Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  Mohamed noticed the same time I did. “You think I’m going to hurt you.”

  My response came to me much later, at a time when Mohamed wasn’t in my life.

  He lit his clove cigarette, inhaled once, and took a sip of espresso. He directed his attention away from me, which was the signal everything was fine and I could go.

  Ousha stood on the other side of the window, watching. Her eyebrows arched up, her ears pinned back by the muscles of expectation. “It was fine? He drank it? He didn’t notice?” I nodded as I passed her, bringing the dirty dishes to the kitchen. She followed me. “You know what this means? It’ll be even easier than we thought. Put more next in time, until he notices. Wait—” She rapped her fingers on my arm. “No, no, no—do it slowly. It’s better that way. I wouldn’t mind letting him suffer a bit.” A laugh leapt from the depths of her throat.

  After I served dinner to Mohamed that night, I walked over to see Ruka. Fata asked me in, but the night air was delightful, and I thought we should walk. The fiery sky betrayed the crispness in the air.

  “Are they treating you well?”

  “Yes, Mama. Every day they ask about you, and they’re so kind to their daughters. But they have tense words with each other at night. I can’t understand what about.”

  “Keep to yourself and do what they ask,” I told her.

  “How long do you think we’ll stay here?” She didn’t let me answer before she pulled out a stack of folded bills and thrust it in my direction. “If we keep earning for a while, we could make a very nice life here.”

  I wanted to say our life was fine at home, but to Ruka that would have been ridiculous compared to what she was seeing here.

  “It depends,” I said, taking the money from her. I didn’t want her to know we might leave quickly.

  “Fata said I can stay as long as I like, and my teacher at school said the same thing.”

  “All good things.”

  Ruka slipped her hand into mine and put her head against my side. “But I do miss sleeping in the same room as you.”

  I had a momentary thought to ask Ousha if this was possible, but I knew she wouldn’t want to deviate from her plan.

  I kissed Ruka’s forehead, then stepped into the elevator to bring her up to Fata’s apartment.

  Watery Tension

  “Abdullah and Cynthia have invited us back to the boat. Looks like Cynthia is making this a weekly gathering,” Ousha said, passing me in the entry hall.

  I had an image of Mohamed getting sick on the boat and the crew casting Ousha and me overboard.

  “When?”

  “Tonight. We have to go.”

  At midday, there was a white abaya on my bed and a pair of red shoes on the floor. I put on the abaya. Separate lines of black and red sequins were spaced at the bottom, then rose and twisted until they burst in every direction of my back, like fireworks. I pulled my hair back and went to look at myself in my bathroom mirror. I didn’t recognize the woman I saw; she was elegant and demure, swathed in wealth. I imagined it was easy to be lulled into the image looking back at me and ignore the grinding reality of my true self. Perhaps this was why Dwhelli had told me mirrors are unhelpful, because they show us a picture of what we want to see rather than what we need to see.

  That evening, Mohamed, Ousha, and I got into the car. Mohamed winced when he bent to get into the driver’s seat. Silence ruled the ride to Abdullah’s house.

  On the boat, Cynthia took my hand, fixated on the necklace Abdullah had given me, and led me to sit at a long table. Ousha turned on her charm and was fully invested in her conversation with Abdullah.

  Jaseem came up the stairs with Fata holding his arm. Behind them, their two daughters held hands. A third face appeared, my Ruka. She wore a midnight-blue abaya, with pink flowers embroidered halfway up the arms and along the bottom. I could tell she was overtaken by everything she was seeing—amazement at a boat this big and the people who owned it.

  Abdullah greeted Jaseem and Fata, then bent down to hug their two daughters. He put his hand behind him, then pulled out two silver-wrapped gifts for them.

  When it was Ruka’s turn, he less affectionately rubbed her arm, then produced a pink box. She glanced at me but kept her attention on Abdullah.

  Cynthia led her to the seat next to me.

  “I didn’t know you were coming here,” I whispered to Ruka.

