Black Book of Arabia (19 page)

The cancer treatment was as cruel as it was long, and my husband began to wilt away. The whole family was affected; I had to be the rock for them, and I was. Normally I loved to watch the leaves change color in the fall, but the year of Eissa's hospitalization in London, the fading of the trees from vibrant green to dry autumnal colors reminded me of how my husband was losing his hair, strength, and weight. My four sons all came home one day with shaved heads, saying it was in support of their father so he would not feel that he was the only one that had no hair on his head.

Each day, my husband ate less of his bland food. Fear gripped me like a child clutching at her parting mother. Yet through all of this I did not falter. I maintained my nerves and only cried in secret. My four boys and young daughter clung to whatever we had of Eissa's pictures and memories. We exhausted every occasion with picture taking because we were so afraid that he would not make it that
we wanted every living moment together to be recorded. An entire wall of the apartment we had rented in London was covered with framed pictures, pinned-up letters, cards, souvenirs, and keepsakes.

As the season's colors faded, the color drained from Eissa's face and hair as well. He seemed frailer with every leaf that fell. I tried to revive him and cheer him up on a daily basis. It went without saying that with an ailing husband, I was expected to turn into iron woman physically and emotionally. Over and over I would carry him to the bathroom and bathe him. I dried him with more attention and care than I did my own children because I felt I was caring for something I was losing. My children's lives were growing brighter, more bustling, and more vivacious every day. The comparison popped into my mind every time I cleaned my husband and dressed him. Gratefully, I joined a support group in the hospital for relatives of cancer patients. We would talk, relate, and build each other up for another day. This familiarity with similar calamities helped me to calm down and withstand the hardships of being in a foreign country, alone, with my husband's condition deteriorating every day.

As winter approached, my husband's health suddenly and unexpectedly improved. His ashen lips regained the red blush of youth and his voice, which had grown faint and cracked during the treatment, recovered its masculine depth and resonance. He spoke more often and poked fun at his children, joking about how they had to be nice to him because he was the sick one. The mood in the hospital room lightened for a change.

Winter was thawing into a welcome spring; the flowers sent by friends were as soul-lifting as they were scented. The whole room smelled of flowers, lending some well-deserved happiness and gaiety to the once-stagnant, gloomy air. Visiting hours were granted, and each day we would have a few pleasant visitors who would drop by with food that even Eissa could eat and enjoy with us. The first time he ate without vomiting I cried in relief. It had been a hard journey, and I was so proud of his recovery, however difficult and painful it had been.

As spring approached, Eissa came home to our London apartment. We found ourselves going less and less often to the hospital for checkups. The children and I were at peace once again; their father was getting better. Even his eyebrows, lashes, and hair were growing back, thicker and more lustrous. He was a man with a sense of humor and would always say, “Don't forget to buy me hair spray, because I need to pick up on my modeling career after this vacation.”

I loved his personality. He was a breath of fresh air, and he helped me to get over this ordeal even more than I helped him. He was the love of my life. He was grateful to all of us, and we were so fortunate to be able to have a longer time with such a wonderful figure. In all this time he was polite, apologetic, and supportive to every person of the family. He would repeatedly say he was sorry for the trouble he caused when we would have to clean up after him or aid him in movement.

At last, our lives had become normal again. The bliss was short-lived, however. The disease did not return, but my
suspicions about Veronica did. One day, I went to the gym only to find that I had forgotten my workout shirt and shoes. I got back in my car and returned home. Veronica was home with my husband as usual, but when I entered I noticed that the two of them were acting guarded and nervous. I was planning to return to the gym, but when I saw their behavior I changed my mind. Veronica in particular was acting skittish. When she broke a dish in the kitchen, my thoughts raced.

I went into the bedroom and found my husband in the shower—a technique he employed whenever he wanted to escape a conversation or confrontation. I saw his mobile phone, and my instinct told me to pry into it. Mobiles are the secrets to a man's soul, or so it seems nowadays.

The password was our anniversary. He used to say it was the real day he was born. I was bothered when I read a few messages from Veronica, asking him when he was going to join her.

Going on with the messages, I found a few with no text, only images of her in the shower, blowing kisses and winking at him. The images were enough. This fifty-five-year-old Filipina maid was his lover. The kids were coming back soon, so I called to my husband to come out of the shower.

“What are you yelling about?” he asked, visibly annoyed at my raised voice.

“I'll show you what I'm yelling about,” I said, shoving the image of Veronica in his face.

“Where did you get that?” he shouted.

“It's your phone, sweetheart,” I said mockingly. “Don't you remember? Your password is our anniversary, ‘the day you were truly born'?”

He tried to grab the phone from my hand, but I pulled it away and threw it as hard as I could against the wall.

“Don't worry about your pictures of Veronica,” I said. “I'm sure there are more just like them on ‘hot grandmas dot com.'”

I burst out crying and ran down the hall to Veronica's room. My husband and I had been arguing in Arabic, so I doubted if she understood what was happening.

“I know what you have been doing with my husband,” I yelled in English. “How could you?”

She just stood there, looking at me as tears ran down my face. “I'm sorry, Mam,” she said at last. “But . . .”

“But what?” I screamed.

“I was his first love.”

I turned to my husband, who was standing outside the doorway like a child.

“This woman is married with children. And grandchildren!” I screamed. “She is old enough to be your mother. This cannot be real!”

The improbability of this union in terms of age, race, religion, and status seemed grotesque and incestuous. It was as crazy as crazy gets. I glared at my husband.

“Send her back to the Philippines,” I said through my teeth. He glanced over my shoulder at Veronica and then looked down.

“Cancel her visa and send her back!” I shouted.

Staring at the floor, my husband shook his head. “I can't do that,” he said.

“You can and you will. Today.”

