That Other Me

by Maha Gargash

  With their leader out of commission, the united front breaks down for a moment . . . until the noodle picks up the hammer. There’s a crazed expression in his eyes. “He’ll do it!” I yell, and together Madame Nivine and I start to run away. Suddenly the city comes to life in a burst of illumination.

  One, two, three cars roll toward us, all in a row. Like a posse of night angels, they light the street.

  “This is not over,” Yahya manages to holler, his voice high-pitched in agony. “We’ll hunt you down, and next time . . .” We can’t hear the rest over the honks and bellows of impatient drivers unable to pass because his car is blocking their way. The brutes are quick to depart, leaving behind the echo of their screeching wheels. Had they stayed longer, the people in the convoy would have gotten out of their cars to investigate—and then, as with any event involving a crowd in Cairo, there’d be the certainty of mayhem, with the delicious chance of their being beaten to a pulp. Such are my thoughts as we drive away.

  I am elated by our escape, even though I can’t stop trembling. Madame Nivine keeps gulping, making loud popping noises with her tongue. The atmosphere in the car is thick. I clap my hands to dissolve it and say, “Well, that’s that: chased them away, didn’t we.”

  “Oh really,” Madame Nivine cries out. “You think that was smart of you, coming at them like that?”

  “I was protecting you,” I say, slighted by her inability to appreciate my valiant rescue.

  “Dalal the heroine.” She wiggles her neck in an elaborate, low-class display of scorn. “You think they won’t come at you another time?” She shakes her head. “Look how they smashed my kharteeta. Look at all those holes in her hood.”

  “You can fix the bastards. Call that connection you have in the security forces and pay him so that he can protect us.”

  “My connection has a job, ya Dalal!” she yells, gesturing wildly. “He can’t be everywhere. You saw how they appeared out of nowhere. We don’t even know what they look like.” She sniffs, trying to calm down. “I can’t have someone smashing your face in. That would be the end of your career, and I’ve worked too hard for a disappointment like that.”

  Instinctively I pat my cheeks, distraught by the thought of my beautiful face all squashed and swollen under Yahya’s fists. “What can we do?”

  She answers me once she steers the kharteeta onto Arab League Boulevard. “It’s time we got you some bodyguards.”

  36

  MARIAM

  “It’s half past ten. Ladies, tell me: the flower girls—where are they?”

  “All set, in the foyer.”

  “And the musicians?”

  “Waiting for her entrance, too.”

  Having gone through the checklist, the rambunctious widow, soon to be my mother-in-law, rubs her hands together with satisfaction. She’s plump, with a receding chin that blends into her neck, a cushiony support for her large head. “Right, time for the bride to make her appearance.”

  I stand up; immediately, my knees wobble and I drop back into the chair.

  There’s a gasp, then a giggle. It comes from the blur of women surrounding me. I’m being dressed and made up in a suite at the Hyatt Regency hotel. I hear the swirl of silk and the rasp of chiffon, and the women’s every movement wafts the scents of rose, jasmine, musk, amber, and that most royal of essences, oudh. The smells shoot up my nose and fog my head. “Come on, Mariam,” my cousin Amal jokes. “You’re stronger than that dress. Don’t let it pull you down.”

  Ten kilos: that’s the confirmed weight. Add another kilo for everything the hairdresser piled on my head, and I’m carrying about as much weight as a laborer hauling cement. These thoughts are about as far as can be from the romantic sentiments a bride should have, and appropriate for this humiliation of a wedding.

  “She looks like she’s going to faint!” the hairdresser says, and releases a cloud of hair spray that mists over my face. “Get her some crackers.”

  “No crackers! We can’t have crumbs sticking to her lips,” bosses the widow. She complains that she has to get back down to the ballroom, that she can’t be in two places at the same time. She asks my cousins whether she can trust them to deliver me in the next ten minutes, and they promise they will. She narrows her eyes at me. They are set close over the generous bridge of her nose, which would have looked fine had her nose been a normal length. But it stops short—it makes me think of an unfinished road—and gives her face the appearance of being somewhat squished. The widow taps her ruddy cheeks and clicks her tongue at me. “Bride’s nerves. Nothing to do about it, I suppose,” she mutters with a sigh, and clears out.