  “They told me only an hour ago and gave me these clothes to wear. Can I open my gift?”

  I looked at Fata’s girls to see what they were doing. They had pulled out bracelets and were showcasing them.

  “Yes.”

  Ruka opened the box. It was a children’s bracelet made of red and pink stones. I clasped it on her wrist for her.

  “It’s perfect for you. You must thank him.”

  “I will. I will.” Her eyes wide, she moved her arm to catch the light.

  People took their seats. Mohamed’s brother and his wife sat at the head of the table and said something to us all. Across from us were Ousha’s parents. They looked dour.

  “Nice to see you,” I told her mother.

  “Why are you here? Who invited you?” she spat.

  “I was invited, just like you.”

  Ousha glared at her mother.

  “I wasn’t invited,” her mother said. “I was told to come. I know you’re trying to take my daughter’s place. I know you want Mohamed.”

  The accusation caught me off guard because it was so far from the truth.

  “Why are you making things up? My daughter and I are trying to survive. To help our family at home.”

  “It’s how all of you do it—come here, then wreak havoc in our lives. Try to marry into a life you have no business being in.”

  “Isn’t that what you did?” I couldn’t believe the words had come out of my mouth.

  She strangled her cloth napkin two times over.

  Cynthia was sitting at my side of the table, smiling politely at our conversation, as if we were talking about a new recipe and she was agreeing on the ingredients.

  Ruka was still admiring her bracelet when the yacht’s engines bubbled to life and the crew pulled in the lines from the dock. Mohamed’s brother was still talking. The rest of the table had fallen silent. Each of their faces held a different reaction to what he was saying. Abdullah was watching with me. I felt he was taking detailed notes, while Cynthia’s head continued to bob. He finished his speech, and then we headed out into the open water.

  The first course of a nutty orange soup with a slice of crusty bread was served. After we finished dinner, Cynthia invited us to stand up and take in the sunset.

  Ousha stood beside Ruka and me on the edge of the deck. “Did you understand what Mohamed’s brother was saying?”

  I knew she didn’t expect me to understand any of it.

  “He’s taking over the company and moving the headquarters to Abu Dhabi. Jaseem is being asked to move there.”

  “Ruka too?” I asked.

  “That’s the implication. But it’s not for another month.”

  I looked over the water; I couldn’t allow Ruka to move away from me.

  “This gives you all the more reason to hurry up with our plan.”

  “What plan?” Ousha’s mother had moved in beside us.

  Ousha looked startled, but by the time she turned to her mother she was beaming. “Helping Fata and Jaseem get their apartment ready for sale, of course.”

  “Yes, I would think that’s a big job,” her mother said.

  “You have no idea,” said Ousha.

  I put my arm around Ruka and watched the last sliver of orange fall beneath the water.

  In Sickness and in Health

  Three identical mornings passed. I was beginning to wonder if the castor beans would have an effect.

  With a grin, Ousha poked her head into the kitchen. “Shula, can you bring Mohamed his espresso and breakfast in his room?”

  I held my hand up to acknowledge her. A fe
w minutes later, I was standing at the door to his room, which was open a few centimeters. I heard Ousha talking to Mohamed; they sounded much farther in than his couch. She was consoling him. Then I heard him vomit. Gut-wrenching hurls. I pushed the door open. Ousha stood behind him in the bathroom, rubbing his back. She wiped his mouth for him, then directed him back to the couch and put a blanket over his legs and a pillow behind his back.

  “Put the tray over here. I’ll feed him,” she told me.

  I set it down; his face was gray, the slick coating of sleep embracing his head. Ousha gave him a bite of his eggs, then encouraged him to drink his coffee. Nudging with maternal encouragement, sip by sip, she nodded as he drank while rubbing his back. They didn’t look up at me, but I couldn’t watch, so I turned away and headed to the kitchen.

  When he was done, I was called back to retrieve his plate and cup. He was sleeping, and Ousha had placed a wet washcloth on his head. The espresso cup was empty. I had put a double dose of oil in it.

