Rahman was in their home gym when Bichara found him the next morning. She tried to wait up for him last night, but she must’ve slept off between reading a book and trying to rest her aching legs. Still, he must’ve come back very late because she didn’t feel him enter their room or get into bed at any point.
“Good morning,” she said, practicing her English as she approached him. He was on a barbell bench, lifting and lowering the heavy object at an unnatural pace – unnatural to her, anyway. She watched as his forearms strained, and his muscles perked, and strands of sweat trailed his face, patching his grey sports shirt. His legs were simultaneously pulling a metal lever at the other end of the bench.
She hated exercise, even watching other people do it. It was cruel and unusual punishment you put yourself through. She’d always been thick, and she didn’t plan on doing anything about it anytime soon. Although, she might have to rethink that decision considering how much weight she’d put on since she got pregnant. How was she going to lose it all? As it was, she was a dress-size twelve.
Rahman dropped the barbell in its place and sat up to look at his striking, curvy wife as she walked into the room, wiping his face and neck with a small towel. He’d never liked skinny girls. His wife was the perfect woman, and she’d started adding more flesh in all the right places too since she became pregnant with his child. He admired her body as she stood right there in front of him and regretted not returning early from his trip last night…and that glorious dark hair like a halo around her face and arms. He loved it when she hadn’t brushed it and packed it into a ponytail yet – taming the wild mane.
“Good morning, my love,” he said, panting from his exertions, and gestured for her to come to him. As she came forward with slow timid steps, he saw she had something in her hand. “What’s that?” He couldn’t take his eyes off the white envelope. She lifted it to him, but he didn’t move, recognizing Nana’s seal.
“Your family sent a letter yesterday.” His demeanor changed as she spoke. He loved his grandmother, but she only ever sent a letter when there was trouble, and in his family, trouble meant a disaster.
“What letter?” Bichara almost flinched at the harshness of his tone, regretting coming so close to him. Why would a letter from his family freeze him up this much? Maybe he disliked them as much as she did, but she knew that was only true about one side of his family, not Nana. His eyes were on her now, cold, dark. He didn’t want to see it, he wanted her to tell him what it said.
“They found a cousin of yours," she said, reverting back to her comfortable French. "Nana wants us to come for some…welcoming party…”
“Siddiq?”
She was confused by his question for a moment, then remembered that was the name, in the letter, of the returned cousin. “Yes.” His expression lightened, but only a little, only in his eyes. He stood, and she almost jumped back. He didn’t seem to notice her unease as he continued patting his face dry with his towel.
Suddenly, she recalled who Siddiq was. Rahman had let his name drop on occasion, when they talked about his childhood. They were close. Siddiq was a top RuBel executive, same as Rahman all those years ago. He took a trip to Saudi on an expansion assignment. Soon after, he went off the radar. His team members reported that he didn’t show up for one of their scheduled meetings, his phone lines went dead, and he never returned to his official accommodations. Rahman searched for him for years before giving up, he didn’t want to be found. That was about a decade ago.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, moving past her out of the room. He hadn’t touched her at all. Was he becoming appalled by her appearance? Bichara was stunned by that abrupt thought. She always assumed Rahman’s distant behavior was a product of work pressure, but she needed to consider that she was being naïve and in denial. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was him tired of her. She was losing her mind with paranoia.
She glanced around her at the different contraptions and equipment that made up the fitness room. What should she do?
She walked out of the room and out of the house, heading to the stables – a neat, well-run facility located at one extreme end of the estate, by the orchard. She could hear the horses as she neared the building, regretting not being able to ride in her condition. She would have appreciated the wind in her face, blowing through her hair, and the feeling of life and energy between her hips. She loved riding, it was the only thing she hated about living in N'djamena – not being able to ride.
She stepped through the large open doors and loved the sound of hay crunching under her soft flip-flops and the smell of animal essence. A man was in there, tending to the beautiful steeds, an equestrian expert Rahman had hired after meeting him at a jockey club in Canada. He turned toward her as she entered, scanning her. Bichara suddenly remembered she hadn’t changed out of her dressing gown.
“Mrs. Bello? Good morning.” His French was almost too perfect. Like a different dialect from the one she knew so well. He was obviously surprised to see her there so early in the morning, and her cheeks were warm from self-consciousness.
“Good morning. I didn’t mean to disturb…”
“Of course not. I’m here at your pleasure… I’ll give you the room if you want.” There was something slightly patronizing about him, and she didn’t quite like it.
She shifted her attention to the horse stalls, glancing through in search of her old mare. She found her at her usual position in the third stall from the door, next to the other old horses. Her baby was almost twenty-five now. A few years from now and she would be gone, a last emblem of where Bichara had come from, gone. She tried not to think about something so disheartening, she tried hard.
The horse groomer moved out the door soon after, and she felt she could breathe easier as she moved toward Angel and brushed her fingers through her silky mane, remembering her grandfather. She couldn’t remember how he looked like, his face, his voice. She had no photographs of him, a man who was both her father and her mother for a long time.
“Mrs. Bello. I've found you.” She turned, startled to find Isha, in her dressing gown too, looking like she’d been searching for her everywhere. “Ma, what are you doing here?”
Bichara turned back to Angel whose head was perked up now, staring right at her with those knowing pale brown eyes. "I just…” She shook her head, looking back at her nanny. “I just needed some air. What is it?”
“Oga sent his secretary with new clothes for you.” Isha walked straight at her, ready to grab her hand and drag her all the way to her room. “He wants you to try them on for the family tonight.”
Bichara frowned. Rahman was ordering her about from afar. She had enough clothes to choose from for his family’s little charade. When did he get the chance to order and have new clothes delivered anyway? Complete with underwear and accessories for sure, knowing Rahman.
“Are you feeling okay, Ma? You need more rest?” Isha was probably surprised she wasn’t pleased at the prospect of playing dress-up.
“I am fine…Where is my husband now?” She asked even though she already knew the answer to that question.
“He has gone for a meeting. He said he will be back in time to leave, Ma.” Of course, he was at the office, or the port, or the factory, or the airport, another continent, anywhere but at home with her. She was tired of it. Wasn’t he lonely too? Where was he getting his own companionship?
Bichara pursed her lips and stormed out of the suddenly stifling stables, ignoring her ignorant secretary.
Chapter 6 will be here Next Saturday, and we'll meet Rahman's family! Tell us down below what you think of the story so far. Don't forget to like and share.