  “Are you feeling weak?” Ammiti Aisha’s voice sounds like it is coming from the end of a tunnel. She was not in the suite earlier, and I look around to locate her. Ever since we left the hospital, she has been more attentive toward me, especially since I took to spending long spells alone in my room. There have been days over these past months when I sank into a depression so deep I had trouble eating and sleeping. I mourned an education buried before it got a chance to sprout, a future diverted like an artificial stream, destined to dry up in hard earth.

  All my female cousins—Mona, Amal, Nadia, Nouf—would saunter into my room and glower at me, accusing me of being spoiled and ungrateful. (What girl would not desire such a match?) Only Ammiti Aisha showed me any sympathy, patting my hand with a wistful smile. Sometimes she would sigh and shake her head in what I was sure was apology, as if she regretted having actively worked to seal the union. Other times she would flit in and out of my bedroom like a noisy bee, trying to snap me out of my despair. I stopped blaming her after a while. How could she have done otherwise when my uncle assigned her this task? One day she said, “That’s how it is for us women. We are often obligated to do things we don’t want to. And the best lesson you can learn is to stifle the pain.” Not a spark of hope in such talk! And just as I thought that no one could possibly understand my desperation, she added, “They call us weak, but how can that be when we are able to bear so much.” That was the day Khaled was supposed to return but didn’t. That was the day she found out that her husband had not lied: Khaled was a heroin addict, after all.

  There she is. Through the gaps between the shifting limbs I spot her. Her burka hides her expression, but I watch her anyway. She sits on a corner chair, her back rigid as a tree stump, and leans forward as if rallying her strength.

  A woman’s bottom blocks my vision, and I shift so that I can keep my eyes on Aisha. I detect resolve in her position, I’m sure of it. What can it mean? Maybe she’ll display an unexpected burst of courage, just like at the hospital. She might take a stand against this hounding army of relatives and busybodies. She might tell them that enough is enough. Her lips part, and I wait for her to object to this sham of a wedding.

  She’d start a little awkwardly, her voice a sputtering, weak fountain. She’d probably say something like, “Maybe we should wait.” No one would hear her but me. She’d have to cough for attention as she gathered strength to speak out: “Mariam does not have to get married.” And that would unlock the pent-up frustrations and disappointments she has endured all these years with my uncle.

  Someone lights the coals. Smoke curls out of the incense holder. I blink against it repeatedly. When I catch sight of the corner chair once more, it’s empty. Ammiti Aisha has deserted me, left me with an absurd fantasy in the middle of this circle of eager faces and restless limbs.

  A hand clasps my chin and twists my head back to face the mirror. The makeup artist has worked tirelessly, and has succeeded in making me look like someone else. Caked under layers of makeup, my face has been lightened to the tint of weak, milky tea. The makeup artist blows a hot, frustrated breath. “Rounder, softer, rounder,” she mutters, and makes a last attempt to transform my stubborn face. But there is no roundness or softness there. My cheekbones jut high and sharp.

  My hands rest on my thighs, palms up, as if I’m holding an open book. An elaborate henna de
sign adorns each palm. Masterfully drawn by the Indian henna lady, they are remarkable pieces of art, exquisite patterns of tightly packed petals. The broad paisley design thins into an elegant swooping curl that ends at the bottom of the middle finger; small vines travel the length of each finger. They twist and sprout dainty leaves along the way. Once they reach the tips, they blossom into peonies.

  My bangs are pinned back to join the rest of my hair, which is piled and twisted into a nest of tube curls sitting on top of my head. The hairdresser crowns me with the final touch, a rhinestone tiara from which trails a soft veil.

