Ousha’s mother entered first, in an orange suit, her black hair parted in the center and pulled into a braided knob at the back of her head. Her round sunglasses had gold rims. I thought she had told me her mother was Sri Lankan, but this woman’s nose was thin and pointy, her forehead and cheeks high, smooth, and milky.
“Oui, oui, you look like you haven’t slept for days.” She put her thumbs on Ousha’s face and swiped them from her chin to her ears.
Her father stood there, slightly stooped, in a suit and tie and a fedora with fabric around the brim matching his tie. He wore thick tortoiseshell glasses with gold hinges, and his hands and face were dense with freckles.
“My doll, my doll,” he said.
He then switched to Mohamed’s language and greeted him with a handshake. Her mother hugged them both. Mohamed was on his best behavior, his demeanor like the first day I had arrived. Now that I knew him, I could see what a struggle it was for him to hold himself this way.
“This is our new housekeeper, Shula,” Ousha introduced me, then gave me a look that encouraged me to say something.
“Hello. It’s very nice to meet you both,” I said in Sinhala, then bowed. “Can I offer you a refreshing drink?”
I took her mother’s purse and her father’s hat. I had prepared a fruit spritzer. They both nodded. Her mother laced her arm into Shula’s, and they set off for the sitting room. “How do you find such good help?” she asked. “Your house is spotless after the dust storm. Before we lived in the condominium, it used to take me weeks to clean up after those, and here we are, one day later, and it looks like nothing has happened.”
“I must give the credit to Shula,” I heard Ousha say as I went into the kitchen to fetch the drinks. I quickly checked on Maryam; she was up but occupying herself in her crib with a stuffed elephant. I brought the full glasses out on a tray and served them.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. Do you know it’s been almost three months since we’ve been over here, between your vacations and sickness? At first I thought maybe you were pregnant.” Her mother swiped her hand through the air, dismissing the thought.
I lowered the tray and placed it on the coffee table in front of them. Ousha’s mother picked up a glass and gulped the bubbly red liquid.
Mohamed and her father were talking seriously; I couldn’t understand them.
Ousha’s mother turned to me. “Shula, what part of Sri Lanka are you from?”
“Balapitiya.”
She raised her eyebrows. “They were hit hard by the tsunami, yes?”
“Yes. I lost my husband, but thank the gods my children survived.”
“Children? And that’s right! Ousha told me you have one here, but there are more? You look too young to have grown children.” Her full attention was on me now.
“They’re three and eight,” I said. “My oldest daughter is taking care of the little one while I’m gone.” I didn’t acknowledge her comment about Maryam.
“And the newborn? Where is she?” She held up her hands.
“My mother loves babies. Go get her.” Ousha pointed to the kitchen door.
I was shocked at the instruction. Was she really going to have me bring her baby out and pretend it was mine? Regardless, I did as told and went into my room and got Maryam. Such a happy baby; she was babbling the entire way to the sitting room. I grabbed her pacifier in case she got fussy.
“Oh, just look at her.” Ousha’s mother put her arms out, and I handed her granddaughter to her. She looked at the baby, then at me several times. “She doesn’t look like you at all. A shame … you’re so pretty,” she said to me. Ousha stiffened at the comment. Her mother had just insulted her looks, and now to compliment me was harsh. She fiddled with Maryam, put her nose to hers, and murmured sweet things to her. I retrieved the light snacks Ousha and I had prepared earlier in the day and set them down. Meanwhile, Mohamed paged through a construction project document, explaining various pieces of the building to Ousha’s father.
Her mother came up for air and looked squarely at Ousha. “You know who this baby looks like?”
Ousha shook her head.
“Your last housekeeper. What’s his name?” She snapped her fingers a few times. “Inesh?”
The color drained from Ousha’s face.
Her mother turned to me. “He isn’t your husband, is he?”
“No, madam.”
“Well, someday I’ll have a grandchild of my own, gods willing.” She handed Maryam back to me.
