Ariana gamely slid her other foot under the surface, but only for a few seconds. “I just can’t!” she said with a laugh. “It’s way too creepy! Especially the ones that go between your toes. Yuck!”
“You will get used to it.” Hani watched as Ariana continued to try, forcing her feet, one at a time, to remain underwater longer and longer with each attempt. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and plunged his own legs a bit deeper. Though the sun was low in the sky, he could still feel its burn through his dishdasha. The memories from childhood were still strong in this place—above all, the soothing caress of the water as it welcomed one’s body from top to bottom. Suddenly he stood and whipped the kuma from his head, pulled the billowing white fabric of his dishdasha off over his shoulders, and sprung from the rock in his T-shirt and shorts, sailing through the warm air until his fingertips touched the glassy surface and the water gobbled him up in one giant swallow.
He came up shaking the water from his ears. Ariana was watching from the rocks, her smile a sweet delight that only made him feel even more like the child he used to be. “Help me up,” he asked as he approached the shore, his arm extending from the water and up toward her. As she clasped her hand firmly around his wrist, Hani smiled slyly and jerked his arm back, bringing Ariana flying down next to him in a splash. Her head rose from under the water’s surface as she sputtered and blinked, her arms flailing. “You can swim, can’t you?” Hani said in a sudden panic, grabbing her under the armpits.
“Of course I can swim, you idiot.” Ariana swatted at him as she whipped her head around, her eyes scanning the shore around them.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Hani assured her. “There is nobody left to see us. We are alone.”
“Eeewwww!” she suddenly screamed. “The fish!” Before he knew it, Hani found Ariana cradled in his arms, her own wrapped around his neck. He began to twirl in circles, the water churning in his wake, the absence of weight from her body making it all feel like the most splendid dream. “I will keep them away, like a knight defending his princess from the dragons.”
Ariana laughed. “I’d rather they were dragons.” He could feel her muscles soften beneath her skin, the thump of her heart against his chest begin to slow. How could something this wonderful be forbidden, this innocent touch between a woman and a man? Perhaps, he thought, this might be considered an essential circumstance under Islamic law, such as when a person faints or has a seizure, and it is allowed to touch to provide help.
But before he could reach a conclusion to his quandary, Ariana had loosened herself from his hold and was starting to wage a ruthless splashing battle against him. He retaliated with full force, the two of them yelling and laughing just as he and his sisters had done under his father’s watch so many years ago.
“I give!” she cried out.
“Give what?” Hani continued to ply her with waves.
“I give up, you jerk!” Ariana paddled backwards to escape his assault.
“Give up?”
“It means I surrender! Stop! Enough!” She laughed.
But then it was Hani’s turn to laugh, for when the splashing subsided it left Ariana looking like a melted clown, the makeup ringing her eyes and streaking her cheeks with colors that had no right to be where they were.
“My eyelashes!” She grabbed at the hairy fringes sliding down her face like drowned spiders. “Shit! Don’t look at me!” She began to paddle toward shore. Hani stopped her with a gentle hand on the shoulder.
The kiss seemed to surprise them both, though it was clear neither one of them had truly wanted it to end. When it was over, they made their way to shore, an awkward silence between them. Hani didn’t know whether he wanted to apologize or do it again. Instead he simply let the soft mountain air and the splendid orange sunset speak his words, and his thoughts, for him.
17
The needle pierced up through the cloth and back down again in a rhythm almost as rapid and precise as a machine. The tiny kuma Miza was embroidering for the baby was identical to the one favored by Tariq, in fact the very one he had been wearing on his head the day he appeared on the beach in the village.
