by Maha Gargash
All this must be the work of my half sisters; it’s customary for the women on the bride’s side to handle the design and arrangement of any wedding. They set the price—no expense spared: a bellowing message sure to score points with the guests—and the groom’s side must foot the bill.
Azza’s hand drifts over the bowls of starters—hummus, tabbouleh, samosas, stuffed grape leaves—and taps the funnel-shaped glass vase in the middle of the table. It is filled with a variety of seashells. “So pretty,” she says, running her index finger along the glass. “How many people do you think dove to the bottom to fetch them all?”
Just the thought of shouting over the loudspeaker to answer her stupid question fatigues me. I sniff and look away, narrowing my sleepy eye at Noosa. She is balancing a cane on her head. The cheering squad of middle-aged women is now sodden with boredom (all those belly bumps do get repetitive after a while), and that pleases me. But Noosa tickles their interest once more when she lets the cane slip off her head and looks toward her three assistants, who lug over a bronze candelabra with no fewer than fifty burning candles. Noosa slaps her chest. Her eyes round with playful alarm at the candelabra, four times the size of her head and a meter tall. She crouches, and the assistants fix it to her head.
“Her neck must be as strong as an ox’s,” says Hannah, just as the tablah tap-taps the dancer into rising.
“She should be in a circus, not a wedding,” I add, smirking.
The beat crescendos, a deafening cacophony of synthesized flutes and violins. Noosa’s head dips and swivels; there is awe on the guests’ faces. Openmouthed children scrunch their eyes as she tilts to an extreme degree that makes it look like the candelabra will topple to the ground. But Noosa retracts her neck just in time and balances her head with an unflappable bob. Little girls clap and cheer—some of them are my nieces, I’m sure. A jolt of envy rushes through my bones.
I am in the middle of my flesh and blood, and yet I must act like a stranger. No, worse than that! I must be an invisible stranger. Mariam and her weakness! Why couldn’t she have shown some boldness and insisted I sing at her wedding?
The candelabra is removed from Noosa’s head. Someone passes her a microphone. She holds it to her mouth and wags her tongue in an energetic ululation: the announcement for the zaffa, the wedding procession. The bride has arrived.
38
MARIAM
A traditional troupe of women musicians leads the way. They sing, clap, and slap their tar drums. The flower girls follow them, carrying conch shells filled with white petals, which they scatter on the navy-blue carpet. Next is the video crew with their harsh lights. Then it’s me.
I am a mermaid.
The dress clings to me all the way to the middle of my calves, where it loosens and fans out to the ground in an elaborate fish tail. In case anyone needs more clarification, nacre fish scales are embroidered to the dress with pearly threads, the shapes fortified with sequins and beads. Like any mermaid treading on solid ground, this one is finding it difficult to walk.
My face glimmers under the spotlight. Little girls gape at me with stars in their eyes. Older girls gaze at me with dreams in their heads. One day soon, they, too, will have their transforming moment and become the bride in white.
The video-recording team, a group of three Filipinas with serious faces, wades backward in front of me. The camerawoman has her eye glued to the viewfinder. She is careful not to make any sudden moves; she doesn’t want to bump her head on the light that is raised above her head by the first assistant, or trip over the wires that the second assistant is uncoiling.
“Keep your shyness, but try to look content,” Mona says. She struts alongside me, handing out infinite tips. Every now and then her hand runs over the rhinestones studding my shoulders as if they had suddenly grown dusty and needed a polish. Other relatives follow my trail, too. I imagine their eyes on me, radiant with celebration, taking in my extravagant gown. They do not realize that I would gladly give it up and settle for a rag if only . . . if only . . .
“Mariam!” Mona hisses. “No teeth in your smile.”
I adjust my smile and continue at a tortoise pace up three steps and onto the catwalk that leads to the bridal stage. There’s a seat at the end of it: a clamshell. Could it open up and swallow me?
