14
Miza folded the large orange cloth diagonally until the message printed along its blue border became tucked inside like a secret. She then bent over as far as her belly would allow to lay the folded strip over the back of her head, winding the fabric tightly around and around until the two ends met on her forehead to be knotted together, the pointy tips hidden between the folds. The turban was made from her half of the kanga that her mother had used to carry her as a baby, and later that she, herself, had used to cradle the infant Sabra.
While a T-shirt or a greeting card might be used to share a thought or give praise in another country, where Miza was from it was the kanga that was used for this purpose. You could see them everywhere: tied around the waist as a sarong, spread across a table, hanging like a curtain at a window. Kangas were passed down in families from mother to daughter until they were only good as rags to clean the house. But the kanga was more than a piece of cloth; it was a symbol of the rhythm of Swahili life. Some offered messages of love or comfort or gratitude with a proverb or a riddle. Others were more critical, or came with a warning. Nilikudhani dhahabu kumbe adhabu was one Miza had seen. I thought of you as gold, but you are such a pain. Halahala mti na macho was another—beware, a stick and your eyes, meaning “danger ahead”. Those were not the types of kanga one gave as a gift. Instead they indicated that the wearer was not on good terms with another, or had some strong political opinions.
The saying on Miza’s kanga was one she had heard often as a child. Translated from Swahili it said “Every bird flies with its own wings”. Some people took it to mean that everyone had limits, and should not go beyond their own possibilities. But it wasn’t until she grew older that she understood the sense of power and independence her mother had read into the proverb and had wanted her to know, wrapping her little body tight in those words each morning until the day she was able to walk on her own two feet.
Now, as she stood before the hotel mirror and adjusted the wrap on her head, she struggled to see her mother’s hopeful eyes looking back at her. How she missed her mother’s touch, her smile, the sound of her songs that made every day feel like a holiday in their house.
At first, the demands of a new baby had kept Miza and her father too occupied to properly mourn. Their move to the village where her father was born came swiftly, as support from his family seemed the only answer for a man struggling to bring up two girls on his own. So when he turned listless and silent, Miza assumed it was the sadness finally catching up with him. She knew that sadness, as it was something she carried inside every single day, allowing the tears to flow only when the baby was sleeping and nobody was looking. But what was happening to her father was something different, as she found out the day he was silenced by illness forever.
With her father gone, things changed. Miza began to see her uncle for what he was—a bitter and crooked tyrant, whose powerful hands and cruel tongue could be provoked by anything or nothing. And in her uncle’s household it was not only kindness that was scarce. Having two more mouths to feed added resentment to the man’s long list of grievances, leaving Miza as the target of his outrage.
That was when Bi-Zena stepped in. Well aware of the way Miza’s uncle bullied and berated the people of his village, and also well aware of the villagers’ custom of turning a blind eye at the things that happened behind closed doors, she had worried for the girl. Miza would never forget the day the woman fearlessly strode up to her uncle’s house, demanding that Miza come to work for her in the seaweed farm. Of course her greedy uncle could not say no to the promise of more money in his hands, so it was thanks to the old woman that the daylight hours gave her some escape.
But the sea could not save her from what happened at night. The first time Miza awoke to the touch of her uncle’s dry hand on her breast, she let out a quick scream. Sabra stirred beside her in the bed and rolled over to face the wall. Miza clenched her jaws shut as she pushed the man away with all her strength, catching him with a surprise that was enough to send him out the door. But her uncle did not give up, and soon his visits became a recurring nightmare to be silently endured by Miza as the cost for keeping her sister from the same fate.
Not even when Tariq appeared, like an angel from above, did her uncle stop his abuse. And when Miza told him that she and Tariq were to wed, and that her husband-to-be had rented a flat for her and her sister in Stone Town, he flew into a rage that lasted for days. “What,” he had snorted, “you think that man actually cares for you? He already has a wife! You will be nothing to him, just a Zanzibar whore kept simply for his pleasure. And when he is done with you? You will be tossed away like yesterday’s garbage.”
