That Other Me

by Maha Gargash

  His hand swoops down and bangs the table. I flinch, thinking I might have insulted him—until I spot one of the flies stuck to the base of his palm. “Got it,” he says, flicking it to the floor. “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “I just said that maybe it’s better to stop for today.”

  He is suddenly alert. “Why?”

  “Well, it seems you’re finding it hard to concentrate. It’s all right to end the lesson if you don’t feel like continuing.”

  “No, no, no. I don’t want to have had you come all this way for nothing.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, please. What you’re teaching me is vital, and I appreciate all your help.” He leans closer to me and I catch his scent, fresh and antiseptic—talcum powder and Lifebuoy soap. “You’re right, though. For some reason, I am finding it hard to concentrate today. But I must, I must.” He puts his hand on my cheek, then quickly drops it and gives my hand a soft squeeze.

  It’s the first time he has touched me. Instinctively I pull away and glance at the open doorway to check whether any prying person might have chanced to look in. There is no one. Awkwardness settles between us. Before I can think of how to respond, Adel suggests that he go down to the canteen to get some refreshments, something to get his head working again. “Yes, juice is a good idea,” I mumble, running a finger through the new dust on the table.

  As soon as I’m alone in the room, my hands start shaking, and I busy them by tapping the edge of the table with my thumbs. My heels follow, clicking on the floor. What was that touch? How was I supposed to react? I should have slapped his hand away immediately, but it happened so suddenly, too quickly for me to react.

  Was there a secret signal in that touch? The tapping and clicking grow louder. Was there some infatuation in it? How bold of him! I should have said something smart to put him in his place right away: a strong “How dare you?” or even a slightly quizzical “What do you think you’re doing?” accompanied by a tilt of the head for extra emphasis. That would have been the right reaction. That’s what the daughter of a respectable family would have said. That’s what I should have done: slapped his hand and scolded him. But I’d done nothing.

  I stop all movement and stare at the textbook in front of me. A sense of confusion and vulnerability washes over me and I start turning the pages slowly, deliberately, while I try to retrieve the leonine self-assurance I’d had so long ago. The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I’ve changed. I used to be a lanky girl with a confident stride: big, brash steps and strong, swinging arms. I’d believed I was special. My tongue was sharp and my spirit free. That was when my father was alive.

  “My miracle child.” That’s what he called me.

  When my mother died giving birth to me, my grandmother came to live with us. Not yet seventy, she was a strong and obstinate force. Mama Al-Ouda—“the big mother,” as the family calls her—was unflagging in her efforts to weave some feminine restraint into me. She was quick to lose her temper and slow to let go of a grudge. Whenever I made a cheeky comment, she’d swoop in as fast as she could to slap some discipline into me. But she was a heavy woman. I could bend, twist, and hop out of the way before she had time to swing her arm.

  Over and over, she took her complaints to her eldest son, my father. “What gentleman would want her? She mocks me and respects no one. I tell you, Hareb, the heart of a man is growing behind that girl’s ribs.”

  Mama Al-Ouda found no sympathy in my father. He was my safety net. As far as he was concerned, I could do no wrong. When she accused me of being presumptuous, he insisted that it was the desirable attribute of courage. If I asked too many questions and she told me to stop being nosy, he countered by saying I had an intelligent curiosity. And so it went: if I sulked, it was a natural shyness; if I made too much noise, I was acting as any normal child would. There were steady bursts of squabbles over my constitution and development. She said skinny, he said athletic. She said lazy, he said deep. Knowing he would always take my side, I became fearless, and my spirit grew plump with self-importance. After all, I was the child he thought he would never have: the miracle child.

  Throughout his two marriages that preceded the union with my mother, my father watched his younger brother’s family grow from one to four children strong while he remained unable to produce any of his own. Even after my mother became my father’s third wife in 1960, Ammi Majed’s family kept expanding—another boy, then a girl—while my mother lost two through miscarriages, the second of which came with some added unhappy news from the doctors: a stern warning that another pregnancy could pose a threat to her life. She did not die with her third miscarriage, but she lost enough blood that the doctor declared further conception to be impossible.

