Breathe the ocean in

3

MARI

I decide to look around in the house just in hope to scatter the thoughts running in circles. Riad appears to be not real big. To the left from the patio there are few utility rooms and a kitchen with solid oak table and heavy iron-shod chairs, even though it's equipped with all the necessary modern appliances, it looks fairly dark and gloomy to me with its brown colors. Besides, there are two frugal maid's bedrooms. To the right there is a rich living room with long low and comfortable couch engulfed with huge amount of motley cushions and gold-plate hookah standing on a coffee table, walls are covered with perpetual mesmerizing patterns there. Also I find a quite roomy gym containing treadmill, punching bag, barbell and a small guest bedroom in the same oriental style. A master bedroom has straight exit to the patio and turns out to be pretty laconic and spacious and it doesn't match the rest of the house: light walls without any decorations, built-in wardrobe and massive bed completes the furniture.

I find out my not numerous belongings in one of the maid's rooms – camera, tablet, dictaphone and earbuds are there. I meditate over the tablet quite for a while and can't make up my mind to open the gallery or not. I fear of breaking down the fragile balance established in my heart. In the end I settle on putting it away, because indulging into sadness isn't a good option. All the more so I am not given much time anyways. Two women enter the riad. One of them, the stout, approaches me swaying her bodies with the confidence of a cruiser. At the moment I am sitting on the pool edge swinging my legs in the water and thinking if it is worth swimming. I notice a glimpse of an arrogant smile on her face when she takes her niqab of. She stays wordless while towering over me like a damn monument. A sick boyishness overtakes me as I wish to do it all contrary to her. Therefore I keep on my reckless exercise. I'd do anything not to show them all the emotions tearing me apart. Another woman, taller and slimmer one, takes her niqab of either and surprises me with her much younger age. She is thirty five or so. And she has that real oriental beauty in her with straight nose and golden brown thick made eyes. She absolutely beats against her older friend. But there is no even a shade of affection to me on her face also. The silence drags on. Then women exchange few words in their language and the younger one address me in a broken Aranian:

- What your name is?

- Maria, – I don't balk.

- Me – Jahiza, Kiram's mother. This, – she nods in her companion direction. – Azra. Master Samir's beigaly. We're here to show you your responsibilities. Let's go.

I bloody don't want to come to my heel, but there is no point in open confrontation yet. That is why I rise up as slow as possible. They lead me to the kitchen first thing. Jahiza comes to a stop in the doorway suddenly and throws over her shoulder:

- My son is blind. He cannot make many things. Especially in strange house. You'll have to become his eyes, – the sound of her voice can freeze everything in a mile radius.

God, give me strength not to lash out at her. It's just a woman who worries of her "baby". But I can't restrain my sarcastic smile.

- What? – She demands immediately.

- I never asked for such an honor, don't be that vicious. Persuade your husband to let me go and replace me with someone you would like. I'd only thank you.

I am not dignified with an answer however. They explain me what and when their precious blessing eats for a good hour. I am taught how to take care of his clothes and even to wash the floors ("Heaven forbid, the boy loses his footing"). I am shown the order of putting the bottles in the bathroom and where to put his socks and underwear. In the end of the third hour of this execution I do truly loathe the object of all this fuss. As if I want to be a babysitter for a spoilt teenager! Also they give me a diary with a schedule of different meetings for the next few weeks. It seems like it was made right for me, because all the inscriptions are written in Aranian.

- You should keep track of time and remind him schedule. Kiram has his own driver, but you'll have to drive him somewhere from time to time, – with these words she adds a car key and a brand new navigator to the diary. – Car is in yard. Now we will show you nearest grocery store. You'll have to shop yourself.

Wow! They're giving me a vehicle? And they hope, I ain't even gonna try to run away?! Azra, who mostly kept silent before, says as if she is reading my mind:

- Don't you even think. They'll catch you long before border. Samir is very high-powered man. Worse you'll make with your escape.

And everyone tactfully passes over in silence the fact that I' m going to nowhere with crossing the border without docs which disappeared without a trace. Okay, I'll think what I can do with it later.

- Here, – "my master's" mother joined the conversation. – Hold, – she's handing me a small bright pack. The eastern writing is unreadable to me, and I can only guess what's inside of it.

- These are pills. Not to have kids, – Azra answers my dumb question. – Beigaly could have kids after heir of wife is born only.

I just get speechless. Kids? Sex? Are you serious? With a strange blind youngster? Gosh, I didn't laugh that hard this many a day. The women wait patiently for me to calm down. Then Azra comes close to me and hisses with a threat straight to my face:

- You will make our boy happy. Otherwise you'll face consequences.

And I have naughty goosebumps all over my back because of her intonation, even though the woman is lower and obviously weaker than me. I am not going to discuss THIS with them at any rate.

- We were heading to the groceries, weren't we? – I turn around and march to the exit grabbing my freaking niqab on the way.

KIRAM

Night was a lousy thing, I managed myself to sleep after a midnight only. Here we go, it's my new life at one arm's length. Impatience and nervousness both mix into an explosive cocktail. I wake up in a pretty good mood despite of my quite broken state and lack of sleep. Why wouldn't I? I'm eighteen and I'm starting my independent life tonight. Scared? No. It's more like I'm excited of how it's gonna be. One way or another, there's no turning back and will never be. I have to handle it, it's only one I know. Mother starts wailing during the breakfast, but father shuts her of strictly enough. He demands not to ruin my holiday.

Soon after the breakfast Isa and Javad show up, because the desert racing is a sacred cause for the eighteenth birthday. You would think what my interest is if I don't see a damn thing. But try yourself to close your eyes while your car breaks loose down the edge of the dune on an enormous speed just to fall straight to the abyss and then to soar up again. It's an inexpressible feeling. The buzz of the forceful engine and rustle of the sand flying away from under the wheels, furious jolting and ropy moments when it feels like the SUV is going to be mislaid right to its roof forcing way too steep slope. We spend couple hours in the desert, ditch a tire, but all the three of us stay satisfied. Then there's a big holiday dinner in the restaurant with my friends. Well, there are not much of them, these are the fellows from the club I'm training in and couple of guys I know since my childhood before the accident. Only three of them are close friends though. Time flies by when we're chattering, drinking strong coffee and smoking hookah. We're recalling naughty tricks we used to make when we were kids, making plans for tomorrow and discussing my reaching the final of course, where do without it. It's a chipper day full of laughter. In the end guy's jokes are starting to get to me and kinda piss me off. You know all of these: "Our boy's going to become a man finally", "Want me to tell you how to treat a girl, little one?" and so on.

In the evening they're bringing me back home where all of my family is meeting me at the set table. It's not that fun in here, and I want to leave the place damn much. Very few people can remain amused to the traditional speeches at the table. My desire becomes only bigger when Rashid, my great-uncle, takes the floor. He can talk quite for a long time and always being curst tedious. Besides, he can't stand me and tries to offend at the slightest opportunity. And he makes it so masterfully that I wouldn't have a chance to strike back even if I'd be allowed to. I'm listening to the congratulations my relatives are giving me, thanking each of them but in the inside of my brain I'm counting on the minutes desperately wishing to get to my new house and meet my own beigaly.

This kind of blood ties torture comes to an end eventually. No matter how long-drawn the evening was, the last dalla of coffee is finished at least. And father declares: 'It's time'.