Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  “I don’t know. What does it look like?”

  “It’s blue and puffy.” She looked around us and out to the street. A cyclist whizzed by in a skintight yellow suit.

  I stood up and felt dizzy; the ground tilted and I held on to the wall next to us. “Give me a minute, and then we’ll keep walking. We won’t accomplish anything sitting here.”

  I wondered if those women I’d seen on the street had this same resolve in the beginning and then the city had chipped it away until they were muddled heaps.

  I had lost all bearing of which way we were walking. I had no idea what the city looked like or how far it extended.

  Eventually we found ourselves at the big park again. The rain had stopped and the morning light was coming over the wall of buildings.

  We stayed at the perimeter. I kept walking; I didn’t let Ruka know I had no idea where we were going. When we had freed ourselves from the mud that day two years ago and walked through our stunned village, I had told Ruka only to “keep walking.” My job right now was to keep her hope burning. With the park on our right, Ruka remained focused and led us. I was proud of her for leading. She was en route to being a strong woman.

  Then I saw it.

  Refuge

  “Sri Lanka (Ceylon) is a free, sovereign, independent, and democratic socialist republic and shall be known as the Democratic Socialist Republic of Sri Lanka.”

  Ruka read the first words of our constitution, two blocks from Paddington station on the other side of the street from the park. The building was white stone with four columns flanking the front entrance and my flag flying high. There were no lights on, but I knew now was the time to wait.

  “Is that our flag?” Ruka asked.

  “Yes, this is someplace that can help us.” There was much less hope behind what I said.

  A black sedan pulled up and two people stepped out and looked at us. They whisked by, up the stairs into the first set of doors. A slow trickle of other workers came next, heading through the same door.

  “Can you help us?” I asked the fourth woman to pass us.

  She stopped and looked us up and down. “With what?”

  I could tell from her accent that she had grown up in the wealthy part of Colombo.

  “We were brought here and left. We need to get home.”

  “Where in London do you live?”

  “We live in Batapitya. But we were taken to Dubai and then here.”

  She put her briefcase down and sat next to us. “When was this?”

  “Months? I think. I’ve lost track.”

  “Can you stay here for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should trust her.

  A few minutes later, she returned with a folder filled with papers and a bottle of water for each of us. “Come inside with me.”

  The inside of the building was warm and filled with plush yellow and white furniture; the room had bright streaks of glittering color. I slipped my sandals off at the door, but my feet were so dirty and wet that they left black marks on the blond carpet.

  “Sit, sit.” She directed us to the couch and sat down in an adjacent chair. “My name is Shehara. Could you fill out these papers?” She handed me the folder.

  I opened it and looked over them.

  “Do you have a passport?” she asked.

  I reached into my clothes and pulled out the two passports I had. She flipped through, studying them deeply. “I think these are counterfeit. Do you know the names of the people who brought you here?”

  Of course I did, but I didn’t want to tell her. I shook my head.

  “I’ll be back.” She took them with her and left me with a pen. I filled out what I could. Ruka was acting strangely; her eyes didn’t seem to focus on any one thing.

  I reached over and touched her hair. She was hot.

  “Do you feel okay?”

  “No. I feel dizzy.” There was something in her hand.

  “What is that?”

  “Food. Ousha gave it to me.” It was a biscuit. I recognized the brown bits of the castor beans mixed in with it. I scooped it out of her hand.

  “This is making you sick. How much have you eaten?”

  “Just a little earlier.”

  Shehara returned. She’d taken off her suit jacket, and she looked friendlier. “What is it that you want, Shula?”

  “Like I said, to go home. To finally go home.”

  A Beginning and an End

  Shehara stepped off the boat with Ruka and me when we arrived at our village. She had been insistent on making the trip. She wanted to see the genesis of workers from our part of the country.

  “It’s …”

  I knew what she was thinking. Primitive. It was a word I’d heard others from Colombo use to describe us.

  Her heels sunk into the sand, and she pitched backward. I put my hand on the small of her back for balance and took her bag from her arm. She was trying to help, and so was I.

  We walked through the main path. The heat of the afternoon lay over us like a fur blanket. Some of the shopkeepers recognized us and waved, while others looked back and forth between Shehara and us, assembling a story of our connection.

  “Where is your house?” Her head swiveled.

  “It’s up the hill a ways. We don’t need to go there. This way.” I led her to the place where the thin red string delineated the perimeter of the tent hotel boundary.

  “The man, Khalid, stays here when he comes. The third tent on the left. I can ask around and see if he’s here or if someone like him is here. But if you stay long enough, you’ll see him, passing out shiny pamphlets. Promising big houses when we return.” I paused. “I need to go, to find my son.”

  “Please do,” Shehara said, as though she’d forgotten the whole reason I’d returned.

  Ruka already was charging ahead of me, through the coconut trees.

  I stepped over the ground, which was slick with dead leaves, pounded down by human feet, careful not to fall. When I climbed the five logs we had embedded in the hillside as stairs, Ruka didn’t say anything.

  The place where our house was only had our roof, disassembled and resting against the side of the embankment. The building itself was gone. I could see the round space where I’d cooked meals, put our heads to sleep each night, and hunkered down during the summer drenching rains. A soiled piece of yellow fabric left over from a dress I’d made for Ruka was pinned under a rock.

  Ruka started to cry. I pulled her close to me. “It’s okay. We’ve been here before. We’ll make a new house.”

  Kiyoma’s mother appeared and I heard Mewan yell. “Come see your brother,” she told Ruka.

  He ran to Ruka first, with the widest grin, and hugged her. Ruka’s tears stopped, and she realized her home was still here.

  Lessons

  Eight Months Later

  We sat high up, on the front ledge of our house. We had built something substantial this time. A home where we would live, and where, if I was lucky, I would die.

  The world only feels big because we are so small. What Dwhelli hadn’t told me was how powerful our smallness was. That our tiny beating hearts could stretch across oceans and continents, through skyscrapers and deserts, and move us to accomplish things we never thought possible. Today, with one of my hands on Ruka’s knee and the other on Mewan’s, we sat on top of our empire. The thing Mohamed should have known when I shook before him was that our three hearts, lined up in Batapitya, Sri Lanka, a place of insignificants, could move the kings of the world. Empires—no matter if they’re made of gold, soldiers, or waves of mud—could ever topple the power of our love. I wasn’t afraid of his empire, but instead only longed for the deep power of mine. I pulled my family close, thinking of all the people before us, and knew what we did now would help all of those in our empire who were to come. In Dwhelli’s words, we were a beautiful family.

  About the Author

  James lives with his husband and two sons in Fort Lauderdale, F
lorida.