by Trent Reedy
Zeynab laughed briefly. “What if the Abdullah family doesn’t like me?”
I ran my hand down her arm, smoothing her beautiful dress. “How could anyone not like you?”
“Farida and Tayereh —”
“Malehkah’s family doesn’t like anyone. How do you think she became so mean?”
Zeynab laughed again. It was wonderful to see her smile.
Malehkah came out of the sitting room where she had been talking with her mother and sister. “It’s time to go inside now.”
Zeynab and I stood and started for the sitting room, but Malehkah reached out her hand to stop us. “You both know that tonight’s shirnee-khoree is a celebration of Zeynab’s engagement to Tahir. More importantly, this is our chance to show her future family that she comes from the right background. Whatever you do tonight will say something about your father, so be sure that what you do says something good. Zulaikha, you will help me serve the food. You will speak only when spoken to, and then you will say as little as possible.” She turned to Zeynab. “You must not appear too sad, or else they will think you do not wish to join their family. Also, you must not seem too happy or you’ll look like you are ungrateful and hate us. There will be singing and dancing later, but neither of you will join in.” As usual, Zeynab and I just nodded and agreed with our father’s wife. “Finally …” But then we heard giggling happy voices outside and a heavy knock on the compound door. Malehkah sighed, straightened her dress, and said, “Let’s get this thing over with.”
My sister nodded and started to lick her lips before she remembered the heavy red lipstick. She breathed deep and let it out before nodding again to Malehkah, who led us across the courtyard to the sitting room. While Zeynab settled onto the special couch Hajji Abdullah had lent us for the occasion, I went through the room and into the small walled-in hallway that shielded the rest of our compound from the eyes of guests who visited by this door.
Someone rapped on the door again and a woman’s voice called, “Salaaaaaaaaam.”
I took a moment to smooth down my hair and dress before unlocking the door and swinging it open. In rushed about a dozen chadri-covered women, all giggling and chatting at once. None of them even seemed to notice me. They went directly into the sitting room where there were more bursts of high-pitched enthusiastic greetings. I closed and bolted the street door.
“Zulaikha!” Malehkah’s voice sounded pleasant and cheerful for a change. But the familiar impatience was still there behind her words.
Inside, the women had already removed their chadris and taken their seats. Zeynab sat on her couch at one end of the narrow sitting room. Malehkah perched near the door to the front of the compound. Women of all ages sat on the floor and leaned on the cushions against the wall, forming a large circle. I sat down in the space reserved for me, near Malehkah and her mother and sister.
“So, this is the little angel. The one the Americans took such an interest in.” A very large woman sat at the end of the oval of women, directly across from my sister. She leaned forward and peered at my mouth, then ran her hand back to smooth down her long gray hair. She had to be almost as old as Meena. “There certainly is some work to do. You poor thing. Do you really think the Americans can fix it?”
I didn’t know how to respond, but remembering Malehkah’s instructions, I simply nodded and then looked at the floor. Another woman, not much younger, but quite a bit smaller, reached over to touch the big one. “My dear, I think you’re frightening the little one, examining her mouth the way you are.”
“Of course.” The woman smiled. “I’m Gulzoma, first wife to Hajji Abdullah. This is my husband’s older sister Jamila.”
“Salaam,” I said quietly.
“This is my mother Farida,” said Malehkah.
“Salaam alaikum,” Gulzoma bowed in greeting.
“Walaikum salaam,” Farida replied.
“And my sister Tayereh,” Malehkah continued the introductions.
Jamila nodded toward a woman who was clearly missing a leg and who must have walked with the crutch that she propped against the wall next to her. “This is my daughter Isma.”
Then Gulzoma shifted the mountain of her body back and pointed at all the other women, naming off Hajji Abdullah’s second and third wives as well as several daughters and nieces. She had forgotten some of the names, bringing scowls from the faces of their mothers, who then had to help her. Malehkah greeted each woman in turn. Zeynab looked like she was trying to follow everything Gulzoma said. When I caught Zeynab’s attention, I raised my eyebrows. She turned her eyes toward one woman after another and then shrugged with the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. I covered my mouth and tried to look serious. Zeynab must have been thinking what I was thinking. There were many names to remember!
