Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  Their final cries led to silence and heavy breathing. I considered leaving, getting back to Maryam. I could come at any time and listen in to his world. A cabinet opened, and then the chains came out, followed by a loud thump. Someone had fallen. Clinking and then footsteps near the door. My mind told me to run, but my legs locked up as if someone had fused my bones together. The door opened, and light flooded the space, but not where I was; he wouldn’t see me here. Mohamed grunted; he was in his underwear. His sinewy body, his chest and belly covered in whorls of hair, strained to carry the young man, the one I had seen at the mall, in his arms. His feet were shackled together, the chain extending up to close around his wrists and then a neck collar. He was unconscious. Mohamed set him down gently, with the care I would set down Mewan or Ruka when they fell asleep somewhere outside our home. I spotted an extra chain extender, and there was a device on the wall with a keyhole. Mohamed inserted a key into it, turned it, took the end of the chain, and fit it inside; then he relocked the device. He kissed the boy on the lips, ran his thumb over his eyebrows, then left, closing the door and locking us in the dark together. When my eyes finally adjusted, I could see enough to step over him and get back to the ladder. I would check on him later.

  Custody

  The doorbell chimed. I was beginning to realize only bad things came through the front door. I gave the stew, with bobbing pieces of lamb, another stir. Maryam was in a swing Mohamed had let me buy for her so she could sleep while I cooked and cleaned. It was light enough to move from room to room. Her lullaby was playing and she was content. A second chime. I walked quickly; I didn’t want Mohamed to be agitated. Over the past three days, he had largely ignored us, and I wanted it to stay that way. When I opened the door, two police officers flanked Ousha. Her hair was stringy and wet, and she wore the clothes she had left in. Her bag was over her shoulder, and there was a life jacket stuffed in it, among wet clothes. She looked at me with defeated eyes.

  The officers said something to me in Mohamed’s language. Then they pushed Ousha forward. She tumbled in my direction and I caught her, hugging tightly. I knew what was coming next for her likely wasn’t pleasant. The officers left, and I closed the door and led her into the kitchen. Mohamed almost never came back there.

  “What happened?”

  “A downpour flooded the boat. I had no choice but to call for help. When they came, they asked for my papers and wanted to know where my husband was.”

  “The world seems so big because we are so small.”

  She locked eyes with me. “Who told you that? It’s a strange saying.”

  “A nun I grew up with.”

  “A Catholic nun?” she asked.

  “Buddhist.”

  My father had taken us to a tea plantation in the mountains for a business venture he was considering. My mother had to stay with my brother, Sahan, at home. He was up for an important exam at school. Our local nun, Dwhelli, came along.

  We wound through the mountain roads until we reached collections of tree trunks, which had been cut down and tied together over the roadway, with the name of the camp carved into the horizontal tree. I couldn’t see the name in my memory, just the way the grooves filled with the sap from the tree in the bottoms of the letters.

  The first building was colonial era, something the Brits had designed, with lots of stone; originally, it would have been someone’s house. These buildings dotted the rural parts of the countryside, reminders of our oppressors. Father stopped the car and turned off the cranky engine. Dwhelli and I waited in the backseat.

  After too many minutes had passed, I said, “Let’s go look around while he’s inside.”

  There was no expectation other than to keep out of the way.

  The road followed the rough path of the brook, running down the mountain. Likely an old horse path. Two silos went up, doubling the height of the trees. The road led between them; when we stood in that space, we could see into each of them. The grassy smell of the tea leaves filtered out to us.

  I pointed to one of the silos. “Let’s go in.”

  Dwehlli was always a proponent of exploration.

  Inside, we stood in the middle of an interior cylinder, rising to the dome. Circling it were splintering rattan shelves, filled as far as we could see with drying tealeaves. A ladder, as wide as my young body, went up the middle, and before Dwhelli could stop me, I was scaling the rungs. I kept my eye on her orange robes, which got smaller the farther I went.

  “You’re not coming?” I taunted.

  “My feet belong firmly on the ground. You go ahead and soar.”

  I watched the tea shelves go by, their waning life insulating the space into quiet isolation. The heat expanded, and the dome cover felt more like the sun the closer I got. This time I glanced down, and the height spun my brain on a stick; I hugged the ladder tightly. Right now, all I wanted was to crawl into one of the shelves and fall asleep in the citrusy heat.

  “Come down,” Dwellhi said. “Your father is calling us.”

  I listened; I always listened to her.

  When I stood next to her, I looked to the spot I had climbed to. “It looks so daunting from here.”

  “It only feels so big because we are so small,” Dwellhi said. “Little specks of light in the darkness.”

  Ousha looked like she was absorbing the story; it was the first time she had listened to me for any length of time. It was hard to tell with her.

  “Did you tell them you were escaping abuse?” I asked.

  Ousha laughed with clarity, unlike the last few times I had interacted with her. “The police don’t get involved in domestic issues. Here in Dubai, they’re worried about keeping up appearances and peace. Whatever happens in a home is up to those who live there.”

