Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  “But the job isn’t here.” I put a mango in her hands when I said this.

  “We would have to move?” She immediately filled in my hesitation with glee.

  “I would have to move. You would stay here with your brother.”

  “To Dubai?”

  How did she know the name of this city? I didn’t know where it was; I only had seen the pictures and knew it was somewhere only a plane could take me.

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe. Where did you hear of that city?”

  “Kiyoma’s mother is going. She told me a man in a white dress came to her this morning and promised her riches and her mother said yes.”

  Kiyoma was Ruka’s best friend. She lived higher up the mountain and picked tea for a plantation. This was good; maybe Kiyoma could live here or Ruka and Mewan could stay with her family.

  “She’s going for sure?” I had met her mother in passing. I’d heard she’d stopped talking after the wave, her voice lost to the ocean, along with her husband.

  “Yes. She can’t stand it here anymore, and she thinks Kiyoma is fine to take care of herself.” Ruka put her hands on her hips. “We are eight, you know.”

  I squatted in front of her and handed her Mewan. “And you’re ready to take full responsibility for him too?” Mewan grabbed for Ruka, rubbed his face on her arm, and gave her a playful nibble.

  “I already take care of my brother. But who will take care of you?” Ruka patted Mewan on the back, then pulled a string from her pocket, quickly twisted it into a ring, and slid it onto his finger.

  “Don’t worry about me, sweetie. The man in the white dress tells me everything will be just fine.”

  …

  The next day, Khalid was pleased I accepted the offer. He gave me a piece of paper and asked me to fill in the blank spaces between words. Many of the words were foreign.

  “I can’t read all of this,” I told him.

  “That’s fine. Bring this with you when you meet me in three days at the dock. A boat will take you to Colombo.”

  The next two days were filled with my asking Ruka, “Who will watch Mewan while you sweep? Who will swat the jaguars away when food becomes scarce for them and they prowl the mountainside shacks? What if the gangs come and try to rob our house?”

  “I’ll do what you’ve always done: I’ll tie Mewan to my back. I’ll look the jaguar in the eyes and swat at him with my sturdiest broom. If the gangs come, I’ll go find shelter with Kiyoma. I’ll do everything you’ve taught me and so I’ll go on.”

  I wanted to know I had given her everything. If I was honest, though, my everything wasn’t reliable armor. New lessons were thin lately, and if I stayed here I’d likely spend the next years just making sure what she already knew stuck. There were girls on their own only a year older than Ruka. I saw them hustle harder than I did.

  On the third day, I woke before Mewan and Ruka. Mewan was sleeping between my body and arm, his head lodged into my armpit. Ruka had spun herself into a ball at the bottom of a mat on the floor of our house. I wriggled away, careful not to wake Mewan. I leaned over his face, closed my eyes, and felt his warm breath. I pressed my lips to his forehead and held them there, savoring the sweet smell of my little boy and forgetting everything but the feeling of him in this moment. In the days to come, I knew I would return to this memory for comfort when I was gone. I wanted to make sure it was vivid.

  Hours passed, and I approached the dock—Ruka behind me, Mewan running ahead. A long line of women, swatting at bugs and drinking from disposable teacups, waited. A shop front stood where the wooden dock slats nestled into the sand. The interior was filled with small tables, more men who looked like Khalid in their strange clothing, busy smoking and filling out forms for the women who stood in front of them. Women I recognized, women like me. They had stacks of blue pocket-size books with a gold eagle on the cover. On the exterior wall of the shack a sky-blue covering had been hung, and one of the men ushered the line of women into place to take their pictures. Each of us ended up with a book of pages with the name of our country stamped in gold on the front. My picture was inside, with many words and numbers covering the rest of the page. A picture of a man was on the opposite page.

  Ruka looked over the book. “Who is this?” She tapped at the man.

  “A prince,” said the woman standing behind her, waiting to get another cup of tea and her share of fresh dates.

