Chapter 3 #3
This is for the best . “I know how to keep myself safe, Amma,” I said firmly. “This is my world. I’ve taken more dangerous assignments. If things turn sour, I will walk away.”
“Then we have nothing else to say to each other.” My mother’s expression was so thick with disappointment and sorrow that
it tore my heart. “I would rather not part with anger between us, but you will not get my blessing.” She turned away. “I leave
it to you to say farewell to your daughter.”
***
Marjana was in the bedchamber we shared, my favorite room in the house. Its three windows faced the sea, and the wooden floorboards
were soft underfoot, creaky from all the pacing I did while rocking her to sleep as a baby. My mother and I had painted the
walls; she’d chosen traditional patterns and stars while I’d opted for cheerful spots of color with sea creatures and plants.
A delicate glass mobile of discarded shards from Mustafa’s work sparkled in one corner, while across the room, green shelves
lined the wall, heavy with an assortment of souvenirs from my travels.
I found my daughter kneeling there now, her back to the door. Marjana has always been fascinated by the shelves’ treasures.
Small enameled animals from Kashmir, fine porcelain jugs from China, wooden miniatures from Persia, ceramic lamps from India,
tiled mirrors from Basrah, trick-boxes from Sofala... remnants from trips half remembered, physical reminders of the life
I had abandoned. She was worrying a small ebony turtle with an abalone shell in her hands. When she was very little, she would
crawl on her hands and knees to make it travel across the floor.
My footfalls made no sound, but it didn’t matter—my daughter always seemed to hear everything. Without turning around, she
asked, “So you’re going to Aden?”
I hesitated, wondering how much of her eavesdropping she had understood. “Yes. The Sayyida’s granddaughter has gone missing,
and I know some people who might be able to help.”
“What do you mean, ‘missing’?” Marjana dropped the turtle and it clunked on the floor. “Is she in danger?”
I sat heavily on the bed and made circles with my wrist, rubbing away an ache from my work on the roof. “I pray not. Sometimes...
sometimes important people will hold other important people until their relatives pay a certain amount of money or grant some
sort of promise. It is nothing to do with you or people like us, understand? But I know a lot of sailors in Aden and may be
able to find out where they took her. Besides, it has been a long time since I have checked up on the Marawati and our affairs. It is a good excuse to do so.”
Marjana finally glanced my way. “So... it is like a business trip? Like when Uncle Mustafa went to Mutrah?”
I could not think of a less likely comparison than my brother’s short fellowship to an elderly glassmaker who taught him how
to blow roses, but I simply nodded. “Something like that. It should not take me longer than four months, God willing.”
Marjana stared back at me, her wide eyes filled with unasked questions. Is there any stare like that belonging to your children,
the kind that fills you with love and responsibility at once? Those eyes steady upon my face have been my constant companion
since she was a baby. Looking for reassurance, for answers, for attention.
“But that is a long time,” she whispered, her voice quavering. Indeed, for a child, four months must seem like forever. For
her mother too. “And so far away.”
I pulled her close. “I know. But Grandma and Bubu will have you hopping all over the place,” I said, naming my toddler nephew.
“And the time will pass before you know it. Maybe I can get you some new games in Aden. Or wool for the loom? You would like
that, yes?”
Marjana toyed with the end of one of my braids, her soft cheek brushing mine. “Can I go with you?”
“No, little love, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Is that because it’s not safe?” She pulled back to look me in the face. “Is it because you are going on a boat? Can you not travel another way, Mama? I don’t want you to go on a boat.”
Her fear took me aback, as did this sudden concern about boats. “Why not?”
She dropped her gaze. “Because that’s how Baba died.”
My heart fell. “Marjana...”
“I-I’m sorry,” she rushed. “I know you don’t like to talk about Baba. But if Sayyida Salima’s son died, and Baba died...
Mama, maybe sailing is too dangerous.” Her gaze was bright with unshed tears. “I don’t want you to die.”
“Oh, love... Come here.” I opened my arms and Marjana crawled wordlessly into them, tucking her head under my chin, her
body folded into mine as if she were a girl half her age.
I stroked her hair as she stifled a sob. “My life, my beloved.” I wiped away her tears. “There is no need for this. I grew
up on boats! And Aden is just a quick trip along the sea; we are not taking a ship across the ocean. It is all perfectly safe.”
Lies upon lies. And yet what else was I supposed to say? Is it not the job of parents to reassure their children?
Marjana clutched me tighter, her next words muffled against my chest. “Don’t go, Mama. Please.”
There was genuine terror in her voice, and I frowned. Marjana is on the quiet side—far quieter than I was at her age—and rarely
prone to such fears. I held her out again to look her over and saw that her nose was running, her gaze darting everywhere
to avoid mine.
“Are you truly so worried about me sailing?” I asked gently. “I told you, love, it is a small trip.”
“Not just about sailing.”
“Then what?” As her fingers twisted in the folds of my shirt, I realized she was shaking. “Marjana... Marjana, look at me. What is it?”
The room had darkened, one of the lamps flickering out. In the dim light, my daughter’s eyes were enormous and black as coal,
blacker than the eyes of any person I’ve ever met.
Well, save one, of course.
She bit her lip. “I have a bad feeling.”
I went entirely still.
From another child, “bad feelings” upon a parent’s departure might not be things to worry over. But Marjana is not an ordinary
child. And before I could stop it, a memory rose in my mind. A laughing, husky voice against my ear and hot fingers sliding
between mine on the steering ropes.
