Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  “Welcome back, Shula,” Ousha said. “We missed you.” Everything was wrong with that. There was no “we”; they hated each other. As the door opened wider it made sense. Abdullah and Cynthia were standing in the dining room. Their arms were open as if they were welcoming a long-lost relative home.

  I did my best to pay them respect; I had no idea how I would leave this place, but I knew enough to keep myself fully in their good graces.

  I quickly went to my room, which had been cleaned. The rug stood straight up, and the dresser had been moved back to where the crib had been at the end of the bed. Two new uniforms were pressed and folded on the bed. A picture of Maryam was framed on the dresser; I hadn’t remembered it ever being taken. I was feeding her, my face a few centimeters above her bottle, watching her mouth suckle the milk. I looked under the bed, an ancient part of my brain expecting to see her. Then I went in the bathroom, which had fresh towels and pastel-colored, flower-shaped soaps. The walls had pictures of families roaming through the touristic sites of Dubai. They covered the holes through which Mohamed had watched me.

  Ousha stood in the doorway, her hands crossed in front of her. The pleasant expression had vanished from her face. I noticed her nails were painted black, and the veins stood out on her hands.

  “Ousha, are you okay?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “We’re getting out of here as quickly as I can think of a way to do it.”

  “Whatever you do, include Ruka.”

  “Who?”

  “My daughter. She’s working for Fata. You saw her last time you were there.”

  “I don’t remember. Meet me in the kitchen tonight. Late, like two a.m.”

  I didn’t think planning an escape from the house while Mohamed was here was wise, especially so soon after the whole charade on the boat.

  “Shouldn’t we wait a bit?”

  “Mohamed is rabid. He’ll only be able to hold this together for a little bit. And then … well, you’ve seen what can happen.”

  “Do you have—”

  She waved her hand in front of her. “Later.” And then she was gone.

  I heard the clinking of bottles and glasses.

  Mohamed appeared in the hallway a few minutes later. He didn’t enter the room.

  He handed me a paper, looked sincerely at me, and pressed his hands into a prayer pose. Someone had written this for him:

  I know you saw some things before. I would appreciate it if we left all those thoughts in the past and that we could leave them just between us.

  “Yes.” I nodded my head with the force of a mother relieving her son of worry.

  That was wishful thinking on his part.

  Plan B

  Ousha stood at the island in the kitchen; I could smell the alcohol before I was next to her. She waved me over as though she were directing a ship into port.

  “There’s only one way out.” She was looking at the door into the sitting room.

  I wasn’t following her.

  “We’ve got to kill him.”

  “That’s not something I can do.” I reached for the bottle and tugged it closer to me; it smelled like pine. I took a sip. It didn’t disagree with me, but I felt it stick to my throat and make me shiver. “There has to be another way.”

  “Let me tell you something about Abdullah. Everything is optics. And Abdullah never fails. Not in business, not in his personal life, not in his health. If I were to leave, he would hunt me down.”

  “Why? Why not just move on?”

  “Because he never fails. I told you. Mohamed’s younger brother had cancer and eventually died. The story is he decided to live his life in luxury in the Maldives. Abdullah bought an island there just to maintain the image. Every now and again, a story hits the news about a sighting of him. People claim to have had dinner with him. There are only a handful of us who know the truth.”

  I was being pulled into the darkness. “There is no way out.”

  “There is a way out. But it requires death. Abdullah will have no choice but to let me go if Mohamed is gone.”

  My mind toggled between the knowledge of sitting next to Inesh’s sister on the bus and remembering that somehow the fact of Inesh’s death by Mohamed’s hand had been kept a secret.

  “When was the last time you saw Inesh?” I asked.

  Ousha’s composure came into fresh focus. “We were at an underground party together. A place where all the domestic staff from the islands gathered. In one of the houses that hadn’t been occupied yet. Looking back, it would have been a PR disaster if anyone had recognized me or found out I had gone. The customs there were different because all the staff was imported. The women and men … they could touch and kiss. Inesh and I were in the main part of the house, but then we went up the unfinished staircase. The rooms upstairs had some other couples in them too. Inesh and I made love. When he was on top of me, I tilted my head back and saw the stars through one of the unfinished windows.”

  I imagined her for a moment until I realized what she was telling me. “Was that the night that Maryam was—?”

  She cut me off. “Don’t say that. You should never ever say that.”

  “But he was the father, right?”

  “You still work for me.” Ousha was tense; she poured herself another glass and glared at me.

  “We have to work together if we’re going to have any chance of success,” I said. “Mohamed is powerful. The emir let him go even after you accused him of murder and the judge believed you.”

  We both knew I was right.

  “How did you ever get this far with an attitude like that?” There was a smirk emerging from the gin.

  “It’s the reason I’ve gotten this far,” I said.

  For the first time, I’d seen Ousha amused by something, rather than the drudgery she usually displayed.

  “This is never going to work,” I told her.

  “It will. I’ve thought about it for years. I’ve plotted every last detail, through nights when I could not sleep. Oh, I never thought it would come to this, but I do know it will work. And don’t worry—the castor beans won’t be detectable.”