The folk music group has made the noise it was paid for and left, as has the belly dancer. There’s a blissful hush, a signal that dinner is about to be served. An army of waitresses emerges, threading its way between the tables to deliver trays of stuffed baby goat. I spot three types of rice—dill green, saffron yellow, and plain white—along with an assortment of kebabs and curries. It’s a brief respite, and I listen to the sounds made by the eight hundred or so hungry guests: the clink of cutlery on porcelain, the gurgle of water poured in glasses, the murmur of light conversation, and the sleepy bawls of the odd toddler here and there.
It’s the perfect moment for family photographs with the bride. Seated on the satin clamshell couch, I watch Amal as she rearranges the scaly tail at my toes.
Mama Al-Ouda doesn’t wait for anyone to come get her. She climbs the steps with the help of two Filipina maids, her abaya bundled to her waist so she doesn’t trip. Under it she wears a traditional dress made of fine brocade. She lumbers down the catwalk while my cousins struggle with their children. Respectfully, I rise to kiss my grandmother’s hand, then give her another light peck on her forehead, over her brand new burka, which shines like a polished bronze shield. She whispers, “Masha’Allah,” and cups my face with both hands to give an extra dose of approval.
Mama Al-Ouda settles next to me on the couch, fidgeting, releasing a whiff of Arabic perfume mixed with Yardley English Rose talc. She is bedecked in some of her finest traditional gold jewelry, most of which were gifts from my father when he started making money: heavy earrings; a shimmery necklace that gushes over her chest like a honeyed waterfall; thickly spiked bangles that look like weapons; and more modern gold rings on four of her fingers.
The photographer holds her hand up and says, “Ready, steady.” She lets loose an erratic sequence of clicks and flares before saying, “Go!” Alerted by the spray of flashes, the rest of the family hurries to huddle around me. Mona arranges the small girls and boys in two rows according to height and then takes her place. Again, “Ready, steady,” clicks and flashes, and the delayed word, “Go!”
I must look the picture of contentment with my bride’s smile (no teeth showing). Only Dalal would have been able to sense my agony. I don’t bother to look for her, because she would have made her presence known by now if she were here. After all the warnings I gave her, I’m sure she understood that it would be wisest to stay away.
“Mama, Mama! Salem pulled my hair!” Mona’s four-year-old, Reem, tugs at her mother’s gown just as her mobile phone starts ringing.
“Don’t pull her hair,” Mona says to her son, Salem, two years older than his sister and double her size. She answers the phone. A pause, then a declaration: “They’re coming. The men are coming.”
My conjugal life is about to begin.
Reem’s incessant tugs turn to furious yanks. “Stop it,” orders Mona, and shifts away, blocking her free ear. The music resumes; it’s a Khaleeji beat that begins with the piercing throbs of more tar drums. Frustrated, Mona bonds her ear to the phone and shouts, “You can’t come now. We’re not ready.” Little Reem is whimpering and clinging to her mother’s knees. Mona ignores her. “Let the singer finish a few songs so there’s some dancing. You know none of the girls will dance if there are men in the ballroom.”
My conjugal life has been delayed to make time for the girls who want to dance.
“They’re tired. They’re all tired, these children,” says Mona, and winks at me. “Don’t worry, Mariam, insha’Allah, he’ll be here soon enough.” She marches the squirming Reem off the stage, struggling to keep the child’s snotty nose as far away from her dress as possible.
I’m not worried, I think. I
have sat with him twice. The first time he visited, he was received in the formal sitting room. I was bathed, coiffed, and dressed suitably for the visit, which lasted half an hour. I’m not sure if it was shyness or the awkwardness of two strangers meeting under the gaze of my aunt and her children, but mostly we avoided looking at each other. He asked after my health and I asked after his. We drank gahwa and ate Omani halwa. The second time, he visited for lunch, and Ammi Majed was present. I’d felt invisible. The man was certainly more talkative, but only with the other men, my uncle and his sons.
The man is much older than I, just over forty. I call him the man because he is just that—the man who will be my husband, who will share my bed, whose children I will deliver. “The older he is, the better,” Amal had told me, “more mature, more settled, more able to take charge.” And Nouf had added, “More important, he’s as rich as a sheikh.”