“This way,” he said, closing his beautiful black eyes and pulling east.
“There is nothing that way,” I had argued. “Nothing but the doldrums. We will find no ships and may risk our own.”
“Trust me, nakhudha. It will be worth your time. I have a feeling.”
“A feeling ?”
“A feeling. Good feelings, bad feelings... how else do you think I direct your kind toward prosperity?” He had waggled
his eyebrows with a mischievous grin. “Or toward calamity.”
It had sounded like a joke, though I already knew by then that he was not human. But Marjana... Marjana is not that. She
is not his , not in that way. I had looked for signs since she was laid in my arms, perfectly warm and sweet and innocent. The shadows
do not warp when she enters a room. When she falls, she scrapes her knees, and though she loves her games, there is no streak
of good luck that sees her a constant winner.
I steadied my voice. “What sort of bad feeling?”
“I just...” Marjana looked away again, flushing with embarrassment. I could see she was struggling to compose herself,
wanting to be older and braver. “Never mind,” she mumbled.
For a moment, I paused, uncertain whether to press. But I had made my decision, had I not? So I forced myself to dismiss the
warning, perhaps both of us lying to make the other feel better.
I hugged her again. “You have nothing to worry about, my love,” I promised, pressing my face upon the soft crown of her head. “It’s just one job. One job and then I will be home, God as my witness.”
***
It was dark when I woke, dawn a distant shade of rosy ash outside the windows. I hadn’t slept well, a mix of nerves and Marjana’s
tossing and turning keeping me awake. She’d snoozed firmly snuggled against my armpit, and I hadn’t the heart to move her:
a decision I knew my aching shoulder would punish me for today. I disentangled her carefully, sweeping a sweaty lock of hair
off her cheek.
Shivering despite the morning’s humid warmth, I made my ablutions, splashing water from a basin over my face and neck. I changed
into an amber-hued robe of soft cotton and bound up my braids, draping a light scarf over my head before turning my intentions
to prayer.
If the criminal past didn’t alert you, I have not always been a very good Muslim. Drinking and missing prayer were among my
lesser sins, and if I tried to straighten myself up every year when Ramadan rolled around—a new life of piety easy to imagine
while dazed with thirst and caught up in the communal joy of taraweeh—I typically lapsed into my usual behavior by the time
the month of Shawwal had ended.
But then Marjana was born. And Asif was... lost. And if one of these events made me feel as though I had no right to ever
call upon God again, the other filled with me a driving need I could not deny. So I keep my daily prayers, even if I feel
unworthy the entire time.
I pressed my brow to the ground in a motion ingrained upon my soul and recited the words I’ve known nearly all my life.
I added my personal supplications last, imploring that both my family and Salima’s wayward granddaughter remain safe.
While I prayed, I listened to Marjana’s soft breathing.
Though dawn had arrived, a few ribbons of remaining moon light still banded across her sleeping body, illuminating the rise and fall of her chest.
There is to be an eclipse soon, I recalled, the dying lunar glow jostling my reminiscence. If this had been the old days, I would have known the eclipse down
to the very night; sailors are a superstitious sort, and like many nawakhidha, I paid every year for a glimpse at the copies
of astrological tables and almanacs drawn in the great courts of whatever city I was in, to learn of both auspicious and inauspicious
dates and signs. Though I no longer took note of such happenings, my brother, Mustafa, had been clucking his tongue over the
eclipse, fearing the event would cloud the birth of his second child, just over three months away now.
A birth I might miss. Four months I had promised Salima, and the implications suddenly struck with such force it left me breathless, the plans I
had so fervently defended wavering. What if Marjana got hurt in that time? What if the new baby came early and they needed
help with the delivery?
A million dinars, I reminded myself. A fortune that could change the course of all our lives. Marjana would be in good, loving hands while
I was gone, and my mother could handle the matter of new babies far better than me. Four months of missing each other was
nothing compared to a lifetime—life times —of security.
I planted a single kiss on Marjana’s smooth cheek. “God protect you,” I said softly. Fearing my resolve would fail if I tarried
a moment longer, I stole a final glance at my child, then made my way downstairs.
My mother was busy in the kitchen as I knew she would be. If the stack of waiting tins was any indication, she’d probably
been cooking all night.
“Amma, you did not need to do this,” I protested. “There is enough food here for an army.”
“What else I am to do when you insist on running off to risk your life? At least you will not starve.” She picked up a pale porcelain dish.
The water inside was tinged blue, from the dissolved ink she had used to write holy verses.
My mother had no doubt been praying herself.
Had probably snuck into my room to sprinkle Zamzam water on my bags and watch Marjana and me sleep. “Drink this.”
I obeyed.
She quickly wiped her eyes, pulling me into an embrace. “Be good, Amina. Be careful . No amount of money is worth losing you.”
“I will be careful, I promise.” I kissed her hands. “Take care of Marjana.”
Then I picked up my bags and was gone. I could feel my mother watching from the doorway, but I didn’t look back to watch the
dawn light warm the home I had built: the little enclave in which my daughter had grown up safe and blissfully unaware of
our violent past, of her own origins. I was not sure my torn heart could take it.
I had made one new decision, however, swayed by my mother’s pleas and my daughter’s tears: I would not travel to Aden, not
straightaway. They wanted me safe?
Then I would go to the most dangerous person I knew.