by Alam, Donna
By the time we exit the bedroom, kitted out in our robes—mine white and gold, Niamh’s blue and silver—the party seems to be in full swing. There are more than a dozen women here, and I’m a little bemused until I spot Sadia, my old classroom assistant, by the table, stuffing her face with food.
‘Missus Kate!’ She claps her hands to her cheeks. ‘Soon to be the Missus Kai, marsh’allah!’
‘Sadia! Great to see you, and just Kate, please. How are you—how are the girls?’ God, I miss my class of little rat-bags.
‘Oh, they miss you Missus K—I mean, just Kate. We all miss. The new teacher, she is a most angry person. Always with the sit-down, sit-down.’ Sadia’s expression is mockingly stern. ‘All except for Sadia, who is for the verk, verk, verk! Please,’ she adds imploringly. ‘Come back soon.’
‘I’m trying to.’ And hoping to.
‘All right, cinders,’ says a familiar voice. ‘Stop hogging the bride.’
‘Hala! How are you? It’s so good to see you!’ The last time I’d heard from my fellow teacher, we were arranging to go out for lunch. Around the time I still had a job.
‘I was beginning to wonder,’ she says, half laughing. ‘You didn’t return any of my calls.’
‘When did you—maybe you rang when I was back in Aus?’
‘And you kept all this quiet, girl! Snagging a groom!’ She leans in conspiratorially. ‘And one as fit as him!’
‘Well, he, I mean I—’ more women begin to gather around me, teachers from the school, and others Mishael seems to want to introduce me to.
‘Give me a buzz, yeah?’ says Hala. ‘We’ll catch up later. Do that lunch?’
‘Sure.’
It’s gone two a.m. when the room finally clears out, and I collapse onto the bed. Niamh lies next to me, not yet willing to leave. I think she’s waiting for the intricate henna design banding her ankle to dry.
‘Funny how not many of the younger ones wanted henna,’ she says, sort of dreamily, probably nearing a food coma. There was just so much to try; silver platters piled high with machboos, the local favoured rice dish. Pastas and seafood. The most divine savoury pastries that sort of melted on the tongue. And the desserts—I had to move away from the table for fear of not fitting into my dress! Truffles and tarts, tiny khanfaroush cookies and something that was described to me in English as “floaters”. Round balls coated in syrup, which were much more delicious than their name would suggest. And a million and one fruit juices—strawberry and kiwi was my favourite—qawha; cardamom flavoured Arabic coffee, sweet mint tea. The choices seemed never ending. Other than booze, of course, out of deference to tradition and our guests.
‘Christ, my stomach hurts. No wonder they celebrate weddings for days out here. They probably can’t move for half that time.’
‘Mishael says the henna night is still massively popular, but that a lot of the tradition is being lost. Apparently, years ago I’d have had my hair and body anointed in oils by the attendees and my eyes ringed with kohl. Then I’d have to sit on the floor, veiled and eyes downcast through the whole thing.’
‘What? You’d not even get to dance at your own party?’ Because, yes, there’d been a fair bit of that tonight. Jeeze, the women out here can dance; none of this tapping your feet business. They were all hips and sinuous movement—like Shakira having a really good night out. Talk about hips not lying, though I kept mine mostly glued to the chair.
‘Nope. Eyes downcast so no one could put the evil eye on me.’
‘Didn’t see any evil eyes. The woman who did my ankle design had two blue eyes.
‘Did she? That’s unusual.’
‘Yep, one blew east and the other blew west.’ I chuckle, despite the lameness of her joke. ‘Anyway, what did you get?’ Sitting up, she looks at my hands and feet. ‘You didn’t go for the usual stuff.’
‘That’d look lovely with my beautiful dress, wouldn’t it? I wasn’t expected to as that’s one of the dying traditions. Modern Emirati brides are all about the white dress these days. I did get a little something,’ I add casually. ‘I didn’t want to look ungrateful.’
Truthfully, I have gone a little traditional after one of the elderly henna artists told me that it was good luck to have your intended’s name hidden somewhere in a design. She’d sort of winked and said in halting English, though no less meaningfully, that it could be fun to let him try and find it on your wedding night.
‘Well, I had a grand time, but I’m shagged, so I’m gonna head off to bed. Need anything before tomorrow? Knotted sheets to scale the building? A drop of Valium to get you through the night?’
