That Other Me

by Maha Gargash

  Lacking the combination of guts and spite shared by her sisters, Nadia, eight months pregnant, does nothing more than rub her tummy and moan, “Why doesn’t she just go?” She has more to lose than the others. Her husband, the only son-in-law who’s financially independent, had just days ago threatened to divorce her and take all the children if nobody put a stop to that brazen singer disgracing the family.

  By the time Dalal is well into her second song, Nouf has accused me of being a traitor to the family. “Look at Mariam—she’s not even pretending to be upset. I bet she did this on purpose to embarrass us,” she says, just as chubby Salem scrambles onto the bridal stage once more, pretending to be a train: “Chi-chi-chi-chik. Chi-chi-chi-chik. Toot, toot.” Mona orders him to stop and yanks him off the tracks in the middle of his journey.

  “Well,” she says to me, keeping a tight grip around her son’s arm, “it’s your wedding, but know this: any embarrassment will affect us all. And God help us if she’s still here when my father arrives.”

  “You did a boo-boo!” Salem cries out, pulling free from his mother to deliver a thump to my knee.

  “Control that child, Mona.” The group is so consumed with a torrent of questions and blame that Ammiti Aisha’s emergence in their midst stuns them into silence. “People are watching. Look at you, bickering like monkeys.”

  As Mona hands Salem, now so hyper with fatigue that he attempts to bite her ear, to the waiting maid, Nouf says, “Mama, the bride has arranged this fiasco.”

  “Quiet,” says my aunt, seating herself next to me. “We can’t stop what is happening without making a scene. So, all of you . . .” She strokes the air. “Stop flitting about and act normal.”

  That puts an end to the squabbling. My cousins squeeze next to us. “She will sing her song and go,” Ammiti Aisha insists, bobbing her head with vigor.

  That doesn’t happen. Although Budoor succeeds in escorting Dalal off the catwalk, she forgets to take back that second microphone. No doubt confident that things can finally resume to their natural order, the Kuwaiti singer drifts to the middle of the ballroom. And that’s when Dalal raises the microphone to her mouth to make an announcement: “I want to wish the bride all the happiness she could ever hope for. She is the kindest and sweetest human being, and I love her dearly.” Her voice cracks with deep emotion: an escaping sentiment that takes flight and settles over me like a soft veil. I feel it.

  “Look at her,” says Nouf, “the insolent bitch! She’s half-naked.”

  “What an actress,” Amal huffs, while Nadia fixes her gaze to the far end of the ballroom, squinting at the entrance.

  “Let’s all throw her out before she makes more mischief,” Nouf says.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” says Ammiti Aisha. “She will go now, and everything will get back to normal.”

  Budoor is ready to sing the verses of blessing and celebration that accompany the men’s march to the bridal stage. But the spotlight pivots and lands on Dalal. By the time the Kuwaiti singer has opened her mouth, Dalal is back on the catwalk and strutting toward us. I sit still, conflicted, both wanting her near me and wanting her to leave.

  “She’s coming here!” Nouf blurts out.

  My cousins jump up, pulling their mother with them to form a sort of shield that blocks my view. I part Mona’s crisp taffeta gown and the nets of lace covering Amal’s silk dress, and peer with amazement at Dalal.

  Dalal aims a hard, scornful glare at her half sisters. Then she frees a lopsided grin that’s charged with haughtiness. There’s a swish of ruffling dresses. Urgent whispers pass between my cousins—what to do with “the half sister, the half-naked singer with her blatant display!”

  I am up, standing tall and solid. No one knows that the dress is cementing me in place. Nobody can guess that my gut feels like butter being churned. Questions tumble over one another in my head: how will this predicament end, and what can I possibly do to neutralize it?

  My thoughts are sluggish, too slow to catch up with what’s happening. I flinch when I realize that Dalal is already in the heart of our group. I don’t say a word; I don’t know what might spill out of my mouth. She insists on a photograph with the bride: a simple request, but because it comes from Dalal my cousins react immediately with the hiss and venom of tangled snakes. They forget about me and envelop her in a ball of bridled limbs from which escapes the jumble of their reprimands and Dalal’s sass: “No shame . . . as much my right . . . call security . . . ruin of this family . . . my family, too . . . leave now . . . not until I get my photograph!”