Gulzoma leaned forward. “Tahir’s wives, Leena and Belquis, send their apologies. They simply cannot make it tonight. The trip from Farah is over an hour. I’m afraid they don’t travel well, the poor things.” She shook her head.
This was unexpected. The shirnee-khoree was important enough for Malehkah’s family to travel here from Shindand, so surely the rest of Tahir’s household could have made the shorter trip to An Daral. But Gulzoma laughed. “They’re busy preparing for Zeynab’s arrival. I’ve hired servants to get my house ready for the wedding, but everyone is needed to get my brother-in-law’s house ready for the wedding night!”
Malehkah’s breath was warm at the back of my neck. “Come with me. We need to start bringing out the meal,” she growled quietly.
Gulzoma clapped her hands. “Yes, let’s eat. I’m hungry and I’m sure Zeynab has prepared a wonderful meal.”
“Of course,” Malehkah’s nod seemed to pump freshness back into her smile as she gently pushed me out of the sitting room.
We went across the courtyard and inside the house to get the food from where it stayed warm on the cook stove. Malehkah said nothing, but quickly handed me a large platter on which she placed bowls and plates of food. Under my arm she crammed the dastarkhan before she nodded toward the sitting room. I hurried back, set down the platter, and unrolled the long dastarkhan in the middle of the circle of women. It was good that we had moved quickly because the conversation was slow. They seemed to be waiting for us. Malehkah brought a pitcher of water, a metal basin, and a towel that I carried around so that everyone could wash their hands. After that, we laid all the food out on the cloth — all our hard work through the long day. First the naan, then four big bowls of rice. Two roast chickens for everyone to pick pieces off. Bowls of spiced mutton in heavy red gravy, along with two large platters of roasted potatoes. I even put out a few plates of pickled cucumbers.
Finally, I could sit down. The women all ate, talked, laughed, and ate some more. Even Malehkah seemed a bit less grumpy. I was quiet, and I didn’t eat much. Gulzoma and the others were already staring at my mouth enough. I didn’t want to make it worse by letting them see the strange way that I had to eat, tilting my head back and using my fingers to help hold the food in while I chewed. Instead I took food to Zeynab, who wasn’t supposed to move around.
“How are you doing?” I whispered when I brought her some chicken and naan. Gulzoma was holding everyone’s attention with a story about one of her nieces.
Zeynab accepted the food. “I think everything is going well. The food is delicious and —”
“Zulaikha!” Malehkah called me back to her side with a little jerk of her head.
“You look wonderful,” I whispered to Zeynab. “And the party is great.” Then I went back to sit next to my father’s wife.
Gulzoma and Jamila dominated the conversation. They talked about their relatives and laughed about stories from weddings they’d been to in the past. They even had a few stories about Hajji Abdullah’s second and third wives. Several of these stories made some of the women blush and keep their eyes focused on their food.
During a rare quiet moment while Gulzoma helped herself to a choice piece of chicken, I
sma spoke in a high soft voice. “Zulaikha, I hope the Americans are able to help you.”
Everyone in the room turned their attention on me. My face felt hot. I had been about to sneak a little bite of a piece of naan, but I put the food back down. “Tashakor,” I said.
“Yes,” Gulzoma pointed with a chicken leg at the woman. “Isma here no doubt wishes they could give her a new leg the way they said they could give Zulaikha a new mouth.” She chuckled. “Too bad for her!”
Everyone else sat in silence at her rudeness. It was Malehkah who finally spoke. “Not a new mouth. They simply wanted to fix the one she already has.” She smiled, but there was an unmistakable firmness behind her words to Gulzoma.
