Go draw some more, okay?

Omar was back for dinner and I was in the mood to make a chicken curry. Alba hurried off, her mission confirmed. She was becoming quite the artist; going through art blocks and paints, pens and pencils. She could draw straight lines, curly lines, curved lines and many attempts at circles. And again. And again. She loved playing with blocks, placing them on top of one another, she loved her dolls—they would be in the bath with her—and she loved her books, made of fabric, which always ended up in her mouth.

There were playgroups that I went to from time to time, but were mostly frequented by expat wives who were pleasant and cordial, but I never felt close enough to confide anything. I knew that some of them were worse off than I was, had husbands whom they hardly saw, especially those who worked for big multi-nationals, and those who travelled all around the region. The diplomats had it best. Maids, drivers, cooks, security guards. The whole package.

And Papa. Well, Papa had good days and bad days. He loved Alba but I couldn’t really depend on him as a babysitter. I didn’t like taking Alba to the house as it felt sad, but also, it was a breeding ground for all manner of bacteria, vermin and snakes. Papa said that a king cobra had found itself into his study and was coiled comfortably underneath the gramophone until he decided to put a record on. The snake reared up in fright and slithered with some familiarity into a hole in the wall, which apparently led directly to the garden. I shuddered at the thought, and imagined entire families of snakes now living in my father’s house. The garden had completely overgrown as I no longer had time to visit, and the jungle had moved in. My father, tapping away on his manuscript in the midst of all that was wild. I had no idea what he was writing. No idea how he still managed to live the way he did.

Omar was travelling more and more and we saw less of him. There were times when I thought to myself that this was the life I was doomed to have. To have a husband who was there but not there. To have a marriage that was there but not there. To have a husband but to feel utterly alone. But I wasn’t alone in the physical sense. I had Alba. But I did feel those cold fingers of fear at the base of my throat and in the pit of my belly. The same pangs of doubt that emerged after coming down from a high. The cold saliva in the mouth, the clammy hands, the sweaty temple. The ringing in the ears.

I wondered if Omar was having an affair. I questioned his need to be away so constantly. Work could be done via email, handphone, faxes—communication was more efficient than ever. Did he need to be away from us? Or did he just want to?