The Pact We Made

by Layla AlAmmar

  ‘Your stomach is playing me the song of its people,’ Zaina said with a small smile.

  I let out a little laugh, shook my head and pressed down on my belly with one hand.

  Her voice was low and tentative. ‘I don’t think you’re a coward.’

  15

  A Cowslip’s Bell

  Fen Gallery was out by the airport, in an old warehouse surrounded by rundown factories and empty complexes in need of demolishing. If you stood in the courtyard long enough, you would see the gleaming belly of planes overhead and your ears would fill with their deafening roars. The building was whitewashed in its entirety, so that it stood like a beacon among the forgotten structures around it. Zacharia must have it repainted every couple of months. It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but he somehow made it seem desirable – a destination that people would gladly go out of their way to get to.

  It was only six in the evening when I parked my car down the street and made my way to the gallery. The sun had just descended and the twilight was hazy. The season of the sarayat had begun; the wind blew from the south, bringing with it dust and clouds the color of wet tarmac which exploded into sudden, angry storms. We’d had one the night before, the shutters on the windows of my room shaking from the violence of it, the thunder cracking like bombs. The rain had fallen, kamikaze rain that hit the windows and roof hot and fast. It was gone by morning, the earth left wet and strained at its parting, the hard sand struggling to absorb the water.

  Zacharia had had some trouble at the gallery. The wind had ripped some branches off an old palm tree in the courtyard, and these had been left to litter the ground like he had intended it, like it was some art installation. The white walls bore rain tracks, long and ragged streaks that looked like the concrete was split in parts. I hoped they’d not had any flooding inside, and if they had, that my sketches were well protected.

  As I moved through the courtyard I saw food vendors in various states of setting up: there was a burger and hot dog truck parked at one end, the workers busy with grills and aligning condiments on the serving shelf; there was a little stand preparing a crepe station to go with the spiced milky chai the restaurant was famous for; there was a vintage pink caravan parked in the opposite corner, setting up American pies and brownies, with little wrought-iron chairs and tables to sit at. It wasn’t my idea, but Zacharia had said that you couldn’t get people to go anywhere without serving them food.

  I found him in the gallery, barking at one of his assistants to sweep up outside and that he didn’t care if it was still windy. The walls were white, the same white as the outside, and the floor was a lighter concrete that I didn’t think was the original flooring for the building. There were warm glowing lights spaced out along the walls, and beneath them were my sketches.

  It was strange to see them like that. I had a sudden urge to run around the space pulling them down and stuff them in the trunk of my car. They were lined up in the exact order we’d agreed on. On the near wall, as soon as you walked in, were the Doré reproductions – of his Paradise Lost work and The Inferno – but looking at them up there, right by the door, seemed like a colossal mistake. Who would not look at them and laugh? I kept my head down and moved to the back wall. Here they’d hung the John William Waterhouses, but where his were vibrant, mine were all in black and white, and I’d chosen his least charming girls to replicate – the angry one standing over a cauldron with its tower of smoke, another standing with a stern expression on her face, her head tightly wrapped in what I had turned into an elaborate hijab, and still another with her veil whipping loose around her so that you did not know where veil ended and hair began. They all had Arab faces as well – strong brows and noses and full lips – and as they stood staring down at me, I had no idea how they would be received. The Shakespearean reproductions were on the last wall. I had tried to space them widely, but they still looked like an ode to Ariel: there was the sprite as Rackham saw him, trapped and anguished in a broken pine; there he was as the childlike fairy of Edmund Dulac’s imaginings, a bright spot in a sea of darkness; there he was as William Hamilton’s robust, Georgian blond. I had no idea I’d drawn so many of him over the last couple of months. I hadn’t brought the Goyas; they were too raw, and I’d not done more than basic outlines of them.

  Turning in a circle, I felt exposed, as though they were nudes of me up there hung for everyone to see.

  ‘There she is!’ I heard sometime later as two thin arms wrapped around me from behind. I turned to embrace Mona.

