Black Book of Arabia (17 page)

He said he was the ex-lover of Maryam's former friend, Maha. She had sent him a package with instructions that it be delivered to a man at a certain address, saying it was a donation for charity. He took the package to the address but was startled to find it was a graveyard. Taken aback, he felt that there was more to the box than mere charity. Worried that it might contain drugs or contraband, the Kuwaiti man returned home and opened the box in the privacy of his own home. He was surprised to find a woman's personal articles: a silk bra and panties and a few strands of long dark hair, tied at one end with a rubber band. It was obvious that the items were not for charity. They were for a spell to be cast on their original owner. Tales of witchcraft were commonplace, and it was well known that personal articles could be used to cast
an unbreakable and life-ruining spell on the person to whom the objects had once belonged.

Satisfied that he was not engaging in a prosecutable offense, the Kuwaiti left the items at home and headed to the rundown house at the graveyard with an empty package. He wanted to see who was meant to receive the woman's personal items. He passed through a broken gate with peeling paint, the ground beneath it a rusty rain color. He knocked at a door with peeling wooden planks, wondering why people involved in the magic trade tended to live in such shabby surroundings. It seemed like a curse in and of itself to possess magical powers that left you living like a starving beggar.

The man who answered looked just as the Kuwaiti imagined a warlock would: old, short, dark olive skin, missing teeth and black gums, dark circles under his eyes, and protruding eyeballs, one of which was clouded with cataracts. The man, a Yemeni, accepted the empty package, saying he had expected it a day earlier. The Kuwaiti told the police that he did not know if the caretaker had seen him the night before when he had driven by, or if he had the power of remote seeing. It did not matter. He handed the man the package and left.

That night and for many nights afterwards, the Kuwaiti had nightmares about the Yemeni caretaker with the bulging eyes and missing teeth. He decided he had to warn whomever it was that the sorcerer was getting paid to hurt. He called Maha and as casually as possible inquired who the articles in the package had belonged to. Angry that
Maryam had cut off all contact with her and jealous of her pregnancy, Maha did not try to hide who was the object of her wrath. She confided everything in her ex-lover. She told the Kuwaiti that she thought her no-good husband had taken an interest in her young, attractive friend so she decided to damage her however she could. The magic she had requested was the kind that would cause madness, illness, or suicide, as most black spells are requested to do. In her demented plan, once Maryam was at the point of death, Maha would come to her aid. Pretending to be a healer, she would have the Yemeni remove the curse and restore her to health. She would be the savior of her ailing friend.

People close to Maryam had played a part in Maha's evil plot. Maryam's maid had accepted a bribe to let her into the apartment, allowing the theft of her underwear. Maryam's hairdresser was paid to save a few strands of her hair secretly. Maha had told the hairdresser that she wanted to keep it as a keepsake; the Canadian hairdresser did not know anything about voodoo concoctions.

The Kuwaiti had broken off his relationship with Maha because of her bad temper, especially when she drank, but he never imagined that she could do something as hurtful and cruel as this. As she described the details of her plan, he realized that she was a mad, bitter woman with too much free time to spend being vindictive. Not knowing what she or her Yemeni accomplice were capable of, he feared for his life, hence his secrecy in identifying himself to Maryam.
Black magic was rare, but its negative effects could not be denied: homes wrecked, babies lost, handicaps suffered, and misfortunes galore intended to injure the victim. Even if they did not die, they would live maimed, damaged, and broken.

The police paid a visit to the Yemeni sorcerer, who by sixth or common sense realized something was wrong when he saw the box was empty. He already had fled his dilapidated lair. Whether he tried to cast a spell or not could never be determined, but no black magic ever struck Maryam.

News of the Kuwaiti lover eventually reached Maha's rich husband, who already had divorced Maha some months earlier. Her temper had escalated in their last months together. She had attacked him physically and set a small fire in their apartment. Her husband had pulled down a curtain and stamped out the fire before it spread, but the alarms had gone off and the police and fire department came. Maha tried to explain that the curtain caught fire from a lamp, and she went to fetch a wet towel to put it out. It was clear that the fire was no accident, and Maha was arrested on suspicion of arson. After verbally abusing the police officers, she was taken to a mental hospital for observation. That is when Maha's husband stopped putting any effort into the marriage.