  I shrank back from the insinuation. The idea that a person could ruminate for years on the murder of another human being. And now I was facing the force of it, its fruition brought to life before me.

  “We’ll poison him slowly,” Ousha said. “No one will notice, not even him. I need you to go to the market near the central station. They sell castor beans there.”

  “You want me to buy the poison?”

  “Shhh.”

  I knew Ousha was right. There wasn’t another way out of here. And my whole being fought against it, which is why my voice likely had risen. Was I now no better than my brother?

  Father’s plantations were works of art. A blend of people, places, and things in the most exquisite combination. It was painful therefore as my brother, Sahan, tore it leaf by leaf, building by building, tea girl by tea girl.

  “Stand back,” Dwhelli whispered. She raised her arm in front of me and pushed back against my chest.

  My eyes were on the back of Sahan’s head. He sat at our father’s dining table, where our father’s body had lain just days before, accessible to the town to pay their respects. Two men in business attire stood next to Sahan, reading through the contents of my father’s will.

  “There is nothing to be done here. The law is the law. But he must take care of you. This is also clear,” Dwhelli said softly.

  I didn’t want my brother in his opium haze taking care of me. I wanted my father with his confident and soft grace. He always knew the right way to care for our family.

  “Sahan, show me what you are doing.” I broke through Dwhelli’s gaze and put my hands on the teak table next to him. The two men looked at each other, then said to my brother, “We need a break, sir.”

  Sahan pushed the papers in front of me. “What do you want to see, Shula? This, this, and this are mine.” His finger went to each picture
. The house we stood in now, the plantation on which I’d worked for five summers, and the last plantation, where I had climbed inside the silo with Dwehlli waiting below for me.

  “You know I have a right to make decisions too. He was my father as much as yours.”

  “Yes. But I am the heir.” Sahan turned his head slowly so that his eyes met mine and dared me to challenge him. “Don’t worry. You’ll be taken care of. You and your sidekick.” He glared at Dwehlli.

  She looked at me with eyes urging calm. Sahan had never liked her. Insulting a nun is much like fighting against a brick wall. You’ll only hurt yourself, and the wall won’t notice you one way or the other. He stood up, pushed the papers against me, and left the room to talk with the other men.

  “Your father already had given you everything you need. Don’t chase the things he left behind,” Dwhelli said.

  “But he worked so hard for them.”

  “And look at where he is now. Do they enrich him in any way? Do they carry his spirit or lift his mind? Do they help him on the journey he now takes? Shula, things you can possess are not permanent. Permanence lies in the love he gave you, the wisdom he imparted, the unconditional confidence he displayed in your work. Toil only for what is permanent, and you will always be moving in the direction of Nirvana.”

  Although it was the last time I saw her in the flesh, she would appear to me many times in my mind as the years went by. When I heard her speak, it was only about those things that were permanent.

  No, I wasn’t like Sahan, I decided. This was for Ruka and Mewan, and for them, I’d give everything I had.

  Ousha held up her finger with inspiration. “We must go where everyone gossips and nobody listens. To the mall.”

  …

  Ousha could handle her drink enough that she knew what she had committed to. The next day, she called a car service and left a full covering for me to slip into before we went out in public. There was a note on top in Sinhala: “Your invisibility cloak.” She was silent during the entire ride. We arrived at the same mall where Minrada had taken me on an outing the first time.

  “This is where I saw Mohamed with his friend.” I don’t know what I was expecting by divulging this information.

  Ousha ignored the comment and whooshed through the spinning glass door into the mall. She locked arms with me, a common sight among the women shopping. I wondered how many of the women or men here were secret lovers, flaunting their closeness in the open.

  “When will you get to the market?”

  I knew she was talking about the castor beans. “I can go today, if it’s open.”

  “This is what we’ll do. You’ll walk or find some other way to go.”

  “Some other way?” My understanding was the market was at least four kilometers from the house.

  “Yes, yes. There are many people who will take you. Just pay them in dinars and use a different name. And of course I’ll give you the money. No one can know your departure point. Go from here, and then go to someplace else on the way back. Talk to no one. You understand? This must be very secret.”

  I followed her into a store; she looked at a few handbags, then pointed to the one she would purchase. The bag was fifteen thousand dinars. A sum I couldn’t imagine possessing. Ousha paid with a card, emptied the contents of her old bag into her new one, then handed me her old handbag, which couldn’t have been more than a few months old.

  “Take this with you. There’s extra in the pocket.”

  We strolled to the bottom level, where fish ponds filled the center of the floor for the length of the mall, laden with lily pads and pink lotus flowers.

  “When you have it, we’ll do a bit each day. It will build over days until it does its job.”

  “Why not just leave now? Why do this? It’s not right.” How could I murder someone, no matter how terrible they were to me or others? How could I possibly possess the constitution for such an act?

  “Of course it’s right, after what he did to me.” I could only see Ousha’s eyes, and they radiated angry betrayal. “I’m working on how we’ll leave,” she continued. “I’ll go to London with my parents and you can go back to your home. I need my passport back.”

