Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  “Letters?” Zainab’s tone became impatient. “Who delivers these letters?”

  “Yama, it’s email. You know, the computer, the Internet.”

  Zainab put her hands over her ears to block out these revelations. “No daughter of mine writes letters to a man.”

  “Yama, we’re engaged.”

  “No, you’re not. You were never engaged. No papers were signed.” Zainab stood and gestured briskly. “It’s over!” She moved to the door. Nadia trailed behind, pleading with her.

  “Khalas! I have decided.” Zainab left the room, went to the bedroom, and locked the door. She spread out a prayer carpet and began to pray, even though it was between prayer times. Outside the door, she heard Nadia crying and Fatma trying to pull her away.

  Zainab pushed herself through her prayers. Her hands open, she sat asking for forgiveness. Nadia needed forgiveness for corresponding with Mohammed. Zainab needed forgiveness for mistreating her sister. And more, she needed forgiveness for performing her prayers without wudu.

  By the grace of God, she hoped her prayers would be accepted anyway.

  Chapter 14

  Rumpled and weary from two flights and one long layover, Margaret, Ahmed, and the children arrived in the reception area of the dingy Amman airport. As per their custom, the entire extended family had shown up to greet them—every last niece, nephew, and cousin. With one exception: where was Nadia?

  The family members surrounded Margaret. As she submitted to their kisses and handshakes, she shifted Leena, still half-asleep, from one hip to the other. Unlike Tariq, who glued himself to Margaret’s side, Jenin immediately mingled with her same-age cousins. Meanwhile, the mother glided toward Ahmed and initiated a private talk, hushed and guarded.

  Fatma came at Margaret with a handshake. “Alhamdulillah asalaama!” Thank God for your safe return. She gave Margaret the Jordanian triple kiss and peered into her face. “You look older.”

  “I am older,” Margaret said.

  Fatma touched Margaret’s hair. “No hijab?” She clicked her tongue.

  Margaret smiled faintly. On her last three visits to Jordan she had worn a headscarf—to the praises of the family. She was finally one of them! Or so they had thought.

  “Inshallah, you’ll wear hijab again,” Fatma said. “And Jenin, too.”

  “Inshallah,” Margaret replied as the nephews whisked away the luggage. The family herded themselves out of the airport and into the oppressive August heat. Margaret took in the smells of Jordan: dust, body odor, and something decaying. It was already midday, but nighttime back in Seattle. Leena squirmed in her arms and Margaret asked Ahmed, “Where’s this hotel we’re staying in?”

  He didn’t answer; he was still engaged in an intense exchange with his mother. Now Khalid was involved, too. Margaret told herself to stay calm as she searched out their suitcases on the sidewalk and kept an eye on Tariq.

  A taxi pulled up, and the mother and Fatma immediately got in. Khalid whispered something to Ahmed, who listened with arms crossed.

  “Yalla, let’s go.” Margaret said.

  Again, Ahmed ignored her. Margaret dropped her shoulders in resignation and looked around. Welcome to Jordan, she thought, the land of not knowing what’s going on.

  An old Mercedes appeared at the curb. Fatma’s husband Abu Ra’id jumped out and loaded the luggage.

  Ahmed pointed to the Mercedes. “Kids, get in the car.”

  Margaret waved a hand to get his attention. “Not unless it has seat belts!”

  Ahmed shot her a look. “Now is not the time for this.”

  She bit her lip and squeezed into the back of the Mercedes with the children while Ahmed slipped in front next to Abu Ra’id. Seeing that there were, in fact, no seat belts, Margaret held Leena tightly on her lap and braced herself. Abu Ra’id pulled away and sped toward Amman, smoking and talking in a serious tone to Ahmed. The wind blew through the open windows and tossed Margaret’s hair about. Under the glare of the later summer sun, the view outside formed a bleak portrait of barren hillsides and swirling dust. Abu Ra’id repeatedly took his eyes off the desert highway to talk to Ahmed. Margaret looked skyward and made a silent prayer to arrive safely.

  Ahmed twisted around with a look of pain on his face. “Honey, there’s a problem.”

  She gripped the front seat and pulled herself forward. “I knew something was wrong.”