‘We’re heading to the spa, aren’t we?’
‘Breakfast by the pool first. Then a day full of pampering before you get sold on for a bushel of camels or some such shite.’ Niamh pushes herself upright, making her way to the bedroom door.
‘It’s called a caravan.’
‘Well, Geoff is a bit of a cheapskate, and you are a bit of an auld bag, so I suppose it serves him right. I expect you’re only worth the same as a ten-year old caravan on the marriage market, anyway.’
‘Love you, Niamh.’
‘I suppose you’re all right.’
‘Night.’
Chapter Ninety-Two
‘Nervous?’
Niamh eyes me through the mirror as the stylist makes a last minute adjustment to my hair.
I smile back at her reflection. ‘I thought I would be, but . . . no.’ Apart from the fact that I defy anyone to feel anything but blissful after a day of pampering at a five-star spa, I just feel, well, blissful. ‘I feel pretty bloody awesome, actually.’
Paula, the hairstylist eyes me sceptically through the mirror, before her gaze slides to Niamh’s. ‘Valium?’ Niamh shakes her head. ‘Xanax?’
‘Don’t look at me. If she’s had stuff, she hasn’t gotten it from me,’ she replies, plumping the cleavage almost hidden in the cowl neck of her gold gown. She looks gorgeous; tan and dappled with freckles, her auburn locks swept elegantly to one side of her head.
‘Well, you’ve got to be the most chilled out bride I’ve ever seen.’
‘That’s because I’m marrying my prince!’
Paula mouths, ‘Cute’, while laughing, and Niamh mimes vomit-inducing fingers.
‘Ah, go away. You’ll make us all puke!’
‘You’d better not puke anywhere near this dress.’ And that’s my cue for the three of us to take a moment to appreciate the perfection of my gown: Lace, handmade, figure-hugging with a gentle flare as it draws to the floor—didn’t want to tempt fate there—a small train and long sleeves to counteract my bare collar-bones, and scattered with hundreds of tiny seed-pearls. Well, Kai does like me covered in pearls . . .
‘You look beaut, darl,’ says Geoff from behind us.
The parentals have descended on the suite; mine, and Kai’s mum, that is. Still no Faris. I’m guessing his is a silent protest. I’m pleased Mishael has tagged along, as it seems to help Mum hang onto her sense of decorum. She doesn’t shed too many tears, and she doesn’t touch my hair and dress more than she can help it, though she clutches Geoff’s arm an awful lot.
Before long, it’s time to leave.
‘By the time you come back into the room, you’ll be Mrs. Khalfan,’ says Mum, all teary eyed. There’s no point telling her I already am; she wouldn’t understand. ‘My baby, a married woman.’
‘Ah, don’t worry, Mrs. S, she’ll still be the same daft stumbling, bumbling Kate.’
Yes, because my life is a series of graceless moments.
We must make a bit of a sight, the group of us all dolled up. Mum seems to have been shopping because the navy evening dress she wears isn’t what she’d planned to wear in Aus. Mishael looks gorgeous, as usual, and has opted for another gown of plum. Even Geoff seems to have splashed some cash, ‘cos I don’t think you can hire a tux of that quality anywhere in the world.
Phillippe meets us at the ground floor; his assistant handing me
my bouquet of ivory roses. These, at least I chose. He directs us around the corner to a door; a nearby silver plaque declaring it The Courtyard. To my dismay, Faris stands just inside the door. Fuck a duck. My heart contracts at the sight of him standing there as cool as all get out. I almost stumble; my palm catching the wall.
‘Steady on, Katie.’ Geoff grasps my elbow, while Mum tells me I should’ve chosen more sensible shoes.
Faris takes Mishael in his arms, grazing his lips against her cheek, causing my expression to twist. I can’t help it—can’t hide how it makes me feel. Why would such a lovely, genuine woman—a very beautiful and desirable woman—tie herself to such a man? A man who would take another wife and manipulate his only son. Like acid, the thoughts burn me from within, my cheeks heating with indignation . . . and turning instantly to shame. Wasn’t this the very reason I left Dubai? Mistaken or not, I left to protect myself from hurt, knowing if I stayed, I risked losing myself along with my heart.