Miza did not understand. Her uncle should have been happy at the prospect of his nieces leaving his household, freeing him of the responsibility and expense they had brought along with them, and to be receiving a handsome dowry as well. It wasn’t until Tariq came and spoke with him, in a conversation Miza was not to hear, with an offer of an amount she was never to know, that he agreed to release both of his nieces into the hands of another.
Despite her uncle’s stinging words, there was one thing Miza knew for sure. Her love for Tariq was real, and she was determined to do everything in her power to keep him from leaving this earth. She dug in her bag to make sure she had packed the little vial of water from the well. She was grateful her husband was getting proper medical care for the swelling in his brain, but if there was more that could be done, Miza was going to be sure to do it.
Though she had little experience with either the white arts or the dark arts herself, she’d witnessed plenty as a child. Zanzibar was filled with magic, as well as with famous witch doctors who drew others from places as far away as Haiti and the Congo to seek their advice. In her own family she had seen her mother’s cousin turn to witchcraft when, half-crazy over her husband’s wandering eye, she handed the man’s underwear to a witch doctor for a spell of impotence, so that he’d be of no use to another woman ever again.
And in her uncle’s village there was once a time when the entire town had been complaining of no sleep. Miza would never forget the children’s excitement when the witch doctor arrived. They followed him up and down the winding streets like a pack of playful puppies as he chanted and prayed, until he stopped at the door of a shy old widower and pointed to him as the cause of everyone’s problem. Not one person dared question the witch doctor’s claim, as to anger the witch doctor might cause him to seek revenge the next time he was called. The poor widower was shunned, as was anyone in the village who was rumored to have the power to make others uncomfortable or ill by a simple look of the eye.
Miza also remembered when, as a young girl, she first heard the stories of Popobawa, the evil spirit named for the batwing shape of the dark shadow it cast over its sleeping victims. Every few years the panic would return, with horrifying accounts of the terrible odor, the sounds of giant wings and claws scraping across a tin roof, the overwhelming feelings of cold and weakness, and the terrifying acts of rape and sodomy. The tales spread like wildfire, as it was said the creature would instruct its victims to tell others about the attacks, lest it return for more. The hysteria that overtook the island was everywhere, with people trying everything they could to keep Popobawa at bay. They placed charms at the base of fig trees, smeared themselves with pig’s grease, sacrificed goats, held exorcisms. Many tried to guard against the attacks by staying awake all night, or by sleeping in groups beside a fire outside their homes.
Miza arrived to find the hospital as quiet as a morgue. On the fifth floor she passed by the open door of her husband’s room with caution, slowing just enough to check for a visitor’s presence. Relieved to find it empty, she reversed her course and entered. Tariq looked the same as the day before except for the bandage, which now looked a little smaller. Perhaps a good sign, she thought. She bent over clumsily to kiss his dry cheek, the feel of his skin against her lips bringing an ache to her chest and a familiar, unspoken whisper to
her ears. What was said in their touch was a truth that could not be denied: that as strong as her love was for him, his was equally deep for her. Their marriage was not some matter of impulse or convenience as her uncle had suggested; it was a blessing.
Miza stroked the back of her husband’s cool hand with her fingers. Tariq was a beautiful gift brought to her from God. Why had he appeared on the beach that day if their union was a thing that was not meant to be? Although she wasn’t the most devout Muslim, perhaps not as observant as Tariq had expected, she still held a strong and undying faith. She remembered the look on his face the first time she had left the apartment in Muscat without wearing a headscarf, and made a silent promise to herself. Should he recover—no, when he recovers—she would make every effort to follow his wishes and the traditions of a good Muslim wife.
She glanced over her shoulder before pulling the vial from her bag. The nurses and aides all seemed friendly enough, especially Neema, the one who had recognized her as a sister Zanzibari. But what Miza was doing was sure to be questionable—if not against the law—here in Oman. The Omanis’ own tradition of magic was something they seemed to prefer to forget. This time she splashed a few drops onto Tariq’s lips, which were held permanently open by the tube in his mouth.
