A Matter of Marriage

by Lesley Jorgensen

  Mrs. Guri nodded her head, matching his seriousness. “He was in Medina, in the tent city, and everyone in his tour group became sick with giardia. They say it was from the Africans.”

  Mr. Guri shook his head heavily at the loss. “He had booked a first-class tour, with a four-star hotel in Mecca for afterward, for the shopping. His family had to pay for the body to be flown back to England and then, you understand, to be escorted to Bangladesh for the burial.” He shifted even further forward on his seat and adopted a tone of direst warning. “There were no refunds.”

  “Wah,” said the elders, almost in concert, but Tariq stood abruptly, his voice loud and flat as he moved to the doorway.

  “It’s the first step on the pilgrimage that counts. He took the first step. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t finish it. It doesn’t matter about the money.”

  “What a blessing to die whilst on Haj,” said Mrs. Guri over the noise of the shutting door, and wiped away a few tears, politely ignoring Tariq’s outburst.

  Rohimun looked wonderingly at the slammed door and then at Richard, who had straightened at Tariq’s words, and was now leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, all tense attention, as if what Tariq had said held some special meaning for him alone.

  Mum nodded gratefully at Mrs. Guri. “It could happen to anyone. Young or old. Who knows what Allah has in store, Inshallah.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “It is certainly a most risky undertaking, even in this day and age, where jets fly everywhere and everyone has a telephone. I do believe that to take such a journey still requires a certain, ahem, hardiness and courage. But such a sacrifice, such a risk, is no longer acknowledged by this modern generation. In past times, the green turban and long hennaed beard of the Hajiri excited universal respect, even reverence.”

  Mrs. Guri studied Dad’s tweed suit and clean-shaven face for a moment and then turned to Mrs. Begum. “It is so pleasant to be here seeing you again, and your lovely family. And we have so many things to talk of.”

  Mum cut in. “Perhaps it is time for the young people to sit on the patio for a little while. Rohimun can make tea for us, and paan.”

  Dad hemmed, as if not willing to abandon his subject just yet. “Family is truly the only foundation for a godly life. Family and Haj.”

  No one responded, and after a moment Mum threw a significant look at Mr. and Mrs. Guri. “We have a patio here, next to the kitchen. You can see it from the kitchen window, and from upstairs.”

  Mrs. Guri grunted her assent, and the two women ushered Kareem and Shunduri as the acknowledged couple, blushing and smiling, up and out ahead of them. Rohimun stood up to leave, uncomfortably aware that Richard had done the same.

  As she turned to shut the sitting-room door behind them all, she caught a glimpse of the two fathers: Mr. Guri shuffling his chair closer to Dad’s, their heads already lowered to discuss financial arrangements. How quickly it all happens, when everyone wants the same thing.

  She found herself alone in the kitchen with Richard. Mum and Mrs. Guri must have gone upstairs to talk, and probably to spy on Kareem and Shunduri from Mum’s bedroom window. Outside, they could see Kareem’s shining scalp and the glittering pink of Shunduri’s veiled head as they sat demurely on the garden patio bench, like Asian Barbie and Ken. Approaching them shyly from the direction of the rabbit hutches were the two Bourne children. Kareem spotted them first, and jumped up, smiling, as one of them toed a soccerball toward him. Kareem said something then removed his jacket, folding it neatly, and placed it on the bench after Shunduri had crossed her arms when he tried to hand it to her.

  Rohimun leaned forward to watch, hearing the squeak of the upstairs window as she did so. “Are we the chaperones then?” Richard asked behind her.

  “Looks like it, yeah. But I don’t think we’re the only ones.”

  She watched Kareem scoop the ball onto the toe of his shoe and start to bounce it up and down, calling to the boys. “Who’s the soccer player den?”

  “Me!” they both said at once, arms akimbo, tongues out, dancing around him.

  Kareem kicked the ball to his left, and the boys took off after it, jostling each other violently.

  “So who’s chaperoning us?” said Richard.

  “Oh, they won’t leave us alone for long,” she said, not looking at him. “Besides, we all know my reputation’s rubbish, so I think we probably need Henry over here to look after you.”