  Khalid had his hand on my elbow. “Do you like those? They’re”—he pointed to the dates—“like coconuts in Dubai. Everywhere.” He looked me in the eyes in a way Mewan might when he wanted to get my attention. “Shula, you’re going to a better place, I’m certain.”

  The boat sounded its horn as it came into view from behind the mangrove trees. Mewan was playing with a girl his age at the base of a tree, peeling the delicate layers of bark away and laughing, then handing them to her. Khalid positioned my body toward the boat, let go, then began to line up the other women who had received their book.

  “Mewan,” I called to get his attention. I wasn’t sure I should leave my place in line. His head tilted in my direction. I knew he heard me, but he decided to continue. He didn’t know I was leaving, after all. In his mind, he would fall asleep with his head on my chest, this night no different from the last.

  Ruka appeared. “You’re going?”

  “It’s time. Can you—”

  She was gone before I could finish the sentence and returned with Mewan, who was crying, having been pulled from his game. “Mama is leaving, Mewan. You have to give her kisses and hugs.”

  “No.” He was defiant.

  “Yes, Me-Me. Mama is leaving for a long time.”

  “No.” Mewan butted his head into his sister’s shoulder.

  I couldn’t help but smile at the two of them standing there. It was better this way. I didn’t have to pry him off me. I kissed his head, hugged them both, to which Mewan squirmed and whined, then stood up straight.

  He looked up when I was on the boat. There was worry in his eyes now, and Ruka held him back from trying to run to the boat. I had to push against the other women for one last glimpse at everything we were leaving behind. Mewan was in tears. It was a moment I hoped he wouldn’t remember.

  City Life

  I remembered Colombo from a trip as a child. My parents had brought me to Mount Lavinia, a hotel on the ocean’s edge with long outdoor porticos overlooking a pool. My mother had stood at the end of the portico, the ocean behind her, smooth and orange from the sunset. There was more to the picture then, the reason for being there, the others who attended, but I couldn’t remember. The boat passed the hotel. The water between us was choppy, the skies dark green. I felt the first drop on my hand as I held the bamboo rail of the overloaded boat. We were all quiet. Khalid and the other men working with him shuffled through the thin spaces between our bodies. Stories of these boats sinking were common enough to have made their way inside our fears.

  “When the boat docks, follow the yellow line to the waiting vans,” Khalid told us. “They’ll take you to the airport.”

  I stood behind a woman who was slightly taller than me, with a pink-and-green knit bag hanging from her shoulder. I wanted to touch it. The color made the texture look spongy; I wanted to see if that was the way it felt. I’d brought only one sari, which created a bulge in my pocket. The pictures Khalid showed me had maids in uniforms; he’d said everything would be provided, and I took him at his word.

  We followed the yellow line to the bus, a line into the airport, a line into the plane. We were obedient line followers, a trait my schoolteachers had drilled into all their students and that stayed with us long after the other learning had faded.

  …

  The aircraft door opened into the dusty heat. I felt delirious from the long flight. Two boats of women and four teenage boys from my village occupied the back half of the plane. As much as I hadn’t liked the experience of flying, I was hesitant to leave the safety of the group. We had exchanged st
ories during our hours in the air. It was enough to keep our minds off our families, and for some, off of the pain, which still seared from that day two years ago. The flight attendants had passed around books with translations from Sinhala to Arabic. I found the book unhelpful; I was never good with languages.

  Kiyoma’s mother walked up the aisle. When she reached my row, she put out her hand to let me advance in front of her. “Our daughters will be fine,” she said. “Sometimes I feel like Kiyoma is raising me. The girls are strong and know so much about the world.”

  I was surprised to hear her speak. She was trying to make me feel better, and I knew what she said was true. Ruka was extraordinary and beautiful too; she would be okay.

  When I stepped out of the plane onto the stairs that led to the tarmac, there were two white tents with men in uniforms looking at our small books, scribbling and stamping them. The sun pelted me without relent; I felt like I might wither under its brutal weight.