Mohamed’s eyes shifted to the baby for a second when Ousha’s father was busy studying the building documents. He tensed and I saw the red in his lower jaw spread.
The next time I returned, everyone was speaking in Mohamed’s language and ignored me. I made sure drinks were full and stood by waiting for instructions, wiping the sweat droplets from beneath their glasses and offering help where I could. Then I made sure the dining room was prepared and went back and forth through the side door to the hallway behind the kitchen so I wouldn’t disturb them. When Ousha gave me the signal, I brought all the food into the dining room and set it on the table, then appeared in the sitting room to announce, “Dinner is ready.” I held my arm straight out in the direction of the meal.
When everyone settled, I backed out of the room and closed the doors. Missing my daily trip to the park, I looked out the front windows. Were Minrada and the other women talking about me, wondering where I was? I heard it in their voice sometimes, the fear for one another. Whenever someone didn’t show, they’d speculate about the person’s whereabouts, whispers of beatings and detainment. The next day, the missing women would appear with bruises or limps. Two weeks ago, Yeihma, the housekeeper a few doors down from us, showed up, unrecognizable as her face was beaten so brutally. When I asked if she’d seen a doctor, she said, “The doctors won’t care for us. Don’t you know that?” She was sharp in her response, her justified bitterness pointed at the world.
A loud thumping noise came from upstairs. If I could hear it, it meant they’d be able to hear it in the dining room too. My mind went to the young man in the passageway; I hadn’t had time to check on him today, and I was too afraid to attempt anything while Mohamed was roaming the house like a lion. I stood where I was until fifteen minutes had passed, just as Ousha had instructed me.
The thumping continued. I slipped into the dining room from the side door with hot tea, offering refills. Mohamed tracked my movements as I made my way through the room. I made eye contact with him only once and smiled.
He glared in response, then said something clearly directed at me.
Ousha translated. “Why are you making so much noise in the kitchen?”
I knew what he was doing, making sure there was an explanation for the noise. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be quieter.”
His face changed when I played his game; the displeasure he transmitted to me had abated.
I left hastily; if the young man made noise while I was in the room, our game would be up.
The final course was cheese, dates, and small plates of colorful macaroons Ousha had picked up in town. I arranged them on dessert plates printed with eraser-size red circles, then set them on one serving tray to deliver them in one trip to the dining room. The cheese was overpowering and pungent. I arrived to hushed conversation and set the tray in the middle of the table, distributed dessert plates to each person, and refreshed their napkins.
Looking disgusted, Ousha’s mother pointed to the tray and said something I didn’t understand.
“Can you open the doors to let some air in? My mother doesn’t like the smell of the cheese,” Ousha told me.
I obliged, opening the double glass doors and pressing the fan button on the thermostat to circulate the air.
When I turned back to them to reenter the dining room and ask Ousha if she needed anything else, the four of them were looking above me in disbelief. Ousha’s mother screamed, pushing herself back from the table and running her hands along the
wall, looking for the hidden service door. Mohamed stood up, pressing his hands, up and down, his palms toward the floor, in a gesture to tell everyone to calm down. Ousha’s father was looking at Mohamed for an explanation, as was Ousha.
I didn’t know what was behind me, and the feeling I’d had before the wave had taken me sat like a crouched feline ready to pounce. If there was a fright, was it better not to face it?
I looked at Mohamed, who now had a gun in his hand. He screamed in his language and pointed it in my direction. I ducked, hands on my head as if the roof were falling in. Then I turned and saw the young man, who had his hands up as far as he could pull them with the shackles.
“Is that Inesh?” her mother asked.
“No, Mother. Every Sri Lankan man you see isn’t Inesh. Inesh is gone,” Ousha said.
Ousha made pleading gestures to Mohamed to put the gun away. I remained motionless; I felt like a statue, cold and stiff. I wouldn’t move until someone gave me the okay to do so.
Ousha’s mother calmed; she kept her eyes on the man and inched toward her husband. When she was near him, she made a needy grab and held him tightly.