As she was wiping his chin with the bottom of her sleeve, she remembered the copper coin. She put down the vial and removed the chain from beneath her scarf. Lifting Tariq’s heavy head with one hand, she maneuvered the necklace into place as best she could, spreading it carefully over the top of his hospital gown. It wasn’t until she was outside in the parking lot, where her taxi was waiting, that she noticed how nervous she had been. She paused to catch a breath, and reached into her bag for a tissue to wipe the dampness from her face. It was then that she realized her mistake. The vial of water was still upstairs, sitting in plain sight right on top of the bedside table. And the necklace! How could she have been so stupid as to not hide it beneath his gown?
She scurried awkwardly back to the elevator, her stomach churning in waves around the little one inside. The ward was quiet, except for one wheezing patient who’d been abandoned in his wheelchair. Miza rushed past the empty nurses’ station and continued toward the end of the hall. But just as her foot neared the threshold of Tariq’s room, she heard a dreadful screech erupt from inside.
“Who was in my husband’s room? Which one of you is doing magic on my husband?” The shrieking was enough to rouse the dead.
Miza turned to run, but not before hearing a frightened nurse’s response. “It was his wife,” she said. “The other one. The Zanzibar wife.”
15
The golden sunrise was just barely visible through the sheer curtains as Rachel grabbed her backpack and tiptoed around the debris-strewn floor. The hurricane that was Ariana had left the room in even more of a mess than the day before: piles of scarves, crumpled blouses, bags teeming with makeup, vitamins, and supplements, and a pair of white bras that stood tall and firm like a range of snow-covered mountains, among other signs of her unbridled presence. Now Ariana remained blissfully in dreamland in the bed closest to the window. Rachel envied her capacity for sleep, having had yet another crappy night herself, despite the Ambien she’d washed down with a glass of red wine hours before she was actually able to close her eyes.
She had heard Ariana return late to the room the night before, after Rachel had left her by the pool deep in conversation with Hani. The growing attraction between those two was so obvious it was ridiculous. They literally couldn’t take their eyes off each other, and every little thing that was said by one was so very interesting or so funny or so poignant to the other that Rachel had felt it best that she, the lousy third wheel, simply roll away quietly into the night.
Rachel actually remembered having feelings like that herself, though not recently. Despite the best efforts of Maggie and her other friends, she hadn’t been able to even remotely connect to any of the guys she’d been introduced to since she’d returned home to New York for good. And even before that, on the conflict trail, it had been mostly casual hook-ups or friends-with-benefits types of situations. She knew the deal. You never even dreamed of getting serious out there. The stakes were way too high, in more ways than one.
It had to have been with Jonathan, the last time she had felt consumed by the sort of blind fascination with another person that was keeping Ariana and Hani spellbound. She could still imagine the touch of his hand on the small of her back, a habit of his whenever they stepped off a curb and into the street. And she could still conjure up his smell, when she tried. A blend of sweet perspiration and clove cigarettes, with just a hint of laundry detergent. She wondered if he was still living in New York. He probably had another girlfriend by now. Hell, he probably even had a wife.
The glass doors leading into the hotel’s breakfast room were locked, the tables inside set neatly and efficiently in anticipation of the morning rush. Rachel rattled the brass handle a little, hoping to draw the attention of someone who might take pity on her and allow her a shot or two from the espresso machine. But unfortunately there was not a soul in sight. The concierge had advised her to get to the Nizwa Souk early. The heat would soon turn oppressive, she’d been warned, so best to be there by six, when the gates were opened. Rachel pulled a piece of gum from her vest, popped it into her mouth and headed out front.
A lone, dented sedan idled outside the lobby doors, the driver busy on his cellphone behind the wheel. “Salaam alaikum. Sabaah al khair,” Rachel said through the open window. Hello and good morning.
“Wa alaikum a’salaam,” the driver answered her greeting, gesturing toward the back seat.