  So my parents gave up. My father could have divorced my mother and married another woman, just as he’d done with his first two wives. It was the conventional action by men with a longing to have children, accepted in Khaleeji societies by men and women alike. But Baba was older; he’d grown settled. Besides, he cared for my mother deeply, and for a long time, my parents settled into a life pattern of acceptance. Their yearning for a child dulled as they put their trust in God’s decision. But then my mother was with child once more. “A miracle,” my father declared. The doctors were baffled. They pleaded to my parents’ common sense, to consider aborting lest she lose her life during the pregnancy. But Baba would hear none of it. It was God’s will, after all, and what right did a mere human have to question His supremacy?

  This time my father decided to take my mother to Bombay for the full term of her pregnancy; he was convinced that the doctors there would do a better job. The labor was long and ate at her strength without mercy, and I entered the world moments before she exited.

  Adel’s laugh outside the room brings me back to the present. I realize that my shoulders have risen, stiff and stuck to my earlobes. I loosen my neck. It makes a cracking sound and he says, “Oof! Don’t do that,” as he peers through the doorway. “You’ll damage that delicate neck.”

  What am I supposed to say to that? There was a time I would have been able to come up with an answer that was both sharp and graceful. Instead, I stare at his empty hands, as he eases onto the chair. “You said you were going to bring us juice. Where are they?” There is accusation and aggression in the tone of my voice.

  With his quick wit, he makes light of the situation. He lifts up his arms in surrender. “Before you kill me, let me explain.”

  This time I follow his lead. “No explanations for a dying man.”

  “All right, then—a wish?”

  The charade continues, and I cross my arms as a judge might. “The law specifies that a dying man must have his last wish.”

  Adel rises. “And are you a follower of the law?” He bows his head and indicates the open doorway.

  “That I am,” I say.

  It sounds like a crowd has gathered, but there are only five students downstairs, their chatter amplified by the echo that bounces off the club’s walls. They are waiting for their private tutor to arrive. The television is on, but no one pays attention to it. “Poor things,” Adel whispers. “They have to start their private lesson when we’ve just finished.”

  “Well, actually, we haven’t finished anything,” I correct him. “We’re just ignoring today’s lesson. Technically, that is.”

  “Technically, huh?”

  Heat rockets to my cheeks over my lumbering choice of words. Thankfully, Adel is too excited to be leaving to notice. His car is a four-door silver Hyundai that has fared well on Cairo’s roads, with no more than a series of feather-light scratches on the sides. The lethargy and distraction that filled him during the study session are gone. There’s an odd glint of intensity in his expression that does not suit his light mood as he keeps joking about all the other wishes he might have if he were a dying man. He shifts gear and reverses onto the road. I keep my eye on him as I sit curled into the door with my arms crossed t
ight, hoping he does not touch my hand (or face) again, wondering why I agreed to accompany him to Farghaly, a blatant flirting hot spot. The Khaleejis will be arriving soon, once the sun dims, leaving behind the shadowy thrill of all sorts of possibilities. It’s still early, though, I think; it’s only half past six.

  After a few quick turns, we reach the brightly lit juice shop on the corner of the bustling Arab League Boulevard. There’s an elaborate arrangement of fruits running the length of Farghaly’s curving glass display. Above is an empty space through which I catch the staff’s flitting eyes as they go about their business of peeling, chopping, and blending the fruits.

  Six beggar girls, their ages ranging from five to nine years, appear as soon as we arrive. They hop around the car with palms pushed flat out. A boy in his early teens plods over to my window with a tower of about twenty thick books cradled in both arms. To keep them from plummeting to the ground, he hooks his nose firmly over the top book while trumpeting the titles: “The Ottoman Empire, Interpreting Dreams, Akhenaten, Healing Through Herbs and Plants.” The group disperses when the waiter shoos them away. Adel and I don’t bother reading the menu, which is a giant, brightly colored wooden slate hanging by the door. He raises his hand and calls out their signature juice: “Two fakhfakhinas!”