  She slipped that in there without the slightest agitation or inflection.

  “I knew you took it, but now that you have your own passport, there’s no reason for you to have mine.”

  “But my daughter still needs one. I can’t leave her here.”

  “Fata will take good care of her, and she will pay her. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Jaseem works for Mohamed. She would be in danger if I left.”

  Ousha didn’t say anything; she merely sat at the edge of the water and rubbed her fingers together so that the koi came to the surface and gulped the air. “You see how they’re trained? How they react to stimuli they’ve encountered thousands of times throughout their lives? Mohamed’s no different. I can lead him anywhere. I know his triggers.”

  “I think you underestimate them.” I sat next to her and rubbed my fingers over the water. The fish ignored her and came to me. “You see? Distraction.”

  …

  An hour later, we were at the entrance, where a sedan waited for Ousha. “I’ll see you.” She got into the car and didn’t look at me.

  I paced the steps until I saw the taxi sign a few meters away. I got into one of the cabs and told the driver to take me to the Dubai Spice Souk.

  A few minutes later, he dropped me off at the market. There were five thousand dinars in the bag, more than enough to pay for taxis and many things at the market. I had the necklace around my neck, under the abaya. I wondered if I would be able to get a price for it. I walked the stalls until I came to a food stand.

  “Castor?” I found someone I thought was Sri Lankan. He shook his head and replied in Hindi. There was beautiful pottery, which I knew I could afford with the money Ousha had given me. I imagined serving guests in our house in Batapitya on these bright orange and blue ceramics. I ran my fingers over their surfaces, the glazed ridges igniting my mind. I was in our kitchen, my mother cutting tea leaves, my brother filling the pot and adjusting the flame under it, where we would boil the leaves into tea. A crisp, earthy scent filled the room. I had the cups in my hand.

  The merchant was asking me something. I ignored him and kept searching. The castor beans were in a burlap sack, hidden under a table of dates. I found them because one had fallen and had been trampled.

  I reached for them. The merchant stopped me, put on some gloves, then took two handfuls and put them in a paper bag for me. It was more than I needed, but I didn’t want to be memorable in any way. I handed him two hundred dinars, then left. He seemed satisfied with the price I’d paid. Three taxis later, I ended up at the bridge where Ruka and I had been flooded out and discovered.

  Inside the house, Ousha had left an open jar in the kitchen. I crumpled the brown bag tightly around the beans and fit them inside it.

  No one could blame me for buying beans. Women all over the world bought these same beans for a million reasons, but in my heart I knew intention was the only thing that mattered.

  Ousha appeared. She had changed; her eyes were ringed in black makeup, her hair askew. She went directly to the jar and peered in, then looked at me maniacally. “You got them. Each day, in his breakfast you’ll add the smallest amount. And the effect will build. He won’t notice at first. But then it will come.” She spoke with certainty, as if it were a family recipe.

  I backed away from the jar. “I’m not going to do that. I got them for you. That’s enough.”

  She drove her knuckles into her palm. “You will or you won’t leave here.”

  You can only ask “why” so many times before you realize there are answers that aren’t accessible.

  “Understand?” She waited until I made eye contact with her.

  I pulled the beans toward me, closed the top of the jar, and held it. I would do it; when I saw them in the market under the
table, I knew I would.

  Ousha pulled open a cabinet and fiddled with something inside. Then she turned back to me. “Do you like the picture of you and Maryam? My mother took it.”

  I shrugged. The picture was odd; I didn’t have a feeling of liking it or not.

  “Well, it was for you.”

  “Thanks?”

  She came to me and tugged at my necklace. “You know this really belongs to me. You can’t keep it. A woman like you would never have a necklace like this.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you aren’t worth anything. That necklace is mine. The minute we get ourselves out of here.”

  “But Abdullah—”

  “What about Abdullah, lady?”

  I decided not to push it. Her perspective had shifted once again, and I was on her list of reasons this particular version of herself hadn’t worked out.

  “Forget it,” I muttered.

  …

  The next morning, Mohamed sat next to the pool in a white robe, smoking and looking out at the canal. I would make him his eggs first, then a date puree with juiced celery. Finally, when I had cleared the plates away, I’d present a clove cigarette alongside his espresso. I set the eggs and juice in front of him. In imaginary space, Ousha had told me to draw a diagonal line from the top right corner of the plate to the glass. This is where they should go, always.

  In the kitchen, my hands grasped the jar and popped the metal clasp open. The castor beans’ bitterness escaped. A single bean went into the garlic press and I squeezed its oil into the packed ground espresso beans. When the water scorched through the tightly packed mixture and the cup welcomed the poison, I found myself scratching hard at the space behind my ear, which held my anxiety. I wondered how so little liquid could feel like it was on the verge of drowning me.

  I heard Dwhelli’s voice in my head: It only feels big because we are so small.

  I watched Mohamed from behind the window. When he put the last chunk of egg in his mouth, I was beside him with the espresso and extended my arm to put it on the table. My hand was shaking.