As for Maryam, she views the world from her apartment a little differently now, filled with the warmth of her loving family. She works part time in an English program
for foreign speakers. Khalifa is still pursuing his PhD at his well-organized pace and is happy walking his healthy baby boy Zayed as he shoots pictures of skyscrapers around the city. And the landline phone on the marble pedestal has finally stopped ringing.

Raped for a Living

Violeta's mother had a failing kidney and her father had lost his sight due to diabetes. She had applied for jobs in Manila, but the pay was not enough to put her younger siblings through college, which she desperately wanted to do. A better life—that was all she wanted. One where she and her family could eat ice cream every weekend, instead of once a year. One where her father could have access to insulin on a daily basis and could keep whatever he had left of his fingers and sight.

America, Europe, and Canada were overseas dreams. The salaries there were higher, the living standards were better, and employees almost always got paid on time. Who knew—she might even have her family join her in Los Angeles, pick up French while in Paris, or share a small studio with her family in New York. She had everything figured out. She would economize and work hard to prove her worth. She would advance, because these modern countries would appreciate a smart, educated, hardworking woman.

Violeta was twenty-six years old, five feet, five inches tall and of a slender build, though she had gained a bit of weight when she stopped working on the family farm.
She had a degree in hotel management and was looking to be a receptionist in a five-star hotel in a rich country. She had long hair, large eyes, and spoke Spanish as well as Tagalog and English due to her grandparents' Spanish ancestry. Her family owned land, which was an asset, but did not have enough able hands to turn the soil and plant, tend, and harvest the crops. Farming was a constant struggle that was regularly interrupted by monsoons, floods, crippling pesticide costs, taxes, and theft. The local loan shark charged exorbitant rates, triggering a domino effect: By the time one loan was paid, another was needed—a never-ending, unfair, and vicious circle.

Violeta was the breadwinner in her family and wanted very much to get married to her fiancé, Lucas Fernandez. They had been together since high school and both supported their families, but had backbreaking responsibilities. Lucas left the Philippines for a job in Azerbaijan as a hotel florist, making the arrangements for the lobbies, meeting rooms, and exclusive suites. He hoped that after a few years he would return to the Philippines and work at a similar caliber hotel in Manila. He sent Violeta emails full of promises and pretty pictures of clean streets, fashionably dressed people, and flower centerpieces he had created. Lucas was creative with his flowers, and Violeta was especially proud of his boldest creations such as the arrangement he made for a hotel that featured clutches of white lilies bound with tiny vines to blood red carnations. He would send her pictures of bridal bouquets every few
days, asking her which one she would want to carry for her wedding.

As the money from the farm began to run out, Violeta thought it best to attempt to work in these golden countries and finally use her degree. Anything seemed better than starving to death amidst the mud with a sick family and dying dreams all around her. Hard times called for hard decisions, and so she applied everywhere for a job. Many offices required that she pay an upfront fee of 50,000 pesos to receive a passport and a guarantee of a job. It was a lot of money, equivalent to the price of a plot of land in her province in the Philippines.

In a final battle against encroaching poverty, Violeta visited a pawnshop with the only thing of value that she had left: the deed to the land that belonged to her grandparents before her, the land that had fed them and given them a roof during monsoons. The pawnbroker's eyes lit up as he took the deed from Violeta's hands and read it in the bluish glare of the fluorescent lamp that hung over the cash register. He glanced at Violeta, as if to see how determined she would be to pay back the loan, then carefully counted out the money she needed for her passport; a down payment to guarantee her loyalty and seriousness about traveling to work abroad. A smile crept over his lips as Violeta signed the loan agreement.
He thinks the land will be his,
Violeta thought,
but I will pay this back in time to keep it.

