Mediteranean Sunset

by Yvette Canoura

  “You know things like that don’t impress me. ‘Ruthless’ and ‘feared’ aren’t very flattering attributes for a husband-to-be. I just can’t imagine what I’m getting myself into.”

  “Fatima, please, don’t discuss any of this with Nabil when you see him. I don’t want to put him in an awkward position.”

  When we returned to Jamila’s house, I met Nabil. He was a soft spoken, warm and friendly man. He looked at Jamila like only a man in love would look at a woman. He went in the kitchen with her and helped bring the food to the table. He then asked Jamila to sit with me while he got the bread. When we were eating, he insisted that Jamila eat more because she was eating for two. You could tell that he was very excited with the idea of being a father. He also kept asking me if I wanted more water, if I needed more bread; he was very attentive. I was truly delighted for my best friend. She had found a man that worshiped her.

  After a lovely dinner, I returned to the Presidential Palace. When I arrived, it seemed that everyone had already gone to bed. On my way to my bedroom, Rauf, the president’s son, startled me.

  “Good evening, Fatima. My friend Fouad is truly a very fortunate man.”

  I just said good night and went into the room. I felt Rauf was flirting with me and I wasn’t bothered by it. At this point, anyone seemed nicer than Fouad.

  The next morning, while my father and the President discussed politics over coffee in the study, I had a cup of zoorat, a tea made from a variety of flowers in the garden. Minutes later, I was joined by Rauf.

  “I thought it wasn’t proper for us to be alone,” I said.

  “You are telling me this coming from America,” Rauf replied.

  “Living in America didn’t make me forget the Arabic customs.” As I told him this, I looked into his deep blue eyes and noticed a very handsome man.

  He wasn’t as tall as Fouad but he had a mustache that made him look very distinguished and he was as charming as his father.

  “Does my presence offend you?”

  “No, but it might offend our parents,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

  “My mother left early and our fathers won’t be around for a while. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  “If you mean about Fouad, I don’t think anything you say is going to change the fact that I will be marrying him soon.”

  “Do I detect hostility in your voice?”

  “Do I detect you’re fishing for information to run and tell your friend?

  “A true gentleman wouldn’t betray a woman’s confidence.”

  “Well, I hardly consider you my confidant. I’ll just say that the idea of an arranged marriage does not sit well with me. I find the idea ludicrous. But, quoting the words of my best friend Jamila: “it is maktub” so I just have to accept it and hope for the best.

  “Fatima, in Fouad’s defense, he is a great man. Up till recently he was considered one of the Middle…”

  “…East’s most eligible bachelors. I know, I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard that. So, why hasn’t a thirty five-year-old catch like him been snatched?” I questioned.

  “He is very focused. He wanted to be established in his military career. He wanted to have more time to devote to a family and I guess he feels he’s reached that point.”

  Before he could go on about Fouad I interrupted. Unfortunately, nothing he could say would change my mind.

  “It was nice talking to you but I have to run. I have a wedding to plan.”

  “Let me know if I can be of assistance to you, Fatme.”

  “The name is Fatima and no thanks, Colonel Saeed. I don’t think there is anything anyone can do for me.”

  I was taken aback when he refered to me as Fatme. Only my father called me Fatme, an endearing nickname for Fatima used in the Middle East. I didn’t feel comfortable with anyone else calling me this, especially a stranger. The only other person who I would accept calling me Fatme would be a man I truly loved, and unfortunately, I didn’t think I would hear that from anyone else’s lips but Baba’s.

  I went to my room and started one of what would become my traditional crying sessions. Half an hour later my father knocked at the door.

  “Are you ready to go see Jamila?” he asked.

  “Yes, Baba.”

  When we arrived at Jamila’s, she had a table filled with our favorite dishes.

  “Habeebtee Jamila, mabruk for the baby. I feel as proud as a grandfather would,” Baba said.