Just as the waitresses start serving the grand array of desserts, a trill echoes in the entrance, and Budoor proudly sweeps into the ballroom. I see Mona light up at the arrival of the much-anticipated Kuwaiti singer. (She will get the girls dancing, after all.) Budoor begins with an upbeat song that is filled with blessings for this special occasion.
39
DALAL
First that vulgar dancer, then the family photographs that excluded its most dazzling member, and now this Budoor, who does not go to the platform that has been built for her. With microphone in hand she winds her way between the tables, swishing this way and that in her many layers of chiffon. They’re pale violet and do nothing to lighten her complexion.
The beat is punchy, amplified by the throb of drums from behind the curtain. When the women start clapping, I stab the crème caramel in front of me with my spoon. This just happens to be my opening song: I have sung it at every Khaleeji wedding I’ve performed in. Someone throws a rose at Budoor, and the crème caramel disintegrates under the force of my jabs. I rise to my feet. Azza and Hannah gawk at me, their open mouths filled with a rainbow of gooey sweet things. “What?! I just want to see better.” And I do.
Three tables away, a girl stares at me with wonder in her eyes. She gasps and presses her fingers to her mouth. Her friend scrutinizes me, looking doubtful; they get into a piddling quarrel. A smile tickles my lips. I push out my chin and loosen my shayla, letting it slide off my head. There: no question of my identity now.
And then they come—not just the two friends but a whole group of starstruck teenagers. They compliment my voice, my songs, my pretty face. I play it all down because I know the importance and power of seeming modest. They’re close to me in age, but judging from their demeanor, it’s obvious they lack my experience and worldliness.
Budoor is four tables away, but she might as well be on another continent. The girls talk over one another, and I wait; I know a crucial request will be made soon. And I’m right: “Won’t you sing for us tonight, Dalal?”
“Oh, no, no.” I tap my cheek, my forehead, as if I’m burning up. Easing back onto the chair, I cross one leg over the other. I look down at my knee—revealed!—poking through the gown’s deep side slit. My abaya sits in a crumpled heap behind me. Azza attempts to draw it up. I slap her wrist—discreetly, of course.
Basking in so much adoration, I understand their insistence. This is a wedding, and these girls want to feel alive. “I couldn’t possibly get up and sing. I’m a guest here.”
There are heaves and hums of disappointment. Another girl says, “That doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not right. I mean . . .” I lean forward and they huddle around me, as if expecting the disclosure of some great piece of privileged information. “. . . Think how it would look. I’d be disrespecting Budoor, and, after the bride, she’s the attraction here.”
“She’s ugly,” says a girl with heavy braces. (How my heart warms to her!) “Come on, we love you!”
“Just one song,” begs a pudgy child with plum cheeks and a lisp.
Just as I’m about to refuse for a second time (before agreeing, of course), Budoor makes an announcement: “We have with us a beautiful and famous fellow artist.”
By now I am blocked from Budoor’s sight and surrounded by a mass of fans, which, it pleases me to note, has tripled in size. Azza and Hannah can’t hide the alarm in their faces—tedious, those two—and are unsure of what they should do.
“No, no, really,” I say, and allow the throng of girls to pull me off my chair. I’m aware that I am breaking my promise to Mariam. But I can’t possibly walk out of my best friend’s wedding without dedicating a song to her, can I? It will be quick, just one tiny tune. How much harm can come of that? Then I’ll sit down and be quiet.
I continue my objections, but I let the girls drag me toward that big moon of a spotlight. I’m sure Budoor is not thrilled, but she cuts her way into the group and greets me with three sloppy kisses too fervid to be genuine. I don’t know how she managed to get a second microphone so quickly, but her proposition that we sing a duet is expected. Graciously, I agree.
It should be just one song, but as our duet draws to a close I feel a tingle in my spine. I do not wait for permission to launch into a second song. I wave Budoor out of the way and launch into Adbel Halim’s Hafez’s much-loved “Ahwak.”
