The Sand Fish (21 page)

T
his is what they do with the nacre,” Jassem said, his hand unfurling to reveal a handful of shiny, white buttons. He lifted one of them and bit on it. “See? Top quality, so strong it doesn’t even break when I bite it.” He had called his three wives to his room for one of his rare, important talks. And this talk was about buttons and change.

Noora felt her eyes broaden with concentration. She and Shamsa were sitting like attentive students on either side of Lateefa in the middle of the room, facing Jassem and his cupboard. But Noora was only half listening to his words. Her head felt as if it were clogged with a wet rag, heavy with betrayal. Hamad had wanted to take those pearls, and she had refused to join him. Jassem was her husband, and she had betrayed him. And there was the cupboard behind Jassem, and in it were the pearls. She could see her reflection, a perplexed blur, in its smooth, rosewood veneer. And if that wasn’t enough, that wet
rag in her head was beginning to clump with a queasiness that was all too familiar.

Lateefa picked a button out of Jassem’s palm carefully, as if it might burn a hole in her fingers, as if it were a piece of hot coal. “And this little thing will open new possibilities?” she asked, pulling it close to her eyes for a thorough scrutiny. “I don’t know about this.” Her voice was thick with suspicion. “I am not sure if I trust them, those
Inglesis
with their green eyes and all.”

“True.” Shamsa chuckled, plucking another button out of Jassem’s open hand. “Anyone with green eyes is as cunning as a cat, not to be trusted.”

Those words were intended for Noora, of course, but before she could answer, Jassem threw in a grunt and an impatient series of nods. “Yes, yes,” he said, “but that is not the point. The point is to establish a relationship with these English people, so that when they want to trade in more things, bigger ventures, they choose me. It’s not the buttons I am interested in. It is making sure those
Inglesis
know I am an honest and efficient businessman.”

Perspiration gleamed on his passionate face, and Noora followed his spectacles as they inched down his nose. Once they had settled at the tip, he would not push them up. He had more to say, more lessons to teach his wives. “You must start observing things with the sweeping vision of men, not the narrow outlook of women,” he said. “Open your minds and see what this all means. With this button venture, I am opening big possibilities for the future. The English will be leading the future, and I will be right there by their side.”

Lateefa grunted. She still seemed unconvinced. “Here, feel it,” she said, popping a button into Noora’s fingers. “Just think,
if we start using these buttons, you won’t have to sew over and over the same place to make your cloth-and-thread buttons anymore.”

Jassem tilted his head toward Noora, his eyes hovering over his clinging spectacles. He still would not push them back, and although she couldn’t understand why, she was impatient for him to flick a finger and settle them in the right place. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, and Noora guessed he wanted her to show that she was as excited about his talk as he was. “What about these shells and the nacre?” She asked the first question that came to her mind and followed it with another. “Where are you going to get so many from?” She paused, before adding quickly, “And how?”

“Hoo ho,” he sang, and let loose a blustering clap. Then he took a deep breath and, finally, shoved his spectacles back. “Now that there won’t be any more diving, my boats can go and get those shells.” He snaked his arms in the thick air, mimicking the rises and dips of a sailing boat. “Off to the mountains they will go. Off to Nassayem, and all those other mountain-and-sea villages, where those large shells cling to the rocks.”

Shamsa’s eyes brightened with mischief. “Ah, isn’t that where the mountain goats live? Isn’t that where you got Noora from?”

This time Noora did not attempt to answer her. A weakness was beginning to fall over her like a heavy blanket. Her face was hot and her mouth parched. She wanted to rush to the well and quench her thirst, but the dread of fainting kept her rooted in place, that and the heaviness of the wet rag in her head.

“We will bring those shells back to Wadeema and scrape off the barnacles and algae,” Jassem continued. He shook the buttons in the cave of his clasped palms and listened to their clicks,
smiled at the promised fortune they would bring. “Then we will wash those shells and pack them in crates to sell to the English.” He chuckled. “Clean shells with shiny nacre inside. Off they’ll go, to the English company in Bombay, to make buttons. Our own nacre buttons to be sold to the rest of the world.”

As he ranted on about opportunity, hope, and the river of wealth that would soon be flowing to his doorstep, Noora thought about Hamad. Wasn’t that what Hamad wanted? And yet, Hamad had chosen to steal. She had not spoken to him since he’d snuck up on her in the men’s
majlis
. Would he go ahead with his plan, or was it just talk? Noora’s eyes traveled along the vines that crept up the sides of the cupboard to rest at the sculpted urns at the top. The keys to both the cupboard and the metal safe within were hidden behind those urns.

