The Newlyweds

by Nell Freudenberger

  “He’s also one of the chess instructors. They’ve graduated three grand masters”—Mrs. Rahman said the words in English—“though not while he was there. If only it were a school for girls, he always tells me. If Mokta were a boy, she might attend St. Joseph’s for less.”

  “She’s your only child?”

  Mrs. Rahman nodded and squinted out the window, as if she were trying to make out something across the street.

  Amina had asked the question innocently, but she was familiar with the way people prodded when you admitted to having only one. She’d watched her mother shrink under that question for years. “I’m an only child as well,” she said quickly. “My mother had a complicated labor, and they decided one was expensive enough.”

  Mrs. Rahman smiled gratefully at Amina. “And now you’re bringing your parents to America—how wonderful.”

  “If my father’s visa gets approved,” Amina said. “We’re still waiting. My parents already gave up their apartment—we used to live in the Kaderabad Housing, not far from here.”

  “I know the building!” Mrs. Rahman said.

  “We were going to be with my aunt and uncle in Savar, but it was too far from the embassy. And our host here is the son of my father’s oldest friend.”

  She could imagine what Mrs. Rahman would think if she knew her daughter was already meeting Nasir in secret or talking to him late at night on the phone. They had only one child, but that didn’t mean they had any less love than a family with three or four. It was simply intensely focused on this one girl, who would be likely at some point to break under the pressure. She might even jeopardize the future her parents had so carefully planned for her, just for the feeling of escaping their scrutiny for a little while. Amina felt angry suddenly, but she wasn’t sure whether she was angry at Mrs. Rahman or at Sakina or at her own parents. She had the peculiar feeling that she wanted to do something for Mokta, something selfless and pure. If she were able to arrange a meeting, one that appeared to happen naturally, wouldn’t that help forward a match that both Nasir and Mokta obviously desired?

  It hadn’t escaped her that in doing this she would be proving something to Nasir. He would see she hadn’t been undone by what had happened between them and that she fully intended to go back to her life in America. She would also teach Sakina a lesson about the limits of even the most meticulous plan. You couldn’t control your own life, much less someone else’s.

  She thought she must’ve had a strange look on her face, because Mrs. Rahman was watching her with concern, as if she thought she might have caused some offense.

  She smiled to reassure Mokta’s mother. “Where did your daughter go to school?” she asked.

  “Oh,” her mother said. “Just the local primary school.”

  Amina had been thinking of secondary school, but she didn’t want to embarrass Mrs. Rahman, who might not have gone further than primary school herself. She could imagine evenings in the apartment, Mokta’s mother cooking and then clearing away the dishes while Mokta and her father worked through her problem sets or enjoyed a game of chess. The pieces now standing at attention must be the remnants of one of those games.

  “And your husband?” Mrs. Rahman asked. “What does he do in America?”

  “He’s an electrical engineer,” Amina said. Mrs. Rahman would learn about Amina’s marriage soon enough, but she wasn’t going to be candid now. She had thought before she’d come that there must’ve been something wrong with Yellow Barrette or her family, but everything Amina had learned since she’d been in the apartment made the match seem equitable or even tilted in favor of the Rahmans.

  “I would love for Mokta to meet you, if you have time before you go. She’s always been interested in studying abroad … but, of course, the expense. Her father would like to try”—her mother smiled apologetically—“but I’m selfish. I can’t imagine my life here without her.”

  There was no reason that she had to see the girl’s picture before she invited her. If she wasn’t pretty, Nasir would never have noticed her in the first place. Still, she was disappointed not to have a mental image of Mokta to take away from the visit.

  “I would be happy to meet her,” Amina said. “Perhaps the two of you could come to tea one afternoon before we leave. My parents and I are home all day.”

  Mrs. Rahman looked delighted. “That would be wonderful. If you promise you won’t go to any trouble. You’ll only embarrass me again about these biscuits.”