  “Nadia’s engagement has been called off.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “We came all this way and no engagement?”

  He explained there had been an argument between his mother and Aunt Anysa. Apparently, Mohammed was still married to his first wife. “I’ll deal with it,” Ahmed said.

  Margaret closed her eyes. There was always a problem in Jordan: bickering over a perceived insult, a sister with marital troubles, or a feud between siblings. But these problems wouldn’t be left to fester. Oh no. In Jordan, family quarrels required intervention, and now that his father had died, Ahmed was their man.

  They left the dusty hillsides and reached the gritty outskirts of the city, driving through the crowded streets, past blackened buildings and jilbab-clad women, through one poor neighborhood after another. It was East Amman, not an area for tourists, but home to the underprivileged and the displaced. Their car joined the throng of traffic—fume-spewing trucks, battered cars, and worn-out taxis, each honking and crowding in front of the others.

  Exhausted but wide awake, Margaret sensed they weren’t headed to any hotel. Abu Ra’id took a turn, and she recognized the shabby street. Damn. The sight of Fatma’s modest house sapped Margaret of her last bit of energy.

  Standing outside its cement wall was Nadia, who started crying as soon as Ahmed and Margaret got out of the car to greet her. In her broken Arabic, Margaret asked Abu Ra’id to leave their suitcases in the car, as they were going to a hotel. He shrugged and unloaded them at the curb anyway. The nephews scooped up the bags and carried them in.

  “I thought we were staying in a hotel,” Jenin said.

  “Me, too.” Margaret tried to keep her voice even. “Your father was supposed to arrange it.” She carried Leena and ushered Tariq in through the worn-out front gate. The courtyard was small but pleasant, with a few trees and an area to sit.

  Fatma met them at the front door. “Ahlan wasahlan.” Welcome.

  Margaret entered and stepped onto the speckled tile. Inside the entryway, a framed photo of the Dome of the Rock hung above the archway. It was all so familiar, as was the feeling of dread that came over her when she peeked into the salon, filled with family members absorbed in discussion. Margaret continued down the hall to the back sitting room, where she found Alison.

  In the crush of relatives at the airport, Margaret had forgotten about her. The last thought of her had been on the flight from Amsterdam to Amman, when Margaret had concluded Alison would have an easier time in Jordan than she had. After all, Margaret had paved the way. Now Alison could waltz in and everyone would think her foreign ways were almost normal.

  Alison stood. Her jallabeyah was too short and hung wrong, and her hug seemed out of place after the handshakes and kisses. Something else was off with her, too.

  They sat side by side on the floor cushions. “We made it,” Margaret said as she settled Leena next to her. “Where’s Khalid?”

  “With the family.” Alison’s eyes grew vacant. “That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “We’ve been here almost a week,” Alison said, her eyes still glassy. “I haven’t left the house—except to mail some postcards and buy this jallabeyah.” She tugged at her dress. “I haven’t even bought a newspaper.”

  Fatma stepped in with a tray of tea. “Tafadhalu.”

  Margaret took a glass, hot in her fingertips. “Bless your hands.”

  Alison shook her head. “La shukran.” No, thank you.

  After Fatma left, Alison said, “Tea, coffee, tea, coffee. That’s all they do here. And I thought m
y Syrian grandparents drank a lot of tea.” She wiped a tear with the back of her hand. “I had so many plans for this trip. Khalid doesn’t even care.”

  Margaret gave a nod of sympathy. “I know it’s hard.” How could she explain? The trip was about family. Period. Especially if there was a problem—and there was always a problem. “But you have to set aside your feelings while you’re here,” Margaret said, surprised by her own words.

  Alison blinked. “I can’t do that.”

  “Just go with the flow.”

  “Why do I have to make all the compromises?”

  Margaret leaned her head against the hard wall and sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s usually how it goes.”

  Alison continued to sulk. “This house is so crowded. I have no privacy. And there’s only one bathroom.”

  Everything she was saying was true, but Margaret, worn down from her countless trips to Jordan, couldn’t bear to hear another word. She stood. “Please excuse me. I need to talk to Ahmed.” She went to the salon, where a dozen faces turned toward her standing in the doorway. Her eyes fell on the mother, whose frown was severe, and finally on Ahmed, his face full of worry. Margaret gestured for him.