I physically rouse myself from these thoughts as Mishael pulls away and facilitates introductions while Faris tries his damndest to not catch my eye.
The last time we met, Faris tried to buy me off, determined to break us apart, to decide who Kai married, and yet here I stand. Ironic, really. Every inch the model of propriety, he takes Mishael’s hand into the crook of his arm.
Phillippe hands out instructions on who’s going when, and then the double doors open to the oncoming dusk, allowing the melodic notes of a string orchestra playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D major to drift in. Kai’s parents lead the procession, arm in arm, followed a beat later by my misty-eyed olds. Niamh gives me a quick thumbs up, and grabbing her own bouquet, makes her progress through the door.
‘Remember, my little koala bear, step-together-step-together.’ Phillippe’s directions come with a short two-step demo and complaints at our lack of a rehearsal. ‘Now, none of this galloping down the aisle to get to your man. I know it’ll be tempting. Especially when you clap eyes on that handsome devil at the end of this bit of shag-pile.’ With a suggestively raised brow, he shoots me a grin. ‘That man’s sexy and he knows it.’
LMFAO. Not. Just what I need to have playing in my head right now.
‘Ready, my little Australasian chicken?’
‘Wigglewigglewigglewiggle.’ I inhale, letting the breath out slowly. ‘Yeah.’
Cheesy music for the win.
Phillippe presses a finger to his ear, tapping an intercom fastened to his waistband. ‘Shanaz. We have a code red.’ He looks a little panic-stricken. ‘I repeat, a code red. Bring me the hipflask—she’s gone into shock.’
‘Ready.’ Without waiting for his reply, I step through the open door.
Beyond, the courtyard is secluded and intimate by virtue of high, pale stone walls. A large wooden arbour stands at the end of a length of ivory carpet, its edges sprinkled with pink-tinged rose petals. Glass hurricane lanterns light the way through the lowering daylight. And beneath the heavy canopy of deep green vines and candlelight, stands my husband.
My Kai.
As my toes touch the carpet, my eyes feast on his appearance and devour his lean angles and casual grace. Clean shaven, his dark tousled hair is brushed back from his face throwing his high cheekbones into sharp relief. As I draw near, his eyes reflect my devotion, shining in their amber lustre, and with each of my measured steps, I feel the weight of his love shining in that gaze.
This is the moment.
And this is forever.
Niamh takes my bouquet as I reach the arbour. Our small party of five closes behind me and the priest steps into place. Is he a priest? A minister? A parson? I’m not sure of the correct address, though he could be an actor, resplendent in vestments stolen from a fancy dress shop, for all I know.
Kai holds out his hand, guiding my body and lips into his. His lips touch mine, gossamer light and my eyes fall closed as his touch steals the breath from my lungs.
Distantly, someone masculine clears their throat.
‘We haven’t gotten to that part yet, I’m afraid.’
The smattering of soft laughter causes my cheeks to heat as our lips separate.
Words are then spoken. Words of faith, without affiliation; pronouncements of the sanctity of marriage, without deference to religion or creed. One God. One love. And as Kai glides a delicate band of diamonds onto my finger, we are decreed joined.
A brief ceremony but more than I could ever have imagined. Though if asked to recall my favourite part, I doubt I’d be able to repeat one word until, that is, my head is cupped in Kai’s palms, his gaze intent on my own.
‘I’ll call you my wife, not because we are married, but because you are everything to me. You know me better than you imagine, better than anyone in this world, in fact, and yet somehow you’ve still decided to love me. I will remain true and by your side because you are my everything.’
I don’t have a prepared declaration—no carefully worded vows, but he might’ve plucked those words from my mind. So I repeat to him the one thing that matters most.
‘I love you, Kais Al Khalfan.’
He kisses me then, thoroughly, and in that moment I know souls do meet on lovers’ lips.
Arm in arm and wreathed in smiles, we leave the courtyard, our guests following behind.
A perfect ceremony, and I’d’ve been happy for it to have ended right there; maybe an intimate dinner with our family before escaping off alone somewhere. But that’s not the Khalfan way. The adan is called from nearby mosques, the melodic tenor as fitting a backdrop as any. We traverse a maze of bay trees, entering into a clearing festooned by fairy lights. Circular tables sit at one end of a larger courtyard. A raised stage housing a band sits at the other, the pale sandstone flooring in between designated as a dance floor. White linen, white flowers, candles and green vines; the whole effect is understated and utterly gorgeous.