  “Perish the thought.” He took hold of a tendril of her hair and wound it slowly around his finger. “What’s that in your hair?”

  She could feel his eyes. “Shunduri oiled my hair.”

  “What sort of oil?”

  “Almond, I think. I didn’t notice.”

  “It makes your hair look different. Heavier and darker, like an old oil painting. It’s almost in ringlets. Beautiful.”

  Her face felt hot. “Shunduri’s the beautiful one.”

  “I disagree.” There was an awkward silence. “What happens now?”

  “Well, Dad and Mr. Guri are probably talking about the dowry gold and how many saris and what whitegoods they’ll have to give each other, and Mum and Mrs. Guri are probably talking about where to hold the reception and the walima. That’s like the second reception that the groom’s family puts on after the honeymoon.”

  “Jesus Christ. That’s pretty quick.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you feel about it all?”

  “It’s what Shunduri’s always wanted, that’s for sure.”

  “A good traditional girl.”

  She bridled, then realized that he was teasing her. “Yeah, unlike the one you’ve gotten yourself mixed up with.”

  “What about marriage itself?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not for me.”

  “No?” He looked at her musingly. “No, I don’t think that kind of marriage would suit me either.”

  “An Asian family would always get the better of you on the wedding settlement anyway. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  He smiled, startling her with the transformation. “I think I’d pay anything not to have to wear the turban.”

  “Oh, they’d make you pay alright. And wear the turban. And dance at the walima, Bhangara-style.” She lifted her hands in the air and shrugged hips and shoulders to demonstrate, but felt foolish and dropped her arms. “What are you talking about marriage for anyhow?”

  He hesitated. “I was thinking how much pressure there would be. To marry.”

  “Yeah. Well, Mum’s too busy at the moment but she’ll have me and Bai in her sights pretty soon.”

  At that instant, the kitchen door swung open, and Mrs. Guri entered, eyeing them suspiciously as she moved aside to let Mum in behind her.

  “Munni, make tea and paan,” her mother said while stepping between her and Richard on the pretext of rinsing her fingertips in the sink. “Dear Richard, please go now, and ask Shunduri and Kareem to come inside. It is time.”

  He turned and went out the kitchen’s back door. Rohimun put the kettle on the stove, laid out more cups and teabags, and sat down gloomily at the kitchen table to wrap little packages filled with paan and lime. Why was it only now, when she was back within the family home, that she realized she was thinking of him that way? What kind of person was she, to only want what she couldn’t have?

  She could hear Mum and Mrs. Guri behind her, who, from the oohing and aahing about how sweet they looked, must be spying through the kitchen window. Jesus Christ, what was so different about what Shunduri had done and what she had done? Yet it was all working out for her sister.

  Stupid, vain Shunduri, who could lie to Mum and Dad without batting an eye, about her studies and how much she’d spent shopping, and have a boyfriend in London all this time without getting caught, was having it all. Not that she wanted to be in Shunduri’s shoes: it just seeme
d so unfair.

  Now Mum and Mrs. Guri, having agreed what a lovely couple Kareem and Shunduri would make, were ushering them both, along with Richard, back toward the sitting room, and Mum was telling her to come, hurry, leave the paan now.

  Back in the sitting room the negotiations were nearly over, with the Guris even conceding that Kareem and Shunduri would not need to live with them in London. For the Guris, experienced negotiators if there ever were, to give up all the benefits of an extra body in the restaurant and an extra hand in the kitchen at home, as well as the access to the dowry and the grandchildren that it would give them, was strange to say the least. The only person who didn’t appear to be surprised was Kareem.

  Tariq had his camera and tripod at the ready, and the happy couple were arranged with stiff formality onto hall chairs, almost side by side. Mrs. Guri, smiling, had worked two surprisingly delicate bracelets off her wrist and took Shunduri’s right hand and slid them on, to her cries of, “Ooh, thank you Auntie!” while the two families ranged behind them with much rustling and many displays of mutual consideration. Rohimun found herself at the edge of the group, next to Mr. Guri, who carefully kept his sleeve from brushing against her. In case of contamination, she thought. Probably best to cut me out of the photo altogether.

