The Pact We Made

by Layla AlAmmar

  ‘Uncle Omar died.’

  Bu Faisal paused from where he’d been about to place an istikana of tea before me. His eyes flitted across my face for a moment, then he put the tea saucer down and said, ‘I know.’

  I stared at the red-brown liquid, the flakes of saffron swirling, the steam rising. I was too agitated to plop in the sugar cube and stir. He returned to his seat, tending to his own istikana and avoiding my eyes.

  ‘You’re not going to offer your condolences?’

  He chose the moment to take a long drink of tea, his gaze on the computer screen. When the silence grew uncomfortable, he said, ‘No, I’m not.’

  I didn’t know what to do with that response, so I just let it hang in the air between us. I sipped at my water and looked out the wall of windows at the blue water and sky and the beige and gray-brown of the roads. I watched cranes lifting their loads at construction sites, long arms swinging left and right, making towers grow like concrete trees.

  I was unaware of my tears until I tasted them, salty and wet on my lips. Lowering my face to hide them, I swiped a hand across my cheek.

  ‘That’s a bit rude,’ I finally said.

  He sighed and pushed the plate of cookies my way. ‘I didn’t care for him.’

  ‘That’s hardly a reason.’ He shrugged, but I pressed him: ‘Did you go to the funeral?’ To that, he gave a shake of his head.

  I looked down at my glass of water. It was trembling. No, my hand was trembling. And there was my knee, jiggling up and down. I was in blue sweatpants and a black hoodie. I had on the red flip-flops I wore in the bathroom so as not to slip. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked at my hair. Bu Faisal had never seen me like this.

  Why hadn’t he gone to the funeral? Not liking someone was hardly a reason. It was a social custom. You showed up, offered condolences, and left. Not going was a statement. Baba hadn’t gone. I hadn’t. Neither Mona nor Zaina had gone.

  I looked up at him. He was watching me closely, his hand on a box of tissues he’d pushed across the desk to me.

  ‘What happened in London?’

  There was a twitch at the outer corner of his left eye, and he pressed a hand to it. He seemed to be measuring his words, sighing again before he said, ‘London … You were so young.’

  I didn’t like that, and I crossed my arms and legs, letting my gaze wander out the window. ‘Not that young.’ ‘I knew Omar a long time,’ he said, drawing my eyes back to his. ‘He was, without a doubt, the worst man I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing. The lowest of the low.’

  My heart pounded in my head, bile crawled up my throat, and I forced down another sip of water to counter it. What did he know? He couldn’t have known about me. I didn’t want to contemplate a world where he’d known, all this time, what had happened to me, a world where we’d had meetings and gone to conferences and shared a black car in Berlin and all that time he’d known. I willed the possibility away.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked again.

  He sighed, and I heard him crack his knuckles under the desk – the knuckles that had left bruises and cuts on Omar’s face that didn’t heal for weeks. ‘He …’ He hesitated, jerking his head to the side. ‘He behaved inappropriately with my daughter, with Rulla. She came to me one morning, told me what he’d said, how he’d put his hands on her.’ He shook his head and his eyes sparked and I saw traces of the warrior he’d been that day. ‘I ran all the way to Hyde Park, thought I’d have a heart attack before I even got there.’

  Rulla was a few years younger than me. I turned away, watching birds sail across the window, such easy freedom. She had told her father, straight away. She’d told him and he’d dealt with it. I’d stayed quiet and been torn in half. More choices, more paths I could have taken, more ‘me’s spinning out in more possibilities. How much of what happened could have been avoided? How much of this had I brought on myself? I railed against the lack of control and the preordainment of my life, but was it my own doing? Was it not so much that society prevented me from making choices as much as it was that I refused to make them? Could a thirteen- or fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl be expected to take control like that?

  ‘Did my parents know?’

  ‘They knew.’

  I closed my eyes, though I sensed he was looking at me. My parents had known what he was. They’d known, all that time. It seemed to be a larger betrayal. I filed it away with all the other feelings I couldn’t, at that moment, reason through.