  “My father’s friend passed away years ago, and his son and I grew up like cousins. But he’s a bachelor and so his apartment is shabby. You see, we’ll be apologizing to you.”

  Mrs. Rahman laughed. “I doubt that. Well, we’ll call on you then. On Thursday?”

  It was Tuesday now, and Amina considered the logistics involved. She would have to bring it up as soon as she got back and admit to her parents that she’d lied about visiting her student. When she finally met Mokta, she would have to act surprised that the book wasn’t hers and speculate about how it had come to be lying in the street. And of course, sometime between now and Thursday, she would have to confess to Nasir that she’d gone to see the girl for herself. If he were angry, she could confront him with the facts she knew from her mother. Sakina was still considering other candidates; why hadn’t he told his sister that he wasn’t interested in the “very beautiful” girl she preferred? Amina would tell him he was being a coward—that his whole life’s happiness was at stake.

  “Come in the evening, if you can. You might as well meet your neighbor—our friend—since we’ll be gone soon.”

  Mrs. Rahman nodded. “If Mokta’s father is home early, he’ll accompany us.”

  “I hope it’s actually Mokta’s book,” Amina said. “How ridiculous if it turns out I’m wrong.”

  Mrs. Rahman was surprised. “You mean you didn’t actually see her drop it?”

  “I did—but of course I didn’t know which apartment. The fish man said there was a girl on the top floor. I thought I might have knocked on the wrong door, but now that I see you, I think it must’ve been your daughter.”

  Mrs. Rahman nodded slowly. “Most people say Mokta resembles her father’s family. But I have an idea—if you can wait just a minute?” She disappeared into the bedroom, and Amina couldn’t help smiling at her success. She thought that Mokta would be a version of her mother, twenty years younger. She thought of black curls, round black eyes, and full scarlet lips. Mokta, she thought. A pearl.

  Mrs. Rahman came back, flipping through a plastic pocket album and frowning.

  “This was taken at Eid. You see—I made her clothes myself.”

  Amina found herself looking at the photograph of a young girl. Mokta had her mother’s large, round eyes, but as Mrs. Rahman had suggested, the rest of her face didn’t show a particular likeness. Her hair was straight—the barrette, this time, was white—but her skin was luminous and clear, and the smile at the corner of her mouth was playful, as if she had promised to hold still for only a second. She was looking at the photographer, who was probably her father, with an expression that combined innocence with absolute trust.

  Amina turned to Mrs. Rahman: there had been a misunderstanding. “But this is from many years ago?”

  “From last year. You see, she isn’t like me—much more like her paternal grandmother.”

  “How old is Mokta now?”

  “Sixteen. She’ll graduate the year after next, and then her father hopes she might win a scholarship at BRAC. When I think that I was married by her age—things have changed so much since then.” She paused, seeing Amina’s confusion. “But I think my daughter isn’t the girl you saw?”

  “No,” Amina said. Her hands were shaking. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

  “No, no.” Mrs. Rahman was eager to be gracious. She retrieved the English book from the table, where it had been sitting next to the plate of biscuits, and handed it back to Amina.

  “I didn’t think this looked like Mokta�
��s. I can’t read her books, but I certainly pick them up enough.”

  She was joking with Amina in order to put her at ease, but of course she couldn’t begin to understand what was really the matter. Standing in Mrs. Rahman’s door, she had to admit to herself that she was in love with Nasir for the second time in her life. She had been able to stand the idea that he might end up with someone else, when the someone else had been an accomplished young woman of twenty-five. It was something entirely different to think he was pursuing a girl who had not yet finished high school, even if he was prepared to wait for her. She was ashamed of how she’d suspected Sakina of sabotaging Nasir’s happiness: finally it was clear why his sister would’ve been reluctant to approach this family.