  “They’re here!” Mona cries out, and we all realize that it’s too late for Dalal to get off the stage without being noticed. So my cousins agree that she can have a photograph if she stays out of the way until the men leave. They huddle around her and shift her to the far side of the bridal stage.

  Everything happens very quickly, as if it’s a perfect piece of theater. Drums thunder from behind the curtain, and, right on cue, a party of five men enters the ballroom like a band of desert knights without their horses.

  Since the groom is an only child and his father is dead, Ammi Majed and his sons escort him. Both the groom and my uncle wear black bishts—the formal outer cloak that drapes the kandora for special occasions such as this one—edged in woven gold thread. Focused ahead, they ignore the hundreds of goggling women, taking long, determined strides as if impatient to conclude this duty.

  I’m shivering by the time they reach me. The groom takes his position to my right as my uncle places a light kiss on my forehead and steps to my left, adjusting his ghitra for the photographs. He doesn’t need to spell out that this is a formality, not a pleasure. His sons follow with their congratulations. Saif, Ahmad, and Badr shake my hand with the tips of their fingers. When the groom’s mother appears, Ammi Majed suddenly realizes that his wife and daughters are not with us.

  He looks around, squinting against the bright lights, eager to finish this ordeal, and spots them in a cluster at the dimmed far end of the stage. “What on earth are they doing over there?” he asks. “Why aren’t they here with the rest of us?”

  41

  DALAL

  I’m supposed to stay hidden and wait patiently until the men leave: that was our agreement. Seven of them are keeping me cooped up—Aisha, her four daughters, and a couple of granddaughters—so close to the edge of the stage that the smallest nudge could send me tumbling over. Staying still is harder than I imagined, because curiosity heats me up: I just want a peep (the tiniest glimpse!) of the groom. My little stirrings ruffle them, and the silks, satins, and chiffons fluff around me like the feathers of a bunch of distressed hens unable to settle down for the night’s rest.

  But now the seams are loosening, and this puzzles me until I spot my father gesturing for them to join the bridal party. They dillydally, and for good reason: he’s a formidable presence. Aisha breaks away first, dragging her feet toward her husband; the rest follow.

  A bite of frost zips up my spine, a reminder of my naked back (why did I have to wear such a bold design?). I’m suddenly so self-conscious that I consider jumping off the bridal stage. But my heels are high and there’s a possibility that I would break one of my legs, or both. So I settle for the next best thing, and cower.

  There’s the groom, certainly old enough to be Mariam’s father. He holds her hand with the tips of his fingers. I can’t tell whether he’s shy or indifferent toward her. As my half sisters assemble the family around the stage for photographs, I scrutinize him. His shoulders are raised as if stuck in mid-shrug. His beard is thick. Darkened with too-black dye, it cuts across his cheeks in ruler-straight lines. What kind of husband will he be to my dear Mariam? I search for some sign of goodness in him. But it’s difficult with that chest puffed out like an arrogant turkey’s. I wait for it to deflate, but it doesn’t. Born that way, I think.

  Someone has delivered my grandmother, who looks weighed down with too much gold, and planted her on the clamshell cou
ch. There’s a crusty expression on her face as she watches my half sisters’ attempts to impose order on the little ones, who won’t sit still. The main troublemaker is a tubby boy who keeps flipping onto his stomach and slithering around on the bridal stage like a lizard. There they are: a family having trouble squeezing together for a photograph. They’re not a model family, but the sight of them clumped together makes me feel so alone. Standing at the edge, as always, I am forgotten: so near, but still blotted out of existence. I take a step nearer as emotions swell in me all at once. They’re like a broth with too many ingredients; it’s impossible to sift through them, or to understand why they are there in the first place.

  The family finally manages to get in order: a picture of happiness, which the photographer is eager to snap. My vision blurs. Tears well up, and any moment now they will spill. What happens next dries them up.