  She went to the bathroom. When she returned, her hair was pulled back and she wore a dry cotton robe.

  “He’s not going to be happy.” I pointed up.

  “When is he ever happy?” she said sharply. “The man is a conflicted, miserable creature.”

  “There’s something you should know.” I treaded lightly, unsure how to break the news.

  “Yes?” Ousha went to the stove and waved the smells of the stew into her face. It made her smile warmly.

  “He has someone up there.”

  “A lover?”

  I nodded.

  “A man?”

  I was shocked she would have guessed that. Had she known all along?

  “Yes, but—”

  “Shula, you don’t have to explain for him. I’ve always known he was more interested in men than me. We talked about it before we were married, one night when he’d had too much to drink.”

  I was taken off guard by her casualness. “There’s more,” I said.

  Ousha had started to ignore me once she understood my big revelations were mundane to her. She was looking for something in a drawer as I talked.

  “He has someone chained in the passageway. He’s unconscious.”

  Her hands stopped moving in the drawer, and she turned her head to me in slow motion, her mouth slightly open. “Is it Inesh? Is he there now?”

  Why would she ask that? Didn’t she know Inesh was dead? I wouldn’t be the one to break the news to her. “No, it’s not the man in the picture I showed you.”

  “Who then?”

  “Someone I saw him at the mall with—”

  “On Friday? Why didn’t you tell me? Why are you hiding things?” She became defensive.

  “I’m not hiding anything. It’s just that when I returned, you were leaving on the boat, and you were”—afraid of calling her drunk, as it would insult her, I looked for another word—“not yourself.”

  Ousha slammed the drawer shut and stormed out of the kitchen. I saw embarrassment and sadness on her face when she understood I knew something about Mohamed that she didn’t. I started to understand their marriage was a business contract; each wanted to know the full extent of their partner’s existence, even if they shunned engagin
g with it.

  …

  Back in the darkness, I carried a flashlight, sweeping it until I saw the frightened eyes. He didn’t make a sound as he stared into the light, maybe hoping for a savior. I pushed the beam toward the floor, and when I got to him, I whispered as softly as I could. Although he wouldn’t understand my words, he’d understand my intention. I lifted the bowl of lamb and vegetable stew near his mouth. I had been careful on the short journey through the passage, and none had spilled. I set the flashlight on its end, illuminating the space, then took the spoon from my uniform and held the bowl in front of him. He inhaled. I found a meaty chunk of lamb and fed him his first bite. He chewed in ecstasy and finished the entire bowl.

  We both heard it at the same time: footsteps; we looked at each other with a touch of fear and building anxiety. I wiped the young man’s mouth to banish any trace that I was there. He understood. His actions were gentle. The door flew open with malice. I hid in the shadows, the light off, the bowl gripped tightly. Mohamed pulled the young man into his den, like a monster ready to devour his meal. I heard whimpers, weak protests, then grunts. I fled, unable to stomach the images my mind translated from the sounds.

  …

  Minrada would be in the park in thirty minutes. I wanted to go to escape the spiral of craziness I’d found myself in. Maryam gurgled at me, her eyes wide when I picked her up. Over the last few days, she’d held a pink rattle and wouldn’t let it go. I let her keep it; she was happy. I swaddled her in a new turquoise cloth that was softer than rabbit fur. I didn’t tell Ousha where I was going; I figured she’d fume about what I’d told her for days before she’d be able to bring herself to speak to me again.

  The group of nannies I had come to expect had gathered in the park. Two of them looked shaken, as if someone had told them bad news before they’d arrived. Their babies were in strollers; I noticed a stuffed bag in each of the bins beneath them. The women jerked the strollers back and forth. I preferred to carry Maryam, who nuzzled into the closeness of my bosom even on the hottest of days.

  Minrada pulled me aside as soon as my feet touched the artificial green park turf.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, concerned by her abruptness.

  “It’s a pickup day,” she said.

  I shook my head; I had no idea what she was saying.

  “Pick. Up. To Kumzar,” she whispered.

  “Kumzar?” I repeated, sure I’d misheard her.

  A few moments later, a white truck, with no windows and a sliding door on the side, pulled up to the park. There were hundreds of these same trucks shuttling around Dubai at any given time, delivering and transporting the city’s commerce. Two of the nannies grabbed their bags and disappeared behind the sliding white door before the truck pulled away. This left the two strollers without anyone attending them. It was all over in less than a minute.

  “Where are they going? What about the babies?” I hugged Maryam tightly. I couldn’t imagine leaving her here with no plan in place for her survival.

  “Eventually, everyone wants to go home. Sometimes their families won’t allow them to. Where there is a need, there is someone to fill that need.”

  “But how?” I knew one of the women who had left was from the Philippines. I didn’t know exactly where that was, but I knew it was even farther away than Sri Lanka.

