The Zanzibar Wife

by Deborah Rodriguez

  When Adil finally turned off the engine on the top of a sharp slope, Rachel stumbled from the car, her boots sliding diagonally beneath her before coming to a stop. “What the hell was that all about?” she asked as she desperately gulped in the hot desert air.

  Adil’s smile melted to a frown. “You don’t like the dune bashing? It is what all the tourists want.”

  “Tourist? Who said I was a tourist?” She shifted her eyes to Ariana, who was sheepishly avoiding her look by pretending to brush some invisible sand from her sleeves. Around them, valleys of brown and black began to appear among the red and yellow dunes as the shadows lengthened with the dropping sun. Rachel sighed. “So much for getting my shots today,” she said loudly before stomping back to the car.

  Rachel remained silent the entire way back to Muscat. Not that it mattered, as Ariana and Adil were so deep in conversation they wouldn’t have even noticed. By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, Ariana had managed to extract more personal information about Adil from the back seat than one of Rachel’s old journalist pals would have been able to get in twice the time. Origin? Pure Omani, and proud of it. Born and raised in Muscat. A family man. Education? Studied to be an accountant at the university in Dubai, as his mother wished, but switched to studying English instead. His father was disappointed, convinced he’d amount to nothing. Now, with his English degree, he could work as a translator, or have a job in insurance or education. Or be a tour guide. He liked being a tour guide, liked to move around, liked meeting people from around the world. Yeah, Rachel thought, and scaring the shit out of them.

  “And your name?” Ariana had asked him. “Where did that come from?”

  “To be honest with you?” Adil answered. “Many people, they are named from prophets. Unfortunately my name is not the name of a prophet. But Adil in Arabic, it means fair. To be fair. So I try my best in my life to be fair. To do things fair.”

  “That’s lovely, Adil.” Ariana smiled as she looked out the window.

  “And you, what is the meaning of the name Ariana?”

  “Mine comes from the Greek. There it means ‘holy one’,” Ariana said with pride. “But in Arabic, it means ‘vivacious’.”

  “Perfect,” Rachel muttered.

  “And you?” Adil asked with a glance over his shoulder.

  “I have no idea,” Rachel answered.

  “Wait, I’ll find it.” Ariana pecked at her phone. “Here it is. It’s a Hebrew name. Meaning ewe.”

  “You? Like you and me?” Adil asked.

  “No, ewe.” Ariana laughed. “As in female sheep.”

  Rachel wished she had remembered her earbuds. She curled up against the side of the car and did her best to ignore the incessant chatter.

  “And tomorrow?” Adil asked Ariana. “What will you do tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow we really must find some of the handicrafts Rachel is looking for. I thought we’d try Nizwa for the masks and silver and pottery. Say, do you think you might be able to take us there?”

  Rachel resisted the urge to kick her in the shins.

  “Ah, Nizwa, it is a good city. I would like to take you very much, but tomorrow I cannot. I am taking my children to the waterpark. You will ask at the hotel for another driver.” Adil pulled up under the hotel’s awning and stopped, opening the doors to help them out. “Thank you. I like meeting you very much.” He accepted Ariana’s wad of cash with a nod of the head. “And good luck finding the hand jobs you are looking for!” he called out to Rachel as the car door slammed shut behind her.

  10

  Hani spotted them immediately across the hotel lobby, the two clients who had arranged for a ride to Nizwa with his cousin Omar. “An American photographer and a Dubai expat,” Omar had told him when he called early in the morning to ask a favor of Hani, his car unable to start and his reputation with the hotel at stake. Hani was glad to help his cousin out and, as he had meetings scheduled in Nizwa anyway, it wasn’t a problem in the least. Now he smiled at the short, sturdy woman with the camera around her neck and nodded to her companion, who stood there teetering on shoes so high while carrying a pink handbag so huge it looked as if she were about to tip over. Instead she came barreling toward him, one finger pointing to a pile of luggage sitting by the glass doors. “You’re our driver, I presume?”

