The Ruins of Us (2 page)

“I’ll wait outside for you, Umma,” Mariam said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “I want to see how it looks in the sunlight.” She grabbed the bracelet and ducked out of Rosalie’s grasp, the door sighing shut behind her.

“Oh, madam!” the shopkeeper said with delight as he scrutinized the name on the card. “Baylani. You are family to Sheikh Abdullah, then?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. You know him?”

“Who doesn’t know the sheikh? He is my favorite customer. He always has a good joke to tell when he comes in, and his taste is exquisite. You are his wife, then?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then I must ask you something.” The Yemeni clasped his hands and smiled. “What did you think about the onyx pendant? I had the setting specially made just for that stone. Oh, and how could I forget? Happy anniversary! It was December, wasn’t it? Your wedding anniversary?”

“I’m sure the pendant was lovely, but I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else,” she said. “Perhaps one of the sheikh’s brothers bought it as a gift?”

“No, madam, there’s no mistaking Sheikh Abdullah. But perhaps I have spoiled his surprise for you. I could swear the sheikh said the anniversary was in December. Please don’t tell him I’ve ruined the surprise.”

Abdullah knew she despised onyx—it looked too gothic against her pale skin, and Rosalie considered the stone’s patent-leather sheen gaudy. The jeweler’s befuddlement made her want to correct him again, this time with greater specificity. For me, Abdi buys amethysts because the color so closely matches the sky that day when we had to park at the rest stop, just east of Marble Falls, and wait out the tornado warning. It stormed for three hours, the heavens a grayish purple, like dusty plums, with us crouched by the roadside. His mouth tasted of the blueberry pie we had eaten in a late-afternoon fit of indulgence.

But never onyx, Abdullah knew her too well for that. She felt queasy. The shop was hot; she was aware of the sweat forming by her ears, where the veil met her hairline. Were they starting again? The affairs that had eaten at her insides like a parasite? No, they had moved beyond those days, they were years beyond those days. Abdullah had realized he could not satisfy his hungering heart with trifles. Still, he knew her too well for onyx.

“So sorry, madam.” The jeweler pushed the credit card receipt across the glass case. She signed it and then paused. Her name was there at the bottom of the receipt; she could help the Hadrami solve the mystery right then.

“When did the sheikh make this purchase? Can’t you find the receipt?” she asked. Her throat was dry. She’d been suffering nosebleeds at night, the air was so stripped by the north winds.

“Oh, no. My mistake, madam. As you said, I am confused.” A blush had risen on the man’s cheeks, deep enough to reveal itself against his olive skin.

“Me too. So why don’t you help clear up some of my confusion.”

Their anniversary wasn’t until May, when the heat in the Kingdom was building and they had to escape to the mountains of Asir for a few days. It was what they did to reward each other for another year, twenty-seven in all. They did not exchange lumps of minerals. Abdullah had an aversion to clichés, preferring instead to give her jewelry on any old day of the week. It was best that way, when, sleepy-eyed with routine, she uncovered on a kitchen sponge a vein of pink fire nestled in an egg-shaped opal.

Now, the dust in the air, her incapacious lungs; she coughed to calm herself; she felt lost, and it was something to do. She coughed again and again, held up her hand asking the man to give her a moment. She was buying time to collect herself. Her heart hammered in her chest, the way it used to before she took the stage at the Lazy Lion. Then, Abdullah had watched and adored her, courted her shamelessly. From beneath the register, the jeweler procured a tiny bottle of water. She thanked him, then took a sip.

She watched her daughter standing outside the heavy glass door and holding her bracelet up to the sun. Each time it flashed, Mariam smiled. Rosalie turned back to the jeweler. There it was, caught in her lungs, tangled around her heart: anger.

“How many pieces of jewelry has my husband bought from you in the last year? I want to know. Pearls? Gemstones? Necklaces or bracelets?”

“I . . . I don’t really know, madam . . .”

“Surely you have a record. Abdullah al-Baylani is an important man and you said yourself he’s your favorite customer. I know you remember every time he’s been in your shop. Come on now, tell me. Maybe I’ll become your best customer.”