  Tariq waved her away. “Just the parents now, Munni.”

  She shuffled out of frame, moving to stand behind Tariq. Baiyya looked in his element now, fiddling with the tripod and directing: left a bit, smile everyone, move your veil back a bit, Baby, I can’t see you. Shunduri’s hand made a token tug but her face remained half-obscured by her pallu, which was pulled well forward, with only her trembling pink mouth clearly visible. How virginal, thought Rohimun sourly.

  Just as Tariq called out to count to three, Kareem suddenly slid from his chair onto one knee, gazed up at Shunduri and grinned. Mr. Guri’s exclamation of impatience was cut short as Kareem’s right hand opened to reveal a red velvet box. A dramatic pause, then Kareem’s thumb sprang the lid. It flicked open and, with an elaborate flourish, was angled toward the light, its contents fiery in the camera’s flash.

  When Rohimun looked at her brother, he was grinning as well and, completely in the spirit of it all, keeping the SLR’s button depressed, its repeated flashes strobing the happy couple with a whole series of shots, while Shunduri, ever camera-conscious, did the slo-mo gasp and modest half-turn away to perfection as her mother lifted her left hand and held it out to her betrothed.

  “You like it? That’s two carats!” said Kareem, remembering just in time, Rohimun noticed, to look at Dr. Choudhury and at Tariq for token permission before pulling it out of the box and placing it on Shunduri’s finger.

  “An engagement, modern-style!” said Mum, craning to look at the ring.

  Mrs. Guri nodded her head with gracious authority. “A lot of couples are doing this now. The diamond ring is traditional in Christian families.”

  Mum stared doubtfully at Shunduri’s finger, now posed before her for the photo. “Not always. Sometimes they have a blue stone like Princess Diana and Princess Kate. Or a red stone, like Princess Fergie.”

  Mrs. Guri sniffed. “Nah, I have never seen that.”

  Tariq caught Rohimun’s eye, and she smiled at him in recognition of Mrs. Guri’s jealous denial, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Go get my other memory card, would you?” he said to her, already turning back to the seated couple. “It’s on my dresser. Hey, Baby, you’ll put your shoulder out with that rock!”

  On the way out, she almost ran into Mrs. Guri, who smiled and pinched her cheek. “You will be next,” she said, but then hesitated, as if recalling something she’d heard or seen, and started to speak across Rohimun to Mr. Guri, about visits and dates.

  Rohimun noticed that Richard was watching her with what looked like pity. Prick. She left the room and took off up the hallway and the stairs, feeling as irrelevant as a servant, or a ghost.

  So this was her rehabilitation. Or rather, she was on probation, to be allowed in, but carefully watched, never trusted or really listened to. Others must still be protected from her corrupting influence. She was a burden, a shameful burden that must be carried.

  She ran into the tiny room that Mum had made up for Tariq, with its single bed and almost complete absence of possessions, like a monk’s cell except for the Man United duvet cover and the Bismillah over the head of the bed. Tariq certainly wasn’t irrelevant downstairs. He was in the thick of it, happy to see Shunduri married, to let Kareem call him Baiyya, because it took the pressure off him,

  And, in time, he would probably join with Mum and Dad in talking about her taking a trip to Bangladesh (Just a holiday, Munni. You need a holiday!) because in the old country there would always be somebody who would marry her for the visa, and not be too fussy otherwise.

  Her dowry would be residency and citizenship, her wedding portion all the claims to reputation in the community that her marriage would give her, with the added bonus of a likely enforcement of traditional values by a husband from the old country. Cooking and cleaning, beatings and babies.

  She leaned out of the dormer window and glimpsed the Abbey. The new slate tiles were silver in the sunshine, and its yew hedge appeared more like a great green gateway than a wall to keep the world out. The Abbey had been a sanctuary, really. And she’d thought at the time that she had glimpsed the beginnings of something there.

  The door opened behind her, and she recognized Richard’s measured tread, so different to Tariq’s light step.

