Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  “It’s not a middle name, it’s the father’s name.”

  “I know the system.”

  “Then you know it’s how it’s done.”

  “We don’t have to do it that way anymore.”

  “At least we have a system,” he said, “Not like you—your grandfather changed his name to whatever, Taylor, like he was ashamed of his own family.”

  She gasped. “He had reasons for doing that—and you know it!”

  “Our system is logical,” he said. “Anyone can look at someone’s name and know their entire family.”

  “They only know the male side of the family. What about the women?”

  “You can choose her first name,” Khalid said. “Why not one of my sisters’ names?”

  A lump rose in Alison’s throat. “What?”

  “There are five to choose from.” He rattled them off. “Fatma, Mona, Huda, Yasmine, and Nadia.”

  A feeling of dread squeezed her breath. Would she have to fight him on this, too?

  “All beautiful names.” He drove past the Pine View sign and parked. They walked toward Building F. Alison glanced at the plastic bags in his hands, bursting full of God-knew-what. The thought of having to squeeze that stuff into their bags sent her adrenaline soaring.

  They entered the apartment and she waited until Khalid closed the door behind him. “Your mother got to name her children,” she said a bit too loudly. “Let me name mine!”

  He set the bags by the door. “But she’s my daughter, too.”

  “Yeah, and she’s getting your first name and last name.”

  “What about Yasmine? You can call her Jasmine in English.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “It’s the name of a flower. Yasmine Khalid Mansour.”

  “Would you stop!” She stood in the middle of the living room, her hands raised to the ceiling. She had never yelled at him like that.

  “What’s wrong with Yasmine?”

  “Why do we always have to do things your way?”

  Khalid covered his ears.

  “We’re not naming her Yasmine!” Her throat was raw. “Or any of your sisters’ names!”

  At that moment a tap came from the ceiling, a warning from the neighbors above. Alison looked up, horrified, and then back to Khalid. “I hate this place!”

  “You’re crazy!”

  They stood staring at each other.

  He went to the door and turned back to her. “Totally crazy.” He slammed the door; the blinds rattled in the window.

  She ran outside. “Where are you going?” she screamed across the parking lot.

  He strode toward the car without looking back.

  She withdrew herself from the doorway and kicked the bags by the door. Some of the contents spilled out: a bulky acrylic sweater and an oversized box of cheap candy. She paced the living room. Where was he going? Their flight to Jordan was the next morning.

  Her book lay on the coffee table. She picked it up and the dollar bill slid out. A vision of the mosque came back to her. Tears in her eyes, she wondered why they had been in such a hurry. Soon after Khalid had started sleeping over, he’d asked her to marry him. They’d gotten the marriage license two months later. Why had she allowed their relationship to advance so quickly?

  Another memory emerged: an exchange from their early days, when their relationship was mostly sex and sleepovers. Khalid had mentioned his mother’s matchmaking attempts—the inventory of eligible girls, the pocket full of photos. Had Alison agreed to marry him out of fear? Fear he’d end up with a girl back home?

  Alison stared at the dollar, trying to find an answer.

  She went to the kitchen, and from the drying rack, she selected a plate, an old chipped one this time. She picked it up and threw it as hard as she could against the kitchen floor. It didn’t break but bounced against the linoleum. The plate spun like crazy and came to a stop.

  Chapter 13

  From the moment Zainab stepped out of the Amman airport, she walked into a world of memories. The crowded neighborhood in which Fatma lived overflowed with familiar sights and smells—the falafel stand, the spice seller, and the dukan stocked with canned goods. Visions of Abed came flooding back at every corner. The flavor of Fatma’s maqluba and the scent of the coffee each awakened recollections from an earlier time, a life lost. Abed’s image reappeared so vivid and complete, it made Zainab shudder.

  There were distractions, too, alhamdulillah, which left no time to dwell. Upon arriving at Fatma’s house, there was a flurry of courtesy visits from all branches of the family. Relations came bearing news and well-wishing—and to steal long looks at Khalid’s new wife.