  “My name is Hani. It is my cousin who—”

  “Brilliant. Pleased to meet you. I’m Ariana, that’s Rachel. Those are ours.” Her eyelashes batted against each other like two hands clapping.

  “Hi, Hani,” Rachel said as she followed Ariana out to the Lexus.

  “Lovely car,” Ariana said as Hani closed the trunk.

  Hani was speechless as he opened the back door and gestured for Ariana, and her handbag, to enter. As Rachel followed, Hani noticed a look pass between the two women upon spying the passenger in the front seat.

  “Please, let me introduce you. This is Miza.” He gently shut the door and climbed behind the wheel. “Miza, this is Ariana and Rachel.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Miza,” Ariana responded with a precise British politeness.

  “Hello,” Miza said, and nodded.

  “Are you going to Nizwa as well?” Ariana asked.

  “Miza is the wife of someone I work with,” Hani explained. He looked over at the solemn woman, her swollen eyes hidden behind dark glasses, the bright colors of her head wrap belying the heaviness of her heart. “It is for him that I am taking her to Nizwa.” He stopped short of saying more, as the story was Miza’s to tell, if she chose to. But for now the woman sat silently beside him, her hands resting on top of the woven satchel on her lap.

  Hani drove them through the outskirts of the city and onto the new highway leaving town. At first the car was silent, save for an incessant tapping from the lacquered nails of the one with the eyelashes. Ariana. The woman never seemed to look up from that phone. Texting with her husband? More likely gossiping with her girlfriends. Just look at her, he thought as he shifted his eyes to the rear-view mirror, with her face all painted up and her hair made to look as smooth as gentle waves on a lake. Yet another one who seemed to have more love for her handbags than for her faith. He’d seen it before, at university, with the girls who cared only about what car you drove, how much money your family had. It was a pity.

  A giggle bubbled up from the seat behind him. And listen to her, he thought. Acting as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She probably didn’t. He gave a worried glance over to a somber Miza. At least the other one, Rachel, was quiet, there in the back with music playing in her ears.

  But after a while Ariana seemed to have tired of the life in her phone, and turned her attention instead to Miza. “Your earrings, they’re gorgeous.” Miza nodded politely at the compliment. “So are you from Oman as well?”

  “Zanzibar,” Miza answered sleepily, without turning around.

  “Wow. I’ve always wanted to go to Africa. Were you born there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you live here now?”

  Miza hesitated. “I have a place in Muscat.”

  “Oh. That must be nice. Muscat seems like a lovely place to live.” Ariana waited only briefly for a response, then continued. “I love your scarf. Did it come from Zanzibar?”

  Miza nodded again.

  “So have you been to Nizwa before?”

  “Miza is new to our country,” Hani answered for her. Although it was clear she meant no harm, couldn’t Ariana tell that the poor woman was exhausted, and not interested in her chatter?

  “So your husband, he is a driver too, like Hani?”

  Hani was tempted to set things straight, to tell her of Tariq’s successful importing business, of some of the projects they had been working on together, about his own meetings in Nizwa with the municipal officials for approval of his plans for the new sports complex. But instead he decided to have a little fun with her. “Miza’s husband and I do share a similar profession,” he said with a sideways look at the wom
an beside him, whose mind understandably seemed a million miles away.

  “That’s nice,” Ariana said. “So how does it work? Do you own your own car?”

  “Yes.” Hani nodded. “This is my car.”

  “And do you get a lot of work?”

  “Oh yes, I am always working. Sometimes, I think, too much.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you are compensated adequately.”

  “I do okay.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  “Sure. I find the work to be very challenging.”

  “Really? You do? I think that’s great. Trust me, I know how important it is to have a passion for your work. But don’t you ever wish to do more?”

  “More? I am doing quite enough, thank you.”

  Ariana turned her line of fire back toward Miza. “And how do you like Oman, Miza?”