  She tried for cold, but came out sulky. “I’ll catch it if they find you in here.”

  “I thought you’d like to know, Henry and Thea have just arrived. And the Guris are leaving now. Without Kareem. They had some business in Swindon apparently.”

  Rohimun leaned back out the window and looked down. For two fat people, they were moving pretty quickly, with no apparent desire to meet Mum and Dad’s latest visitors. Perhaps they’d had enough. They weren’t the only ones. “I dropped your painting things in the old stables, up at the Abbey, earlier. I was thinking that would be a good place to work. It’s very light—”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “I know. I want to help.” He paused, as if thinking. “What you said in the kitchen, about family pressure. I just want you to know, I’m here because I want to be.”

  She drew back from the window and stared at him, suspicious. His face was in full sunshine and in his eyes, in the irises, there was a multitude of blues and greens and golds that flared in random streaks and arcs from the dark center like a corona at full eclipse. Without meaning to, she tilted forward.

  “We’d better go back downstairs,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She went toward the door. “I can handle it, you know. The pressure.”

  “Of course,” he said and turned to leave.

  “Yeah,” she said again. But for how long? And what were they to each other, really?

  Forty-one

  MRS. BEGUM FAREWELLED the Guris with an energetic wave that simultaneously welcomed Henry and Thea, who were climbing out of Thea’s car, looking tired and dishevelled and not entirely ready for company. As she walked back up the garden path, she passed Kareem who was watching the Guris depart in his car as if he’d never see it again.

  Andrew and Jonathon, hearing their parents’ voices, ran around to the front garden, covered in dirt and rabbit fluff, to greet them. At the door, Dr. Choudhury, teary once more, embraced Henry and Thea, telling them how important family was and how welcome they were as he blocked up the hallway, preventing anyone from entering further.

  She pushed past her husband and urged them all to come in, blessing her own foresight in having cooked three curries earlier and wondering if there was enough rice. She glimpsed Thea and Baby in the hallway, hugging and kissing each other’s cheeks as if they were old friends, before finding hersel
f swept up into the sitting room by the force of everyone else’s progress to the kitchen. There was more noise at the front door, and she ran back to find Mrs. Darby there.

  “Salaam, come in, come in!” Mrs. Begum ushered her neighbor into the sitting room. Overwhelmed by events and the high of plans come to fruition all at once, weddings to arrange, crying husband, she forgot herself so much as to pull her friend into a small, elbow-gripping embrace, and spun her around in the middle of the sitting room.

  “Oh!” both ladies cried, then laughed, and when Mrs. Begum released her they both sat down and caught their breath.

  Mrs. Darby, still smiling, patted her décolletage with a be-ringed hand. “Syeda, my dear, I am so sorry to disturb you right now, but I could not wait. My daughter, my Patricia, is pregnant at last. Three months today!”

  Mrs. Begum gasped and threw up her hands. “Your very first grandchild: after so many years of eye-vee-ef!”

  “So long,” said Mrs. Darby. “So many cycles. And now. After all this time.”

  “Aah,” said Mrs. Begum. “She is blessed, truly blessed, Inshallah. You will be a daddu, a grandmother, now. At last.”

  She watched her neighbor dab her eyes, with only the tiniest flicker of her own betraying the fact that a small part of her was keeping an ear on hallway and kitchen doings. Such wonderful news for her friend that even the great events of her own day she would not mention.

  She clasped Mrs. Darby’s hands. “You will be wanting to be with her.”

  Mrs. Darby nodded, her tears rising again. “I saw the travel agent this morning and I have booked a ticket. I am going . . . to Australia. For a year. Maybe more.”

  “Wah! You are emigrating! What will we all do without you? And so far away!” Mrs. Begum looked at her friend with pity and alarm. How was Mrs. Darby going to manage this great thing on her own? She had never been abroad, didn’t even like going into Swindon for shopping and hadn’t been to London since her husband had died, five years ago. She herself, Syeda Begum, had done this great thing, this emigration, but she was much younger then than Mrs. Darby now.