The Yemeni laughed nervously, his eyes darting from side to side as if looking for another merchant to step in and save him.

She locked eyes with him. “You’re already involved in this, sir. You might as well cooperate.”

The call of the muezzin broke over the tops of the trees, the nasal call to prayer that Rosalie could recite in her sleep. The Yemeni picked up his prayer rug and stepped through the door, ushering her forward with a wave of the hand. Reluctantly, she stepped outside. He fumbled with the lock, and when it finally clicked into place, he raced away from them in the direction of the central mosque. As she watched him go, Rosalie felt the muscles in her neck relax. She took Mariam by the hand.

“Let’s go,” Rosalie said. “Let’s go home.”

She thrust the small maroon gift bag containing the empty jewelry box into Mariam’s hand. As they walked toward the side street where Raja was parked, Mariam swung it back and forth, humming a song Rosalie didn’t know. Silently, she dared any religious policeman to tell her that she should be at home praying. She clenched her fists and waited for the confrontation, but no one bothered them. They probably sensed the anger in her step, each stride long and purposeful. In the dry air, she could feel the bags under her eyes, which no night cream could hide. Perhaps it was best to walk in ugliness today. The day she learned that her husband was celebrating wedding anniversaries with someone other than her.

Raja got out of the car and opened her door, then Mariam’s. It was an hour-long drive home to Al Dawoun and she didn’t want to start back. There was nothing but the tomb of a house waiting for her. Last winter, after returning from a trip to Italy with trunks of new things, she’d begun to realize that she was decorating her house as if she were to be mummified in it. A crypt discovered thousands of years later with her perfectly preserved gems, hammered gold pots, and her wrinkled, eyeless face.

Rosalie stared out the car’s window while Mariam occupied herself with texting her friends. One of the girls was planning a party for her, complete with a DJ who was the girl’s twelve-year-old brother.

All those years living side by side with Abdullah, not effortlessly, certainly, but contentedly most of the time. She had granted him his other indiscretions, moving beyond them in a way that had made her proud. At the end of the day he had belonged to her, their marriage a place they could retreat to, a bond that had set her apart from the unknown others. But how do you react to the discovery of another
wife
? The jeweler had said wedding anniversary after all. It could only be
wife
.

She undid her seat belt and slid across the backseat until she was pressed against her daughter. Taking Mariam’s hand, she gave a hard squeeze, brought it to her mouth, and grazed her lips across the knuckles. “Umma,” Mariam said, annoyed. She squirmed free and resumed texting.

But maybe not. Maybe she was being paranoid. Abdullah had lots of brothers, and they were all rich, all with wives, many with mistresses. Abdullah might have made the purchase for one of them, to surprise one of the wives, or for discretion’s sake. He was her Abdi. They were playful with each other. Perhaps they lacked fiery passion, but after more than twenty-seven years of marriage, who didn’t? But the love was there, the deep affection.

Outside the car’s window, the low dunes stretched to the horizon, broken by tufts of gray desert plants. Near the Gulf, the dunes had been whittled down and swept by the wind, grain by grain, into the sea. There was patience evident in the desert. It moved slowly, spreading over ancient trade routes until one day, centuries later, the frankincense route through Arabia was buried under a matrix of sand, whole cities lost along the way. History happened that way—slowly, each small human devastation crushed by its slow-rolling weight. Off on a far dune, Rosalie spotted a single camel moving lazily along the ridge, evoking an ache for something lost. It was the feeling she used to get while reading
National Geographic
in her doctor’s office in Texas. All those photographs, so terribly exotic, didn’t bring the far worlds closer to her. Instead, they made her acutely conscious of her difference and distance. Her awe was uncomfortable and her quiet appreciation lonely. She knew she would never be a part of a naming ceremony or a tribal coffee; she could only have it two-dimensionally, for it wasn’t rightfully hers. The camel continued its plod across the horizon. Rosalie looked away, but the ache remained.