  “Everyone finds Oman a wonderful country,” Hani jumped in again, anxious to save the poor woman from Ariana’s relentless questioning. “You have been here before, am I right?”

  Ariana laughed, checking to make sure Rachel still had her music going before she continued. “Actually, I’m not all that familiar with it,” she answered in a loud whisper. “But please don’t let on to my friend. And so far so good. We’ve only been here two days. But I will say that the people seem extremely friendly. And thank goodness they all seem to speak English so well.”

  “Yes, this is true,” Hani answered, relieved to have successfully diverted the conversation away from Miza. “In my family it is my mother who insists that we always speak English together, so that we are comfortable with the language.” He smiled at her through the rear-view mirror. “And the friendliness? It is in our blood. Even the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, mentioned the Omanis, saying we are a different people—friendly, good, hospitable. We were used as a good example to others. It is in one of his speeches from the holy book.”

  “My goodness. That’s quite an endorsement.”

  “Yes, it is. Because it is our faith that is most important to us. That, and family and personal honor. These are our values.”

  “Well I can certainly get behind that,” Ariana said.

  “Yes?” Hani asked, raising one eyebrow. “And you, you and your husband have children?”

  “No husband,” Ariana answered. “Not anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hani answered softly, regretting passing judgment over a woman who was a widow. “But you have your parents? And sisters and brothers perhaps? A big family?”

  “Well, we’re not big, but we are close. Although my mum and dad live far from me.”

  “The Koran teaches us that a person has responsibility toward his family, not just to their spouse and children, but to their siblings and parents as well.”

  “I know that,” Ariana answered with a bit of defensiveness in her voice. “And I hope that someday I will live closer to them.”

  “Then that is my hope for you as well, Alhamdulillah.” Hani felt like kicking himself. What was the matter with him, lecturing her in that way? But for some reason the words just kept tripping their way out of his mouth. “Me, I cannot imagine leaving my country,” he continued. “Our country, it is a special place. It is thanks to our king His Majesty Sultan Qaboos. He is much beloved by our people.”

  “I can certainly see that,” Ariana said, her eyes turning to the windshield sticker bearing the ruler’s unmistakable likeness, with its manicured white beard and thick dark brows. “His face seems to be everywhere I look. So far I’ve seen posters, banners, even coffee mugs. Not to mention every denomination of rial. How on earth can you tell your bills apart? I’d be a disaster shopping over here.”

  “I doubt that very much. I’m sure you would be a most welcome sight for our shopkeepers in Oman.” Hani laughed, glad to find himself back on safe ground. “Now, His Majesty,” he continued, “he has done much for our country since he took over from his father. He has brought us into more modern times, yet has also managed to preserve our religious and cultural roots. You can see why we love our ruler. His birthday is a national holiday much celebrated by everyone. And every year he makes a tour of the entire country—our cities, towns and villages—taking with him ministers and other important government members, to meet and talk with the people.”

  “Wow, that is impressive,” Ariana said.

  “Isn’t it?” Hani embraced the opportunity to share his pride for his country. “And what he has done for our healthcare and infrastructure, it is unbelievable. Look at this nice new highway, for example.”

  “I wish I could say that about my own government.” Rachel had abandoned her earbuds. “Maybe there’s something to the whole ‘absolute monarchy’ thing. No senate standstills, no deadlocked congress. No idiotic elections where the person who actually wins the most votes doesn’t win at all. Imagine.”

  “This is true,” Hani agreed, happy to have engaged both women in the conversation. “Also our tourism. Did you know that not that long ago you two would not have been allowed to be here, in my car, enjoying our beautiful mountains and our endless skies? Oman was almost completely closed to visitors. It was our king, His Majesty Sultan Qaboos, who made this possible, who made the decision to open up our country for others to see.”

  “So what happens when he dies?” Rachel asked. “I’ve read that he’s not been well. And he has no heirs, right?”

  Hani shook his head. “We are not worried about that. Our king His Majesty Sultan Qaboos has prepared everything for our future.”