  ‘He was scum.’

  ‘He was a monster,’ I whispered.

  His eyes went wide. ‘Dahlia …’

  I sprung up from my seat and moved to a side table against the wall, beside a black two-seater sofa. There was a trio of white candles on the table, never used. I ran my finger over the dry, grainy wax, itching to light it.

  ‘Dahlia,’ he said again, in a voice almost too low for me to hear.

  I shook my head and sank into the sofa. The cushions were black and soft, and if I tried hard enough I imagined I could bury myself in them. I raked my fingers through my messy hair, and then I began to sob. Folded in half, chest to knees, I gave myself over to it. I heard the chair squeak again, then a rolling sound, and then a sinking in the cushion at my side.

  A hand on my back, high and safe. The cooing of nonsense, low and unhelpful. Minutes passed like this, slow and likely torturous for him. I managed to get out that I didn’t want to talk about it, and he just murmured some more of that soothing nonsense.

  Sometime later, when I’d used half the box of tissues and forced down half a cup of tea because he insisted it would make me feel better, the words came. I didn’t tell him what happened to me. My mouth wouldn’t release those words, not even then. Instead out came a whole diatribe against my parents. At the first mention of them his eyes went dark and his lips curled in distaste, but I just carried on talking. I told him about the pressure, about the panic seeping from Mama’s pores and infecting the whole family. I talked about feeling trapped and wanting to just leave. I said that I could marry Yousef, that it would be a way out, but that it would also be a lie, and I couldn’t spend any more of my life parading around like I was normal.

  ‘Let me help you. I can take you away from here.’ He talked over my protests, just steamrolled over them. ‘If that’s what you want to do, then do it. You can’t live your life for your parents, Dahlia. If you aren’t happy here, leave. And if it’s a question of money, I can help.’

  I sat on the couch with puffy eyes and hitched breathing while he stood over me like some knight at a round table. There was a knock at the door. It was his secretary and she spoke to him in low tones; she could see me from the door and I looked down at my knees. I had a strange feeling that he’d opened it so far in order to show her that nothing inappropriate was happening. Certainly being talked about, but not actually happening.

  He responded to whatever she said, but she argued, coming back at him with something else I couldn’t hear. He ended it with a low reprimand, almost a growl, and shut the door. I was still studying my knees, shaking my head, and wondering if I ought to just leave. A quick ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ and bolt.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘You could go anywhere,’ he said. I looked up to find him pacing the floor in front of his desk. ‘London, New York, Paris … I’ll set you up in a place. You’ll have enough money to do whatever you want: go back to school, work, stay at home and draw all day. Whatever you want.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ I asked with a frown. ‘What do you get?’ It was an indelicate question, but I was past caring.

  He stopped short, frowned at me, then spread his hands in a gesture of concession. ‘I’d have the knowledge that you were comfortable, safe, maybe even happy.’ My face must have registered confusion as he continued, ‘You’d be free to do as you like. I wouldn’t bother you.’

  I looked down at my knees, picking at a stray thread in my pants. Was he suggesting that I marry him
instead of Yousef? How would that solve anything? It would have been moderately more honest; no one would have any illusions about what the marriage meant. An older man – perhaps his wife was neglecting him, perhaps he wanted to reclaim his youth – marries a much younger woman. It was a familiar story.

  ‘I’d probably only see you whenever I flew in on business.’

  ‘And you’d expect me to be with you then?’ The question flew out of my mouth before I could catch it, landing with a plop at his feet.

  He looked flustered. It was the first time I’d ever seen him like that, mouth opening and closing as he thought of and then aborted responses. His eyes darted around and his brows were wrinkled. It made the years fall away, and for a moment I could almost see the young man he must at one time have been.

  ‘We get along well,’ he finally said, eyes settling on the sky beyond the window. ‘When I’m in town I could take you out. Dinner, theater, art shows, things like that.’