  The groom’s mother, who until now was content to stay on the periphery, suddenly drills her way into the middle of the group. My father politely steps to one side, and she wriggles into the gap so that she is next to her son. She hooks his elbow and weaves her fingers into his. With that, he pulls his hand out of Mariam’s—even shakes it, as if he had been holding a filthy rag. There is confusion and dismay in her expression when she looks at him for some explanation of his sudden callousness. He stares ahead with a stony face, and I realize that this man will never make her happy, that she must not walk out of this ballroom with him.

  The family doesn’t notice a thing; they are too busy putting on their best smiles. I inch closer, feeling useless. My poor Mariam! She tries to hide her humiliation as best she can, but her mouth is twitching and her fingers are shaking. Someone needs to hold her cast-off hand and bring warmth back to her. But then, quick as the snap of a finger, my father spots me. “What’s she doing here?” It’s a low-pitched growl, but I hear it. I take a futile step back, as if that would reverse the flow of time. His eyes are ablaze, so heated that I imagine the ballroom burning to ashes under their intensity.

  I had wandered closer without realizing it. (Every one of them now stares at me.) I look away. Azza and Hannah wave at me with urgency. Whether I walk or run, they want me off the stage. I am tempted to do just that, to get as far away as possible from this fraud of a union. But there is Mariam, and she needs me. I sniff. From behind me comes a whiff of spicy Arabian perfumes, and a viper sputters curses onto my bare shoulder. “Go now, or else I’ll call security to drag you out,” Mona threatens.

  Right then, I make my decision. “It’s time I got my photograph with the bride,” I say, and elbow her to the side. With my nose in the air and my chin pointed out, I make a beeline for the bridal group. Clutching Mariam’s hand, I glower at the lot of them, fish eyed and stunned mute with disbelief. “What?” I say. “Have you forgotten that I’m an Al-Naseemy, too? Now look ahead and put on your best smile.”

  42

  MAJED

  “Why is the singer here with us?” Mama Al-Ouda asks. When no one answers, she taps Dalal on the calf with her stick and says, “Shouldn’t you be out there, dear? Singing?”

  Dalal leans over and says, “I’m a singer with special privileges.” She waves at my daughters. “Ask them about it.”

  “Special privileges?” I don’t need to see my mother’s eyes through the window of her burka because I know exactly what they look like when she’s baffled: wet marbles, the watery blue age rings expanding like an encroaching tide. “Well, move to the side with your special privileges so I can see what’s going on.”

  It’s strange that I can hear them over the noise, but I do. I bite the inside of my lips and try hard to think of the best way to deal with this nasty twist. “She should not be here,” the groom’s mother says, sticking her tongue out to indicate Dalal as if I might have trouble understanding her meaning. Soon after Dalal had bulldozed her way through, the widow gave me a grave look—a signal that had us both shifting away from the middle of the group. Now positioned on the periphery, I try to placate her. It’s imperative that we maintain a strong relationship; she has agreed to invest a fortune into my various business projects. Even though I’m raging inside, I honey my voice and try to make light of the situation. “Don’t let such a small thing ruin the evening.”

  “Yes, think of our poor bride: blameless,” says Mona, who emerges from behind me.

  “He’s my only child, you understand,” the widow tells her, “and it’s his happiness that is the most important.”

  Mona and I nod our agreement. “And what happiness she will give him,” says Mona, just as Saif and Ahmad join our small group. “She is ready to give her heart and soul to him.”

  “Mariam is generous in all ways.” I keep my tone gentle and confident. “She will provide you the best company, too. She will serve you with more dedication than if she were your own daughter.”

  “Yes, I guess you are right.” The widow clicks her tongue grudgingly. “I must think of us as one family, I suppose.” She crosses her arms tightly over her barrel-shaped waist and gazes toward the groom, who keeps looking over his shoulder back at her. “Still, you need to get rid of that unscrupulous singer right away. And mind you don’t make a scene.”