  As a girl Amina had been in the habit of dreaming she was in love. Although the dreams were different, she recognized the lover each time. Their history was so rich and complex that its residue would still be with her when she woke up. She would lie in bed running through the list of people she knew, sure that she would be able to identify him eventually. She refused to believe that her brain had the capacity to invent someone so palpably real. Now, as she stood in Mrs. Rahman’s doorway, she felt as if she were mourning that phantom lover all over again. It was only in losing her idea of Nasir that she realized how much he meant to her; by showing her one photo, Mrs. Rahman had sucked all the brightness from her life. She had killed Nasir, or worse, she had somehow led Amina to understand that he’d never existed at all.

  Amina put her old schoolbook back into Mrs. Rahman’s hands. “Please tell Mokta to keep it,” she said, and then she was moving down the stairs. She knew Mrs. Rahman was still talking to her and would be confused by her sudden rudeness. The woman probably would’ve liked to bring her daughter to visit them anyway, to talk about Mokta’s prospects—a contact abroad was well worth an afternoon visit—but the thought of the girl in Nasir’s apartment was suddenly repulsive. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, her phone was ringing. She looked down to see if it was George, calling about his interview, and then remembered that the interview was Tuesday morning Rochester time and hadn’t happened yet. Her phone displayed a Dhaka mobile number she didn’t recognize, and so she ignored it, hurrying out of the building in case Mrs. Rahman should take it in her head to follow her.

  15When she got home, her father wasn’t back from the market, and she was startled to find Nasir at home in the main room. Her mother was fixing him something to eat in the kitchen, and he was sitting at the table with the newspaper open in front of him. He smiled broadly when he saw her, as if they could have no secrets from each other.

  “Nasir took his sisters to the bus stand, and now he’s eating something before he goes in to work,” her mother said, as if this information would be of the utmost interest to Amina. “Did you see Asah?”

  The name startled her: for a moment she’d forgotten the pretense she’d used this morning. “No,” she said.

  Her mother’s brow immediately folded in on itself, in anticipation of another misfortune. “What happened?”

  “I decided to visit someone across the street instead. A young woman.” Nasir looked up mildly from his paper, and she could see that he really didn’t know what she was going to say.

  “Which young woman?” her mother asked. Amina addressed herself only to her mother, trying to keep her voice calm and even.

  “Another possible match. I thought it might be nice to invite the family—for tea. They’re very respectable. Her father teaches math at St. Joseph’s.”

  “But how—” her mother began.

  But Nasir interrupted: “Where did you go?”

  “Don’t worry,” Amina said. “Mokta was out—at high school. She’s only sixteen, so she won’t start university for another two years.”

  “But that’s too young,” her mother protested. “And anyway—”

  Nasir stood up from the table. She had wanted to unsettle him, but she was suddenly afraid she’d gone too far. He was looking at her as if she’d said something obscene. “You’re joking,” he said coldly.

  “I was trying to help you. I didn’t realize you’d thought of someone so young.”

  Nasir just stared at her, but her mother looked baffled.

  “What’s this Mokta? I thought she was called—”

  “Munni misunderstood,” Nasir said. “There was never any question of a girl across the street.”

  Her mother nodded, relieved. “Because Sakina seems set on this girl in Comilla. They’re planning to finalize everything on this trip.”

  Nasir stared at her coldly. “You thought I was serious about a girl across the street?”

  “You said—”

  He exploded: “I said I admired a girl with yellow barrettes.”

  “Who lives across the street.” But her face was burning, and she knew she’d made a humiliating mistake.

  “Across the—who knows if she even lives there?” Nasir exploded. “Maybe she was just walking by. My God, Munni—I can’t believe you went to see some stranger!”

  “But why did you say there was a girl?”

  “What if there had been? What gives you the right? You think you can just come back here and play with people’s lives—and then disappear back to America?”

  Her mother was looking worriedly from one of them to the other. “The girl from Comilla will be more suitable. Sixteen is way too young these days. I was seventeen when I married, and even then—”

  “I’m not marrying any Mokta!” Nasir spit out the name as if it were bitter to him.