The shackles pinged together as the young man slowly walked down the stairs. I didn’t know what Mohamed would do; I tried to read his face. Now confronted with his three very distinct worlds, he seemed to have no idea which one to choose. He spoke to Ousha’s father and waved his hand as though the man descending the stairs were an anomaly of the house. No more serious than a broken lightbulb or rug that was beginning to fray. He would deal with it and all would be fine.
“He’s lying to you,” Ousha’s mother said in Sinhala. “He’s lying and there’s something very serious happening here.” She looked at Ousha for confirmation.
When the young man reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes focused on the door. Despite his shaky legs, he moved with purpose and left the house. Lumpy waves of awkwardness vacillated through the home. Mohamed excused himself in a jerky, noncommittal way, checking the front windows and locking the door before scaling the steps two by two.
“What the hell just happened?” Ousha’s father bored into Ousha.
She shrugged. “Mohamed is a strange man and keeps strange company.”
“You think he knows him?” Her father pointed to the door.
Ousha spoke freely in her own language, confident Mohamed couldn’t understand what they were saying. I moved in and began to clear the dishes. Dinner was clearly over.
“I don’t know what Mohamed does. What about you, Shula? Do you know anything about that man?”
My hand was on a white saucer with ocean-blue swirls. I pressed the porcelain hard between my fingers, hoping it would give me grounding. I searched Ousha’s eyes, wondering what she wanted me to say. I read it as the truth; she wanted me to speak the truth to her parents, which she was incapable of.
“The boy was chained in a small room for Mohamed to use.” It was as eloquent as I could make it.
“To use?” her father asked.
I looked at Ousha again; she knew I had more information, perhaps more than I’d even told her. How far did she want me to go?
She nodded as though she were encouraging a small child.
“To use,” I continued. “For pleasure. For sex.”
Slightly stooped, her father unhitched his spine and stood up straight. His face looked as though he were ducking a ball thrown at him.
Ousha’s mother diminished what I said. “Impossible. Who is this man?”
“It’s true. I believe what Shula says,” Ousha replied. “She has no reason to lie.”
“Your father was coming to tell you and Mohamed the news that he’s retiring after two decades of service to Mohamed’s father, and you tarnish it. You say his father comes from a dishonorable family? You’re a selfish woman. Never worked a day in your life, living in this world like it’s yours.” Ousha’s mother pitched barb after barb at her until Ousha broke into tears and left.
I nodded at her parents and slipped out of the room. I found Ousha in my room, cradling Maryam. It was the first time she seemed genuinely interested in her. A comfort maybe.
“And what should I do now?” A tear fell from her eyes and landed on Maryam’s nose.
I wouldn’t answer her. This was her life, with no place for my intervention. Because intervening meant I cared, and if I were true to myself, I knew I cared only about one thing: the way home.
Abandoned
The next morning was strangely quiet. Maryam was still swaddled, purring in her crib. I had been up an hour ago giving her a bottle. I walked the house. Through the kitchen, into the sitting room and main hall. In the dining room were half-eaten plates of food, along with a clipped packet of papers Ousha’s father had left, likely under duress by the bizarre atmosphere formed after Mohamed’s captive had appeared. I listened at the foot of the stairs, heard nothing, then looked out the front window; Mohamed’s car was gone.
Upstairs, Ousha’s door was closed. Something told me she wasn’t inside. I knocked before entering. Her bed was neatly made, the towels in her bathroom folded, her perfume bottles lined up with ruler precision, all of her makeup put away. Ousha wasn’t messy, but these were things I did during the day.
