Everything we had in the Emirates fit into seventeen cardboard boxes. I rifled through them, pulling my bra from the box marked Important Documents, while vintage Rosenthal china clinked inside Toys.
On arrival at the top-rated Airbnb in Sharjah, the shimmering pool was closed for maintenance, and the apartment had been double-booked.
“No refund,” said Mo, pulling the trolley loaded high with our expat life across the humidity-thick parking lot. “The other studio is same-same.”
His open Pakistani face, unkempt beard, and yellow-toothed smile assured me he’d done this before.
The new block smelled of burnt ghee and fried rice. The lifts screeched, the trolley wobbled on uneven tiles. Plop. Our boxes had landed in a spreading puddle that the air conditioning had dripped in the corridor.
The studio had only one door with an inch gap underneath for fire safety. Black, furry mold bloomed on bubbles of plaster along the walls where a water leak and humidity had joined forces. I spent work-free hours scrubbing inches of dirt from surfaces and washing suspicious brown spots off the synthetic bedding.
Each morning, I woke up to Fajr as the speaker connected to the nearby mosque reverberated in the courtyard. Next door, a man’s voice, solemn and rhythmic, layered over the prayers. By the time the heat rose and office workers had left the building, the same voice scolded the children, then shouted at the woman. Sometimes she pleaded, but mostly she shrieked.
Our neighbors bickered constantly. It was rare to hear neighbors in Dubai: people worked all day and spent their nights out. Flocks of Filipino nannies appeared to take care of white kids and walked tiny dogs on long leashes. But Sharjah was a different emirate.
One Tuesday, when the midmorning heat bounced from one mirrored glass window to the next, there were only two voices. This time, the man’s voice grew more agitated, insistent. A slap cracked through the air, followed by another. The woman’s anguished cries pierced the thin plaster. She begged in a language I couldn’t understand. He raged while she howled.
I dashed to the door, threw it open, and accidentally stepped into the puddle. My expat mind urged me to call the police; my hand hovered over their door, ready to knock, when I heard it. A loud thud. Something heavy landed on the floor, followed by grunts and quick, shuffling movements. Then everything grew quiet. The long corridor, empty and still, stood a silent witness.
My hair prickled at the base of my neck, cold sweat beaded my palms as I rushed back inside. The rest of the day I crouched on the sofa, shuddering each time lights in the corridor flickered, and a shadow crossed the fire gap.
I waited for the usual devout voice at Asr, Maghrib, then Isha. But for the first time since we moved, the imam’s voice was solitary. In fact, no sounds escaped my neighbors after that. No prayers, not even a squabble. Perhaps they moved. People did so often in the country packed with expats.
In a month, we moved into an apartment with many doors, and everyone in the building worked all day and spent their nights out.
In the coming weeks, the imam’s voice grew louder. His methodical cadence scorned me. As the speaker buzzed across the shaded, sandy hill, a voice inside my head translated the imam’s reproaches. You should have knocked, reported to the security, checked the cameras. You owed it to another woman.
Each night when the lively family community grew quiet, I pulled a chair opposite the front door. I counted my breaths and peered at the fire gap, shuddering each time the light flickered and footsteps reached down the long, narrow corridor. This time, he’d come for me.
Natalia is a French-Russian teacher based in the UAE. She holds an MA in Publishing and used to work for Oxford University Press.
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