As the car took off with a screech, Rachel dug for her seatbelt, only to find the buckle cleanly sheared off, leaving the safety part of the safety belt pretty much nonexistent. They sped through the early-morning streets, Rachel bracing for disaster. The Omani newspapers were littered with stories of car accidents, which seemed to be just about the only bad news they saw fit to print. Just my luck, she thought as the driver slammed on the brakes, surviving all the dangers that came with the past thirteen years on the job only to be killed during this stupid assignment.
She turned away from the menacing traffic ahead and instead concentrated on the scenery flying by the window. The city, with its low, sand-colored buildings, sprawled seamlessly toward the brown mountains in the distance. For the number of cars already on the road, everything remained surprisingly still.
At the main gate she hastily paid the driver and said her goodbyes. From the street the souk looked massive, its walls towering fortress-like against the morning sky. Below was a sea of pale yellow and bright white dishdashas, the men and boys already congregating around the entryway, some lounging on a low stone wall that ran parallel to the high wall behind it. Not a woman in sight. Rachel wasn’t bothered at all by that. In fact, it sort of felt like home to her, being used to finding herself the odd woman out in the company of men. Her presence here did elicit some stares, nothing more. But it was almost enough to make her wish she’d thrown on a burqa, as she had done a number of times while working on stories in Afghanistan and Iraq. The first time she’d covered, to gain access to some military bigwig, it had felt weird, but also surprisingly kind of cool. It reminded her of Halloween—her favorite holiday—when, from behind the safety of a costume and a mask, you could dare to be anyone you wanted to be.
Beyond the high walls, the sunlit corridors led past a string of markets: vegetables, guns, fruit, jewelry, meat, fish, spices. The bird market was somewhere nearby, as evidenced by a small boy swinging a fluttering mesh sack by his side. And there was plenty of pottery, most of it earthenware vases and urns lined up like orange soldiers in the early-morning sun. Perhaps a little too plentiful, and a little too similar, Rachel thought, to come from true artisans. And as she waded through the rows of terracotta toward the shops tucked behind, she saw she was right. The tourist tchotchkes here were even worse than what she’d come acros
s in Muscat. There were the requisite “I ♥ Oman” key chains and mugs and refrigerator magnets, but it was the display on the far shelf that really made her cringe—bobbleheads and nesting dolls and salt and pepper shakers, all molded and painted into tiny figurines of women and men dressed in burqas and robes.
When she finally spied the sign—Omani Handicraft Market—Rachel breathed a huge sigh of relief. Tackling the stairs two at a time, the lens of her Leica cupped in her palm, she began to feel the familiar rush that came with the anticipation of getting the perfect shot. “Salaam alaikum,” came a voice from above.
“Wa alaikum a’salaam,” Rachel answered as she reached the last stair.
“Omani coffee?” A short, trim man gestured to a silver urn resting on the table beside him.
Rachel nodded eagerly, the odor of cardamom and cloves enough to make her practically weep. She downed the first cup in one swallow and allowed him to pour another. “So,” she asked excitedly, “these are crafts from Oman?”
“Yes,” the man answered as he swept his arm across the doorways that surrounded them.
Rachel felt like hugging him, but instead simply followed as he led her into the first room, where the shelves were teeming with handbags made from tooled leather, looking suspiciously like one Maggie had brought back from Marrakesh. “Oman?” she asked.
The man shook his head. “Morocco.”
The next few rooms offered no more promise. Pillows from Tunisia, dishes from Turkey, masks from Kenya. Finally the man stopped and pointed to a room lined with models of wooden boats, intricately carved dhows with elegant curves, complete with towering masts and working riggings. Beautiful, Rachel thought as she raised one eyebrow toward the man.
“Oman,” he said, and smiled as he left her to explore on her own. She wandered from room to room, increasingly impressed with what she saw. A gorgeous chest covered with tightly woven red fabric and framed with dark wood, topped by touches of shiny brass as smooth as ice. The detail was astounding. Fringed blankets in colors so warm they made you want to curl up underneath right then and there. Even the bamboo walking sticks were tempting. Great gifts, she thought as she stroked the curved handles with her fingertips.
The Zanzibar Wife Page 11