  “Amee, Ahlanwasahlan, welcome to my humble home,” Jamila said.

  “Why did you go through all this trouble, especially in your condition?” Baba asked.

  “This is your first time in my house, amee. I needed to do something special for my favorite uncle.”

  Nabil joined us moments later. After lunch, he and my father drank ahwa and smoked the arguile in the balcony, while Jamila and I cleaned up and chatted about our days in D.C.

  “Do you miss Washington?” I asked.

  “I missed you, but now that you are here, my life is complete,” Jamila replied.

  I gave her a big hug and told her I was happy to be reunited with her.

  Our visit was cut short by a phone call from Fouad. He wanted my father and me to meet him at the courthouse to sign a prenuptial agreement.

  That was one thing my father had insisted on to protect my rights before entering this marriage. This agreement was to include polygamy issues and financial responsibilities in case of divorce.

  Formalities

  When we arrived to the courthouse, Fouad was waiting with the engagement rings. “I thought we would skip the engagement party and just have a lavish wedding. I know your father doesn’t have much time in Antarah so this will speed up the process,” he said.

  Fouad opened a red velvet box that had two matching bands. In Islam, gold is permitted for women because they are delicate and gentle in nature, but not for men because it is seen as a sign of instability, weakness, and is un-masculine. Therefore, Fouad’s wedding band was platinum, while mine was white gold.

  He proceeded to place the smaller band around my finger on the right hand, and he handed me the other to place on his finger. In the Middle East, wearing the band on the right hand symbolizes that the person is engaged.

  Minutes later the judge appeared. He was an old friend of my father’s who had visited us in Washington several times. My father and Fouad greeted him with the traditional kiss on each cheek. I nodded politely acknowledging his presence.

  “You look even more beautiful, if that’s possible, than when I saw you on your sixteenth birthday party. Fouad is a lucky man,” he said.

  I smiled although deep inside I wanted to cry. I was handing over my youth and my being with someone that I knew I could never love. I was minutes from signing my life away.

  The judge began to write in a record book that Fouad was to provide me with a new furnished house as part of our marriage contract. If I divorced him, I wouldn’t be entitled to anything, but if he divorced me, I would get to keep not only the house, but one hundred thousand dollars. I agreed to these terms.

  When the issue of polygamy came up, I refused that possibility. I knew Fouad was testing the waters to see how far he could go. I did not love him but I wasn’t going to play second fiddle to another or several other women. On a personal level, I considered it an insult and consequently, an added complication that I was not willing to gamble with.

  I clearly stated that if he were to marry another woman it would be solid grounds for divorce and, under those circumstances, I would retain all my financial rights.

  I realized Fouad was pleased with the passion I displayed concerning other wives. He definitely had mistaken my outrage with the possibility of me developing feelings for him. Certainly, that was not the case.

  After everything was agreed upon, we signed o
n the dotted line.

  In my mind, money was never an issue. I knew I was the sole heir to all my father’s assets including our Washington estate. Most importantly, I had an education, a career and contacts I could rely on if necessary.

  Nevertheless, I wondered if Fouad knew the extent of my father’s wealth and if that was an added incentive for this union. Financially, he was well-off but I knew that a few more American dollars couldn’t hurt.

  I didn’t dwell on the financial aspect because I trusted that my father was wise enough to know what he was getting me into.

  After the judge indicated that all the documents were complete, Fouad took my hand and kissed it. I felt his intense desire for me, and I was totally repulsed by that prospect.

  The next morning, we had a small gathering at the Presidential Palace with President Saeed’s family, Jamila and her husband, Fouad’s sisters, their husbands and my father. The sheik was there to perform the religious ceremony.

  Minutes before we said the “I do’s”, Rauf discretely whispered in my ear.

  “If I would have known you first, I would have snatched you for myself.”

  “I thought you guys were best friends,” I told him.

  “We are, but you can’t blame a man for admiring a beautiful woman.”