Gulzoma looked at Malehkah and picked her teeth with her fingernail. Then she went on as though Malehkah hadn’t said anything at all. “Well, let’s hope it works.” She turned to a woman sitting at the other end of the room near Zeynab. “What was it that your spirited son used to call Zulaikha, Mariam? Donkeymouth? No. Ah! Yes, of course. Donkeyface!” She clapped her hands, as if she was pleased that she’d remembered. Then she frowned and put a finger to her lips. “What a mean little boy. You should try harder to keep him in line.”
My cheeks burned hot at the mention of that hated name. I pressed my chador tightly over my mouth. How could any guest be so cruel to her host?
Anwar’s mother, Mariam, the young third wife of Hajji Abdullah, looked down, picking at her food. Gulzoma smiled and took more chicken. “Mmm, Malehkah, this is wonderful.” She noticed me staring at her. “Zulaikha, you haven’t got a new mouth yet, dear. Now close it.”
But my mouth was closed. As much closed as it could be with my cleft lip. I wanted to throw my water in that fat old lady’s face.
“Zulaikha. Zeynab.” Malehkah leaned back and held her hands over her belly. “Will you please go inside and get the tray of sweets?”
Gulzoma sat up straight. “Does Zeynab need to go? Surely Zulaikha can —”
“I think Zeynab needs some air. The heat and all,” Malehkah said, locking eyes with Gulzoma, a cheerful smile pasted on her face.
“Oooh, this is my favorite part,” Isma said in her tiny voice. “I love the sweets. What better way to begin an engagement?” Other women quickly voiced their nervous agreement.
“Bale, Madar,” I said. I took Zeynab’s hand in mine and went to the house.
“That was terrible!” Zeynab said as soon as we were inside. I quickly put my finger to her lips and checked to make sure nobody had followed us. “Zulaikha, she’s a monster. How can I become a part of that family?”
I wished that she didn’t have to. I wished that life could stay the same as it had always been. I reached toward Zeynab and wiped the tears from her cheek. “‘Every triumph from patience springs, the happy herald of better things,’” I said.
Zeynab managed a small smile. “Madar-jan used to say that.”
“I know. And she was right. Maybe we need to get the cake, candies, and fruit and then go back in there and be like Malehkah.”
Zeynab laughed softly. “You mean really angry all the time?”
I hugged my sister. “No. Just all smiley and nice to all of them. Maybe if we can trick them into thinking we like them, then they’ll be more kind.”
“I’ll try.” Zeynab took a deep breath.
Taking the sweet things from the kitchen, we went back to the stifling hot sitting room and our rude guests.
Zeynab took her seat on the couch, and I placed the platter of sweet treats before the others, careful to set it within reach of Gulzoma. All the women looked at the assortment and smiled or made longing noises when they recognized something they liked.
The conversation went on and on. Gulzoma, Jamila, Mariam, or one of the others would ask Farida or Tayereh questions. Answers would follow. Farida would ask something else. Someone would answer. Mixed into this would be the occasional family story, usually told by Gulzoma or Jamila. Several times I saw some of the Abdullahs staring at my mouth. Some of them even looked and then whispered to each other, looks of pity or disgust on their faces. I found myself wishing these people would leave.
Finally, a long car horn sounded outside the compound. Gulzoma put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Ah, that must be the men come to take us home.”
“Leave it to them to put a stop to all the fun,” said Jamila.
Gulzoma stood up. It was a signal to everyone else to do the same. She beamed at Malehkah. “Tashakor. Such a wonderful night!” Other women agreed and offered compliments, but Gulzoma didn’t seem to notice them. “Zulaikha, you poor little thing.” She took my face in her hands and peered at my mouth. I did my best to look as though it didn’t bother me. “Maybe the Americans can fix this. Maybe even in time for the wedding? Ooh.” She let go of me, shook her head, and wiped her hands on her dress. “I certainly hope so.” Chadris were passed around from where they were piled in the corner. “Zeynab, you are absolutely beautiful. Tahir is such a lucky man. Khuda hafiz!” Gulzoma led the party of chadri-covered women out of the compound, where cars waited to take them all home.
