At least that’s what it sounds like, as she claps her hands to her cheeks with some force. I don’t hang around for confirmation, or translation, as she grabs a large sweeping brush leaning against the back of a chair, heading for me in a rush.
‘Hell anni!’ And again, I can’tquitebe sure that’s what she says—yells—as she charges at me, determined to sweep me away likesomething unsavoury trodden into her carpet. ‘Chi-chi-chi! Haram! Haram!’
‘Hey! Ow!’ I jump to avoid a violent sweep to the shins. I’ve heard of jumping brooms after marriage, but not like this. I make to run for the sanctuary of upstairs, when she spits at me—fricken spits at me!—on her own clean floors, because I assume the mop and bucket is hers. ‘Eww... that’s feral, you fucking nutter! Let me past!’
‘La, haram, haram!’
My armful of clothes are flung around the hall like a tornado as she lunges for me again. I squeal as I chuck them at her, partly in the hopes of creating a diversion and partly from shock.
‘I’m... I’m Mrs. Kai!Ismi Mrs. Kai, you geriatric git!’ I shout over my shoulder as she chases me around the lovely art deco table. ‘You’re going to make him very cross!’ Not to mention my jet-lagged legs very sore.
This is ridiculous and I’m bloody knackered and it’s way too early in the day to be having a domestic, with the domestic... staff. I immediately stop, obviously on the opposite side of the table, and well out of reach. She may be getting on a bit, but she’s bloody fast.
‘Listen here.’ I point a finger at her, filling my voice with all the authority of a primary school teacher. ‘Listen here, you... you, person you! I’m Mrs. Khalfan.’ And that just sounds wrong.
Muttering, she points her thumb to her wiry neck, and under a pugnacious, jutting chin she viciously draws it across her heavily jowled flesh. A death threat from a woman who’s clearly pushing seventy? I’m not gonna take it lightly. Just as well.
‘Aiieee!’ She yells, leaping around the table and charging at me again.
I stumble backward to the door—it’s still unlocked. Grabbing the handle on the other side, I shove my foot flat against the adjoining one, holding on tight as she yanks and pulls from inside, still yelling and cursing in whatever language that is. The handle stills, but I hold it for a minute, not to be fooled, before beginning to worry that she may be seeking another exit.
I’ve read a few weird newspaper stories in my short time in the UAE, including one that made the front page of the local paper where a maid was arrested for threatening her boss with a knife. That her boss had chased her around the kitchen table, wearing nothing but a smile on his face and a naked hard-on jutting from between his legs, wasn’t enough to prevent her arrest and eventual deportation, apparently. The police had accepted his trousers had just “fallen down”. Wonder what the headline would read if this maid manages to catch me? I don’t wait around to find out, slipping my feet into a very worn pair of yellow rubber thongs that I find by the front door.Looks like she’d been wearing them while watering the bamboo plants.They’re not exactly stylish, but they’re clean. Wet. And will prevent my feet from blistering against the extremely hot pavement.
The sun is blinding as I reach and open the gate, stepping out from the shade of the canopy of greenery. Without my sunglasses, my eyes begin to stream as I consider my choices. As I see it, I could go back into the front yard and hide in wait for Kai, but I’d be running the risk of being found by this geriatric nutter, of course. My second choice is to see if his mum is home.
I turn right and head for Mishael’s.