Suddenly, she was overpowered by an urge to warn Jassem to move his keys somewhere else, so that no thief could find them. A clammy chill settled on the nape of her neck and her lips unclamped. She might have spoken had she not noticed the abrupt stillness that surrounded her. Then Jassem jarred her with a thunderous voice. “What are you staring at?” The crisp rasp of his dishdasha was as sharp as the swab of a blade on stone as he twisted to look over his shoulder.

Noora shook her head, and through the strobes of her rapid blinks, there were the questioning faces of Lateefa and Shamsa, leaning toward her.

“You are as white as the nacre,” Lateefa said, and reached out to touch Noora’s forehead, flattening the seeds of perspiration that lined her forehead. “Are you sick?”

“Why is she so drenched? It’s not that hot,” Shamsa said, and for the first time Noora heard a lilt in Shamsa’s voice that sounded like concern—or alarm.

Noora fanned her face quickly and gasped for air. “I can’t breathe,” she panted, and as she leaned to get up, she felt Lateefa’s firm grip on her wrist pulling her back down. And Noora was thankful for that, for the room was starting to spin and dim with the speed of a spiraling storm of dirt.

And then Lateefa began touching her. Noora was not sure why. And she could not ask, for she was busy fighting the tug that was pulling her eyelids closed. Everything felt exaggerated. Lateefa’s arm sliding down along her back was as heavy as a bloated water skin, and Lateefa’s hands as they patted her waist were as sharp as the slaps of a sandal. Finally, Lateefa’s palm slid onto her stomach. And there it remained for a moment that Noora was sure was brief but felt as sluggish as the lift of the morning mist in her mountains.

“Too much meat on a woman or too little can mean only one thing,” Lateefa said, her words sounding warped, thick, stretched. “And you, dear daughter, have got too little for my liking.”

Noora’s eyes burned as she forced them to stay open in the swirl of scattering shadows that were enclosing her. She could see Lateefa leaning back, captured the disbelief in her eyes, and finally fell under the spell of her bobbing burka as the older woman uttered, “You’re pregnant.”

It could not be! That’s what the tiny voice in Noora’s head screamed. She had to run away, as fast as she could. With all the strength she could gather, she sprang up. And that’s when she felt her limbs grow floppy and her chest sway to the side. That’s when her head spun and she collapsed. That’s when the darkness swallowed the light completely.

N
oora woke up in a haze and tried to sit up, only to feel Lateefa’s arms press her shoulders back into the mattress. With the weight of her shame, her tongue tripped into a stutter of meaningless babbles before she could hear the words that made sense, the ones she could understand. “It just happened on its own…” It was a feeble utterance of remorse. “I don’t…”

“Don’t talk,” Lateefa ordered.

Was that the snarl of a wild dog grating the back of Lateefa’s throat? The older woman loomed above her and she seemed to have grown in size. Noora watched her raise her arms high up above her head, expanding them just as an eagle spreads its wings in a show of might. And Noora was in her shadow like a cringing mouse, the truth of what had passed swallowing her as surely as quicksand.

She was pregnant. The signs had been there for so long and she hadn’t even guessed the cause. And now she was feeling hot and cold, her body drenched in a freeze and thaw, as she waited for Lateefa to strike her. Lateefa’s arms remained over her head as Noora strained to keep her eyes open. She had to see what would happen next. Would Lateefa slap her or would she claw her fingers into Noora’s face, scratch it till she drew rivers of blood that would leave behind marks to stay with her always as a reminder of her deceit? She was ready to receive either, for she deserved it and much more.

But Lateefa did neither. Instead, she relaxed her hands behind her head and untied the knot of her burka. Then she slid it off her face, revealing inky smudges imprinted on her cheeks from the indigo-stained cotton that lined the inside of her mask. It was a rare moment for Noora, a kind of privilege, seeing Lateefa’s naked face, which beamed a most puzzling smile. Her thin lips spread so high that her short nose flattened into her cheeks, pushing those dark, blue smudges farther up, as if they might empty into the hollow pools under her eyes. Not a hint of anger blemished that smile. It was a smile of pure joy.

Noora’s head lightened and the room darkened, and she sank into a nervous sleep filled with ugly dreams. Her next waking moment began with the squish and drip of water. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Lateefa was still sitting next to her, squeezing the liquid out of a wet cloth and into a bowl.