  She’d gone all out for my big night and was more glammed up than I was. Her hair was teased into a mohawk and her ears glittered with diamonds and jewels slotted into multiple piercings. Her arms sported high-end diamond and gold bracelets and thick cuffs and tinkling bangles, her fingers stacked with rings. She wore a body-hugging, aqua blue dress by a designer I was sure I’d never heard of and nude pumps that made her legs look like they went on forever. Her brows were dark and perfect, eyes shadowed in golds and browns and hints of blue eyeliner.

  I scanned the room, catching sight of Rashid over by the Doré replicas. He was more laidback in jeans and a black button-down, though the shirt seemed to glint as though it were threaded with a metallic version of the same aqua as his wife’s garment.

  ‘It looks amazing!’ Mona gushed, gripping my upper arms. Her face glowed, all bronze and pink cheeks. ‘I’m so proud of you, Dahlia.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied, squeezing her arms in return.

  She looked around the space. ‘I had no idea there’d be so many of them.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ I said with a small laugh. ‘I was surprised when I went digging in my cabinet. Some of those,’ I added, pointing to the Waterhouses, ‘I barely remember doing.’

  ‘Well, it looks great,’ she said with a nod. ‘And I see the bloggers are all out and taking pictures.’ She nudged me and winked. ‘You might go viral tonight.’

  I chuckled. ‘Another tick for my bucket list.’

  Rashid was still at the first Doré. It was a replica of the Fall from Milton’s Paradise Lost that I’d done a few years before. The angel was larger, his wings spread wider than the original and the earth below looked dark and uninviting. It barely looked like Doré’s, was far below Doré’s. I never should have included them. Rashid was an architect; he knew all about proportion and lines. I was struck with a stomach-plummeting shame at my shortcomings.

  Zaina came through the door, understated in black trousers and a floral silk blouse, and made a beeline towards us. She pulled me and Mona into a three-way hug, her squeal of excitement landing right in my ear canal.

  ‘I can’t believe how great this is!’ she exclaimed, doing a little hop of excitement in her heels, so that her long hair swished around her shoulders. ‘My best friend is going to be a famous artist.’

  I laughed and shook my head. ‘It’s just a little show at a little gallery.’

  She gestured around the room. ‘This isn’t little, Dahlia. It’s seriously impressive.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, watching the door as more people streamed in. I heard some grumblings about not being allowed to bring their tea and coffee and food in from outside. I was pleased that Zacharia was so strict about it. ‘Are you alone tonight?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Zaina replied, running a hand through her hair so that her studs caught the light. ‘Baby Girl’s asleep and Mish’al is watching her since the nanny’s traveling.’

  I nodded and furrowed my brow as I caught sight of Yousef coming my way with a frown. It had flipped into a smile though by the time he got to us.

  ‘Hello, ladies!’ he said as I shuffled aside to make room for him. ‘You all look beautiful tonight.’

  The girls thanked him, Mona adding, ‘You did an amazing job. Dahlia said it’s more your exhibit than hers.’

  ‘Lies,’ he replied, giving me a quick squeeze on the shoulder. ‘I’m just the manager.’

  ‘Seriously though,’ said Zaina, ‘she never would have done
it if it weren’t for you.’

  He looked at me and smiled. ‘See? Told you I was good for you.’

  I gave him a tight smile and pretended not to see the confused look that passed between the girls. ‘There’s a ton of food, you guys,’ I said, shooing them away. ‘Eat, drink, and be merry.’

  ‘If only,’ Mona mumbled, linking arms with Zaina and pulling her towards the door.

  I turned to Yousef, but he was backing away, claiming he needed to check with Zacharia about something.

  People came and people went. The volume rose around me, so that laughter and chatter bounced off the high ceiling, and then it dropped until the clacking of my pacing heels sounded crude and slightly menacing. There was an acoustic guitar playing out in the courtyard, a solemn voice rising and falling in song, a smattering of applause following each tune. What Zacharia called social influencers stopped me for chats, filming little Q&As and taking pictures to filter and caption and post. It was uncomfortable, but I smiled and laughed and pretended it was just a normal evening. A young group, high schoolers by the look of it, tried to come in with their loaded hot dogs before Yousef shooed them out, looking so much like my father trying to scare stray cats from the garden that I laughed long and loud. People came and went, and through it all I remained, pacing back and forth between the two walls.