  Feeling comfortable with the evening so far, I sit up straighter and uncross my arms. Despite the murmur of traffic, the bursts of car honks and bicycle tinkles, and the sounds of shuffling people—talking, shouting, hawking—I say, “It’s so quiet.” I’ve never seen the juice shop so empty. Adel agrees, with a weary groan that makes my voice sound too cheerful. He seems to be waiting for something to happen. I follow his gaze to the beggar girls and consider whether I am boring him. Huddled on their heels in a semicircle at the side of the shop, they seem engrossed in a game that involves pebbles and dirt. But they’re quick to look up whenever a car stops, to calculate whether there’s an opportunity waiting.

  The fakhfakhinas arrive in long, narrow glasses, each with a straw and fork. They brim with chunks of banana and strawberry packed with other fruits in an exotic slush. For a while, there is only the clink of metal on glass. When I look over at Adel, I notice he is taking his time. With a deliberate twirl of the wrist, he forks a cube of pineapple and closes his mouth around it. He does not chew, just waits for it to melt on his tongue.

  I hear an Egyptian song I do not recognize as a gray Honda edges in front of us; the girls in the car are Khaleejias, their shaylas wrapped loosely around their heads. Adel reverses to give them space and continues to back up, making way for a second girl group arriving in yet another car. He stops at the far edge of Farghaly, and a third car, a black Nissan, lunges into the gap between the girls’ cars, braking with an abrupt screech.

  The girls scream, and Adel lets out a wicked laugh at their panic. I giggle, too, at the boys’ bungled attempt to attract the girls. The Nissan blasts the brazen lyrics of a song that demands, “Come to me, come to me, before I lose interest.”

  “Those boys must be Kuwaitis,” I say.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because Kuwaitis are always foolhardy and impatient.”

  “Oh, really?” Adel looks at me, amused. “Why couldn’t they be Bahrainis?”

  “Too polite,” I say, adding quickly, “anyway, that’s what I hear from some of the girls at the sakan.”

  “Why not Qataris?”

  “I don’t think so. They tell me that the Qataris are too sweet, too accommodating. They would never be so offensive.”

  “Kuwaitis, huh?” He is more interested in this bit of information than any of the dental lessons I’ve given him. He looks away with a crooked grin. “How do you know so much?”

  “I don’t really know anything for sure. Like I told you, it’s what I hear.” I utter the lie with a straight face. I could add that Emirati boys conduct the flirting game with frightening seriousness, and that Saudis may lead it to the point of obsession. But I hold my tongue. I don’t want him to know that I often join the sakan girls (and even Dalal) for a bit more than juice at Farghaly. Our flirtations have all been innocent, of course. But Adel might not understand that. If I tell him, he might lose respect for me.

  “Kuwaitis!” Adel straightens up and rests his chin on the steering wheel. His curiosity is piqued. “Look at them, thinking they can bulldoze their way into the girls’ hearts.”

  We are sufficiently close to watch every detail of the unraveling scene, yet far enough away not to attract attention. Comfortable in this spot, I watch the girls in both cars shout at the boys, accusing them of reckless driving and uncouth manners. The boys respond with nonchalant sarcasm. It is clear they are taking the taunts in their stride, turning their heads coolly to the right and left, from one car to the other, while every now and then alarming the girls by stepping on the gas to produce a sudden vroom. The girls screech. The waiters scuttle from car to car, trying to restore calm with sweet words, in stark contrast to the biting threats they direct at the circling beggar girls, who have doubled in number as more cars pull in for juice or a light seduction that might lead to a sweet escapade.