  After several days of such visits, Zainab was finally left to her own thoughts as she sat on the floor in Fatma’s sitting room, recutting the tomatoes for the salad. Anysa had arrived from the West Bank the day before and was coming to lunch. Zainab could predict what her sister would say. Were you in a hurry when you made the salad? Do you need a sharper knife? Zainab slid the newly cut, tiny tomato pieces into the bowl.

  Still, Zainab looked forward to embracing her older sister at the door. They had much to discuss and finalize. The engagement was less than a week away.

  Zainab finished the tomatoes and began to re-cut the cucumber. It was unbelievable. Fatma was forty years old and had five children. The signs of age were already showing on her face and around her middle, but, truth be told, she still couldn’t make a proper salad.

  Nadia walked into the sitting room. “Yama, what are you doing?”

  There was still time for Nadia, though—Zainab had a plan. Of course, she would need certain family members on her side to help carry it out. Appointments would have to be made, documents gathered; God knew what else.

  “I’m fixing this salad,” Zainab replied. “Fatma was in such a rush.”

  Nadia shook her head. “Yama, you’re silly. The salad’s fine.”

  Zainab smiled. Nadia was truly a vision of loveliness. Nineteen years old, beautiful and slim, masha’Allah, with glowing skin and bright eyes. Zainab needed her daughter with her in America. Besides, Nadia had stayed at Fatma’s since the coldest months of winter, and the arrangement had gone on long enough. Now it was time for Zainab to plant a seed in Ahmed’s brain. She would need his help to get a visitor’s visa for Nadia to travel to America. It was best for everyone if Nadia waited out the engagement period at her mother’s side.

  The bell sounded. Zainab rushed to the front gate. “Ahlan wasahlan!” Welcome!

  “Alhamdulillah asalaama,” Anysa replied. Thank God for your safe return. She planted three firm kisses on Zainab’s cheek.

  Anysa, whose large white scarf reached past her waist, pulled herself away from Zainab and looked into her eyes. “You’re back where you belong, my sister.” She spoke close to Zainab’s face. “What’s your news? What gift did you bring me from America?” Anysa threw her head back and laughed as she waddled through the courtyard.

  Fatma welcomed her aunt into her home; her children did the same, lining up for kisses. Then Nadia stepped forward to greet the woman who would be her mother-in-law. Nadia cast her eyes down, her movements hesitant—so unlike her usual self-assured manner.

  Zainab directed Anysa to the small sitting room off the kitchen. “Come this way. The food’s almost ready.” The two sisters settled onto the floor cushions. They sat cross-legged, close together, thighs touching. Anysa arranged a stack of embroidered pillows to lean against and launched into news of the family. Anysa spoke seriously, punctuating each detail with a tap on Zainab’s thigh. After every tap, Anysa sat back and raised her eyebrows, waiting for Zainab’s reaction. Oh, how Zainab had missed her sister’s company. No one else alive knew her as her sister did.

  Anysa began with the health of their mother, Hajja Zarifa, back in the West Bank. “She’s tired but, alhamdulillah, not sick.” Anysa reported on Zainab’s daughters Huda and Yasmine: both well, as were their families. Next was the topic of their brother W
aleed, who could not attend the engagement party because he was heartsick over his son in political prison. Anysa suggested in a confidential tone: “I don’t think he can afford the Israeli travel tax.”

  The conversation shifted to Anysa’s trip from the West Bank into Jordan. She had traveled with her son Mohammed through the checkpoints and the bridge. Anysa put her hand on her chest, closed her eyes, and spoke about the long wait, the heat, the dirty bus, and the soldiers.

  “The soldiers are getting younger and younger. They are giving guns to children!”

  Zainab gave her a pat of sympathy. “Curse their fathers.”

  “Curse their fathers,” Anysa repeated and rearranged her pillows. Then she asked, “How are Khalid and his bride?”

  For a moment, Zainab couldn’t think of her daughter-in-law’s name. It was such a tricky one, on her tongue one minute and gone the next. “Khalid and his bride are fine.”

  Anysa clucked her tongue, which Zainab chose to ignore.

  “What’s she like?” Anysa asked. “Like Margaret? She’s good, masha’Allah.”

  Apparently, Anysa was still unaware that Margaret had stopped wearing hijab. Well, she would know soon enough. In another day, God willing, Ahmed, Margaret, and their children would arrive in Amman.

