The Sand Fish (11 page)

B
y the next day, the rocks softened into large, saffron dunes. And the day after that, the humps paled and flattened, replaced with a swampy shore from which seabirds lifted, their feathers gleaming under the sun, to flap alongside the lateen sail of their wind-driven boat. And then they followed a coastline of dazzling, white sand.

Noora had gotten used to the lift and fall of the boat by now, and whenever Lateefa dozed under the blanket, she passed the time by watching the eight-man crew through the rip.

“Not a week has passed and already she’s sick of him.” That was Khamees, a sour-faced diver with lanky limbs.

“All over him.” And that was Sangoor. He was blessed with a velvety voice that had been dipping in and out of tunes since they had begun the journey.

And now he was humming again, and she knew it would lead to a song:

The tent moved. “That donkey’s bray again,” Lateefa muttered and fumbled out from under the blanket. “Now, where are we?”

As Lateefa squinted at the dazzle of the sun, Noora asked, “Am I in trouble?”

“Why would you be in trouble?” Lateefa said.

“You know, with my husband.” She paused. “I mean, our husband, after I soiled his dishdasha. He hasn’t come to see us since.”

“Pah! What do you think? You think he has nothing better to do than nurse your unsettled stomach, that he is not needed to guide this boat?”

“So…I’m not in trouble?”

“Pah!”

And with that second
pah
Lateefa covered her head once more, and Noora knew she was not going to get an answer. So what if he stayed away? So what if everyone stayed away, including that Hamad boy? It was only his arms, brown with the sun, that she glimpsed, as they emerged on her side of the sheet, to deliver this or pick up that. Still, even with that thought, she shuffled back to the rip. Why shouldn’t she look? Instead of Hamad, she spotted Jassem snapping open his timepiece. “Half past three,” he declared. He sniffed the air as if he had just picked up the scent of rotting fish and pointed ahead. They had arrived at Leema.

Khor Marmar—the marble creek: Lateefa had told Noora about it, describing it as a hundred shades lighter than the open water. Some merchant, a long time ago, had named it so because it reminded him of the marble of the mosques in Persia and India.

And he was right, that merchant. Even from under her veil, Noora had to squint at the shimmering piece of sea that emptied into a balloon-shaped creek around which the town of Leema rose. The water was a luminous milky white, deep enough for boats to float on. But not always—at least that is what Lateefa had said. “For a few days every month, the sand sucks in the water and leaves just a little bit in the middle. And when that happens, you can walk across from one side of Leema to the other.” Noora could not imagine it. “And picture this,” Lateefa had continued, “when there is no water, the boats have to sit on the sand, leaning to one side, waiting for it to come back and lift them up again.”

What stories she made up! Noora looked ahead. Khor Marmar was full of water. And on it were all shapes and sizes of boats. Some forty dhows with sails wrapped around high masts were moored to the rough coral stones that made up the dock on the eastern side of Khor Marmar. Around them and in between, smaller boats bobbed. Some were carved out of a single palm tree trunk; others were a collection of palm fronds secured with rope. Then there were the tiny wooden barrels, pretending to be boats, half in half out of the water, always carrying a child or two.

It was a grand sight after the lull at sea. So many people! Men crouched on the sandy banks fixing nets, bent over crates
and lifted them up, rowed across the lagoon, stood at the shore polishing hulls, even swam.

So much to see! Her eyes drifted to the houses on both sides of the creek. They were nothing like the stone huts of her mountains. These had smooth walls, golden as the sun—solid squares crowned with low towers.

“Wind towers,” said Lateefa, with a nod of knowledge. She had removed her blanket and was now adjusting her veil, making sure it hung neatly over her face. “They trap the wind and funnel it through, into the house. Cool, cool air.”

What genius thought of such an invention? With her head full of cool, cool air, she began counting the wind towers: thirty lining the eastern bank and another twenty on the western bank.

“Only the rich have wind towers,” said Lateefa, the pride of the prosperous warbling her voice. “We have two in our house.”

“Which one is your house?”

Lateefa waved an arm in the air. “We’re a little way away, in Wadeema. You can’t see our house from here.”