When Tahir’s family had all gone, I pressed my chador over my mouth hard, staring at the door after them so that Malehkah’s family wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.
“Hey,” Zeynab whispered. She stood behind me with her hand on my shoulder.
“Girls, make sure the dishes are done before you go to bed,” said Malehkah. I heard her talking with her mother and sister as they headed back to the house.
“Are you okay?” Zeynab asked.
Her touch comforted me. It helped me remember what was really important tonight. I smiled the best I could and turned to face my sister. “I’m fine.”
“But Gulzoma —”
“Is lucky she doesn’t have to do all these dishes.” I put my arm around Zeynab. “Come on.” We started the long task of cleaning up after the shirnee-khoree.
Early the next morning, after Malehkah’s family had driven back to Shindand, Zeynab and I went to work cleaning the sitting room before the day’s terrible heat set in. I would never have imagined that women could be so messy. They’d spilled a surprising amount of the spiced mutton sauce. Worse, cake crumbs and a few orange peels were starting to draw ants.
Zeynab dipped her rag in the bucket of soapy water and slopped it on the floor. “You always hear women say that engagement and marriage are supposed to be so magical, but for a while last night, everything felt pretty tense.”
“Well.” I doused my rag in the now-dirty soapy water and scrubbed at a spot of dried red spice sauce. I wished there was a way I could just forget the stares and Gulzoma’s thinly disguised cruelty. Even if I couldn’t, it was my job to make Zeynab happy. “It all worked out for the best.”
Zeynab wiped the sweat from her brow. “At least I’m not being matched to that horrible Anwar.” She laughed.
I frowned and shook my head. I could not join her in her little joke. Anwar was mean and scary, not funny.
Cold water splashed the back of my neck and I jumped up. “Zeynab!”
My sister giggled, shaking with laughter as she held the rag up to cover her big grin. “You deserve it, Little Miss Gloomy.”
“How could I be gloomy?” I said, trying to shove aside any unpleasant thoughts. “You’re getting married, and I may actually get my mouth fixed. What could be better?”
“I’ll miss you so much, and …” Her eyes were wild and I knew she was dreaming up a thousand possibilities. “And I wish maybe my husband will have a handsome hardworking cousin or someone. Isma was nice. Maybe she has a son. Or Baba-jan could match you up with someone else in my husband’s family.” She wrung out her rag and wiped her brow. “Then maybe you and I could live together. Raise our kids together.”
It was the old fantasy. I went and put my arm around my sister. Whenever Zeynab used to talk like this, I would always shake my head. After all, who would want to marry a girl with a mouth like mine? But now, I da
red to dream along with my sister.
“It’s all incredible,” said Zeynab. “You’ll have your surgery and then you’ll be even more beautiful. You’ll be worn out cleaning and cooking for all the people who want you to marry their sons.” She took a deep breath, as if trying to calm herself. “Anyway,” she said, “we must have faith that life will all work out. Inshallah, Zulaikha.”
“Inshallah.” I smiled back. God willing.
For a long moment, it was very quiet in the hot sitting room.
Finally, Zeynab looked into the bucket. “This water is no good. Whatever soap was in it is dead now. We’re not doing anything but getting the dirt wet and stirring it around on the floor. I’ll get fresh water.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll get it.” I was surprised that the water was so dirty already. I had put in all the soap we had left. It was part of my plan to see Meena again.
Malehkah glared at me suspiciously when I said we were out of soap, but she finally handed over the money and sent me to the bazaar. After she’d given me her usual warnings to behave and to hurry, I headed down the street with a smile that I hoped wouldn’t be twisted for much longer.
“Ah, child, I was wondering when I would see you again,” Meena said in her worn leather voice as I entered her sewing shop. “I’m glad you’ve come. I was just about to take a break. Join me for a cup of tea?”
I helped her hang a bolt of fabric on a wooden rack before she led me back to her apartment. I felt as though I’d slipped back in time. Nothing had changed. The same small apartment. The same cup of tea. And Meena’s same warm smile.