  “Rainbows and puppy dogs,” Rachel muttered from the back seat.

  “I’m sorry?” Hani asked.

  “Nothing. I’m just remarking on the particularly optimistic nature of your country. Even your newspaper seems to have no bad news in it.”

  Hani laughed. “It is true that we are positive. And why not? And I will tell you another thing, a thing that is most important to me. Did you know that when our king His Majesty Sultan Qaboos came into power, Oman had only two schools, and not one of them for girls? Today, the university has to have a quota, so that it remains half and half men and women, because there are so many more women who qualify than men! It is a beautiful thing.”

  “Why is it the only decent guys I meet seem to be taxi drivers and shopkeepers?” Ariana’s voice remained low, her muttered comment meant only for Rachel’s ears.

  “And did you know that in my country only Omanis are allowed to have the job of driver?” Hani snapped back, suddenly fed up with this woman’s small-mindedness. “It is a protected profession, and not an easy one. Drivers should be respected for the long hours they work to put food on the table for their families.”

  “I’m so sorry, Hani,” Ariana gushed. “I truly didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I really do wish there were more men like you.”

  “There are probably many men like me. You just need to keep your eyes, and your heart, open.” Hani was sure this woman must have no trouble attracting men, as long as they were interested in her kind of woman.

  “Oh, my heart is open, trust me. Sometimes I even wear it on my sleeve like a shoulder bag.”

  “Well if it is as heavy as the bag you are carrying today it must be a big heart,” Hani teased.

  “Big, and sometimes stupid.”

  “Poor heart. Being insulted like that.”

  “Yes, poor thing.” Ariana laughed. “Maybe I should send it on holiday, to a spa for a rest. Perhaps we just need some time apart.”

  “But then you will be a heartless person.”

  “True, but imagine how easy life would be.”

  “Imagine how dark life would be.”

  “So what is the answer, Hani? Do I just sit back and leave everything up to fate?”

  “Of course that is the answer. Destiny and fate, whatever Allah wills happens, and whatever he does not will does not happen.”

  “I know that. It was more of a rhetorical question. But do you think that sometimes we need to help fate along a
little? Give it a nudge?”

  “Perhaps. Even with our destinies, I think it is also important to listen to our hearts. Even if they are big and stupid. But then again, what do I know? I am only a driver.” Hani smiled to himself. “I think it is time to stop for some tea, yes?”

  At the next exit Hani pulled into a gas station, reached over to gently wake Miza, and pointed the way across the pavement to a coffee shop as the attendant approached. As the three women closed the car doors behind them, Hani couldn’t help but notice the other two’s surprise at the roundness of Miza’s belly under her abaya. “Please go and have some chai. The karak, cardamom tea, is the best. You will like it,” he urged, anxious to shift the attention from the aching woman. “I will join you in a minute.”

  As he waited for the tank to fill, Hani took the opportunity to check his phone and catch up on some business. His first meeting in Nizwa was still on schedule, and he would, inshallah, arrive on time, more or less. “Omani time”, as the foreigners called it. It was sometimes hard for them to understand that, in this country, time was not money, and that personal matters often took precedence over business.

  Only Rachel and Miza were seated inside the tiny shop, their conversation coming to a halt as he entered. “Where is Ariana?” he asked.

  Rachel shrugged. “Ladies’ room?”

  Hani ordered his karak to go, and took the little paper cup in his hand as he crossed to the edge of the parking lot to return one more call before they got back on the road. As he stood on the pavement, his dishdasha fluttering in the breeze, he spotted someone in the distance, kneeling beneath the shade of a small grove of palms. On closer examination he recognized the large pink lump resting on the ground beside the figure. Ariana’s handbag. He narrowed his eyes against the midday sun. Yes, it was Ariana, her long, soft hair covered by a silky scarf that draped gently down her slender side. He silently watched as she completed her prayers, his mind struggling to make sense of this pile of contradiction that was the woman before him.