Someone pushed Ziad into the centre of the room where he slowly moved his body awkwardly beside Rima’s. Then a silk scarf was passed into Rima’s hands. She dropped it around Ziad’s neck and slid it over his shoulders and down his chest. He stretched out his arms and began to roll his belly, following the flow of the scarf. Rima made more sensuous movements of the hips and abdomen before Samira pushed through the crowd toward the stereo and lowered the volume, interrupting the mock seduction. Samira announced in Arabic, “Dinner is served. Welcome everyone.”
Adele sat beside an older male relative on one of the foldout chairs around the dining room table. “You should speak Arabic fluently,” he said, scooping up a small portion of taboulleh into a tiny piece of lettuce leaf. Across from them sat some of her older aunts, ones who had been in Canada longer than Adele had been alive, but spoke not one of word of English. This didn’t stop them from criticizing the generation that spoke English fluently. They were the old women who clucked like hens, hatching proverbial eggs of gossip, cracking shells and spilling yolks of the supposed “wrongdoings” in the community. With their heads held high, they sat with their backs pressed against the velvet-cushion seats of dining room chairs while the rest of the guests sat on the foldout ones. Several people were sitting around the buffet dinner that had been lavishly spread out on the dining room table and others filtered into the adjacent living room with platefuls of food and glasses of wine or soft drinks. Adele was uncomfortably seated beside the man named Nadim. In spite of being in the middle of July, Nadim wore a large wool sweater that reeked of his body odour. She politely shifted over so she was a little closer to the doorway leading into the living room. She moved the chair without anybody noticing, in particular the old battleaxes across the way from her. She smiled at them but they just stared at her as if their faces were granite. She turned back to Nadim.
“Speak to me in Arabic,” he demanded with his mouth full. His teeth were brown and rotten from years of neglect. Adele’s own parents had their decayed teeth removed when they came to Canada. They had started to wear dentures in their mid-twenties. Nadim still had his real teeth; Adele tried not to stare at them. She had also noticed that his mouth was lopsided as if he had suffered from a stroke, something she dared not ask. Most Lebanese people didn’t speak of their physical or psychological problems, so she privately wondered what had made his lip curl to one side when he opened his mouth and lectured her. And the scar above his right eyebrow—brown and deep—also made her wonder what had happened. Had he been a soldier in the old country? Or had his father beaten him for disobedience? From the corner of her eye, she watched the way the scar twitched when the old man spoke. Like her own father, the man had a receding hairline but with thick wavy hair on the sides of his head, pressed down by the small plastic comb he most likely kept in the back pocket of his baggy green pants. Youssef had often enough pulled out a black comb from his pocket and ran it through his hair when visitors unexpectedly dropped by the house or when a gust of wind had blown what remaining hair he had out of place. Adele smiled at the thought. She knew where Mona had gotten her vanity. “Yallah, speak in Arabic with me,” Nadim said again, still talking with food in his mouth.
Adele looked away from his mouth once more. “I understand Arabic, but I don’t speak it very well. I used to when I was younger but then I lost it.”
“You should try harder,” he insisted. “How will you speak with your Lebanese husband?”
“Maybe I won’t marry a Lebanese man.”
“Not marry a Lebanese man!” he exclaimed, and hit his leg with his hand. The dish on his lap nearly tumbled to the floor. Other guests stared curiously as the man caught the plate and demanded, “What man you marry then?”
Knowing very well what the man’s reaction would be, Adele said, “Chinese.”
“Chinaman!” he slapped his palm against his forehead.
“Chinese, not ‘chinaman,’” Adele corrected. “What’s wrong with marrying someone outside our race?”
“Ayb,” he said. “You lose your heritage. That’s what’s wrong. You become lost and become nothing but a person without roots. Worse, your children won’t know who they are.”
Well, she wasn’t a product of an interracial marriage, but she didn’t know who she was either. She glanced at the faces surrounding her, wrinkles of disapproval engraved in the foreheads of the whispering old women, the people in the kitchen. This was her tribe. Wasn’t it? She blinked down at the plate on her lap. The lemon juice from the taboulleh had flowed into the hummus, between the stuffed grape leaves and kibbeh nayeh, making everything on her dish soggy. The carefully cut piece of pita bread shook in her left hand. Her stomach no longer growled with hunger. She licked her lips, which had suddenly become dry.
“Why don’t you speak Arabic fluently?” he repeated.
“I’m trying,” she muttered.
“You sound like the gypsies who used to live in our village. Perhaps you’re a descendant of them and not the Azar family,” he said, mockingly.
“And what’s wrong with being a gypsy?” Adele shot back. Her face reddened when she realized that those around them were now staring at her.
Nadim patted her shoulder and leaned closer, flooding her nose with the smell of garlic. “Calm down. This is a joyous occasion. Your sister is getting married tomorrow, remember?”
Adele nodded. She threw the half-eaten piece of pita bread onto her dish, then got up and gathered the guests’ empty plates as they handed them to her.