“Ham—”

“Shh,” Lateefa said, quickly placing her finger on Noora’s lips. “Enough silly talk. Don’t think of anything, except getting better. Rest, my dear, rest. Don’t try to talk.” She placed the wet cloth on Noora’s forehead. “You are feverish, and now we have
to make you better. You have to get strong again. We don’t want that fever to affect our baby.” She lifted a bowl of chicken broth and placed it to Noora’s lips. “We won’t get ourselves strong unless we nourish ourselves.”

A yelp cut the stillness between them just as Noora was about to sip the broth, and it sounded as if it were coming out of a deep well. So shrill she thought it was Yaqoota, but the pain in that voice was not Yaqoota’s. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

Lateefa closed her eyes and said, “It’s Shamsa—just ignore her. She is upset about the baby.” A series of clicks ricocheted in Lateefa’s mouth. “So selfish, that one, you would think she’d be happy that the
arbab
is finally going to have a child.” She let out a raspy sigh, thick with the pleasure of a purring cat. “Finally, you have made Jassem’s dream come true, all our dreams. A child! Finally, the blessing of Jassem’s child.”

With those words, the broth slid down Noora’s throat the wrong way, and she fell into a fit of violent coughs that splattered the bed. Through teary eyes, she watched Lateefa quickly place the bowl on the floor, and with the skill of a healer of many years, she scooped Noora into a sitting position and began thumping her back.

Noora regained her breath, even though her chest felt bruised. Her head fell into a weary spin again, and she slumped back into the mattress, confused, wondering whether she was dreaming, whether she had imagined it, or whether Lateefa had really said that the child was Jassem’s. She turned her head to one side and caught the dwindling sunlight, a sprawling river of amber, streaming into her room through the window. Even that gentle light hurt her eyes.

“You have been in and out of sleep all day, talking nonsense,” Lateefa said, nodding. “You’re feverish, and you didn’t
know what you were saying—all silly things, of course—so don’t talk anymore.”

Noora tried to focus on the flecks of dust that swam in the light as the questions flitted in her mind like moths fluttering toward a fire. What were the silly things she had uttered? Had she mentioned Hamad? She yearned to know, but getting too close to that blaze could burn her.

So she remained silent and let Lateefa help her sit up once again. Noora sipped her broth, and when Shamsa’s choked sniffles seeped through the wall, she began slurping. Anything to cover the sound of those muffled sobs.

The door creaked open and a shaft of light pierced the dimness. Lateefa plodded across the room and placed her palm on Noora’s head. “It is gone,” she said, sighing with relief. “A whole week of fever, you had us so worried. We thought you were losing your mind with all that kicking and mumbling, as if you had so many important things to say.”

Noora was still weary after the yoyo of hot and cold that she had endured. Her breath was shallow and her mind a cave of confusion. The only thought that seeped through, clear as running water, was that she was pregnant, and the weight of it kept her pinned to her bed as surely as if there sat a heavy boulder on her chest.

Lateefa lapped a cloth into a bowl of buttermilk and turmeric. It was the same mixture she had used to bring Noora’s fever down, and now, as before, she squeezed the cloth with a devotion that was quite new, one that Noora had never seen in the older woman. The room remained heavy with the smell of
spiced old milk, and Noora shook her head as Lateefa lifted the cloth toward her forehead.

“But it will bring your fever down,” Lateefa said.

“Fever’s finished,” whispered Noora. “No more, please.”

Lateefa paused with the cloth in her hand and chuckled. “All right, if you don’t want anymore, that’s fine. But there is something that I’m sure you do want.” From her pocket, she pulled two halves of a lime. Suddenly, Noora felt her breath quicken and her mouth drool. Sifting through her jumbled thoughts, she remembered her frenzied calls to satisfy her craving for the sour taste of limes. She sucked the flesh greedily, and as her lips pursed under its tartness, she thought of Jassem and his belt-tightening tales of his precious limes. He had been in her dreams, too, or were they her waking moments?

While she was feverish, in and out of sleep, she remembered seeing him at the door, more than once, asking in a low voice whether she was getting better. She was sure there were lines of worry on his forehead. It was another first for Noora, seeing her husband, the man with the lion’s growl, meowing a timid cat’s fears.

As Lateefa tiptoed out of the room, Noora relished the lime. Her secret seemed safe. Otherwise, Lateefa and Jassem would not have been so accommodating, so concerned, and, dare she believe it, so loving. She peeled the inside of the lime with her teeth and chewed the pulp. It was bitter and sharp at the same time. Just what she wanted, just what she needed for now, until she could think more clearly, until she could understand her new position in the household.