Our guests stand as we enter, clapping and cheering, some scattering petals as we pass. It seems the Dubai glitterati are out in full force tonight, only this time, I feel like I’m one of them, rather than the odd one out.
The evening passes in a blur—the sun setting on the horizon blazing gold and apricot, making way for twilight and the oncoming night. A magical night filled with the scents of jasmine and illuminated by twinkling lights and a million stars beyond.
‘Darlings, I’m so incredibly happy for you both.’ Wreathed in wide smiles, Mishael kisses us in turn. ‘Can I steal your bride for a little while? We should show our faces in the banqueting hall.’
‘What’s going on in there?’ I ask, slightly panic-stricken at the thoughts of having to ingest more food.
‘In deference to the more conservative of the guests, we’ve reserved areas for segregated gatherings, for those who felt unable to attend the mixed event,’ Mishael adds.
‘Separate for women and men?’
‘Yes. We ought to pop in and show the ladies how beautiful you are. Kai will come and join you in a little while. Right, darling?’
Kai’s smile is a little sad. ‘I don’t relish giving her up.’
‘Me either. Last time Geoff stood on my toes!’
‘That’s because you both have two left feet,’ he teases. ‘But if I must, I must. I’ll follow you in very—’ twining our held hands behind my back, he kisses me. ‘—very shortly.’
Mishael gathers my mother and Niamh and the four of us take a private elevator to some distant floor. As the doors slide open, the cool air is a welcome respite; although the weather is lots more gentle this time of year, especially the evenings, it still is pretty warm.
As we step out, a dull thud of bass vibrates under my toes. Somehow, this wasn’t what I’d’ve expected, if I’d thought to expect anything at all. Loud Arabic pop music blares and arrhythmic lighting bounces from the walls of the high ceilinged hall. I also couldn’t have anticipated our reception as some of the women turn to greet us with a vocal sort of high-pitched trilling. Ululating, I think it’s called. It’s s
hocking for a moment or two, but also deeply primal, as the music—being played by a female DJ—dissipates in the room. We’re sprinkled with more petals and I’m passed almost from hand to hand, greeted, while being told how beautiful I look, marsha’allah, as I’m blessed and kissed. Some faces I recognise—Sadia and Hala, and some of Kai’s female cousins from my henna night—while others are unfamiliar, but they’re all happy faces, all the same. Wedding fever must be infectious! They’re also dressed to kill; the room is overflowing with evening gowns of all colours and designs. And there’s more flesh flashing than is appropriate on Oscar night!
Eventually, we reach a raised dais where a silver cushioned love-seat sits under a canopy of white flowers. Candelabra, at least eight-feet tall, stand on each step leading to the platform and the whole stage area is bathed by a soft glow. Mum seems in awe of the, no doubt, tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers, gowns, and richly adorned women, as the music begins again. Niamh is cajoled into joining the dance floor, and she’s surprisingly good, too. She’s all sinuous hips and graceful arms. She even drags me into the fray, and though entertained, judging by their giggles, I doubt anyone was impressed by my whip and nae nae.
We’re fed cake and served exotic fruit juices, when the DJ announces something in Arabic and a sense of urgency sets in.
‘Watch, my dear, you don’t want to miss this.’
Mishael’s expression is serene as the women stop dancing—those on the dance floor hurrying, those dancing near tables already pulling on their dark cloaking abayaat, and hastily fastening shayla scarves over their hair, until it’s hard to recognise anyone.
‘Is that it? Is it over?’ As much as I long to be back in Kai’s arms, it does seem a bit abrupt.
‘No, dear. We’re about to be raided.’
‘What? Not the police!’
Mishael covers her laugh with her hand as the grand entrance doors swing open, and the slow beat of a drum sounds. Drawing closer, the beat begins resonating somewhere in my chest. In the crowd, a woman ululates, the sharp noise gathering in pace and volume as others join in. The drum beats louder, nearer, as a group of traditionally dressed men step inside of the room. Some carry ornate sticks with which they accompany the beat, some sing and chant as the drummers enter. Then, two men with large, Arabic-style drums strapped to their waists join the others in a sort of musical guard of honour, when in steps Kai.