Heading back toward the Diamond Mile along the old Airport Road, the car rolled past the huge State Oil compound where she had grown up before moving to Texas. She would find him first thing, ask him directly. Secrets need shadows to thrive, and she would shine a spotlight on the onyx pendant and see what lived beneath it. As she watched the compound pass outside the car window, she felt a jolt of anger. If he had compromised what they’d built, she wasn’t positive she could stop herself from reaching for the nearest kitchen knife. How foolish she had been to return to the Kingdom with him all those years ago. She had allowed her nostalgia for a place and time that no longer existed dictate her life’s most important decision. Yes, she’d been in love with Abdullah, but how much of that love had been predicated on the idea that he could take her back to that distant place of her childhood? Look where chasing after memories had gotten her—stuck between worlds without a strong footing in either one. Rosalie closed her eyes and felt the
ca-thunk, ca-thunk, ca-thunk
of the car as it passed over the bumpy road.

As they neared home, dread settled in her stomach. She knew what he was capable of—Abdullah, with all of that life in him. The jokes, the looks, the money that simply would not stop reproducing itself. Women noticed those things. They appreciated those things. And Abdullah had trouble denying himself. Entitlement reigned in him. How could it not? For a moment, she thought she would be sick. She cracked the window and waited for the feeling to pass.

She wondered if Abdullah had come to her with his shared body, wanting comfort. What was the woman’s face like? Had Rosalie passed her in the market or the mall? She could barely consider these questions. She dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders heaving silently. A sob emerged from the deepest part of her chest. The crux of the problem was, she loved Abdullah.

Mariam looked up from her phone.

“Umma, what is it?” She undid her seat belt and slid across the slick leather seat, putting her hand on the back of Rosalie’s neck.

“It’s nothing,” she said, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her abaya. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

ABDULLAH WAS IN
his study when she found him. He was bent over an open desk drawer, his back to her. She went around to the front of the desk, like a secretary come to announce an appointment. She would be businesslike, at least until she had confirmed her suspicions. She cleared her throat and he turned to look at her.

“You smell of za’atar,” he said. “Come here, za’atarooni.” He waved her over to him.

“You always knew how to flatter a girl, didn’t you?”

She said this without a smile.

“What did you find at the market this time?” he asked.

“No, I think the question is, what did you find at the market? I hear you’ve been buying ugly onyx pendants there, and I imagine it’s not to punish me. You’re too cheap to spend that kind of money just to make fun.”

Abdullah’s face fell, and she knew then that it was true.

“Did you find her at the market, too? Buy her like a little slave girl?”

“Habibti,” he started.

“It hasn’t been that long since men could do that. Are you keeping a concubine, Sheikh Abdullah?”

Her voice was filled with cruelty and contempt, which surprised her. She had never spoken to her husband in that tone before, but then again, she had not known that she was to become the senior wife, mother of his children, or whatever title he would give her as appeasement. Abdullah was silent for several minutes. Outside, she heard a lawnmower kick on. She closed her eyes, willed herself to faint. It was too painful that the rest of the world kept moving while her life was ravaged.

“Rosie, I was waiting for the right time to tell you. And she’s not a concubine. Please don’t insult her. She’s my wife, before God.”

“ ‘Before God?’ Don’t you dare hang this on religion, Abdullah. The world would be an ugly place if we all did the things our good books say we can.” She paused. “How long has it been?”

“Two years.”

“Jesus.”

She felt bile rising in her throat. She wanted to run at him, shove him back against the bookshelf, to make him hold her or push her away. But the large walnut desk was in the way, and she felt bound to where she stood, exhausted by his confession and all that it meant for their family. The sun spilled into the room, just like it did every other day. She fixed her eyes on the empty sleeve of her husband’s shirt, where she knew his arm stopped just before the knob of his wrist. She didn’t even know how he’d lost his hand all those years ago. For a while, she’d probed for an explanation, but he was secretive about the circumstances. Now it seemed like further proof that she had absolutely no idea who her husband was. For all she knew, a furious mistress could have sawed off his hand.

He’d been married to another woman for
two years
. Her next question no longer mattered. She smoothed down her skirt, then turned and walked toward the door. That question was
why
, but after two years, it was too late to ask why. Instead, she grabbed a jade bookend from the shelf, turned and heaved it toward him. He moved easily out of the way, which only further infuriated her.