The hospital ward was as quiet as usual. Neema had greeted her warmly as she stepped from the elevator, assuring her that she would warn her should Tariq’s other wife appear. “You must be careful, my sister. That one’s a wicked ng’ombe, an old cow,” she had said. “Never have we had to deal with a healthy person who was so much more trouble than the sick. It took a good half-hour of our time to calm her down yesterday, after what she found in your husband’s room.” Miza sucked in a gulp of air, bracing herself for a scolding for the magic she’d attempted. But instead Neema offered a knowing smile. “You’d best keep your distance from that one. I cannot help but think of that old tale about the one named Miza, like you, who was turned to stone by a jealous other wife. You do know it, don’t you?”
Miza knew it well. In fact, the story came from her mother’s village, and told of the local chief’s older first wife summoning evil spirits as she gathered well water from a cave with the younger second wife. The water Miza carried in her vial came from that very cave. She would try to steer clear of Maryam, no matter what. Even if the woman simply spied her in the hallways, she might recognize Miza’s as a face from the past, and would likely put things together in the blink of an eye.
Neema’s kindness had soothed Miza’s nerves, to the point where she even found herself smiling a little as she sat with her bare feet curled under her, watching the drugged slumber that had erased the lines from her husband’s face, leaving it as smooth as it had been when he was a boy. They had both been so carefree back then, as only children can be, when happiness seems as endless as a long day spent under the sub-Saharan sun. There were rare times, while she was living in her uncle’s home, when tiny slivers of that kind of happiness had managed to seep back into her life. It was only Sabra who had made that happen, with her ready giggle and mischievous mind. And it was only on those special days when her sister would be allowed to accompany her down to the beach, to sit by the shore and explore the shells as Miza hung the seaweed to dry.
Miza knew Bi-Zena didn’t mind her working slowly on those days, taking the time to play and chase around with little sister until they’d both fall laughing into the sand. But Miza was also well aware of the looks that would come from the other women out deep in the tide. That’s when she’d quiet Sabra with the promise of one or two of her favorite stories, the old Zanzibari tales Miza’s mother used to tell her as she drifted off to sleep at night. Even though Miza knew all those stories by heart, they always seemed endless, winding around in circles before they finally got to their point. And always the same themes: someone outsmarting or outwitting somebody else, one getting another to do something for them or taking advantage—even though the characters were often friends. And those characters, always the same. Fee’see, the hyena. Ko’bay, the tortoise. Kee’ma, the monkey. She used to wonder, as she listened to her mother’s voice, which one was she? Was she like Soongoo’ra, the hare, the wiliest of all the beasts? Or was she more like Sim’ba, the lion, who usually played the fool?
What terrible tales, it now occurred to her. What terrible tales they all were, those little animal stories passed down through the generations by her ancestors, full of cunning and deceit, betrayal and killing. And really, what was the point they all seemed to be making? That good did not necessarily win over evil.
Miza put down her embroidery and got up to stretch her legs. Perhaps Sabra would be home from classes by now, she thought as she sent yet another message, hoping the sound of the phone would get her sister’s attention. She’d received no response for two days now, and was praying her sister hadn’t lost her phone yet again. As smart as she was, that girl seemed to lose track of everything, the way she flitted around, jumping from one thing to another with enough energy to light up an entire village.
This time a response came immediately. Yes, her sister replied to he
r message asking if everything was okay. Miza breathed a sigh of relief and waited for more. Sabra no doubt had a lot to share about the last couple of days. Usually it was regarding which teacher had been particularly mean, where she had stopped with her friends on the way home, who had said what to whom, which boy had looked at her. But today there was nothing.
And? Miza typed.
And everything is fine. I am fine, her sister replied.
You have no more to say? Miza waited.
How are you?
Something is wrong, Miza thought. Perhaps something happened at school, or perhaps it was because of a boy, or maybe Sabra had been alone long enough and simply wanted her to come home. But whatever it was, this just did not sound like her sister.
Suddenly Neema was standing over her, frantically waving her arms. “Quick!” the nurse whispered. “You must get out. She is here!”
Neema bent to help as Miza fumbled for her shoes. But it was too late. Maryam was there, at the foot of Tariq’s bed, her pale cheeks flashing red upon seeing Miza’s face.