Perhaps Sager did know what was best for her. Perhaps this would be a better life. For the first time, Noora dared to hope. Was it because of this new place so full of the throb of life? She was infected with the sudden bustle around her after so many days listening to the sigh of the sea.

Once she was off the boat, her spirit rose further when she saw that Jassem wasn’t angry at the mess she had made days ago on his dishdasha. He didn’t raise his nostrils at her, nor did he scold her; he was cheerful, insisting that the women ac
company him and Hamad to the souk, Leema’s market, before carrying on to his house.

He looked as happy as a child with a pocketful of sweets. His
ghitra
flapped along his shoulders as he led the way, followed by Hamad and the women. They passed a row of murmuring women sitting cross-legged, their wares spread on pieces of cloth in front of them. Odds and ends, that’s what they were selling: bottles, tins, scraps of rope and thread, small bundles of herbs, needles and buttons. And that’s what Noora was examining. Hamad’s eyes did not interest her anymore. They dissolved into an air bombarded with the cries of men who uttered words she could not understand. Persian, Indian, and African tongues mingled with the Arabic, along with the bleats of goats for sale held tight by their masters.

Even Lateefa was excited, clutching Noora’s arm firmly, forgetting her fragile bones for the moment. She pulled Noora along with a startling strength and agility, dodging a donkey’s swishing tail, shifting to one side as the cartwheel it was pulling, laden heavy with sacks of rice, rumbled past them. “Rice, green limes, onions, lentils, and radishes,” Lateefa listed, making sure her voice was loud enough for Jassem to hear. When he did not respond, she added, “Some special foods, too.”

Jassem stopped and looked back at her.

“You know what I mean, husband, like pomegranates and bananas.”

“Pomegranates? It’s not the season,” said Jassem.

“Yes it is. They always come at this time from Persia.”

Jassem waved his hand impatiently. “What do you want pomegranates for, woman?”

Lateefa stuttered. “Well, you know, for you and your new wife—as a treat.”

“A treat? No, no, no, no. Too messy. When that red juice gets on your clothes you can’t wash it off.”

“Bananas then?”

“No bananas. You pay so much for them and they finish so quickly. Mush-mush in the mouth and they are gone.” He let out a generous chortle. “So quickly you can’t even remember what they tasted like.” He tapped his temple with a finger, as if deep in thought, and added, “I think it is mangoes we should get. Pure, sweet—that is the fruit for pampering.” His arm swung generously in the air. “Yes, mangoes. As many mangoes as we can find.”

Only Noora heard Lateefa sigh and whisper, “But it’s not the season for mangoes.”

Noora smelled the souk before seeing it. As they entered the dimness of the narrow lanes, the sharp scent of spices rocketed up her nose and settled on her eyeballs. A piercing combination of pepper, ginger, clove, and cumin misted her eyes before the cooling scent of cardamom, cinnamon, coriander, and anise seeds dried them up again. Only then did she notice the tawny shafts of light that pierced their way through the palm-frond awning. They fell on the ground and lit up the shuffling feet that compressed the sandy lanes, sharp beams carrying bits of floating dust.

Since Jassem maintained that spices were a waste of money, they breezed through the spice lane and turned into a street filled with blacksmiths’ embers. The heat clung to the air, which was ringing with the sharp clangs of hammers on metal. More noise but fewer people here. The street forked and they veered right, where Noora heard the buzz of saw on timber. She
sneezed as she caught the whiff of fresh wood through the fine shavings that flew into the air.

Then the tailors’ street: quieter, with just the start-and-stop hums of sewing machines. A man emerged from the dimness of the third shop, his hair slicked into place with so much coconut oil that its scent trailed out of the open-fronted stall. He waved his hand at Jassem. “
Arbab
, master, you back? What I hear?
Masha’ Allah
, you marry?” He seemed to have a way of using only the important words and losing the rest in an accent twirled through the curl of his tongue.

“Ah, Kumar!
Salam Alaikum
.” Jassem waved his greeting and kept walking.

