The Whipping Turn

Saudi Arabia - 10 years ago

Anyanka could feel the sweat slide down her body,  under the dark robes, and she pulled at her t-shirt trying to fan herself. When she turned the corner to the familiar corridor, resplendent with an elegantly long Persian carpet and ornate chandeliers that no longer registered in her thoughts, it was mercifully empty and she hurried to her room. Her space. There was air here, unlike the corridor, and shade and privacy to strip her full burka off and maybe then some. Opening the door to her tidy, neat area she was often reminded of her limited possessions within her eighteen years. Except books, did that count?  Fourteen years in the chiller of nearly-Siberia and four years in the aggressive heat of a different desert, and nothing to show but many books and some ill-fitting, worn pointe shoes.

She threw her burka on the her large four poster bed, the black of the cloth a blunt splash on the silk embroidered cover; a metaphor of female life in this country. It was made, thanks to Alina, but Anya paid no heed to the tidiness, instead making a beeline for the small bathroom at the back of the large room. The whole room, her quarters, was small by their standards, fitting for a second wife, but Anya's parent's apartment could have almost fit in this room.

The tap squeaked slightly as she turned the cold water on, spluttering from the large overhead brass showerhead and she stepped under the bracing cool. The water was never fully chilled here but still a relief from the hot wind outside and the dark, airless corridors. Her tender back stung but the water that ran over her tummy was warmed from the heat of her body and she idly mused over the change.

Enjoying the peace, Anya stood, fully immersed, thinking, meditatively, of the tiny rivers of water cascading over her smooth body. Water running down, falling, smooth and free.

Click.

Her door.

Anya sighed. It could only be one of three people entering her quarters and she knew that Alina and Faisal would be near the kitchens preparing her lunch, which left only one other. Jida.

"ANYA!"

"Jida, I'm here." The Arabic words came easily now, though she still dreamt and counted in Russian.

Another, louder click, of the bathroom door.

"Ah, Tifli, I was looking for you."

If Jida was using her nickname, even affectionately, there was usually something required of Anya.

"Well, I'm here." Anya waited behind her wall of shower curtain. Really there was no point in asking questions, she would be told anyways.

"English people are coming."

"Hah? What do you mean?" This was new and unexpected.

"Two Englishmen are arriving in a week. A doctor and his son, to learn about local health practices and medicines. And build relations with the sheikh."

She could hear Jida fiddle about with her bottles on vanity.

"Ok." Anya knew she would meet these men once, a passing and expected introduction of the onsite wife but she would be hidden away as all good women would be after the initial meeting.

"There will be a dinner on Wednesday. I will find out if you wear your niqab. He might want to show you off to those white men."

"Ok, Jida." What difference did it make? Full makeup versus just eyes lined in charcoal. Anya had given up caring. She usually just did as she as told.

"How is your English?" Ah ha, here it was.

"It's ok. The same, I suppose."
She then dropped her head forward, letting the water run over her thick black hair. She caught stray drops off her nose with her tongue.