I checked her closet. Her hard-case brown leather luggage was stacked against the far wall. I stood in the middle of her room, crossed my arms, and thought about what I was seeing. The boat. I ran out of the room, down the stairs to the wall of glass doors in the sitting room, and out to the pool, which I nearly fell into, before I arrived at the ladder where I had confronted Ousha a week ago, and then I remembered the boat had sunk. A minute later I was back in her room, on my hands and knees, looking for clues. My fingers were covered in the long, velvety fibers of the rug. Underneath the bed, I saw the slats that held the mattress in place, along with glints of the metal hanging from them. I lay on my back and pushed myself under the bed like a car mechanic. Underneath, I saw a cheap necklace, not real gold. I could spot real gold quickly; one of my jobs back home had been to assess the jewelry that came through the tourist market. Several rings hung from the chain. I pulled one toward me and flipped it around between my fingers. Written in Sinhala were short phrases Mohamed would never be able to read. Come with me. My love is yours. Help me leave through Kumzar. Had Ousha gone searching for Inesh?
I wondered if Mohamed would take out his frustration on me when he returned.
I went downstairs and locked the front doors. I set one foot in front of the other until I was at the safe that held my passport. I opened the cabinet and stared at the keypad with the red blinking dash on the screen above the numbers. I could never guess what numbers Mohamed had used to bind my life.
…
It was cloudy when I arrived at the park.
Minrada’s dark eyes were fixed on me. “What happened?” She took my hand and led me to the bench. The other nannies gathered with her, their eyes on me.
“I don’t know. You mean about Ousha?”
Minrada looked as though I had lit another match in her brain. “No, the shackled man. I saw him from the window; he was wandering down the street. He came from your house. Who is he?”
“Something that got out of hand,” I told her.
One of the ladies I didn’t recognize stepped forward; her uniform was black, with white writing above her breast. Her nails were painted white. “I heard he tried to kill him, like he did Inesh, but this one got away. Is that true?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
“Minrada said you’re trying to escape,” another voice interjected from behind me.
I looked at Minrada. “Why would you say that? It’s not true.”
She deflected my glare and shot the woman a glance. “I said I think she might want to leave.” Her tone was tense.
I stood up and tried to work my way out of the circle they had formed around me.
“We all know he likes other men. It’s not really a secret,” one of the other nannies
, Partha, said.
I picked up Maryam from her carriage, adjusted her giraffe onesie, and popped a bottle into her mouth.
“If you want to leave, you probably can,” Minrada said. “I hear Khalid has a new houseman for Mohamed. He’s just waiting for the government’s approval to let him into the country. You’ll have company soon.”
This was the first I had heard of a new employee. “Where do you hear these things?” I asked her.
“I keep my ears open.” She gave me a sideways smirk.
Everyone laughed. It was a joke I didn’t understand.
…
Half an hour later, I found myself back in the house, the silence amplifying everything I did. Eventually, via the passageway, I made my way to Mohamed’s office. I wanted to know what he might do next. My ears were tuned to any movement outside the door and for Maryam. Wearing my white serving gloves, I opened the drawers in the media cabinet, careful to use my eyes to search instead of my hands. There were movies arranged neatly, a set of colorful headphones, coins and bills that looked like they’d accidentally fallen into the drawers. I closed them and looked over the coffee table, scanning for an awkwardly turned book or a corner of a paper displaying a clue as to what was happening here. I was good at finding things; Ruka would lose the trinkets tourists had given her or a used doll would wash up on the shore, and I could spot it many paces away. I was hoping to find out something about this man to explain the madness I’d found myself sinking into.
I lifted the couch cushions, which were stuffed with feathers and wrapped in the smoothed-out hide of a very tough animal. Flush into the leather on the base of the couch was a gold loop, large enough for an adult size finger to slip into and pull. I did just that, then stepped back so the light could shine into the compartment and reveal its contents. I took out a photo album; its green cover had a blank space for a title. The first page held a four-square display of rapid-developed photos. The same kind I had found of Inesh. A man from my country appeared in each of the pictures, staring deeply into the camera. In the photo in the top left, he was happy, his eyes playful and bright. Top right, he looked confused—his hair was messy, and his cheek had a deep bruise. Bottom left, his shirt was missing, his ribs showing, his lip fat and purple, eyes angry. Bottom right, his cheeks were sunken, his body caked with blood, his right ear gone, dark eyes pleading.
Empire of Mud Page 9