  Under the tent, a man talked to me in his language, shook his head, wrote symbols in my book, and banged a rubber stamp of power. I’d only seen one once before at our public village building, where I registered Ruka’s and Mewan’s births. I tried to say thank you, but the sand rode the hot winds down my throat and made it painful to talk. It didn’t matter; I could tell I was on my way.

  After boarding another bus, we drove through the city. Everything was stacked in neat order: the roads, buildings, people, and the trees lining the roads looked lonely and contrived. Nothing was natural; the ground had given birth to steel and glass, children it didn’t recognize. Eventually we stopped at a building that vanished into the clouds. Khalid pointed to Kiyoma’s mother and a woman at the front of the bus. “This is you,” he said.

  This wasn’t any of us. We were more than animals, herded from one pen to another. I could see my father’s eyes looking at me. Shula, don’t worry what anyone says. Focus your mind. I waved to Kiyoma’s mother and gave her a smile of hope. I would focus my mind on her well-being, on her happiness, on her success with her new employer. Those were useful thoughts.

  The bus pulled away, conquering the long boulevards under its massive wheels. Such power, to transport us. We swayed side to side over humps in the road, through gates, which, gliding back on their own, were operated by an unseen force. Then came rows of individual, identical houses, neatly lined with white barred fences and desert shrubs. Three more women left the bus; I didn’t know who they were.

  We left the neighborhood of sameness and headed for the coast. The busy roadways met the glittering sand and azure water. Everything was new, and glitzy cars zoomed past the bus. We crossed a bridge, leaving the mainland behind. The other side of the road was planted with lush flowers. Sculpted forms had been placed for anyone driving to admire, date palms planted in precisely designed cutouts of the concrete streetscape. Roads on each side jutted out from the strip we were on. Groups of men who looked like the men of my country, with hard hats and bright work gear, roamed like wild herds. The question of who had done all this bounced in my head as we moved through the city. Now I had an answer. My people. We had built this oasis in the desert. A bubble of pride welled in me.

  When we turned right on Al Hilali, Khalid stood and waved me forward. I wanted to watch through the window. I’d been recording each turn in my head, along with chosen landmarks I knew I would remember. I stole one more glance—two glossy, black light posts with pointy crowns on top of them. I put my hand on each seat against the aisle of the bus as I moved forward, the passengers looking up at me. I could tell they were more worried about their destinations than mine. When the bus stopped, Khalid put his hand on my elbow to guide me outside.

  “Put your hair up and put this on.” He handed me a head covering. “No one here will appreciate that thick mane.”

  “When will you pick me up?” I asked.

  He looked bewildered by the question. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  There wasn’t malice in his response, but maybe he didn’t remember telling me. “This is for one year and then I go home, right?”

  “If it’s what you want. Look at your house. Do you think you’ll want to go back to your village after living here?” He directed my attention to the villa we had stopped in front of.

  There was a break in the box hedges lining the property. There was a locomotive-statured car with two letters gleaming on the front grille and an ornament of a silver woman with billowing clothes leaning forward. The house was two stories, with two shiny brown doors. The place seemed so quiet; I wasn’t sure if I should approach it.

  Khalid nudged me forward. “They’re waiting for you.”

  My foot touched the ground, and I headed toward the doors, which cracked open. I tried to see who was in the darkness. They opened farther. I heard the bus pull away behind me. I wanted to turn and tell them not to go, but I couldn’t be rude to my new employer. A man appeared. He had a freshly cut beard against his rigid jawline and eyes like the black night. He was also athletic and his shoulders and arms filled out his coat, tailored with persimmon-colored embroidery and a starched high collar. His white pants were wide, his black leather sandals showing pale manicured feet.

  He waved me softly toward him and smiled. “Marhaba.” A word I didn’t know. When I didn’t respond, he said, “Hello.” I knew some English from the tourists and aid workers who had come to our village. “Hello.” I smiled and bowed, then climbed the few stairs to the door. He opened it wider, and I stepped inside.

