by Maha Gargash
For a moment I see two of her. But a tight blink fixes that, and I reach for her T-shirt, removing it with a violent tug that musses her hair. I pull back and take a sharp breath that doubles the size of my chest. (Surely she will cower.) Her chest is bare. When she unbuttons her jeans and kicks them off, I waste no more time and flop like a plank of wood on top of her. Finally she squeals. But there is no fear in it. Only lechery.
It’s not the way I imagined it. But this is just the beginning. And break her I will.
I force her head into the pillow. She starts sucking my fingers.
I pin her down with my weight so she can’t move. She wriggles. Then smiles.
I squeeze her ribs. She giggles. Then grins.
I pull her hair. She screams. Then laughs.
What creature is this?
There is but one thing to do. And that’s when I realize I am still fully clothed, swimming in swathes of fabric. She is positioned and ready. My elbow digs into her chest as I prop myself up to wrench up my kandora and kick off my wizar. And then I am in her.
My eyes burn. Little rivers of sweat trickle along the sides of my forehead. Every thrust is coupled with a hoarse grunt that seems to explode from somewhere deep in my belly. I ignore it all.
Her tiny nose quivers, and I wedge two fingers into her nostrils. My other hand grips her neck. “Let this be a lesson!” She doesn’t understand Arabic, but nevertheless she does her best to respond: a gasp and a squeak burst out of her trembling lips. Strangely, they are turning the same shade of blue as the Neely walls.
She kicks. I hold her ankles in place. Smothered under the mass of my body, she feels as flat, as lifeless, as a piece of cardboard.
Just as Galina’s eyes start rolling in their sockets, some hellish force erupts in my head, flashing images of my daughter, Dalal, pinned under vulgar old men. I cry out in my head. And somehow, I am heard.
Hands are all over me. Like the tentacles of an octopus, they slither under my armpits, grip my wrists, hug my tummy, and tug at my ankles. I am pulled off the bed and pushed to the side. I punch the air, and the effort makes me dizzy. My head hits something, and as I crumple to the ground, my vision darkens.
A hoarse, persistent cough brings me back. I squint at the bed: Saeed, Mattar, and Thani huddle around it. There’s that other girl—I forget her name—with the white-yellow hair, too. She screams and points a finger at me, and this makes my head throb. Thani blocks her, but she pushes him to the side and jumps at me. She slaps me, spits on me, before Thani pulls her away.
So many things happen around me, and so quickly, that I cannot make sense of what is going on. I am about to object, to demand to know why my friends have burst into my moment of privacy, but a sense of foreboding washes over me. Something significant has just happened.
21
DALAL
I have been waiting the better part of the day to act my part. I have endured not just the early wake-up and morning flies, the sticky sand and midday heat, but also a heavy feeling of dread about what the director will say once I tell him that I won’t be wearing a swimsuit in my scene. There’s my mother to deal with, as well.
All week long I have wanted to tell her about my agreement with Madame Nivine. My plan was to wait for her to defend her choice to marry Sherif bey. Then I’d simply produce the signed contract. And she would have to accept it; after all, she was the first one to make a secret decision. When days passed and she still had not brought up Sherif bey, I decided to just tell her anyway. I convinced myself there was nothing to it; I filled my lungs with resolve. But, sadly, my courage proved to be less solid than I had anticipated. The result: half-witted mutterings and an increasingly deflated sense of daring, things I had never expected from myself. And now it’s too late; I’ve run out of time.
I try to make myself as comfortable as I can, but I’m wearing jeans so tight they could be a second skin. I’m sitting on a blanket next to my mother, watching the filming from a distance. I yawn and ease back onto my elbows; my foot knocks the empty lunch box. This sets off a long growl in my stomach. Mama had given me an apple earlier but, without a second thought, handed the sandwich and Qaha guava juice to a member of the crew. The sandwich had had a stale-looking bun, turned moist on the inside from the squished tomato slice that sat on top of the chunk of dry Roumy cheese; a wilted piece of lettuce peeked out the edge. I wasn’t hungry then as I watched him devour it. But thinking of it now makes my mouth water.