  Two days later a doctor was called. He left the house with a puzzled look on his face.

  On the sixth day, Ousha came to me in the morning before I woke and shook my shoulder.

  “He’s really bad today. Give him a double dose. He won’t know the difference even if it tastes bad. He’s been in and out most of the night.”

  There were only three beans left. I squeezed two of them into his smoothie and delivered it. My insides twisted; my mind was screaming at itself, one side that I was committing murder, the other that it was the only way out. I wouldn’t consider the future of these thoughts, only that when the deed was done I would bury them so deep within me that even I wouldn’t know where they were.

  I stood stone-faced and watched. Ousha got behind him, propping his sweaty head into her lap, her legs cradling his body. She had moved him to her bed, where she slept behind him.

  They embraced each other’s evil, a serpent wrapped around a scorpion. One squeezing, the other stinging, all the while carrying each other to new destinations.

  The doorbell chimed. I broke from my trance and my eyes passed over the closet. I noticed Ousha’s suitcase had moved from where she usually kept it and one of the latches was undone.

  At the door I found Cynthia, who wore a pained look. She touched my shoulder affectionately, and I led her to Ousha’s bedroom. She didn’t seem to have been in this house before. She rushed to her son and said things in rapid fire. I left them to be together. Mohamed voiced something unintelligible as I left. He sounded as if he had a brain bleed.

  I went across the hall and busied myself in the guest room, cleaning. Cynthia and Ousha raised their voices, and not long after, two medics stood at the door. I saw them carry Mohamed out on a stretcher, wrapped in white blankets, with a bag of fluid held in the air by one of the medics.

  I retrieved the cup from Mohamed’s room and scrubbed it and the sink. I took the bag that held the beans and put it inside a plastic bag. Trash pickup was tomorrow; I would make sure the bags and the grinder I had used were gone. I cleaned with purpose for hours, polishing the metal surfaces until they gleamed brilliantly. The glass was so clean it looked as though it were missing. Then I scrubbed the tiles around the pool so they looked like fresh bone.

  I wore myself weary and collapsed into bed, forgetting to call Ruka.

  Ousha appeared in the night, like a visiting spirit, extracting me from my peaceful blackness.

  “Shula, we’re going to have to leave very soon. Are you ready?” Her fingers twitched while she played with her hair.

  “I’ll let Ruka know tomorrow.”

  “You can’t tell her. She’s a young girl; she won’t keep the secret, and Jaseem will tell Abdullah our plans before we even get to the airport.”

  “But she needs to be ready to go.”

  “I told you I couldn’t assure both of you passage.”

  “I won’t leave without her.”

  “Then you might not leave.” She was pacing alongside my bed. “You said you saw Inesh in here?” Her voice pitched up and she turned on the bathroom light.

  The skin under her eyes was puffy and purple. Her pupils were wide too, which made her look like a certain type of monkey that lurked around our house in Balapitiya near dinnertime, looking for scraps.

  “There was a picture of him. That’s all. I’ve never seen him because he’s …” It was better I didn’t say it. Not now.

  “He’s what?”

  “He’s not here,” was all I could offer.

  “Of course he’s not here.” Ousha shook her head at me as if she’d encountered someone profoundly dumb. “Well, there might be a way, a form or two to fill out at the embassy before we go. But that’s on you. I’m not getting involved in any government schemes. We could be in enough trouble.”

  I agreed politely.

  “I’ll be at the hospital the next couple of days. Let’s hope it happens.” She made a choking sound, then disappeared into the hall. It seemed the darkness gave her power.

  Against the Tide

  I knew Ruka could keep a secret. When the pale-pink doors of the elevator opened, she ran toward me with her arms open.

  “Ruka?” I ran my hand over her hair to put it in place. “We’ll be leaving soon. Can you exit in the night?”

  “Sneak out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think so. But Mrs. Fata has been so good to me. I don’t want to leave her.”