“I won't do it,” he said at last. “I love her.”

“Let me make this simple for you,” I said. “It's either me, the mother of your children, or her. One of us has to go!”

I knew he could not refuse when I put it that way. The ultimate ultimatum. He was a good father and I knew he loved me. I could not see what he saw in her. She was old, short, apple-bodied, and had no attractive features. Veronica was speaking quickly, but my mind was swimming and my world was shaking.

He shrugged. “I'm sorry,” he said.

My universe crumbled. Everything I knew, or thought I knew, came flying apart like an exploding star. I was shattered into pieces; a woman of lesser spirit would have been crushed completely, but not me.

I composed myself, gathered up the children, and left. I put up a strong front; I had to, for the sake of my kids—I did not want them to know. The summer had just started and school was off for now. I would go back home and retreat into my cave, lick my wounds, and figure out what had happened.

I booked a flight home to Qatar from Gatwick for the children and myself. On the plane trip, I plotted how to bring my husband back to my arms, no matter what. My children needed their father, and I needed my life partner. Veronica would have to go back to her twisted life, husband, children, and grandchildren.

After arriving in Doha, I spoke to my mother-in-law. She was disappointed in her son, even outraged, but she did not seem shocked.

“It's unbelievable, isn't it?” I said.

My mother-in-law looked at her hands, folded in her lap.

“What is it?” I asked.

She looked up at me and wiped a tear from her eye. “No, it's not unbelievable,” she said quietly. “It is all too believable. We've heard many similar stories, but no one chooses the maid over the wife. Please calm yourself down, it will be all right. No one leaves the wife. What about his children? He loves you and his children. You have to be strong. ”

My mother-in-law seemed convinced that he was going to come back. She called it a “phase,” one that he had not outgrown. She described how Veronica was always with him when he traveled, studying abroad or taking summer vacations. The reason was revealed and the truth was made clear, and it was repulsive.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Veronica is fifty-five years old, her charms have faded, and she is our employee. Look at me and tell me what is believable about it?”

“Before he married you, his father and I learned that Veronica had been his lover since he was twelve years old,” she said, wiping away another tear. “She went to Eissa's room one night, probably to say goodnight, and noticed that Eissa, the boy, her boy, had become a man. She slept with my little boy, and latched on to him. I thought it was just a phase . . .” Her voice trailed off. The seed had been planted deep and had grown into a bad habit.

My mother-in-law and I sat analyzing the puzzle and putting it together, piece by piece. We discussed all the clues from throughout the years; how we were so naïve and how we chose to turn a blind eye to the obvious. After all Veronica was a woman, far away from her husband, and Eissa was available. He trusted her, and she, him. She molded him to her likes, and he molded her to his.

“She told us that he had a bedwetting problem and that in the Philippines an adult would sleep in the same room with the child to make them feel safe or wake them at night to take them to the bathroom. The plan served her well. We never noticed anything out of the ordinary or thought ill of her. On the contrary, we were grateful for the kind and thoughtful nanny we had. We did not realize that she mothered him during the day and was his lover at night.

“We learned of the affair about the time you became engaged. We sat both of them down and told them it had to stop. We told Veronica that we would cancel her work visa and send her back to the Philippines if she so much as gave our boy a look. They both agreed to end the affair, and she stopped going to his room at night. Everything seemed back to normal. She had been a great support when our children were young, almost a member of our family, so I thought she could be of great use to you as well. With a beautiful bride like you, I was sure he wouldn't even notice her, let alone do anything like this.”

I was sure that once my husband and Veronica were alone, he would see her for what she was. The appeal of
the forbidden fruit would be gone. In its place would be the fig that turns to ash in the mouth. But I was wrong. The spell she had over him was not broken. I was grateful that my mother-in-law was on my side, but I was deeply distressed that such a thing could happen with the people we allow into our lives, those we trust to care for our children.

Then, as if the forces of heaven had conspired to support me, I found out that my husband's mistress had to leave for her home country. Her mother had died and she wanted to attend the burial. Our old driver sent me a message that he had just dropped Veronica off at the airport; she had left for Manila. This was my chance to put them apart and plan my return. I truly believed that he was with her because she was blackmailing him emotionally. I made some phone calls to cancel her visa, making sure she would never be able to return. I had her banned from the country. I felt like a victorious warrior who had vanquished her foe. In my heart of hearts, I had hoped that this would finally lead my husband back to my arms.

Sadly, Eissa was still beguiled by his mistress and did everything he could to bring her back. He refused to see us, any of us, even his mother. Even his daughter's calls and voice messages did not move a hair on his body. His father had passed away long ago, so I had no person of authority left to create a presence with him, make demands upon him, or control him. His mother would cry and beg him to end this embarrassing affair and come to his senses. He respected her, but would not bend. I tried to contact him,
to see him, believing he would surely miss me and our family. The children missed their father. His absence had left a gaping hole in the family, one that we wore on our faces. People would inquire after him and we would stare back blankly and answer curtly that all was well.

Giving Veronica a new identity was the only way for her to return, so Eissa paid for a new passport to be made for her in the Philippines. The forgery completed, Veronica made a triumphant return to Qatar, living in our house with my husband while I lived in my parents' house with our kids. I could not tell them the truth for fear of shame and being on everyone's gossip grapevine for as long as my children and I would live. I languished in sorrow, with almost no hope of ever having my husband back.

Two years later, Veronica returned to the Philippines to see her family on her biannual leave. I again tried to have her banned. This time when she returned, the new security equipment scanned her eyes and her false identity was exposed. The immigration officers confiscated her forged passport and sent her home on the next plane. She was added to the registry of banned travelers and would be denied entry when she returned. This included the rest of the Gulf states as well. She was out of my hair at last. The spell would soon be broken, and I would finally win.