  ‘You’d stay with me though,’ I pressed. ‘In the apartment or whatever.’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ he said, dropping into one of the seats in front of his desk. He ran a hand over his thin hair. ‘I won’t make you do anything, if that’s what concerns you.’ His eyes met mine, steady and calm. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you. Ever.’

  I stood and moved to the window, looking out on busy highways. His promise discomfited me, mainly because I immediately recognized how unnecessary it was. Bu Faisal would never hurt me. He didn’t have it in him. He was gentle and kind and much, much too generous.

  ‘Who’d have thought that at the end of the day I’d end up a gold-digger?’

  He sighed again. ‘You’re not a gold-digger.’

  ‘People don’t know that,’ I replied, turning to him. ‘People will say, “Oh, that Dahlia, little whore seduced a man her father’s age—”’

  ‘I’m a few years younger actually.’

  ‘A family friend even—’

  ‘I haven’t been friendly with them in years.’

  ‘And now she’s living it up in wherever, like his own personal high-class escort.’

  ‘Don’t say that about yourself.’

  ‘It’s what people will think.’

  ‘To hell with what people think!’ he barked. ‘Let them think whatever they want, Dahlia,’ he added in a more measured tone. ‘They’ll think what they think and they’ll gossip and talk and none of it means a damn thing. You and I will know what the true circumstances are – what does it matter what anyone else thinks?’

  ‘You don’t care what people think of you?’

  ‘I’m too old to care,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘I probably did at one time, but not anymore.’

  ‘Must be nice.’

  He leveled his gaze at me. ‘It is. And besides, you wouldn’t be here to hear any of it.’

  I turned back to the window, shaking my head as what we were discussing fell on me like a ton of bricks. ‘This is crazy. My mother is friends with your wife. I know your wife. I still speak to her at weddings and gatherings. What would she think, or do you not care about that either?’

  ‘What makes you think she has to know?’

  I snapped back around to face him, eyes wide at the implication. ‘You wouldn’t marry me? What, you think you can just set me up somewhere like a kept mistress?’ My voice was rising with my agitation, my feet carrying me back towards him. ‘You can’t treat me like that. I won’t be that person. I don’t need that from you.’

  ‘Hey, hey,’ he said, standing and putting his hands on my shoulders, circling his thumbs there like he was comforting a wild animal. ‘Of course I’ll marry you. I think too highly of you not to, but she doesn’t have to know.’

  I narrowed my eyes, studying him. ‘Have you done this before?’

  He threw his head back, laughing that eye-crinkling, belly laugh I was so familiar with. ‘You think I have multiple wives set up on each continent?’

  Wrinkling my nose, I replied, ‘Can’t be each. You only get four.’

  He chuckled and let his hands drop to his sides. ‘No, no others.’

  ‘Why me, then?’ I asked, shaking my head. ‘Is it pity?’

  He studied me for a moment, tilting his head. He always thinks before he speaks. It’s one of his best qualities. ‘Pity is not an ugly emotion,’ he replied. ‘It’s an extension of sympathy, of empathy.’ He searched for the right phrase. ‘Of a desire to see someone else happy. Life has been unkind to you.’ I lowered my eyes at that. ‘I don’t need a special reason to want to make things better. There is attraction.’ My eyes darted back to his. ‘I won’t lie. But more than that there’s affection, respect, an impulse to take care of you when so many have failed.’

  My stomach somersaulted, panic catching like a flame, and I backed away. ‘The attraction?’ I asked, meeting his eye.

  His eyes held mine, mouth set in a hard line, and he gave a sharp shake of his head. ‘It’s very new.’

  I looked out the window, air rushing out of my lungs, thoughts tumbling too fast for me to catch them all.

  Leave? Leave with Bu Faisal? Stay? Stay with Yousef? Had my life always been littered with choices that I was too blind or weak or ripped open to see? If I married him – that day, or the next, or the one after that – would it soften the blow? If I were a second wife, would Mama forgive me that? I saw these new paths laid out like gifts, and if I turned around, in my mind’s eye, I saw all those other choices I could have, at one time, made, but which I’d ignored – out of cowardice or fear or complacency or some other useless emotion.