After paying the employment agency, Violeta had a little extra money left, which she left behind with her siblings, all under the age of eighteen. Sibila, seventeen, wanted to
be a fashion designer, but Violeta wanted her to go into nursing, where the pay was better. The twins, Anthon and Antonella, fifteen, wanted to be actors and singers, but Violeta wanted them to be an architect and civil engineer so they could work together as they were both good at drawing and quick in math. Maria Mercedes, the doe-eyed thirteen-year-old, towered for her young age and aspired to be a model. Violeta was the mother figure in the house and she would sometimes find herself crying in desperation at how dreamy and unaware her brood was about their poverty. Her father ate less and less because he thought that he was leaving food to sustain his children. His condition required that he eat, and, after his insulin shots, he would be famished. Yet he still guarded his consumption and tried to share his food with his children. His sight had failed, but he could still see during the day and in well-lit places.

Dressed in her Sunday church clothes to appear polished and sophisticated, Violeta boarded a plane for the first time, bound for Dubai, the buzzing city and bustling metropolitan center of the seven emirates comprising the United Arab Emirates. She read as much as she could about the city during her long trip. As was the case for most Asian workers, her contract locked her into two years abroad, regardless of homesickness or an unpleasant situation. However, salaries were good and accommodations were provided for hotel staff. Things were looking promising and exciting. Before the mirror in the plane's toilet, Violeta practiced speaking to staff and receiving royals and celebrities at her beautiful, chic hotel.

An hour before she landed, homesickness struck Violeta, and she wept. The flight attendant noticed that she was crying and chatted with her. The attendant was half-Filipino and half-Italian. She told Violeta what a wonderful place Dubai was, and how she was dating a handsome half-Lebanese, half-Italian graphic designer working in Abu Dhabi. She told her that she would have to be dragged back to the Philippines. In fact, there were so many Filipinos in Dubai that she never had a chance to miss home. They cooked together, celebrated birthdays together, and saw the sights together. But to Violeta it was not home she was thinking of. It was the responsibility of providing for her siblings and parents, and paying off the loan sharks who could be villainous if she was late in paying, charging even more ridiculous rates.

At the Dubai airport, the company chauffeur, a middle-aged, big-bellied and stern-looking Indian with a thick moustache and dark clothes, met Violeta and the other new employees on the same flight. She handed him her suitcase and got into a minivan with several other Filipinas. Everyone was polite, but curt. They secretly began measuring themselves up against their colleagues and thinking of which position they would handle—day manager, night manager, lobby receptionist, bartender, maitre d'hôtel, or waiter.

The drive was short, roughly ten minutes, and the women were shepherded into a hall. Mrs Santos, a middle-aged Filipina dressed in a gray tailored suit, the head of human resources for the company, received them. She
asked their names and ages, and if the trip was comfortable. From what the girls had understood, each would go to a different hotel. The lucky ones would go to the five-star hotels near downtown, which meant more tourists and higher tips. The uptown area was slower and more relaxed, but the tips and raises were lower. However, it also was more stable with less chance of being sacked. Mrs Santos casually walked around and inspected the girls, asking them a question at most, and then whispering to her gay, fidgety assistant, who would grunt or whine a response.

Some of the girls were sent to one accommodation, and the rest, including Violeta, went to another. The driver took a highway that led to the outskirts of the city and then into the desert. The shining skyscrapers of Dubai shrank in the distance. After half an hour, all they could see was the great Burj Khalifa towering alone on the horizon.

To Violeta, the landscape looked like something out of a movie—no trees, no bushes, and no greenery of any kind. She squinted against the glare of the sun-drenched sand. She saw two dark shapes moving in the distance: a mother camel trailed by her baby. Violeta wondered how they managed to survive in such a barren land. She missed the greenery of her village and the jungles around it, where it would rain for days and the wet earth would fill the air with the scent of fresh life. Her youngest sister would always make her a hot cup of tea as soon as she was home. She would miss it sorely.