Chapter 17

Fareeha bent to pick up the bag of flour, before slipping in through the side of the linoleum. She walked through the dark house to the kitchen, dropped the flour onto the old table, and herself onto the rickety chair. She sniffed. Thoughts buffeted her mind like grit in a sandstorm, and she tried to hold back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. Flee; this idea stung the most and she bit down on her quivering lip. She saw herself running back to the harbour, pleading with Captain Rashid, clambering aboard The Maharajah. But without money or family in the next port . . . She pictured herself crammed in a tent in some unhygienic camp, begging for food, waiting . . .

She pulled off her headscarf, used one of its corners to dry her eyes, and then ran a hand through the chewed up ends of her hair. Her stomach had stopped cramping and now a gurgle reminded her of its emptiness. She looked at the bag of flour sitting on the table but her appetite had vanished, dinner could wait.

Hassan, his leery face was the next granule to whip in and abrade her mind, another scratch at her sanity. The cause of all her suffering. Perhaps he was still alive somewhere, living on his officer’s pay, well fed, eating good food, drinking fresh water. She clenched her fists at the thought. He should know what’s happening down here, she thought, know what I’m going through, be held responsible, and pay. Pay. The final thought almost found itself a voice as the indignant woman pounded her fist into the table.

She stood up, lit a lamp, and then retrieved the leaky pen that she had carefully put back on the shelf a few days before. She peeled two wrappers from the pile next to the stove and went back to the table. Hassan must have money somewhere, she thought, remembering him now as a corrupt harbour official, like his superior, and not as the innocent clerk she had once thought him to be. He might have something valuable that could be sold, a jewel, an heirloom, anything. Or his family might help. Their marriage had driven Hassan from his parents, but not as far as she had been pushed from her own family. He could still go to them, especially in such dire circumstances. And then she wondered why he couldn’t just come back himself and work, earn a few dirhams for her—surely she’d be able to bear his presence better than that of Bashar Khan’s and his faceless henchmen.

In the flicker of the oily flame, she wrote his name at the top of the paper.

‘Fareeha, are you there?’ The loud whispers of her neighbour wafted in through the gap that was once filled by the back door.

She looked up from her letter, leaving an ugly smear as she drew away the pen. ‘Mrs. Sharwalla,’ she sighed. She got up, pulled on her headscarf, and went into the back yard.

Mrs Sharwalla must have heard her coming because it was now too dark to see anything, especially with one eye. ‘Are you alright, Fareeha?’ she said, still in a soft voice. ‘Those terrible men! I saw them outside your house; what on earth . . .’

‘I’m fine, Mrs Sharwalla. It was nothing and they have gone now.’

‘Who were they?’

‘They didn’t say. I’m sorry if they disturbed you.’

‘Me? I’m used to their kind.’ She raised a hand to her patched eye. ‘But how about you?’

‘It was nothing, really. They won’t be back.’