  But running away with Bu Faisal, I had a sense the shame of it would eclipse, somehow, even that other unspeakable act. It would break them – my mother, my father, all of them. And in twenty years’ time, when Nadia’s little girl was ready to marry, the stain would still be there for society to hold up to the light, to hold against her. I was not the only one who would bear the consequences of such a path.

  We, here, in this country, are taught to listen to others, to subjugate our desires to the wisdom of the collective, the tried and true of tradition. Seek the approval of the masses, of society. Heed, above all, your parents. Protect your reputation and the honor of the family. This is the way to lead a fulfilled life – a life with the respect of others and with respect for yourself.

  It struck me then that there had to be a line, that my self-respect could not be so dependent on the approval of others, not even my parents. Bu Faisal was right. People would talk. It’s what they do. They would call me a whore, a gold-digger, a disgrace to my family. They would call me all these things that no defense – from me or him or anyone – could undo. They would pass judgment with half a story, with the smallest kernels of truth, with nothing but speculation.

  The thought struck me then, and I wondered: if a person were strong enough, brave enough, was reputation something they could do without?

  19

  There It Goes

  ‘I’m too old to be doing shit like this,’ Yousef said, groaning as he hit the ground.

  I motioned him closer to the chain-link fence I was straddling. ‘Well, I’m making up for lost time.’ When he was below me, I let myself fall into his upraised arms.

  Not as easy as it looked in movies.

  I landed where I aimed, but Yousef’s upper-body strength wasn’t as advertised. He buckled like a paper fan and we ended up in a heap of tangled limbs in the dirt. An elbow to the ribs robbed him of breath, but still his hand clamped over my mouth to silence my laughter.

  ‘I knew you would be the death of me,’ he grumbled after a moment. He regained his feet and pulled me up to his side. ‘Keep it down before someone hears us.’

  He brushed dust and loose gravel from his jeans and groaned again when he saw a hole in the hem of his shirt. I brushed myself down as well and looked around. We were in a dirt lot, a dirt lot where, apparently, boats went to die. We were surrounded by all manner of once-seaworthy vessels: speedboats, dinghies, canoes, jet skis, and
larger boats. All were caked in dust and grime, their bottoms dark and rusty. Tattered flags fluttered from railings, used-to-be-white T-shirts were still hooked to engines or wrapped around steering wheels. There was a tall beacon ahead, near the shore, blinking like a red eye. It was dark and windy and smelled of brine, and we could only see a few boats in any direction.

  It had been a difficult couple of weeks. The memories kept coming, unbidden, whether I was asleep or wide awake. I saw things. His eyes appraising me, looking me up and down, taking note of how my body was developing. I could hear the deep smoker’s rasp of his voice, complimenting me, asking me if I wanted him to buy me something. ‘A new bag or shoes, maybe. Would that make you happy?’ And at night, when I was in bed, when I couldn’t escape it, that night would return to me, and at that moment, he and the yathoom were one, pressing down on me, chest and shoulders and knees and pelvis, pressing down until I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. They tore at me, clawing until I was nothing.

  And so that day, when work was over I asked Yousef if he wanted to go for a walk. We drove along the Gulf Road, all the way up the coast. We parked and walked, the sun setting at our backs. We didn’t talk; I didn’t want to talk. We just walked. Sometimes we took turns kicking a stone down the pavement; we detoured onto the beach, my heels dangling from my fingers as we strolled through wet sand like we were a couple; Yousef bought an ice-cream from a man parked in one of the lots we passed. The fourth Azzan rang out from a tiny mosque built almost on the beach, and still we didn’t talk. I had said maybe ten words to him all day, but he didn’t seem to care. I wanted to tell him about Bu Faisal and his outlandish suggestion, about my parents and their intransigence. I wanted to tell him everything. But as they so often did, words escaped me. And in any case, I didn’t want to hear any more suggestions about how I should live my life.

  We passed sandwich shops and buildings packed with lawyers’ offices and dental clinics, and used car lots. And parking lot after parking lot after parking lot.