“Why run so fast? Come drink tea, good strong Indian tea. You married now, stop! Shop for new wife. Why no buy presents from my shop? Bestest fabrics from Bombay. Number one quality, must sell.” He smiled and wagged his head.

Jassem laughed and paused to say, “You Indians, always wanting to make more money.” He turned and continued a few steps before stopping again, raising his brows with recognition at a fragile man with a pointy, white beard coming toward them. “Ah,” Jassem said. “
Salam Alaikum
, Juma Bin-Humaid, what are you doing here, so deep in the market?” Jassem greeted the old man with a nose kiss and Hamad kissed his hand before stepping to the side.

“A visit over there,” said Juma, pointing ahead. “God knows I shouldn’t wander so far from my shop. This damp gets into my skin, makes my bones crack.”

Jassem chuckled. “The damp? The damp is everywhere, my friend. It settles on these roofs, seeps through your dishdasha, wets this packed sand you’re standing on. The sea, my friend-when you are by the sea, the damp crawls all over the place.” He
let out a hearty guffaw while his friend raised a palm to greet Lateefa and ask how her health was. That was all it took: a casual query about health for both Juma and Lateefa to start pouring out a whole list of ailments that they had endured and continued to suffer from. There were back pains and headaches, heart throbs and indigestion, itches, and dizziness. Their problems seemed endless, and Noora shuffled from one foot to the other wanting to move on, envying Hamad as he stole away to the other end of the street. She couldn’t do that. She had to remain where she was.

Then Jassem coughed—a serious cough that ended Juma and Lateefa’s animated conversation. “That other woman is my new wife!” he declared.

“You are blessed, Jassem,” said Juma, his beard fanning out slightly in a smile that Noora thought looked more nervous than it should. A cane dangled through the quiver of his bony fingers, looking strangely out of place. A cane belonged to a strong man. Juma Bin-Humaid could hardly be called that.

“Just so you know,” Lateefa whispered to her, “Juma Bin-Humaid is Shamsa’s father, a merchant—and rich like our husband.”

The other wife
, thought Noora. That explained his restlessness. He must hate me! She watched the old man curl his fist around the cane, but instead of steadying his grip, his hand shook more. So he crossed his arms high on his chest and began raking his beard with his fingers. They were dull and brittle, reminding Noora of the dying twigs she would often spot in her mountains, clinging to the trees that had nourished them. The smile had left Juma’s face, and he looked as if he had something he needed to say.

Jassem placed an arm around Juma’s frail shoulders. “So,
masha’ Allah
, how much money have you made since I was away?”

“The usual. No more, no less.”

“Good. Well, we better go now. We have to get some supplies for the house before heading home.” He winked at Juma. “I must distribute some food at Wadeema to honor the arrival of my new bride. A full day of meat and rice they will have.”

“Wait!” said Juma. “Before you go, there is something you need to know.”

Jassem’s eyebrows lifted above his spectacles. His nostrils rested serenely as he waited to hear the old man’s news.

But Juma was faltering, clutching his cane to his chest. So fragile he was that Noora feared it might stamp his skin, leave behind a nasty bruise. “It’s as if there’s more damp air today,” Juma muttered. “It’s as if it has come to eat at my bones. Do you feel it?”

Jassem looked around at the invisible air. “I think you might be feeling under the weather. Why don’t you rest a little? Go home and lie down.”

Juma finally unlatched his arms. “Home, yes, that’s it. It is home I need to talk to you about.” He coughed a weak cough that suited his frame. “I’m very happy for you, for your marriage. But I am not happy for my daughter.”

Jassem grunted. “Not to worry, she will get used to it.”

Just as Noora wondered whether they, the women, should be listening to this delicate subject, Lateefa tugged at her
abaya
and guided her a few steps back to Kumar’s stall. She picked up a piece of fabric and said, “What do you think of this one, Noora? See how soft this cotton is?”

Kumar hopped back to the front of his stall. “No, no, no,
Ommi
Lateefa,” he said, his mouth a curl of displeasure. “For
new wife, silk only.” He turned to Noora and flapped open a piece of silk, luminous in saffron and coral stripes. “See? This latest style. This called
Bu-Glaim
.”