“Ziad is a good Lebanese man,” Nadim emphasized.
Bowing her head, she carried the dirty dishes down the hall. Friends and family carried glasses of arak and wine in their hands from the dining area into the living room. Feet once again began pounding on the hardwood floor. The deep beat of Arabic song reverberated off the cream-coloured walls as guests lined up and danced the dabke once more. Adele looked back at them but continued towards the kitchen. At the sink, she rolled up her sleeves and curled her small, round shoulders into her body, closed her eyes tight so the tears wouldn’t slip out. But rather than wash the dishes, she pulled her sleeves back down and walked out of the kitchen, past the guests who were immersed in the dancing and music. By the doorway, she turned and studied her sisters: Rima, Katrina, and Mona were leaning into each other’s bodies, laughing and belly dancing in the middle of the room while a group of people surrounded them, clapping. Everything seemed a blur; the energy of her people seemed to make her dwindle into herself until she could no longer breathe. She lowered her eyes and took deep breaths until she was able to look up at her sisters again. They spun around with wide smiles, beads of sweat sliding down their temples. Adele turned away from her sisters’ radiant faces and ran down the front steps of the house.
Arabic music echoed in her ears. Before unlatching the fence to Mrs. Foster’s yard, Adele turned to face the yellow grocery store and adjoining house. With its green roof and Coca-Cola sign jutting out from the stucco, her father’s business looked picturesque, almost peaceful.
She slowly pulled open the gate and walked up the pathway leading to the white front porch. It was almost nine o’clock at night and she didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Foster. She sat quietly on the swing-chair without making it rock too much. She listened to the crickets in the grass and the sound of music coming from her parents’ home. Leaning back against the cushion of the chair, her shoulders finally relaxed. Only now, sitting on her neighbour’s porch did she feel comfortable, though she knew that running away from the party proved she was an outsider—the Lebanese girl who was an impostor, a fake. Suddenly, the screen door to Mrs. Foster’s house swung open. Adele jumped up and stumbled away, steadying herself against the brick exterior of the house.
“Oh, it’s you, Adele,” Mrs. Foster said, clenching a broom in her hands. The brush was up and pointed away from her body in anticipation of swatting the intruder. She slowly lowered the b
room and rested it against the door. “Why aren’t you at your sister’s party, dear?” Mrs. Foster asked.
“Um, I … I just,” Adele stammered, then stared down at her patent leather shoes. She touched one foot to the other and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I needed a break,” she confessed.
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Foster said, lowering her body onto the old and rusty swing-chair that squeaked as she made it swing by pushing her feet away from the ground.
Adele didn’t look directly in her neighbour’s eyes; instead she angled her face to the moon.
“Parties can sometimes be overwhelming, can’t they? I would much rather curl up with a good book than chat nonsense with complete strangers who are only being polite for the sake of appearances,” Mrs. Foster said, looking up at the moon too. Adele quickly glanced into her neighbour’s eyes. They were so blue. Adele’s own eyes were bloodshot from crying earlier.
“I’m not a social butterfly. I could never flutter from one group to another.” Mrs. Foster pressed her back into the chair. “Harold was the outgoing one in our relationship.”
“But you don’t seem shy at all,” Adele said, moving closer to her neighbour, now leaning against one of the pillars that faced the chair.
“It’s all an act, dear,” she whispered, then laughed softly.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m acting too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I feel like…” she stopped, looked down at the wooden panels of the porch. They were cracking in some places.
“It’s okay, Adele.”
“I feel like I don’t belong with my family, like I’m not a part of them. Sometimes I wish you were my mother. I feel different when I’m with you. You make me feel good about myself. My father … it’s just,” she paused and wet her lips with a quick flick of her tongue. Adele watched Mrs. Foster from the pillar, waiting for her to stop her, but she didn’t. “My father sometimes says mean things to me. I … I sometimes wish I could run away. I thought I could handle the words but…”
“Adele…”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Foster. I’m sorry….” Her voice was shaking.
Stretching out her hands, Mrs. Foster said, “Come here, my dear.”
Adele shuffled across the porch and grasped onto Mrs. Foster’s hands then fell to her knees in front of her and laid her head on her neighbour’s lap, her shoulders jerking up and down as the tears flowed. The old woman patted the girl’s head, the sound of Adele’s muffled cries joining the music coming from her parents’ house.