Even though we are in the shade of a leafy tree, Mama wears a red large-brimmed hat that matches the sunglasses that cover most of her face. She sits with her back straight, prim, her legs folded beneath her and to the side. “This is the most boring day of my life!” I joke. It’s an attempt to break her stillness, but it comes out as a whine. I wait for a response, a softening of that rigid spine, an indication that she might want to chat. It would be the perfect introduction to what I have to say. She doesn’t answer, just stares ahead at the director and the crew.
They’ve been shooting in the same spot all morning. The crew cordoned off a square of sand using yellow caution tape. It looks like a crime scene from an American detective series. The director has been barking his instructions into a loudspeaker, making the hero (balding and unknown) and heroine (insipid, also unknown) repeat their lines more times than I can count.
Even though the director found an area far from Maamoura’s crowd, some small boys sniffed him out and made a game of dipping under the yellow tape. They were delighted when even the youngest members of the crew were not able to catch them. That was many hours ago, back when the thought of making a movie was fresh and exciting for all of us.
It’s late afternoon and finally a breeze picks up, tumbling waves in a hiss of slaps along the shoreline. The sun’s light glows warmer. Even I can recognize that the light is changing. “Isn’t my scene supposed to be happening in the middle of what they’ve been filming all day? I mean, look, Mama.” I hold my arm under the sun’s tangerine tinge, so different from the glaring rays of earlier. “I mean, who would believe . . .”
“I made the very same point to the director this morning,” she says. “ ‘Won’t the viewer notice?’ He said, ‘In my experience, Arab viewers don’t let such tiny things bother them. They have been conditioned to overlook such discrepancies. They just fill in the gaps.’ ”
She coughs up a chuckle, and it’s as much incentive as I need for my confession. “You know, Mama, I’ve been thinking quite a bit this week, and maybe it’s better if I don’t wear the swimsuit for this scene.”
She slides the sunglasses to the tip of her nose. “What are you talking about?”
Someone calls me from the shore. It’s the bodybuilder extra whose role is to throw the beach ball that goes astray. He waves at me to indicate that they’ll be filming my scene soon. It’s the fifth time he has done this. I ignore him and focus on my mother. “Well, I’ve been asking around, and this is the kind of move that could come back to haunt me once I’m famous. Reporters are always looking for a scandal. Imagine the headlines, Mama: ‘The Great Dalal: Naked,’ or ‘The Great Dalal: Is She the Right Role Model for the Arab Youth?’ Or ‘The Great Dalal: Something, Something, Something.’ ” I pause. “Well, that’s what I’m thinking, anyway.”
She pushes her sunglasses back up. “How many times have I told you, Dalal? You shouldn’t waste your time thinking; this requires a special kind of intelligence. Why are you picking on such small details when there is a bigger picture to see, when you have me to depend on?”
My mouth dries up. It hurts that she never wants my opinion. I look toward the shore, where it seems that this time the bodybuilder extra was right after all. All those countless takes of heated arguments between the hero and heroine have finally produced a noteworthy performance. The director seems satisfied. He has stopped barking instructions into the loudspeaker. The crew claps, and he raises his arms and jogs around the inner boundary of the yellow tape as if he’s just won a boxing
match.
“Well, get up,” she orders. “They’re calling you.”
“It feels wrong,” I say, staying where I am.
“Look,” she says, “your hesitation must be because you’re nervous—who wouldn’t be, hmm?—but it’s a lovely swimsuit, with flowers and frills.” She removes her hat and sunglasses and glares at me. “And you’re going to wear it.”
“Every song that comes out of your mouth will increase the bulge in her pocket.” It’s been an exhausting day, but Mama’s fury shocks the fatigue out of my limbs. She waves the agreement in the air like a flyswatter before shoving it so close to my face that I can smell the ink. “Did you bother to read what was written here? It says that seventy percent of all the money you make in performances will go to her.”