  I can’t deny there was an attraction between us, but the reality was that I couldn’t embrace the idea of being the future first lady of Antarah.

  The sheik began by reading some passages from the Qur’an related to marriage. Then, we swore to love and to cherish each other in front of God and our witnesses. We were officially husband and wife. The marriage was not to be consummated nor the rings exchanged until after the wedding celebration, one week later.

  At this point, Fouad and I would be able to go out alone, hold hands and kiss. I was buying time, avoiding as much contact with him as possible. Luckily, Nabil left on military assignment and would not be back until one day before the wedding. So, I took Jamila everywhere.

  Jamila was so excited for me especially when we went to pick out the gold. As I was never really a big fan of jewelry, this was not a thrilling event. I felt uncomfortable with the idea of this man buying me things. I knew I would have to eventually pay him back somehow. Jamila assured me that gold was a symbol of love and status. The more gold, the more the man loved you. What’s love got to do with it? He didn’t know me. He was just adorning me like a Christmas tree. More than anything else, this was a stroke to his ego; a way to announce to all the women who were interested in him that they had missed out on a great catch and he was now officially off the market.

  A man like Fouad could not be a saint. I could sense he was very experienced and had probably made many promises and broken many hearts. “After all, he was one of the most eligible bachelors…” I told myself sarcastically.

  Jamila kept pulling me to the side and urging me to smile and act a little more excited. She felt I was provoking him to make a scene because I showed no appreciation as he showered me with gifts.

  Fouad insisted in placing one of two choker necklaces around my neck. My hair was long, thick and curly. As he lifted it, he asked Jamila to hold it up until he put it on me. After he secured it, Jamila let my hair down and moved to the side to admire it. Fouad gently and discretely kissed my neck. I felt chills up my spine. Then, he told the storeowner to pack ten solid gold bangle bracelets and 4 rings.

  “Do you like it? It is even more beautiful on you.”

  “Thanks but I’m not used to all this gold and I feel very uncomfortable,” I replied.

  “I want to buy this for you and I want to see all of it on you,” he said almost whispering. ”I want my woman to show off her husband’s gifts. I forgive your ignorance because I know you are coming from America where you can say and do as you please.”

  As he pressed his body tightly close to mine and slightly pulled my hair he continued.

  ”You are in Antarah now and you do as your husband says. I also know you have been avoiding me. From now on, I want you to respond to my gestures of affection. I am not playing games and I will not be embarrassed by you.”

  I should have known something like this would happen, after all Jamila warned me.

  Fouad had each piece of jewelry placed in beautiful decorative boxes and would formally give them to me during the wedding celebration. Fouad told Jamila to take me shopping for clothes for our honeymoon. Jamila insisted on going to a lingerie shop to get something special for my wedding night. I was very anxious about this but I knew I had to be prepared. My personal hell was about to begin.

  “Is Fouad going to let you go out of the house without wearing the hijab?” Jamila asked with curiosity.

  “I don’t see why not. He hasn’t brought anything up about me covering my hair and he knows that I have never done it before. Why do you ask?”

  “Many men get very protective after they get married. Fouad seems like the jealous type and he probably feels you are too liberal and will want to clip your wings a little.”

  “I just won’t allow it.”

  “Fatima, don’t start your marriage on the wrong foot. Just go with it. Try to see the positive in him. Start falling in love with him. If you don’t put some effort into it you will regret your life.”

  “Regret what life? With this man, I have no life. I’m desperate. I want to die. You wanted this life. I had no choice. Do you feel any compassion? First, I lose my mother and now this. I thought you were my sister. Did you even try to talk some sense into my father?”

  I broke down in tears while Jamila tried to console me.

  “What are we even doing here? Do you really think I can do this? I’m terrified. I’ve never been with a man in my life.”

  I was in a frenzy.