  He came to her and said, “We’re staying here tonight. We’ll find a hotel in the morning.”

  But he had promised, and she had left the matter up to him. After all, it was he who was familiar with the city and its hotels. It was just so typical—waiting until the last minute, not planning ahead. Damn. Margaret wished she had made arrangements herself. Then her own flip advice came bouncing back at her: Just go with the flow.

  Margaret woke to the morning call to prayer. The mosque loudspeaker was directed right into the room where she and her family lay on floor mats. Outside, a rooster crowed, and from inside came the faint noises of family members rising for prayers. Margaret, eyes closed, sensed her children sleeping nearby, and Ahmed’s soft breathing next to her.

  He hadn’t said another word about moving to the Middle East, not since Margaret’s visit to the restaurant. Maybe his plans were just a phase, a case of midlife crisis. The three J’s had mentioned this before. One husband grew a goatee, another took up mountain climbing, and another bought a motorcycle. Maybe this was something like that.

  She drifted back to sleep until Ahmed woke her. “Sabah al-khair,” he said. Morning of goodness.

  “Sabah al-noor,” she replied. Morning of light. The flowery expressions, so out of place back home, felt natural at that moment with the sunlight streaming through the curtains.

  They got up, roused the children, and gathered with the family for Turkish coffee in the courtyard, where the morning air was fresh. They sat on cushions at low tables under the trees. Tariq and Leena played with their cousins while Ahmed spoke in English on his cell phone. Margaret wondered if there was a problem at the restaurant.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked when he got off the phone.

  “Just fine,” he replied.

  Meanwhile, Fatma oversaw breakfast. Her daughters set out small dishes of cheese, marmalade, and creamy, white lebneh. Entering the gate were two of Fatma’s sons, still in pajamas, returning with a plates of hummus and falafel and armloads of round bread.

  Nadia served the tea. It was the first time Margaret had gotten a good look at her since her tear-filled greeting the day before. She wore a bright fuchsia caftan that skimmed the ground. Her hair, wavy and dark, swayed across her back as she moved around the courtyard, graceful yet solemn. She had a natural beauty that her older sisters lacked.

  When the meal was over, two of Fatma’s daughters remained in the courtyard, talking to Ahmed. They glanced toward Margaret.

  “What are they saying?” she asked him.

  He shrugged and looked away. The girls got up and went in the house.

  “Tell me.”

  “They’re praying for you. The whole family …”

  “For me?”

  “That you’ll wear hijab again.”

  Margaret ran a hand through her red hair. No matter what she did in her life, it was never enough for the family. She would always fall short.

  Chapter 15

  At midday, Margaret and Ahmed were in a borrowed car, driving toward Jabal Amman, the main hill of the city. The car had no air conditioning; the windows were down, creating a swirling wind tunnel. Still, Margaret was alone with Ahmed, and for that she was thankful. It was only their second day in Jordan, when normally they would be swept up in the throes of family reconnection.

  She had hesitated to leave Leena behind at Fatma’s, where dangers lurked everywhere: hard surfaces, stairs with no railings, and a roof where the children played. Margaret told herself Leena was older now and Jenin would keep an eye on her. Margaret brought her attention back to Ahmed, who was listing hotels they might stay at.

  “Honey,” she said. “You told me you made reservations.”

  “I meant to.” Ahmed honked at a driver trying to squeeze in front of him.

  She exhaled. It seemed each time they came to Jordan, Ahmed reverted back to some disorganized version of himself.

  They entered the first traffic circle and his phone rang. He answered in Arabic and chattered away as he negotiated the curves with taxis and SUVs jostling for control, disregarding all concepts of lanes and turn-taking. When Ahmed put his phone down, Margaret remembered something she wanted to do. “While we’re here, I want to go to the ballad, that downtown souk area, I’d like to get a few things.” She began counting on her fingers. “Embroidery, pottery—”

  “There’s been a change in plans.” Ahmed stuck his arm out the window to signal. “My mom is on her way to Aunt Anysa’s. I need to be there.”