CHAPTER 9
WHEN ADELE RETURNED HOME, she looked around the store and house and felt a sudden hatred for her father’s property. What took place on Mrs. Foster’s porch rushed to her mind. How had it gotten to the point where she had to sob on her neighbour’s lap? Why did she let this house and her tyrannical father control her? For a few minutes she stood with her arms folded and stared hard at the place her father had built after she was born. Her eyes darted back and forth from the grocery store to the attached red-bricked house. The stucco of the shop was beginning to crack. The outer coat of paint had also lost its lustre; it was no longer a bright golden hue but a washed-out yellow. Adele tilted her neck and gazed up at the sign with her father’s name captured in green letters. A few minutes later, she trudged up the steps, and past empty paper cups left by some of the guests. Standing at the door’s threshold, she noticed that the visitors had dwindled down to a few stragglers, listening to the latest gossip or snacking on her mother’s baklawa or ma’moul, icing sugar dusting the corners of their mouths. Her eyes scanned the hallway and adjacent rooms. The entwined pink, purple, and white streamers that they had strung up earlier that day were now cascading down the doorways and cream-coloured walls. She stepped inside. The house smelled strongly of ahweh and tobacco. She took a deep breath before joining her sisters in the living room where they were surrounded by a small group of young men. She tucked herself next to Mona on the beige sofa. Mona straightened her slender shoulders, turned and whispered in Adele’s ear. “Where have you been? People were wondering.”
Adele rolled her eyes and shifted away from Mona, making the springs of the couch creak.
“Thank God Babba was too busy to notice. You shouldn’t have run off. What’s wrong with you?” Mona questioned.
Adele thought again about what had happened on Mrs. Foster’s porch, how she had cried, showing her weakness, and she knew Mrs. Foster would never judge her but this didn’t stop her from regretting what happened. She looked around the room at the people she despised and loved at the same time.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?” Mona asked, leaning closer. Adele peered at the tiny hairs above her sister’s painted lips. There were clumps of mascara on her long-lashed, large eyes. “Answer me,” her sister insisted. Mona’s face was heavily powdered with makeup, and now the foundation and blush were oily and patchy. The nostrils of her sister’s aquiline nose flared when she spoke. Unlike her own shoulder-length dark brown curls, Mona’s jet-black hair was long and straight. Most of the time, she flipped it back in a seductive manner, but at this moment she sat still and scowled at Adele. She spoke in a low, serious voice, so the men across from them couldn’t make out the conversation. Although, they couldn’t have heard anything the sisters said, their own voices growing louder as each tried to gain control of the conversation. “You shouldn’t have left. This party was really important for Rima. What kind of sister are you? Jeez, running away! You’re not some enklese. Family sticks together, no matter what.”
Adele felt a lump in her throat but she refused to cry. She had cried enough, the tears soaking Mrs. Foster’s cotton nightgown. She bit her lip to prevent another flood. Not here, she silently thought in her mind. Not in front of them.
Frowning irritably, Mona said sharply, “Babba’s right about you.” She then turned to face Rima and Katrina, quietly listening to Mona lecturing their baby sister. Raising her eyes, Adele, too, looked at them and a faint smile appeared on her mouth. But they didn’t return her gesture; they sat expressionless. Adele rose to her feet and bid them a quick goodnight before ascending the staircase.
When everybody else was gone, the Azar family slept. The sky thundered and rain thrashed against the steel sign of Youssef’s grocery store, making it sway back and forth and clang against the wall. Adele couldn’t sleep. She fidgeted in her bed until she finally sat up. She listened to the sign. It made her think of the shrieks of lambs being slaughtered in her parents’ village, a sound Youssef had described over and over in his stories of Lebanon. But they weren’t in the old country anymore. She had never been there but she thought she knew how it felt.
Outside the streetlights flickered against the green-coloured letters of Youssef’s name while the wind continued to thrash against the sign. It was as old as the store itself, a fossil in an area slowly succumbing to the temptations of superstores and shopping malls. Yet Youssef was still famous in this neighbourhood; Youssef’s Grocery was a household name.
But it wasn’t the noise from the sign or the rain that made Adele sit up in her bed. It was her injury. Her pubic area still hurt. Quietly, she got up and stood by the window with her hands on her hips. Turning, she slowly crept out of her room, glancing at her sleeping sister Mona before slipping into the hallway and tiptoeing into the bathroom. She closed the door softly behind her. Then she knelt on the floor and opened the cupboard under the sink. She reached and pulled out her underwear that was now dry. The bloodstains had disappeared.
She began to cry. She was no longer clean and she thought no Lebanese man would want her because she had been broken and Youssef and Samira had told her and her sisters many times that all Lebanese men wanted their potential wives to be virgins. How would she explain to her husband the lack of blood when he entered her body on their wedding night? Would he still want her to be his wife, would he kick her out of his bed and house,
giving her no choice but to return to Youssef and his disapproval? Ayb, ayb, ayb, she imagined her father fiercely shouting. You’ve dragged my good name through the mud! What would happen to her then? She remembered Mona’s words: Babba’s right about you. Her face grew hot and she thought, damn you for taking Babba’s side. She rubbed her face and wept again. Her heart was throbbing so violently that her ribs ached. She could tell no one what happened. She had wanted to tell Mrs. Foster about the accident on her bicycle but instead she cried on the old woman’s lap without revealing her secret. She got up and looked hard at herself in the mirror. The skin under her eyes was swollen and her curls were messy. She brushed her hands over her cheeks, wiping away stray tears.
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