  I share her exact thoughts, but how she expects me to do that I cannot tell, especially with all those eyes on us. We stand frozen in place beneath the ballroom lights, which are dim now. We’re all grinning hard, ideal subjects for the photographer, who clicks her camera with blinding speed. The video-camera woman is just as efficient. She leans from side to side, keeping her tape running, as if in wait for something big to happen. She won’t have to wait much longer.

  “I will not have my son’s reputation soiled because you happened to make such a big mistake,” the widow hisses. The humiliation is hard to bear, and I have to force back the temptation to retaliate with a curt response.

  How to satisfy the widow? The opportunity comes quickly: a series of mighty ululations erupts like sirens, burning my ears as though hot oil had been poured in them. I am dazed; it takes me a while to realize that the noise is coming from three women I do not recognize, who seem to have appeared out of thin air.

  They surprise us all, having managed to barrel their way the length of the catwalk to face the bride without being noticed. There they stand, with their arms raised high. One of them tilts her head and flutters her tongue. The other two follow suit, and out drops an even louder gargle of high-pitched noise. They fling their arms in the air; the contents of their hands flutter down over the group. Owl-eyed with anticipation, Salem cries out, “Nuthoor!”

  It’s the money typically showered over the bride and groom—a messy business. We are bombarded by waves of hard one-dirham coins and crisp five- and ten-dirham notes. Squealing children clamber onto the bridal stage like ants escaping a crushed nest. They jump into the air, limbs unhinged, poking and pinching and tugging, crashing into one another in a scramble to collect as much of the bounty as they can. They crawl on all fours, kicking ankles and stepping on toes, lifting dresses and tugging kandoras.

  One of the children accidentally steps on the bride’s foot and another pulls at her tail to locate any coins that might have rolled under it. When Dalal lets go of Mariam’s hand to shoo them away, I spot the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I will extract her from our midst now—who will notice in this mayhem? I must take action swiftly.

  It would be better to send one of my sons to take care of this loathsome business while I stay with the widow to keep her calm and reassured. Both Ahmad and Saif await my command. Saif is too edgy and impatient for my liking, and I can’t trust him to take charge of this delicate operation. I opt for Ahmad, the more composed of the two. “Discreetly,” I mouth, and give Ahmad a go-ahead nod. But it’s Saif who lunges ahead.

  He cuts through the clamoring children, his ghitra flying on either side of his head like a pair of powerful wings. Dalal latches onto Mariam’s hand as though it were a lifeline. He reaches Dalal, and for a moment it looks
like he might be able to reason with her. His expression is sober, with just the right touch of intimidation, and even though I can’t hear what he’s saying, it seems he’ll be able to convince her to leave quietly. One glimpse at the guests assures me that they haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. I will the episode to terminate quickly and quietly. But I realize it’s a fool’s hope when Saif starts wagging his index finger at Dalal. She eyes it as if it were a worm and shakes her head.

  Mama Al-Ouda once more insists on knowing why the singer is not out there singing. Dalal scoffs and leans over to ask the old woman, “Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Who you are?”

  We all hear Saif when he says, “Don’t talk to my grandmother. You said your mabrooks, woman! Now, for the last time: walk off this stage and leave us to celebrate in peace. Go back to your people.”

  Dalal lets go of Mariam’s hand and slams her fists to her hips in a bold challenge to his authority. “You are my people. Whether you like it or not, I am a part of this family. Your sister—that’s right—with the same blood running through my veins.”

  His face darkens like clouds gathering for a violent storm. “Silence!” he says, the words hissing through his teeth. “If I had a knife I would sharpen it and slice your tongue to bits. You will leave now.”

  She doesn’t budge, and that’s about as much as he can take. He lunges, grabbing for her. She whoops and wriggles behind Mariam, bumping her forward. The bride somehow doesn’t trip—the group gasps anyway—despite getting her feet tangled in that damned mermaid’s tail.

  “This is not the way,” Mariam pleads with Saif. “She’ll go, she’ll go now, won’t you, Dalal?” Saif’s left hand swoops around behind her waist. “And even if she doesn’t, what’s the harm?”

  Saif could easily have snatched Dalal at this point, but he stops short and points a thick knuckle at Mariam. “You shut your mouth!”