There is no accompanying music; the confounded musicians behind that curtain are no doubt in a panic, scrambling to accommodate this abrupt change in schedule. No matter: my voice booms clear and fine as can be as I drift up the steps and onto the catwalk, a meandering current on which I float, light as a leaf. By the time they join me, my movements have turned fluid—a soft dip here, a smooth nod there, a gentle sway every now and then—as I trap the mood of my audience.
They are enraptured by my delivery of this simple classical tune, its words so familiar, so cherished. To my right a large group of women sways, some with their palms held over their hearts, others patting their chests as if consoling that vital organ or perhaps blocking the escape of some tender sentiment.
Time-honored yet suited more for a small gathering, “Ahwak” is an unlikely choice for a wedding. It’s full of nostalgia. The women start clapping at a steady tempo, which I follow. All those eyes on me, all those faces shining with adoration! I could go on all night, from one song to the next; but now, as I finish the last note of “Ahwak,” I spot Budoor flagging me to get off the catwalk. She wants me out of the spotlight so she can take back the guests and do what she is being paid to do.
The women clap. I stay where I am, blowing kisses at them. This propels Budoor up the steps. She tries to hide her agitation with an exaggerated grin; she tells me the groom is waiting to march in. I look to the far side of the ballroom, and sure enough, there are men amassing by the entrance, ready to wade through this water world of women. I rush, trying to fit in as many flying kisses as I can before exiting the scene.
The most anticipated occurrence of a Khaleeji wedding is the arrival of the bride. The second most anticipated is that of the groom, whether he appears on his own or escorted by male family members. The women stop their chatter. There’s a burst of efficient activity as they hasten to cover up, extinguishing the dazzle of their necklaces and extravagant dresses with their abayas before positioning their chairs for the best possible vantage point.
It’s time to leave, but my feet don’t move. It would be insulting to have to skulk out like a burglar when I have as much right to be here as any other Naseemy. A thought zaps through my mind: what would my mother do? The idea flickers, then dies. I have stopped caring what she thinks. I see Azza waving at me with one hand and holding my abaya in the other, ready to fling it over me once I get near her. Hannah is by her side, collecting our purses. They skitter back and forth like mice in a pantry, facing the danger of being spotted and then cornered. They are anxious to rush me out, the forsaken family member. Perhaps I should go.
I turn for a final sweeping look at my cousin. My half sisters have just helped her up. One of them dabs her face with a tissue before pu
lling down her veil. The others fuss with her fish tail, arranging it so that it twirls around her feet just so. Mariam stands very still, waiting for the man who will lead her to her new life. She is like a tree waiting to be chopped, broken in all the critical places. A peculiar ache crawls toward my heart. Perhaps I should stay.
40
MARIAM
Dalal came after all! The thought screams in my head.
There she stands, so full of fire, doing exactly what I asked her not to do. Strangely, I am not upset at her. I’m surprised to find myself smiling. How is it possible to both admire and dread her daring? To both want it and not want it?
Perhaps it is because she is my best friend, making sure I know she is near me at this difficult time. Maybe it’s because she is the only person who dares defy this family. Whatever the reason, I feel a buoyant lightness, even though I know that Dalal’s flamboyant display will have consequences.
The cousins hover like wasps, dizzy with rage, as Dalal pairs up with Budoor for a duet: light and night, swan and raven. Mona gets her wish; the girls are dancing. But there is no pleasure on her face. “Look how she shrinks, that Kuwaiti cow. If she backs away and stops singing, woe to her!” she says. “Wallah, she won’t see one dirham of her fee of twenty thousand!”
For the first time I appreciate the advantage of being the bride, expected to be demure and sit poised like a pretty doll even in the center of a churning uproar. “Who invited her?” Amal demands, narrowing her eyes at me. There’s an uncanny glint in them, as if they’re filled with shards of glass. “Was it you, Mariam?”
I keep my eyes on the singing pair, a sparkling blue flame and the ash left behind, and answer in a level voice, “Only out of good manners.”