  “There’s a place,” Minrada said, “maybe a few hours’ drive from here, in Oman, called Kumzar. A tiny village on the edge of the peninsula. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s otherworldly. The people are remote and disconnected from most of civilization. They’re very much outside the law of the country and seize opportunities when they come to make money. Many people want to leave here and Abu Dhabi, but their employers hold their passports, so they don’t have a legal way to leave. They can’t fly or cross the borders legally. So a route has developed to bring them to Kumzar.”

  “And where do they go from there?”

  “Iran, usually, on the other side of the water. From there, it depends on where they’re headed.”

  “Terrible.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s terrible that someone would hold them against their will.” The image of Mohamed putting my passport in the safe came to me, but I quickly dismissed it.

  Minrada looked at me as though she couldn’t believe what I was saying. “Is this not the situation you yourself are in?”

  “I’m here for one year and then I’ll leave. That’s our agreement.”

  “Pffft.” She waved a hand at me. “Agreement with who?”

  “Mohamed and Ousha.”

  “You’re fooling yourself. Do you know what we are to them? Like a basket you buy at a market. They’ll barter and tell the person selling it whatever they want to hear to get the price down. And when they get what they want, they won’t give a second thought to what they said in the moment of trade. Don’t think they’ll live up to their promises. It’s better you look after yourself and prepare.”

  “And you?” It seemed Minrada often thought she had the whole world figured out, but she was sitting right here next to me, so our paths weren’t so different.

  “I have no one to go back to. My husband will never leave here, he loves this city,” she said. “It’s better to stay here in the comfort of this city than to wallow in my poverty. My children are grown and have moved to Colombo. If I had little ones like you, I’d take what I needed from here and go.”

  “Even if they won’t uphold their commitment, I’ll uphold mine for one year. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “In this city, doing the right thing can turn out unfortunate for you.”

  She was probably right, but to me, having respect for myself was more important than winning.

  “It’s getting hot. I’m going to bring Maryam home.” I was tired of Minrada’s negativity.

  Parents

  Three mobile phones in the house blared warning beacons, and sirens outside filled the air with their voices. Ousha looked at her phone, then turned on the TV. “A sandstorm is coming. We have to bring everything inside.”

  I left Maryam with her, pulled the cushions from the pool furniture, collapsed the umbrellas, and grabbed anything that appeared lightweight. I stacked everything in the hallway outside my room, because I knew Mohamed would be upset if he came in the house and the sitting room was a mess.

  “My parents are coming tomorrow. Did I tell you?” Ousha called to me as I was shuttling cushions into the house.

  I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure why she was telling me this.

  “You’ll enjoy talking to them.” She sounded hopeful.

  I looked at her face where the cuts were healing.

  “I can cover them now,” she said touching the red marks.

  I wanted to ask if her mother had enjoyed speaking with Inesh, but I knew that was toxic territory.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  When I stepped outside, I saw the wall of sand engulfing the city. The nannies had talked about this once at the park, saying it was better on these islands because the water killed the momentum of the sand. The wind was pulsing hard, and I imagined it would roll over us. I had one umbrella to get down, which took muscle. When I came inside, Ousha was rolling kitchen towels and setting them where the windows and doors met the sills and floors.

  “You’ll have your work cut out for you when the storm is over. Mohamed loses his mind during these.”

  The mention of him made me think of the man in the passageway. Would he be scared at the hollowing wind or would he know what it was?

  I changed the subject. “Why are your parents coming?”

  “A reschedule from the last visit. We usually have dinner once a month. It’s all Mohamed can stomach with them. He finds their presence unbearable.”

  A moment later, Mohamed appeared from the office on the first floor. Ousha jumped when he mumbled hello. I didn’t think he was there either. She looked at Maryam, whom she had set on a blanket on the floor. I
could tell she wanted to pick her up.

  He breezed by the baby; I think he didn’t see her. Then he kicked the towel away from the door and went to the pool area. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the dust storm, which was closing in. He spat and wiped at his eyes, then came back into the house, shutting the door behind him. I put the towel back in place.

  As I stood at the glass doors, I heard sand scratch against the glass. The sky darkened, and within minutes I couldn’t see the canal or the pool. Mohamed and Ousha watched too, all of us spectators. Maryam was still lying on the floor. She began to cry when the sand pelted the glass. Mohamed covered his ears and headed upstairs.

  “I’ll prepare the food for your parents?” I picked Maryam up and comforted her.

  “No, no. They’d be offended if I didn’t cook for them. Please make sure the house is spotless, the dining room is ready, and Maryam is out of sight.”

  …

  I was looking forward to Ousha’s parents’ visit. I wondered what type of parents had given rise to a woman like her. If nothing else, it would be an instruction regarding what I might or might not do with Ruka. I spent the day vacuuming and dusting, amazed at the places where the sand found its way to in the house.

  The doorbell chimed. Ousha told me not to answer the door, but to stand beside it and wait. She ran from the kitchen, the smells of her meal woven into her clothing. Mohamed appeared, his face bright with a smile, his hair slicked, a gift in hand. I’d recently fed Maryam and put her down for a nap in her crib, with the door tightly shut and a towel below it to dampen any sound she might make. It felt as though we were getting ready to perform a show, and in fact, we were.