  “Come on, time is rushing,” a woman I’ve never met before says. The others close tighter around me and I sink under their hot and animated breaths. When I gasp in a lungful of air, it’s so strained it sounds like a door hinge badly in need of oiling. Mona hears it, too, and for the first time she yells out something useful: “Give her room, ladies!” Then she makes a joke: “A bride is a delicate and nervous flower. Too much moisture, too much sun, too much of anything will cause her to wilt.”

  The women cackle and fan out. I rise. My dress, embellished with hundreds of pearls, crystals, and sequins, is as heavy as sludge. “Water,” I whisper, and before I can say it again, the hard rim of a glass is touching my lips. I take a sip, and right away the makeup artist is adding another layer of brilliant pink to my lips.

  “Enough,” says Mona. “Any more color and she’ll look like a clown.”

  Here is a clown who’s not laughing. One last glimpse at the mirror: I stare beyond the arty strokes of sea-green eye shadow and the industriously curled lashes, and focus on my eyes. Gone is the hope that once floated on them. Deadened is their soul.

  “Move out of the way,” Mona commands. “It’s time to go down.”

  37

  DALAL

  I am about to snap open my crystal-coated clutch to take out the invitation when the guard at the entrance gasps and then grins. She recognizes me, despite the shayla hanging low over my face. “No need,” she says, holding her hand up to her temple in a movement I decide is a salute. “You’re the Gazelle of the Desert.”

  That was the heading written in beautiful calligraphy under my image on the cover of this week’s Zahrat Al-Khaleej magazine. There are sparks in the guard’s eyes, like light on water, a sight that livens my mood even though I’ve seen the same on the faces of countless other devoted fans. I want to let my abaya slip off so she can see me in full stylish form. I’m wearing a turquoise sequined dress with a crystal beaded halter neckline and a bold V-cut open back. But I hold back and lift the shayla, revealing only my face. After all, I’d promised Mariam to be discreet, to blend in, to attend her wedding with no fuss whatsoever.

  “That’s my cousin getting married in there,” I say, glancing at the ballroom door. It is closed, muffling the throb of music within. “Has she arrived yet?”

  The guard shakes her head.

  I smile. My timing is perfect. The families of the bride and groom must already have retreated from their greeting post at the entrance to the ballroom. I’m late enough to avoid them, but not too late for Mariam’s entrance.

  The guard grabs a pen and ferrets out an empty envelope from among the invitations. She holds it in front of me. “Make it to Balquis.”

  I enter the date: November 9, 1995. With broad strokes, I write: “To Balquis—may your life be filled with joy.” I pause before adding: “As much joy as this bride feels tonight.” These are the kinds of words my admirers long for. Then I write the signature Madame Nivine had me practice repeatedly while she watched with her tiger eyes. “The stiff alef and lams will show that you’re strong,” she explained. “But the dal that starts your name, hayachi: you have to curl it just right, like a chile pepper, to show your femininity and vulnerability. Just a little bit of weakness, so that men will want to protect you. That’s always a good thing.”

  Madame Nivine is not with me. It’s the first time she has refused me a request. When I failed to charm her into coming (I needed her for support) I’d threatened to look for another manager. Finally I ended up begging her. “As a manager and a friend, I advise you not to go, either,” she said. “You’re fiery and unpredictable. And given your anger toward your family, you might do something foolish, which the press is sure to exploit.”

  “You worry about everything.”

  “I know she’s your cousin, your best friend and all, habibchi, but just think: maybe she doesn’t want you there. I mean, why did it take so long for the invitation to arrive?”

  “Egyptian post!”

  “Stop furrowing that brow, Dalal. Don’t pretend you’re puzzled. And who is this man she is going to marry, anyway?”

  “How should I know? His name is on the card. Read it!” Madame Nivine’s candor upset me, but I was not about to show it. It’s true that Mariam was tight-lipped when I asked her for details. She skirted my every attempt at probing. She made silly statements that sounded like defeat. I’d finally understood that she’d given up the fight. And that got my blood boiling: they had broken her. When I offered to sing at her wedding, she said, “Dalal, dear, I really don’t have much say in anything. You know how these things are, more for the family, their prestige and standing in society, than anything else. They’re arranging the whole thing.”