  “Masha’Allah, she’s good like Margaret.” Zainab said, hoping the topic would end there and not turn toward the baby or its due date. It was a relief that Khalid and his wife were off to the souk to get a long, modest jallabeyah—a caftan suitable for her to wear in Jordan.

  Nadia came into the room and spread a thin plastic covering on the floor. Zainab eased herself up and helped Fatma with the platter of mensef—rice and chunks of boiled lamb, garnished with fried almonds and nutmeg.

  Anysa’s eyes widened. “What’s this? Mensef? You think the wedding is today?”

  Zainab took in the yogurt smell of jameed wafting up from the rice. “We need to celebrate the joining of our children.” She looked at Nadia, kneeling with her head down, setting out small bowls of the recut salad. Then Nadia and Fatma took their places on the floor, and the four women ate, each scooping their spoon into the same mound of rice and lamb.

  At last, the two older women leaned back. “Alhamdulillah,” they muttered as Zainab’s daughters gathered up the soiled plastic and removed the leftovers for the children to finish off.

  The two older women strained to get up and reach the sink in the hallway, where they rinsed their mouths and washed up. Refreshed, they moved to the formal salon where they sat in armchairs, leaning back, sighing, and touching their bellies.

  They discussed the dishes to be served at the engagement party: one lamb slaughtered, five platters of mensef with jameed sauce and the head of the lamb on the side, followed up by baklawa from Anysa’s favorite pastry shop.

  Nadia entered with a tray of tea. Her hands trembled and the glasses rattled together. Without looking up, she presented the tea to Anysa. “Tafadhali.” Help yourself.

  Zainab’s heart swelled with sympathy. It was a stressful time for a girl, just before the signing of the papers. Of course, Anysa would be a demanding mother-in-law, impossible to please. If Nadia gave her an apple she would want the whole fruit basket.

  Zainab took her tea and waited for Nadia to leave the room. She turned to her sister. “How’s your son Mohammed?”

  “Alhamdulillah, alhamdulillah.” Anysa looked down at her glass.

  Zainab also looked down, dreading the matter she was about to bring up. Yet she had to. Certain things needed to be confirmed before moving forward. “Mohammed, his divorce papers are filed and finished—right?”

  Zainab knew the answer, but she needed to ask anyway. Anysa had already assured her Mohammed’s divorce would be settled well before the engagement party. Of course, Anysa had to understand the delicacy of the matter. If Mohammed’s divorce was not complete, that would make Nadia a second wife, something Zainab would never accept. They were a respectable family, not so desperate to allow a daughter to be in such a miserable position. Besides, what man could afford two wives, two houses, two families? What man could afford the headache?

  Anysa didn’t answer. Zainab continued, “He’s divorced from Suhad—right?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Anysa pressed her hand on Zainab’s thigh. Zainab’s insides fluttered as she waited for Anysa to explain. “The divorce papers,” Anysa said. “They’re not completely finished exactly.”

  “What?” Zainab sat upright and set her tea aside.

  “It’s been difficult,” Anysa said. “You know, with all the closures and roadblocks in the West Bank. You know how it is, my sister.”

  “But Mohammed had months to finish this. You agreed!” Zainab was standing up now. “You promised!”

  “Sit down.” Anysa gestured to Zainab’s empty chair. “Of course, he’ll divorce Suhad. That is not a question. We’ll do the engagement and they’ll divorce. Khalas!”

  Zainab’s courage began to slip away. She felt Abed’s absence more than ever. It was an acute loss, as if she had lost a limb. What would Abed have done? Would he have called it off? Her eyes wet, Zainab pointed a finger at Anysa. “You wouldn’t have done this if Abed were alive.” Tears ran down Zainab’s cheeks.

  “Oh, calm yourself. You’re exaggerating. Nadia won’t be a second wife. As I told you, it’s the damned occupation. We can’t accomplish anything. It’s not our fault. They’ll divorce and it’ll be over.”

  “What if Mohammed changes his mind?” Zainab eased herself back into her chair. “He may decide to stay with Suhad. They have a son together. Where would Nadia be then?”