  “I haven’t seen a fight for a long time.” Adel stuffs his mouth with three chunks of banana all in one go while keeping his eyes fixed on a scene that has suddenly grown chaotic. There is a constant stream of new arrivals. Some drive on, to try their luck again after a turn or two around the block. Others start parking closer to where we are. The ease I have been enjoying dissolves, and I suggest that we leave.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now,” I stammer. Feeling exposed, I pull my shayla lower over my forehead. “You know, move out of the way. I mean, look at all these people.” Although making space for others is the least of my cares, I dread the possibility that someone might see us. There are many excuses I can come up with for being there—taking a break from studying; thirst—but who would bother to ask? Any person who might chance to recognize me would most likely choose the swiftest and most damning conclusion—and spread it. I become aware of my shoulders tightening as I imagine the scores of restless tongues: “I saw Mariam Al-Naseemy in a car with a boy.” That’s how it would bounce off the first tongue. “They were drinking juice and doing who knows what else.” That’s the tongue that would inject suspicion. “They were even holding hands.” And finally, fiction would be turned into truth, into a report that would inevitably reach the ears of the cultural attaché, who would not hesitate to inform Ammi Majed.

  “Look, look,” Adel says. A young man in a Toyota has flung a folded piece of paper out his open car window. We know it contains a telephone number, and perhaps a suggestion for a meeting somewhere private. The paper flies in a straight course but misses its target, bouncing off the hood of a maroon Fiat that has slowed to a halt just in front of us. Adel snorts with glee. “Hopeless, just hopeless.”

  I start fidgeting. “I have to get back, Adel. The sakan curfew will be in effect soon.”

  Adel sighs and looks down at his juice, and I think, Finally, he’ll get me out of this place. But then he dips his fingers into his glass and pulls out a soggy slice of mango. Holding it up to his face, he starts licking the juice that trickles down his hand. My mouth is a hoop, but no words come out. His movements are slow and deliberate, and when he turns to look at me he curls his lips into a half smile, paying no heed to the juice that sinks into his beard and dribbles down his wrist.

  What trick is this? I look away and start examining the smudges on the glass of my half-open window with a compulsion that feels silly. “I need to get back,” I mumble. “I can’t have people seeing me in the middle of this pickup place.”

  “This is too much!” he shouts, and drums the steering wheel with his hands. I wince and look back at him, to find he’s reacting not to my request but to another note that has fallen short of its target. “They miss again,” Adel says. “And they actually took the time to fold their paper into the shape of a boat. Hah!”

  The note ha
s rolled somewhere beneath the car, and the interested boys direct one of the beggars to fetch it. She scrambles under the car, and once she retrieves it, the boys call out, “Give it to her, Asma.” Asma starts to hand it to the driver of the Fiat. But the boys wave their arms with exasperation. “Not her, Asma, the other one.”

  “Can you believe these guys?”

  I click my tongue. “What rudeness! That poor woman driving; she must feel horrible. She won’t be able to face them out of embarrassment.”

  Embarrassment does not rob the driver of her voice. “Shame on you!” she hollers at the boys. “How would you like it if someone did that to your sisters?” Although she is wearing a shayla, I can tell she is Egyptian from her accent.

  Little Asma is no older than five or six—too young to know what she should do. She clutches the boat-note with one hand and tugs at her dusty plaits with the other. “Go on,” the boys instruct her. “Hand the note to the girl in the passenger seat, the beautiful one, the princess.”

  “Go home and let your father teach you some manners,” cries the girl in the driver’s seat. “How would you like it if your mother . . .” The girl in the passenger seat, the princess, shushes her before she can go on. She turns her head to peek briefly at the boys. I crane my neck to get a better look, but her shayla covers her profile. I manage to pick out the tip of her nose and the glimmer of her pearly complexion. Her arm floats out the window. There is a subtle elegance in the way it moves. The wrist twists and the palm flattens. She holds it up like a mild-tempered policeman stopping traffic, a signal to the boys not to make a scene.