  ‘I’m shocked.’ I turned to see Rashid at my side. I hadn’t heard his approach. He was looking at one of the Arabized Waterhouses. ‘I had no idea you were so talented.’ My face heated under the praise and I mumbled my thanks. ‘It’s stunning, Dahlia,’ he continued, shaking his head. ‘It’s really stunning.’

  ‘Well, it’s no skyscraper,’ I quipped and his mouth twitched into a smile.

  ‘How do you come up with that?’ he asked, gesturing towards the girl in the picture, with her kohl-rimmed eyes and shaded veil whipping around her head.

  I shrugged. ‘How do you decide what to put on a building?’

  He chuckled. ‘A building’s design is mostly dictated by needs.’

  ‘So’s a sketch,’ I said, inclining my head.

  He looked at me like I’d said something profound when I was pretty sure it meant nothing at all. ‘I’d buy it if I could,’ he said, turning back to the wall, stepping closer to study it.

  ‘I’d never sell it to you.’ His eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t take money for it.’

  He smiled and turned back to the wall. ‘I love it.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  We stood in silence for a while, staring at the wall of illustrations. I expected him to say he needed to go find Mona – perhaps I should’ve asked about her or suggested we go together to find her and Zaina – but there was an elysian closeness in the air between us, and I was loath to see it end. It seemed like the gallery had faded away, like the clocks had turned back and we were in my yard and I was pointing out the herbs Baba was planting. We were young and there were possibilities everywhere. It was a moment, a decision had been made there, a choosing of paths, and I couldn’t help but imagine where all those other choices and paths might have led us. A world in which he’d chosen me, in which there was nothing to prevent me from pursuing him, in which he was at my side as a husband supporting his wife and there was no wonder on his face because he’d been there to watch me draw the illustrations. There was a world spinning out there where Dahlia had a normal life and nothing bad had ever happened to her.

  ‘She cheated on me,’ he said, his voice low and soft.

  I wanted to pretend I hadn’t heard him, that I had chosen to walk away in search of the girls, or that he had. But that wasn’t the path we were on now. We were on this one, where I had to decide whether to lie or be honest. More choices, more paths. I sighed instead.

  ‘I know you know,’ he said.

  A choice made for me.

  ‘I couldn’t say anything.’

  ‘Your loyalty is to her, I know that.’

  I sighed again, because what was it if not loyalty that had made me hold my tongue? ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shook his head, still facing forward. ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘She loves you.’

  He smiled, but there didn’t seem to be any joy in it. ‘I know.’

  ‘And you love her.’

  His eyes were unfocused; he wasn’t looking at the illustration at all. He was looking at memories of the two of them in his mind: trips to Koh Samui and the Maldives to snorkel in crystal waters and rappel down waterfalls; driving her crazy while decorating their apartment, their opinions so at odds, and the makeup sex that followed; watching her fluttering lashes as she napped or the way she danced whenever she cooked.

  I heard him agree with me, but his voice was so low I could pretend I hadn’t heard it.

  It was near the end of the night. Zaina had left first; she needed to go home and check on her babies, she said with a wink. Mona and Rashid had left not long after, her clinging to his arm and him pulling her close with another of his quiet smiles. Yousef was outside with some friends he’d found, and I’d not seen Zacharia for hours. I glanced at my watch, a quarter to eleven – fifteen minutes and I could head for my car and pull off my heels and go home. I had been longing for my bed for an hour already. All I wanted was home, a shower, and sleep.

  Hearing shoes on the threshold, I turned to the door. Bu Faisal was walking in; my stomach fluttered, and I told myself it was nerves from our last conversation. He grinned and I returned it, shuffling my aching feet until he drew closer.