“You!” the enraged woman hissed as the nurse flew from the room in search of help. “I remember you. I should have known that you were the one my husband took as his Zanzibar wife. Running after him like a filthy little dog ever since you were a child.”
Maryam’s voice held the same ugly sting as it had so many years before. Miza willed her eyes upward to meet the woman’s own. She looked older, duller, heavier than she had been as a teenage girl, but Maryam’s face remained as mean as Miza remembered it to be.
The woman took three steps toward Miza, her fists curled into tight balls and her chest heaving with anger. Then her cold eyes fixed on Miza’s swollen belly. “And look,” she said laughingly, “he has married a whore.”
Miza pushed herself up from the chair, her arms instinctively wrapping around her middle.
“Tariq would not have had to marry you to get what you give away for free,” Maryam scoffed. “What a fool he has been.”
“Do not talk that way about my husband,” Miza replied quietly yet firmly.
“Your husband. Your husband could not have done that to you.” Maryam pointed with a jerk of the chin to the baby inside. “He is less of a man than the Queen of Sheba.”
“This is his child,” Miza said as she wrapped her arms tighter. “This is our son.”
“Get out of here, and take your ridiculous lies with you!” Maryam screamed, flapping her hands at Miza, as if shooing away a fly.
“It is you who should get out,” Miza snapped back. “You who treats such a kind man in such a wicked way.”
Maryam lurched toward Miza and leaned into her face until the two women were practically nose to nose. “How dare you speak to me that way,” she spat. “Just who do you think you are? You are nothing!” she screamed. “Just a stupid girl from a poor family in a forgotten land. You and yours were born only to be slaves of our people.” Suddenly the woman seemed to have grown a foot taller. “You are nothing but a whore, just like all of them!”
Miza struggled to steel her trembling legs. “You never loved him. I could see it even as a child.” She gulped, as if she could swallow the quiver in her voice. “You care nothing for him. Am I not right?” she now shouted, summoning the last ounce of bravery she could before it slipped away. All this anger, this could not be good for the baby. Though she was speaking the truth, Miza hated the sound of the ugliness coming from her own mouth. She wanted to stand her ground, to keep watch over Tariq, but right now it seemed more important to protect their child. She grabbed her bag, inched around Maryam and backed slowly toward the doorway as the woman continued with her tantrum.
“And you!” Maryam screamed, keeping pace with Miza’s steps, the distance between the two no more than a hand’s length. “You are not after all this?” She wiggled her fingers crudely in the air, the fluorescent hospital light bouncing off her rings. “Maybe it was you who made him this way in the first place, with your African magic, to steal from him and run back to your pimp in Zanzibar. Your voodoo will do nothing to help you and your bastard child!”
Miza closed her eyes and turned her head sharply as Maryam raised her arm. But instead of delivering the slap Miza anticipated, the woman yanked the scarf off of Miza’s head and began to tug at her hair.
“Get away from me!” Miza yelled, pushing at Maryam’s chest with all her strength.
Maryam suddenly spun on her heels and began to tear apart the hospital room, flinging towels and blankets, bandages and cloths in a rage. “What else have you done in my husband’s room, you witch?” she screamed as she jerked the sheets off of Tariq, reaching under the mattress with one arm while frantically patting down his body with the other. When her hand reached his chest, she paused. Then, with two hands, she pulled down on the front of his gown, yanked the chain from his neck and flung it against the wall, where it hit with a clatter before sliding onto the ground.
