides. Although still healthy, her mother and father weren’t getting any younger, as her sister often reminded her. She knew they missed her terribly, as she did them. But to her, the thought of being driven out of Dubai due to lack of income made her feel like a total failure. If she did move back, she wanted it to be under her own terms. She wanted to return as a big deal, not as a disappointment. And she certainly couldn’t bear to add to that disappointment with the truth about her current gig. With the work visa from her bank job expiring, and the severance shrinking faster than the bow of the Titanic in the scene where Leonardo DiCaprio begs Kate Winslet not to let go of his hand, she’d started working as a wedding planner. She meant for it to be simply a temporary stopgap before finding something more substantial, more in keeping with her education, more in line with her parents’ expectations. But the funny thing was, she immediately found the work to be totally rewarding, and so much fun. Her bosses told her she was a natural. Unfortunately, the demand for lavish weddings seemed to be plummeting along with the price of oil, and her jobs were few and far between.

  So here she was. Struggling to survive in a city of skyscraper dreams, where doing everything one did just to keep up with the others—the apartment, the hair, the nails, the clothes, the bags, the gym—was enough to make a person batshit crazy. And for what?

  But Ariana was determined to not feel sorry for herself. She knew all too well that her own struggle was a joke compared with that of others, the millions of migrant workers lured away from their homes by false promises of decent wages, who were brokered by sponsors into virtual slavery, condemned to lives of abuse and poverty. These were the desperate men who swept the streets, the ones who built the roads and picked up the trash, the women who cleaned the houses—the people from places like India, the Philippines, Bangladesh, and Pakistan, who she passed every day with a smile on her face and a pang in her heart. Every Ramadan she’d ease her guilt by assembling care packages for those who were relegated to living in the squalid camps. But lately, with so much more time on her hands, she’d become more aware of just how many of those people there actually were, and haunted by the thought that she was living in a city built on the blood and sweat of so many others.

  So there was that. And now her rent—collected in advance for the entire year as for every rental in Dubai—was coming due. Sometimes she wondered what the point was.

  Deep down, if she were honest with herself, she knew her parents’ joy at having her back home would outweigh any disappointment they might feel about her career. That was her baggage, not theirs. Of course they’d prefer to have her home no matter what. And they would, of course, prefer to have her married, like her sister. Ariana was not anxious to deal with that pressure on a daily basis.

  It wasn’t that she disagreed with them. Ariana was ready to be married again. The trouble was that the only men in her life at the moment were the two ridiculous jokers who had been messaging her for the past three hours, apparently either from the solitude of their own empty apartments or perhaps from under the table across from a hapless date. Ariana had been juggling them both all night. Really, she didn’t even know why she bothered. Neither one of them was serious about wanting a real relationship. Nasim was clearly still pining for his ex-wife, and Nasir was simply a player, exactly the type of man she had no time for, except for the fact that he made her laugh. But she’d met both men through mutual friends, and Ariana believed one shoul
d always remain polite to friends of friends.

  The other guys she’d met over the past year had been banished to the land of blocked contacts. She blamed it all on her sister, who had relentlessly insisted she try meeting someone online. “We’re all concerned about you,” she had said to Ariana during a visit home last year, making her feel like such a loser. It truly pissed her off, imagining them talking about her behind her back. Her sister then claimed that Ariana needed to engage more, spend more time being with people. The irony of that comment seemed to be lost on her, Ariana thought as they sat down together to reach out from behind the screen of her phone. Her sister watched as she composed her Tinder profile. Not in the least interested in hook-ups, but if you truly want to commit to a likeminded person, then I might be interested, if you look like George Clooney. “Well, that’s bound to get you a ton of responses,” her sister said, smirking. In the end Ariana decided to limit her efforts to a Muslim matrimonial website, thinking that the men there were likely to be more serious and ready to commit.

  “The time of sociopaths and idiots”, she’d later dubbed that experience. Her sister had sent her off on her first date with the advice to “get over herself” and not talk about the things she normally talked about. Not quite sure what was meant by that, she nevertheless tried to keep her mouth shut. She really did. But it didn’t seem to help. One guy wanted a traditional brown wife, which she clearly wasn’t. One gave himself away with the wallpaper picture on his phone—a stunning blond, which she also clearly wasn’t. One date ended with a mysteriously misplaced wallet when the check arrived. Another featured a misogynist who knew nothing about the true meaning of Islam, and who accused her of becoming too anglified. Some disappeared, only to resurface months later in full stalker mode. And all of them offered zero chemistry.

  What was even worse was how she became an expert on all the ways guys misrepresented themselves online. She’d even caught a married man from her family’s neighborhood—a guy with three teenage children—posing as a childless widower. And that, she felt, was despicable. It was one thing to lie on a dating site, where the other person could be just trying to find a quick hook-up as well. But on a matrimonial website? She was tempted to post a comment suggesting he try one of the polygamy websites she’d read about, but thought better of it.