  There were no houses like this in our village. I saw my reflection in the milky veins of the brown floor. Upward, the ceiling was impossibly tall, the rooms above overlooking the space I was in buttressed by railings of polished wood and spiraled metal. There were paintings the size of me on the walls, along with pedestals where statues of things I couldn’t identify stood proudly. Pieces of furniture, all with deep-purple upholstery. A color that reminded me of the dead bodies I’d witnessed after the tsunami. I pushed the memory far away from me. The wrong thought to have in this masterpiece of a house.

  The man held his arms wide and welcomed me to his house. Then he brought them in tightly toward his body and said, “Mohamed.”

  I took it as a welcome to tell him my name. I brought my arms in as he did and said, “Shula.”

  Then he began talking quickly in his language. I understood nothing he said. I followed him through the house. Along the way, we passed a room with a long table made of twisting red glass that rose up out of the center and connected with the ceiling behind the stairs where the ceiling came to a normal height. It was a sitting area, lined with couches and chairs and low tables. It reminded me of a lobby. The wall of windows beyond looked out onto a covered patio, a small putting green, and a pool that bordered a blue waterway. I could see the other homes on the opposite side, but we were far enough away to maintain privacy. The home was beautiful and clean—unlike anything I’d ever seen. I wondered what part of the house they lived in. Still, the home had a sterile feel, as if it were built to wall its occupants in solitary confinement.

  A shadow moved behind a door at the end of the room. I ignored it, thinking it might be a boat passing on the water. Mohamed kept talking, pointing to the windows, the sills beneath them, the chairs, and the surfaces where the decorative molding covered the walls. He whacked with his palm and pointed out the dust that rose from them when he did. I understood what he was getting at. He wanted perfection, everywhere. Through the doors at the end, we arrived in the kitchen. It was half the size of the sitting room and equally dense in fine materials. Stone countertops, a gleaming steel stove that never looked to have been used. Mohamed came to me and held out his hand. I reached for him and touched it, unsure what he wanted. He jerked his hand back, wearing a look of disgust, and fled to the sink to scrub his hand.

  The heat of embarrassment blossomed from my chest. He came back to me and said, “Passport.” I didn’t understand the word. He reached in his robe and pulled out hi
s passbook, tapped on it, and jabbed his finger at me.

  I understood. He wanted my travel document. I pulled the blue book from my pocket and handed it to him. He squatted and opened a cabinet. I saw a metal box inside, along with a keypad. He punched in a code, pulled the lever, threw the book inside, shut the door, and engaged the lock.

  My father had a safe; he had kept my grandmother’s three gold rings and important papers inside. But he never told me how to open it; he never told anyone. Which meant when he was gone, so was everything inside it.

  Mohamed led me to the back of the kitchen. There was a small hallway, with a door on the left. He opened it and showed me that it led to the dining room. He stopped there and gestured for me to continue. There were three more doors. The first was a closet with cleaning products, mops, brooms, and a tall machine. The second door opened into a very small room with two machines as big around as me, as well as a sink, with what I think were soaps. When I opened the door to the third room, I stood staring into the darkness, wondering if my eyes would adjust. I took one step in, hoping the lights might turn on as they had in the other rooms.

  There was a female voice behind me now, talking with Mohamed. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together rapidly, as I always do when I’m nervous. Footsteps came toward me. They would think I was useless. Light flowery scents fluttered my way, and then a soft click. My eyes adjusted, and I turned to face a woman. Her face was wrapped in the purple of the chairs, with black eyeliner and drawn lips. Her visage looked full and it glowed. She smiled kindly. Her hand went to her stomach, and she rubbed the bump, which didn’t belong on her slight frame. Mohamed left.

  “Your room. Welcome. I’m Ousha,” she said in Sinhala. I couldn’t believe she spoke my language.

  I turned back to see a single bed against the wall with the width of the door space next to it. At the end of the bed was a dresser with a television mounted on the wall above it. I walked farther inside to find a closet with several uniforms hanging inside and an open door to a bathroom. I was so excited I wanted to jump. This was all mine? It didn’t seem possible that someone would give an employee such an extravagance.