  ‘Mabrook,’ he said, reaching for my hand. His was warm as it shook mine, and he pulled me in slightly for air-kisses on the cheek.

  I felt my face flush again and I drew back, folding my hands behind my back. ‘Thank you. How did you hear about this?’

  He looked around the gallery, eyes twinkling as he took in the work. ‘Yousef sent me an invitation. This is wonderful,’ he added, turning in a circle to take in the whole series of illustrations. His mouth dropped open, his features slack with awe. ‘And here I thought it was only flowers.’

  I laughed and followed him as he moved towards one wall. ‘The flowers are for work doodles, I guess.’

  He gestured to one of the larger pieces, a replica of The Destruction of Leviathan. In deference to local customs, I’d excised God and his avenging sword, so that all you saw were the dragon’s scales and forked tongue and the froth of the angry waves. Everything else was darkness. ‘That wouldn’t fit on your little monthly planner.’

  ‘No,’ I replied with a chuckle.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m good,’ I said with a nod.

  ‘You look good.’

  I turned to him in surprise then glanced down at my simple gray and pale pink dress. I faced the wall, but my stomach continued to flutter annoyingly.

  ‘I mean, you look happier than the last time I saw you, which is not to say you don’t look nice tonight.’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you.’ Shaking my head, I added, ‘I wasn’t upset when I saw you that day.’

  ‘Seemed like there was a lot on your mind. I assume it was the issue with Yousef,’ he replied, looking around as though expecting him to pop out at any moment.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said with a wave of my hand. ‘I mean, yes, it was strange and out of the blue and …’ I petered out. ‘I’ve known Yousef a long time.’

  He nodded and moved down the line of sketches to the other wall. He was nonchalant as he asked, ‘Are you reconsidering?’

  His interest was a question mark I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to. Twice now he’d complimented me, and it wasn’t in the manner I was used to hearing from him. It felt different in a way I’d never considered. Different like how he’d been in Germany, protective and caring. His words enveloped me like that big overcoat, leaving me feeling warm and safe. I looked at him again, my mind conjuring his wife and kids, and I berated myself for the turns my thoughts were taking.

  ‘No.’

  He nodd
ed, but his eyes had landed and were fixed on Fuseli’s Ariel. I had stayed up many nights perfecting it. The only liberty I’d taken was to erase Miranda and Ferdinand. I had no need for them. I wanted Ariel to be the focus, and he was. He was en pointe on the back of a black bat, its wings stretched in flight. The sprite was leaning into an arabesque. His features were leaner, more delicate, than those in the original, and he was aglow in the light of the cord of stars whipping around his body.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Bu Faisal said.

  ‘None of them are originals,’ I replied. ‘They’re copies of famous work.’

  He looked over at me, eyes gentle, a smile lifting his mouth. ‘Still beautiful.’ I turned back to the wall. ‘Tell me about it.’

  I bit my lip and pointed at a little card affixed to the wall by the illustration. ‘The words that inspired it,’ I said, though they were in fact the words that had inspired Fuseli.

  ‘I don’t have my glasses,’ he said.

  I breathed out a little laugh, but stepped closer and read,

  ‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I;

  In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

  There I couch when owls do cry.

  On the bat’s back I do fly

  After summer merrily.

  Merrily, merrily shall I live now

  Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.’

  He was quiet for a long moment, perhaps struggling, as I had, with the meaning behind the lines. Though, unlike me, he didn’t at that moment have the benefit of the internet to help. ‘What does it mean?’ he finally asked, and I felt his eyes on me.

  ‘He’s a spirit,’ I said, ‘a sprite, but he’s held captive. He serves a master, Prospero, and does his bidding. Prospero is not a terrible master, just reluctant to release him. There’s always one more thing to do, one more thing expected of him. That,’ I pointed to the card, ‘is the song he sings when he’s about to finally be set free.’ I took a step back and looked at the whole illustration, feeling something in me lift. ‘It’s a flight of freedom.’

  ‘On a bat?’ he asked with a smile.