“Yes, but at least there will be concerts and soirees, private and public. Look again, Mama. You’re missing all the good bits, everything she is required to deliver: three albums, and three video clips of the primary songs.” I create a mental picture of what I’ll wear and how I’ll move in those music videos, which will be repeated often on all the satellite television channels. I’d like to dwell on the image, let it blossom, but this is the wrong time. Mama jerks on her feet, looking like a sparrow caught in sticky mud. A hard blue vein pops out of the middle of her forehead. I haven’t seen her this agitated since my father dismissed her as his wife and put an end to any hope of comfort in our lives. “And don’t forget,” I add with a surge of passion, “she’ll manage my life, introduce me to the right people, build my career, too.”
“You are to pay thirty percent of the cost of production of each album. Where are you going to get that money?”
“That’s easy. I’ll manage.” It’s something I haven’t thought about.
“Listen to what I am saying, Dalal. Eighty-five percent of the profit from the sales of the cassettes will go into her pocket.”
I was convinced I had signed a fair deal, but Mama is getting my head all muddled as she keeps throwing big numbers at me. Was I too hasty in signing the three-year contract? Surely Madame Nivine couldn’t have taken advantage of me. Where is Mariam when I need her? She would be able to give me a fair analysis. I roll my eyes and mumble into my chest, “At least there will be cassettes.”
“What was that?”
I consider pointing out that Madame Nivine’s share is high because she is the expert, the one who will be doing all the work; that’s what my flamboyant manageress kept telling me at the party. Once I had nodded my agreement, she’d pulled two sheets of paper out of her purse as naturally as one would reach for a hankie. I must admit I didn’t look at the neat letters as carefully as I should have; I was satisfied by her explanation of the main points. My blood pumped at double speed and the tips of my fingers felt fat with opportunity when she handed me a gold fountain pen to sign with. The very next day we met at the registration office at eight in the morning—ooh, so early!—to make it all legal. Two witnesses were grabbed off the street, and the official signed and stamped both copies in a faded but nevertheless attractive shade of blue-green ink. How simple it all was. And what pleasure I got by making such a bold move, and, more important, by the thought that I had gotten back at Mama for getting engaged to that shriveled-up Sherif Nasr without telling me.
“And who is this Nivine Labeeb woman, anyway? What do you know about her?”
It is late, and my head is dizzy with all her questions. What a day it has been! I had upset Mama when I held fast to my decision not to wear the frilly bathing suit. And then I had to face the director’s displeasure, though that only lasted a few minutes because he was concerned about losing the light. In fact, he understood my point once I explained it to him. Mama didn’t, though. And right at the end, just before we boarded the bus back to Cairo, I told her about the contract.
On that dim yet lively bus there was a sense of lightness and pleasant fatigue that only a day by the sea can produce. One of the crew members pulled out a tablah as we began moving. Hugging the drum under his armpit, his fingers twisted along the edges to release a string of raps. Then a second drum, a tambourine, materialized. Its owner, slumped a couple of seats behind the driver, held it up and shook it to add an accompanying jangle. The metal jingles along the rim looked like golden fish shimmering on the surface of an inky sea.
The duo prompted the first burst of song. “Salma, ya salama, we went and came with salama.” The passengers clapped and swayed. The rhythm was irresistible, and every now and then the driver would add honks from his horn. It took all my effort to resist joining in, but there was my mother, sitting next to me at the back of the bus, staring out past her frozen reflection into the starless night.
Snacks and soft drinks surfaced between songs and were passed from hand to hand. The wind blowing through the open windows carried the smell of eggs and libb, roasted pumpkin seeds. Mama would not eat. I didn’t eat either, swallowing my saliva instead as I concentrated on breaking her stillness. I fancy I acted maturely as I made light talk about Madame Nivine’s bubbly character and promised to show her the contract once we arrived home. But Mama remained silent for the entire five-hour trip through the desert.
It wasn’t a good sign. This was the first time I had disobeyed her, after all. I could have left her and joined the others, singing and dancing and clapping and snacking. I’d hardly eaten a thing all day, and my empty stomach growled. But I stayed where I was, a daughter tugging at the thin string of hope that her mother might sigh and say, “Whatever you feel is best, dear.” Or perhaps she would pat my shoulder and offer me a kindly gaze filled with the special admiration only a mother can have for her child—all sentimental fluff, really.