  “Calm down, Fatima. You know there is nothing I can do but give you sound advice based on my life in Antarah. I can’t confront your father about your marriage. I am not family. I’m so sorry I haven’t been sensitive to your feelings; I just hoped that some part of you wanted this too. I was so happy to have you back in my life I didn’t think…”

  “I’m sorry, Jamila. You are just trying to make this a little easier. I just can’t accept that this is my life now. I’m not even attracted to him. I prayed for there to be some kind of spark between us, but all I feel is contempt, hatred.”

  Jamila gave me a big, heart-felt hug.

  “I can’t change your fate but I’ll be here for you whenever you need me. That’s a promise I can keep.”

  In some way, Jamila’s words gave me comfort.

  The week passed too quickly. Fouad, Rauf and my father had taken care of all the last minute arrangements. My husband-to-be and his best friend had actually been planning this day for months.

  Fouad was obsessed with the idea that all the “who’s who” of Antarah would be there. Security was going to be extremely tight. After all, the president would be in attendance together with the most powerful people in the country and some other guests from the Middle East. It was a major production.

  The wedding celebration was held at the Sahara, the fanciest restaurant/reception hall in Antarah. The place was swarming with secret service. There were over three hundred guests, mostly acquaintances of the groom.

  When I walked in with my father, the whole room had their eyes on me. I wore a beautiful white silk, strapless, fitted dress with rhinestone buttons in the back and a silk wrap covering my shoulders. My hair was pulled back and over it laid a very simple veil with a rhinestone tiara.

  The guests had filled the room with flower arrangements, a traditional gesture to congratulate the newlyweds. In one of the corners of the room, there were five circular tables, each one carrying a four-tier wedding cake lavishly decorated with fresh, red roses. In the middle of the room was an elaborately decorated threshold that went over two elegant white chairs for the bride and groom. />
  The guests were greeted by sophisticatedly dressed waiters serving appetizers.

  The sit down dinner consisted of a five-course meal. While we ate, a popular Middle Eastern band played soft music. After dinner, we sat in our chairs and as every one watched, Fouad took my wedding band and switched it from the right hand to the left hand and I did the same for him. This ritual represented that we were formally married. Then, he lifted my veil and gave me a very soft and quick kiss on the lips. Right after, Rauf came around with all the boxes carrying the jewelry my husband had bought for me days before. I didn’t recognize a red velvet box adorned with golden details. Fouad insisted that I open that one first. In it, were two bracelets, mabrume, traditionally given by the groom to his bride. I knew that the mabrume is considered one of the most impressive pieces of jewelry in the Middle East. This bracelet consists of strands of gold twisted to look like a thick solid piece of rope with two solid gold nuggets, one on each end. The ends don’t intersect nor cross, they run parallel and barely touch each other, like cars on a two way street. This gift was poetry, a perfect description of our relationship, a forced closeness that would never come full circle.

  He immediately started putting every piece on me starting with the mabrume on my wrist, moving to my fingers and then up to my neck.

  As the guests lined up to give me more gold jewelry, a singer and a belly dancer joined the band livening up the party. First, I was congratulated by Fouad’s three sisters: Amani, Tahani and Reejam. They were very pretty and seemed very sweet. They were all married and lived in a small town a few hours away. It was obvious that Fouad wasn’t too close to them. Yet, they seemed happy that their brother was settling down. The president’s wife and Rania also came to wish us well and shower me with gold. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Rania was upset with this marriage. I even wondered if she had hoped to be Fouad’s bride.

  More women kept lining up and bringing gifts. It was overwhelming and bizarre to have total strangers placing all these pieces of gold on me. I must have had at least three rings on every finger, about 20 chains and countless bracelets and charms. Once again, all the stares and glares from mostly strangers were on me. The women surrounding me were so impressed. The single girls appeared green with envy. If they only knew, I would have given it all up in a second for my freedom. I would have been happy just marrying a simple man who loved me and whom I loved. I guess they wouldn’t understand.