  We were on the sidewalk now. The sole of one of her sandals had partially detached and was flopping against the concrete. In my mind the extra noise sent alarms off in every house we passed.

  “This isn’t about Fata. It’s about finally going home, to your brother and our life there.”

  “Our horrible life. Where we didn’t have food and everyone is dead.”

  I pulled her closer. “You’re right. Life is tough there, but it’s real. This place is lie stacked upon lie. And we’re the glue holding all the lies together so our masters can dance on top of us and not hurt themselves. Don’t you miss Mewan?”

  I felt her head move against my side.

  “For the next few days, when we go for our walk, bring your things. I’ll keep them with me.”

  “Okay, Mama.” She paused, then added, “That man was at the apartment today.”

  “What man?”

  “That Khalid man. The one who lied to me and told me you said it was okay for me to come here.”

  “I don’t think he means you any harm, but go to your room if he shows up again. Avoid him.”

  …

  That night, the house was still. Ousha didn’t come home from the hospital. The phone rang again and again. I avoided it and eventually stuffed a towel at the bottom of my door so the ringing would stay outside my room. I dreamed about Maryam. I was feeding her, and between suckles to her bottle she told me all the things she hoped to do in her life. She wanted to be a dancer, in front of the people of London, and also have a white dog with feathery, fluffy hair and a long lazy pink tongue. She was happy when she told me these things.

  Ousha clamored through the front door just after the sun rose. I was at the dining room table, drinking tea and eating an apricot scone. Her abaya was heavily creased, and she listed when she walked, cruising past but never looking into the dining room.

  She went to the kitchen, then slipped through the side door and sat across from me. She mirrored what I had, but her tea sloshed over the edge of her glass mug and the crumbs from the scone bounced over the tabletop.

  “He’s gone.” There was emotion in her voice.

  I noticed an angry knot on the side of her head jump out with every bite.

  “Will you attend the funeral?” I asked.

  She ignored my question. “Are you ready to go now?”

  “Home?”

  “No, we’re going to London. You can find your way from there.”

  I had to take a deep breath. “If Ruka can come.”

  Ousha took another bite, then threw the
rest at me. “She can come. She can come. Stop asking me the same question.” She had a deranged essence to her. “Mohamed always told me you weren’t that smart.”

  She wasn’t looking at me now; she was focused on the chair where Mohamed usually sat; her eyes were welling. I moved slowly to avoid breaking her trance and backed out of the room.

  …

  When I met Ruka for our usual walk, this time I turned her around and we went back into the elevator.

  “Fata is home?”

  “Yes.”

  Inside the apartment, Fata graciously smiled and gave me a light hug of welcome.

  “Mohamed has died,” I told her.

  Both hands went to her mouth.

  “It was sudden. I don’t think there was a way to save him. He was at the hospital.”

  “How is Ousha doing?”

  I hadn’t anticipated that question, though I should have.

  “She’s not good. I was wondering if Ruka can come stay with us for a day. It might cheer Ousha up.”

  As soon as I said that, I knew Ruka would understand what was happening.

  “Yes, yes. Anything to help. I’ll tell Jaseem when he comes home. I’m sure Abdullah and Cynthia are devastated.”

  A few minutes later, we walked out of Fata’s apartment onto the sidewalk.

  Ruka looked up at me. “We’re leaving, aren’t we?”

  “As soon as we can.”

  At the house, Ousha was in her room. I took the bold step of going upstairs without request. She was deep in her suitcase, mostly packing it with pictures and jewelry.

  “I’ll take that necklace now,” she said.

  “Not until we get to London and I have tickets onward.”

  Feeling the deep tension, Ruka stepped out of the room.

  “You’ll give it to me now.” Ousha rose and pulled off her abaya, revealing a black Lycra suit underneath.

  I secured the necklace with my hand. Ousha was smaller than me, and her frame lacked the hardening effects of manual labor. I didn’t want this to devolve into a physical fight, but I had to secure my one item of value.