“How can you trust her without knowing what sludge she’s molded out of?” Mama blathers on, but I picture Madame Nivine’s face, so bright and open, and some of the doubt dissolves and is replaced by a new wave of defiance. I would like nothing more than to charge out of the apartment and not come back. Ever. I’m sure Madame Nivine would take me in. After all, she is now officially my partner, which makes her my protector, too. But a retreat would be perceived as defeat. So I stay put.
Mama’s eyes have paled to the color of melting ice. It’s unsettling to look at them. “Congratulations,” she says. “For the next few years, you will belong to her.”
Crossing my arms, I direct my stare at the wall and wonder why I am not feeling the satisfaction I had expected from seeing Mama so alarmed, and from proving to her that I can make decisions on my own.
“How could you do this?” she hisses. “How could you throw away everything we have worked for?” She waits for an answer, but my lips stay tight. This enrages her further. She shouts, “What were you thinking?” She flings the contract in the air and marches out onto the balcony.
I am surprised by my self-restraint, which has exhausted her, and a little proud of it, too. I decide right then to perfect an emotionless face by practicing it in front of the mirror. I will need it when I am famous. If one of the reporters—doubtless there will be many who will want to interview me—decides to get bold and asks a question I don’t want to answer, I can just summon this statuelike expression. My prolonged silence, my sour face, would be enough to kill every curious cell in him. Hah!
Well, maybe not. At some point in the middle of my reverie, Mama has crept back in, rejuvenated by the foul air rising from the street below. “How can you be so selfish? I’ve put all your needs ahead of mine so you can become successful and live in comfort in the future, so you are not at the mercy of your father, so you won’t need anyone anymore.”
I blow up. “That’s a lie! How can you say something like that when all you want is to share Sherif bey’s bed? You didn’t consult me when you decided to take him as a husband, did you?” I picture their bodies snuggled, their shapes curving into a precise fit, like two spoons one on top of the other. “It’s disgusting!”
She raises a hand and I wait for it. I tilt my head to one side so that the ful
l surface of my cheek is open, a dare to what may come. A thought hisses and grows, with the urgency of a screaming kettle: If she slaps me, I vow never to talk to her again. I’m not a child anymore.
But Mama rounds her knuckles into a fist, as if deciding that a slap is not good enough, that a punch might be more appropriate to dent her daughter’s outburst. What would that do to my face? Could I become famous as the singer with the bulbul voice and broken front teeth? Madame Nivine said that for the best result in the world of fame and music, an enchanting voice must always be partnered with beauty. Alarmed, I drop to the floor and stay there, curled up like a tortoise.
“Oh, get up.”
“No.”
“You are even sillier than I thought.”
I don’t look up. I’m sure she is waiting for me to reveal a soft spot. The next thing I hear is her bedroom door. It closes with a hard thud.
22
MAJED
The Neely stinks of cigarettes, booze, and onions. Saeed had insisted that I stay put and let him take charge. My head spinning, I’d passed out on the floor. He should be coming back soon. I open the balcony door and groan at the lingering ache in my head. Peering down below, I half expect Saeed’s Nissan Patrol to veer into the parking lot, for him to hop out with a broad and reassuring grin that heralds his success in taking care of last night’s unsavory business.
Noon. What is taking him so long? A flood of impatience has me dialing his cell phone number repeatedly. (Ah, where is the man!) When it keeps disconnecting, I stomp back into the apartment, still shocked that things had gotten so thoroughly out of control.
Some bizarre fit—that’s the only word for it—takes hold of me: a bout of weakness and shivering that propels me to the bathroom, where I throw up. Galina’s strawberry lips had turned blue. How could I not have seen it? She was struggling. She was choking. How could I not have heard it? I splash my face with cold water, then stare at it in the mirror; it is stripped of its color, like a dying leaf. I curse Satan’s water for having blinded me, for having dulled my conscience to the point that I’d nearly killed the girl.