  “There are weeds in this sea that you are about to swim in!” Madame Nivine had said to me. “Those weeds are your past, and they’re going to wrap themselves around your ankles and pull you down.”

  What rubbish she talks! I toss a sideways glance at my companions. Azza and Hannah, (newly employed as my public-relations manager and added to my retinue) are like schoolchildren trying to win points with their teacher by being attentive. They wait for a request or an order. Azza giggles and bobs her head at the guard. She’s still waiting for the signed envelope, which I am clutching a little too tightly. I lean toward her. Handing her the envelope, I whisper, “Look, I don’t want anyone to know I am here.” Balquis the guard seems pleased to be entrusted with my secret. She tightens her lips and seals them with an imaginary zipper.

  Azza swings open the giant door and an arctic burst of air rushes out, plastering the shayla to my face. It takes a few seconds for it to settle. At that moment, the song ends. For a moment it’s silent, and I freeze in place, embarrassed by all the eyes on me. Which ones are my half sisters? The only one I might be able to recognize is Nouf because we were in the same fancy school for a while—unless she has changed drastically. What about the others? What will they do if they find out I’m here?

  I’m considering turning around and running away, when the next song begins. It has a strong Egyptian beat, and the deafening wail of the singer restores my senses. The singer, along with the rest of the musicians, must be behind the giant curtain to the side of the bridal stage. It is a common arrangement so that the women feel more comfortable. Being in a ballroom filled only with women, those who wear head scarves are free to remove them if they choose to.

  I squint through a dazzle of blue and white lights. The ballroom is filled with round tables arranged on both sides of a royal-blue carpet. It looks like any other Khaleeji wedding I’ve performed at. I let my eyes roam over the heads of abaya-clad women, searching for a remote seat to occupy.

  I spot an empty table at the periphery of the ballroom. It’s right below one of the speakers, but close enough to the bridal stage that I will be able to observe Mariam without being noticed. It’s her wedding, after all, and I must respect her wishes and not attract attention. “Come on, follow me,” I tell Azza and Hannah, and I hurry over, all the while considering how strange it feels not to be the central attraction.

  Almost as soon as we take our seats, Azza jumps back up. She points ahead and whoops. “Look, look! There’s Noosa.”

  The famous belly dancer emerges from a back door with her arms spread as wide as eagles’ wings. She glides between the tables under a spotlight, searching for an appreciative audience, one that will cheer he
r on and not eye her with disapproval. She singles out a group of middle-aged ladies and shakes her chest, her emerald fringe of beads clacking. It’s a sensuous display, and when the women do not cover their noses and mouths with their shaylas, Noosa knows she has chosen the right table and continues to demonstrate her talent.

  She starts with a snakelike coiling of the waist, her midriff held firm under a transparent body stocking, and then launches into a series of abdominal acrobatics. Her belly rises and dips, creating mounds and hollows and impossible shapes; there’s a roll from the ribs down to the hips and back up again. Her layers of translucent gold chiffon shimmer with each belly twist. The cloth parts like a curtain to reveal her shining alabaster thighs.

  Watching Noosa, all glitter and dazzle, reminds me of all the times I’ve pranced about beneath a luminous moon of light with a microphone in my hand and glitter in my hair. Mariam is my cousin and best friend, and I have to endure the torture of being invisible in the midst of my father’s family. I can’t help but feel a little betrayed. To distract myself, I settle back and look around.

  The wedding has an underwater theme. The bridal stage, looking to have a height of up to my hips, is garnished with white roses and cream-colored starfish; the divan—where the bride and groom will sit—is shaped like a clamshell. Above it hangs a delicate arrangement of softly swaying strips of ocean-colored fabrics. Luminous white balls cling to the cloth: pearls, the most beautiful of underwater creations. To the left is a low platform shaped like a spiral seashell. It has just enough room on it for one person, probably the main singer, who has yet to materialize.