  Margaret groaned. “Oh, just take me back to Fatma’s then.”

  “Sorry, honey. There’s no time. They’re heading there now.”

  “Oh, God.” Margaret slunk down in her seat.

  Ahmed made a U-turn at the next traffic circle. As he navigated the cars merging from both sides, he talked about Nadia and how determined she was to marry Mohammed.

  “What caused this whole problem anyway?” Margaret asked.

  Ahmed explained. It came down to Mohammed’s breach of agreement. There was no choice but to call it off. How could Nadia marry a man still married to his first wife?

  All of this made sense. For once, Margaret agreed with the mother. “So why’s the family going to see Aunt Anysa?”

  “So my mother can say she’s sorry.”

  “I thought there was no choice but to end the engagement?”

  “We have to finish this problem.”

  “Your mother’s doing what’s best for her daughter.”

  Ahmed didn’t reply; he simply drove on. At last, they entered a tidy street, far from the bustle and grime of Fatma’s neighborhood. Here, the villas were larger—no worn out gates or patched cement walls.

  “This is it.” Ahmed parked.

  Margaret stepped out and looked through the wrought iron gate at the classic stone villa. “Whose house is this exactly?”

  “Mohammed’s uncle.” Ahmed pressed the bell.

  Inside the formal salon, the mother, Abu Ra’id, and Khalid were already there with unease on their faces. Margaret and Ahmed took seats in the circle of armchairs pushed against the wall. She greeted the mother, who was pale and fidgeting.

  A polished-looking Arab woman in a pastel suit and headscarf entered with a tray of juice glasses. Margaret glanced down at her own cotton blouse and jeans. Dressed wrong again.

  Margaret reached for her glass and Ahmed touched her arm. “No,” he whispered. “We don’t drink anything until we reach an agreement.”

  Margaret looked around. The juice glasses sat untouched. The oversized armchairs, which seemed inviting at first, now appeared garish—designed to impress, not for comfort. As beads of moisture formed on her juice glass, she waited for something to happen.

  An older, heavyset man entered, his face stern. Everyone stood, and he shook hands
with the men. His beard was long and thick and had to be for religious purposes. Passing through his plump fingers were a set of enormous prayer beads, their tassel dangling toward the floor. Then Margaret realized: he was the brother of Aunt Anysa’s late husband, Mohammed’s uncle.

  Everyone sat, and the debate started. Even though Margaret could get by with Arabic small talk, she was lost in a group discussion—always two topics behind and unable to tell where one word ended and the next began. She restrained herself from asking Ahmed what was going on, as he, like everyone else, was gripped by the words of the bearded man.

  On the walls were the standard Qur’anic passages, hung so high that any reader would strain his neck trying to read them. Crystal ashtrays were scattered about, but there wasn’t much else to look at. The juice glasses remained untouched, and the stress level rose. The mother didn’t speak but sat with her arms crossed, looking away, clearly pained by it all.

  The woman in the suit reappeared, this time with Turkish coffee. Without asking who wanted any, she placed a cup in front of each person. Margaret’s coffee had a frothy swirl and a delicate cardamom aroma. Without thinking, she reached for the cup. Ahmed, who must have seen her from the corner of his eye, gently swatted her arm. She pulled back and glanced around the room. No one was drinking.

  The bearded man got up to leave. As soon as he was gone, frantic whispering started between the mother, Khalid, and Ahmed.

  Margaret turned to her husband. “What’s going on?”

  He waved his hand impatiently. “Not now.”

  He was a different person in Jordan, utterly fixated on everyone else’s troubles yet oblivious to his own wife. Being in Jordan was an instructive glimpse into who Ahmed really was—a man obsessed with taking care of his relatives. So insistent and tiresome.

  Margaret retreated into thoughts of their life in Seattle and their home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Jordan was clearly not the place for her. She could barely tolerate the current visit, newly confirming that she wasn’t meant to live in an Arab country. How could she maintain her sanity amidst their traditional ways? She could no longer remember what she had loved about the culture. Besides, she felt no more need for exotic adventure, preferring just to stay home. She counted the days until they would fly back.