  “The two can’t stand each other.” Anysa rolled her eyes. “Trust me. They’ll never get back together.”

  “How can I believe you?”

  “You need to have faith, my sister.”

  Zainab considered this. Then a wave of sadness moved over her; she drooped forward. She didn’t have the strength to call off the engagement or stand up to her sister or even to wait for a new match for Nadia. Zainab had brought this problem upon herself. She had been in such a hurry to see Nadia married. That’s why they had settled on a divorced man with a child. Zainab reminded herself—he wasn’t divorced yet. She should have had patience for a more suitable man, one closer to Nadia’s age. No other wife. No child. No history.

  The door to the salon opened, and Nadia stepped into the room, carrying a generous platter of fruit. In her nervousness, she took slow steps and kept her eyes on the platter. The grapes and figs had been artistically arranged—she was clearly trying her best to impress her future mother-in-law. Nadia left and returned with dessert plates and peeling knives. Hands trembling, she placed them in front of the two women. The silence and tension in the room were bearing down on Zainab. The tea had turned cold. She turned to her daughter. “Clear the tea, my love. Bring some water.”

  After Nadia left, Anysa said to Zainab, “You know, Nadia is lucky to have Mohammed.” Anysa poked Zainab’s thigh. “He’s a good man, masha’Allah.”

  Zainab wanted to speak up, but the words wouldn’t come.

  “Let’s be honest,” Anysa continued. “Nadia’s an orphan now. With her father gone, who’s going to take care of her?”

  Zainab sat up. Nadia was not an orphan. Look at me, she wanted to shout. I am her mother, and I am here! But Zainab’s throat was dry; she said nothing.

  Anysa picked up a fresh fig and examined it as she spoke. “She’s blessed that Mohammed decided to take her. I doubt she could do better. We both know Nadia is the lucky one here.”

  Zainab’s hands trembled and droplets of sweat formed on her legs. Fury brewed inside her. She sat, heart racing, until at last she summoned the courage and jumped out of her seat.

  “Khalas! That’s enough!” Decades of swallowed feelings gave way to a new decisiveness. “It’s over!” Zainab shouted. “The engagement is over!” Her gestures were big and sharp. “This was a bad idea from the start. We don�
��t need your pity! My daughter wouldn’t take your son if he were the last man in Palestine.” Zainab didn’t stop there. She marched around the room and ranted, grabbing at her clothing and slapping her own forehead. She told her sister she had had enough of her attitude, enough of her insults. “You think you’re so much better!”

  Zainab stopped for a moment. Her sister stood before her, a look of utter shock on her face. It seemed Anysa was speechless for the first time. Zainab looked down. At her feet was Nadia, crying, holding onto Zainab’s thob. There were others in the room—Fatma and her children, all staring at the scene before them.

  Then Zainab dealt the worst insult possible to Anysa. “Get out of this house! Get out!”

  Fatma and Nadia insisted their aunt stay. They begged Zainab to change her mind.

  Equally possessed, Anysa snatched up her purse and waddled toward the door. She turned and pointed a chubby finger. “Yes, it’s over! My son is too good for your spoiled daughter.” Then she was gone.

  “May God forgive me.” Zainab collapsed into an armchair. The room felt so much lighter now that Anysa had departed. A wave of relief settled over Zainab until her daughters engulfed her, suffocating her with their questions.

  “What happened?” Fatma stood facing her mother, with her hands on her hips.

  At Zainab’s feet, Nadia, hunched over, choked back tears. “Why did you do that, Yama?”

  Zainab patted Nadia’s head. “Don’t worry, my love. It’s the best thing. That marriage would’ve been trouble. Can you imagine Anysa as your mother-in-law? Now stop crying.”

  Nadia’s hysteria became more intense, and Zainab shouted, “Khalas! You can do better, inshallah. May God give you a better husband.”

  “But Yama.” Nadia looked up. “I don’t want another husband.” She spoke in a whisper. “I want Mohammed. I love him.”

  Zainab straightened. “How is this possible? You’ve only seen him a few times. Before that, you were a child.” She caressed Nadia’s cheek. “How can you love him?”

  Nadia wiped tears from her eyes. “We’ve been writing letters.”