  “I thought—” Amina began, but he was gathering up his things, shoving his paper in a messenger bag with a British label that was hanging over the back of the chair.

  “Sorry, Aunty,” he muttered, and then hurried past them out the door.

  “He forgot to change his shoes.” Her mother looked at the door, where Nasir’s leather shoes were waiting neatly on the rack.

  “He has a temper,” Amina said, but it was no use reminding herself of Nasir’s faults. She couldn’t believe what she had done.

  “Like your father.” Her mother smiled, then immediately became serious again. “But I hope he won’t tell Sakina. She’d be so angry if she thought we were interfering in this marriage business of theirs.”

  Her mother’s cheeks were so sunken, you could see the shadows in them. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, and her clothes hung off her body as if they belonged to someone else. She rocked unselfconsciously from heel to toe, doing the television strengthening exercises that had become second nature to her. Apart from what she’d seen on TV, everything her mother knew about the United States was from Amina’s description. Had she been honest enough? Or was her mother still imagining only another Desh, reputedly colder, where she would have to wear a sweater even in the month of April?

  She hesitated, watching her mother begin to clear the table, using a cloth with one hand while she balanced the dishes in the other. “But is it really settled with the girl in Comilla?”

  “Nasir hasn’t said yes or no,” her mother said. “It’s very delicate. But Sakina is confident that once he sees—”

  Amina’s phone rang again in her purse, and this time she reached for it. It was the same unfamiliar number, but anything was better than hearing from her mother the attributes of the great beauty in Comilla.

  “Hello,” a man’s voice came on the line. “Hello?”

  There was noise in the background, as if people in a crowd were yelling at once. “I think you have the wrong number,” Amina said.

  “Hello! This is Amina—Munni?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s been an accident—at the bazaar. Your father’s injured. We’re taking him to DMCH.”

  “What kind of accident?” Amina demanded. “Hello?”

  “It’s bad,” the man said. “Your father’s been hit with acid.”

  16No one could find her father at the hospital. They went to every floor, ward, desk, and waited i
n clusters of other anxious relatives. When a nurse finally deigned to look at them, her mother would say her father’s name; slowly, a clipboard would be produced, pages riffled, and then a bland, faint smile, satisfaction of a duty completed. “No, no—not on our floor.” Amina fought back tears each time they got a no, but her mother remained firm and efficient, suggesting they call the number that had appeared on Amina’s phone to see if the man had any more information about where her father had been taken after they’d arrived at the hospital. But no one answered, and Amina had neglected to ask even his name.

  It was also her mother’s idea to call Omar, and after what seemed like several hours, her uncle appeared. The nurses at the desk snapped to sulky attention at the sight of Omar’s fine shirt, his large gold wristwatch, and his impressive girth. A male orderly appeared from behind the desk, called Omar “Sahib,” and went to check with the OT nurses. He was back less than five minutes later, smiling broadly and saying that her father was in surgery. He had no information about the progress of the operation but asked whether they wouldn’t please come and wait in a private room. Amina couldn’t see how much Omar tipped him, but they were soon sitting on brown metal folding chairs in a small, unventilated supply room that smelled of formaldehyde and antiseptic. The bottles on the shelves were dusty, the boxes yellowing, as if the medicines and supplies they contained had been sitting there for years. Omar looked through the messages on his phone, and her mother began to pray:

  A’uzu billahi minashaitanir rajim

  Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim

  ’Al-Hamdu lillahi Rabbil-’Aalamin

  Amina recited The Opening with her mother, but she didn’t feel any calmer when it was finished. She longed suddenly to go into the hallway and call George, but it was the middle of the night in Rochester; she would have to wait until late tonight. Her mother hadn’t wanted to call or text Nasir before they knew more; how strange to think he was at work, not even aware of what was happening.