18
The Scotch went down way too easily, but was doing its job just fine, easing Rachel back toward her rational self; the one who could come pretty close to blaming the morning’s bizarre encounter at the market on the residue of sleep medication mixed with the ironic lack of sleep. But the alcohol was doing nothing for her anger. At first she had been a little relieved to find the hotel room empty when she returned from the souk, as she wasn’t too anxious to share the story of the old woman and the goat with anyone, let alone a drama queen like Ariana. But when she found the note taped to the bathroom mirror with a band-aid, she was pissed. You left without me! Off with Hani, it read in perfect schoolgirl script. Back soon. xoxoA
Soon? What exactly was Ariana’s definition of soon? And more importantly, at what time, exactly, was the note written? Not that she had any expectation that Ariana would have actually found anything worthwhile for her to shoot, but the woman was still technically under her employ. Maggie had not been receptive to the idea of her wandering the country on her own. So, with yet another afternoon lost, Rachel had spent the hours going through her images to see if she’d somehow miraculously captured even one magazine-worthy shot. And now it was getting late. The sun had already disappeared behind the mountains, and yet there was no sign of either Ariana or Hani. No voicemail, no texts, no nothing.
The poolside patio was nearly empty, much quieter than it had been a couple of evenings before, with only the flutter of birds bedding down for the night and the clicking of insects venturing out into the dusk disturbing the stillness. Rachel had just ordered a second drink and was settling in with one of the Oman guidebooks she’d spotted in Ariana’s suitcase when she realized someone was speaking to her.
“You are American?”
She turned to see a large man, who sat with a laptop, an iPad, and a phone arranged neatly on the table before him. She nodded.
“I could tell by your accent. Texas?”
Rachel laughed. “No, New York.”
“Ah,” the man answered. “I have been to Texas. I have relatives living in Houston. But I would really like to go to New York.”
Rachel nodded again.
“You are a tourist here?” he continued.
“No.” She chuckled a little. “Not a tourist.”
“So then what is it that brings you to Oman?” he asked, his eyes darting from her camera to her book before returning to her face.
Rachel sized the man up before answering. Wedding band, honest smile, clean white shirt, good haircut, well-trimmed beard, and firmly rooted less than an arm’s length from his devices. A guy on a business trip, no doubt. “I’m a photographer. On assignment.”
“Ah. I see. Well, there is no lack of beauty to be photographed here.”
Rachel nodded again, and tilted her eyes back toward her book.
“Have you photographed Jebel Shams yet? Or the famous fort here in Nizwa?”
Rachel kept her eyes on the page as she answered. “It’s not that kind of assignment. I’m supposed to be shooting craftspeople, and the hand
iwork specific to Oman.”
“Oh. You mean like the khanjar, the daggers, and the silver jewelry?”
She lifted her head. “Exactly. But actually, I’m really not having much luck.”
“And why not, if it is not too rude of a stranger to ask?”
Rachel closed the book and offered her hand. “Rachel. And not rude at all.”
“I am Zayed.” The man nodded his head politely, his hands remaining in his lap. “So tell me, what is your problem with the photographs?”
Rachel pushed back her chair a little and stretched out her legs. “Well, Zayed, I’ll tell you. It just doesn’t seem as though anything is really made here. And if it is, whoever is making it must be hiding out in a cave somewhere. Nobody around here seems to know anything.”
Now it was Zayed’s turn to laugh. “I understand. The Omanis are very good talkers, but only about the things they want to talk about. So let me ask you, have you seen Bahla?”
Rachel shook her head. “No. What’s Bahla?”
“It’s a town, not far from here, a walled city. It is where much of the pottery you see in Oman comes from.”
“Bahla,” she repeated slowly. “So they actually physically, literally, make the pots right there?”
“They do.”
“You’re sure?” She wrinkled her freckled nose and cocked her head.
“Yes, I am sure. They have been doing so for generations. Beautiful pottery. They’re very famous for it. In fact, it is said that the potters of Bahla are born with magic in their fingers.” He wiggled his own fingers in the air. “Of course, not many of my clients want to go there.”
“Your clients?”
“Yes. I run a travel business in the Emirates. The Emiratis are not too big on magic, if you understand what I mean.”
“Well, I’m all for it, if it will help me get the pictures I need.” Rachel drained the watery mix at the bottom of her glass. “So what is it with these magical potters that freaks your clients out so much?”