"—been thinking about it," I admit.
"Pshaw! Don't think about it, just do it!" says Zel as Jamin backs out the doorway, whispering to me, "I'll call you tomorrow. "
Their voices resume their previous pattern as they continue their journey down the corridor toward the stairs. Pushing the door closed, I let my face lean against it, eyes shut for a moment, while I twist the lock. Then I go and fall onto the sofa, lifting my head only long enough to replay the previous song at a higher volume. The chorus opens the song: "I want to set myself on fire and plunge into the oceans of your love. "
My face presses against the water blue color of the pillows, trying to drown in them. "that's it—I'm only nervous about marrying this weekend," I lie aloud to myself.
It's natural to be nervous about it the first time. I'll just do it, like Zel says, and then everything will be better.
You would think, as much as I practice lying to myself, I'd be better at it by now.
In the morning, I swath myself in my work robes—cheery layers of nectarine and lemon fabric, sherbet smooth. Covering my head and face, I walk down to the street and catch the bus into the city. The road bridges a green river of trees and grass that divides one quarter of the city from another. Through the bus's window I watch the women emerging from their apartment blocks and little homes.
When the bus reaches the corner, they climb onboard, taking seats on their side and evening out the ride so it doesn't feel so much like we'll tip over. We rattle along past road construction, the men working behind screens so their presence out of robes won't disturb weaker minds. The sun already pelts down mercilessly and they will have to leave off working soon.
We arrive at the Children's Center, a long concrete brick of a building with windows shielded from the sun by an open grid of deep squares made of the same material. The morning light turns it into a chessboard of glaring white and dark shadow. I don't even work with the children, who are on the lower floors and the sheltered playground of the courtyard, but toil away with records on the upper floors. Unlike Jamin or Zel, the job permits me to work alongside women, but only because I completed my theological studies and am a candidate for the priesthood. My superiors do not know of the taint on my soul. Do not know yet, I should say, for if they discover it I will never be ordained or promoted to an position in the lower floors.
Today I am verifying and recording the DNA strands of a recent set of births. My cubicle sits closer to the outer windows (and their view only of the rigid cement grid) than the inner, but is blocked from the light of either. Nevertheless, I jump immediately when the slightest shadow passes by. Looking up I see her—I see Ali.
Ah, Ali! Ali, my all, my everything, the eye of the hurricane that is my heart! Ali, that ails me! Ali, who alone can heal me! Ali, Ai!
This is silliness, of course; yet it is how I feel.
She stops and stares at the floor.
"What are you looking for?" I ask.
She turns her head this way and that. "the button I accidentally stepped on that gave you that electric shock. "
Ali is wearing coffee colored robes, cream and roasted bean, the same as many of the other women in her department, and as she is a perfectly average height, with her head and almost all her face covered, I am still puzzling out how I always recognize at once it's her, whether there's something specific in her posture or gestures or presence that makes me know her instantly.
So I say, "Huh?"
And her head lifts up so that her eyes turn toward me, glinting with amusement. I would recognize those stormy, sea-grey eyes anywhere. "You are mocking me!"
She shakes her head. "It's very difficult not to. "
I blush, the heat rising through my face to my forehead.
She chuckles, and then walks to another cubicle several spaces over where she speaks to one of our sister workers about a particular child whose progress they are following.
How can I describe her effect on me? In a single second, I suffer pangs and longings which have no name, an overwhelming need to peel away the layers of her robes like shells off a bean and root through her flesh until I find the hard nut, the seed core, of my perverse, unnatural desire.
When I was studying theogenetics in preparation for the priesthood we were taught that everything in the world was black and white, right or wrong, and I learned to give all the answers I was expected to provide.
All I have ever seen of Ali are her eyes. The white of her eyes and the black pupil are just like everyone else's. But that cloudy, wave-tossed grey is wholly hers!
And all my world is grey now too, as if something swirling deep within me since the moment of my conception has finally taken shape, the way clouds form when wind swirls in a clear sky.
The things I know are wrong feel right deep within my heart, and every right thing I do feels wrong.
Jamin calls me at work later that day, just as he had promised he would, his voice warm and resonant as always.
"I hope you don't mind," he says, "but I've arranged for you to join me and a friend for dinner tonight. "
"Sounds great—will Zel be joining us?"
"No. Just us. "
Jamin is looking out for me, the way he has always tried to. He is a very good friend. I am filled with trepidation. "Well," I say. "I might be working late. "
"That's fine. Pick you up in a taxi at quitting time?"
"Sure," I say and disconnect.
I look up from my desk but Ali is nowhere to be seen in the breakwater of cubicle ways. Sometimes I may see her no more than once in a day, though it feels like she is always with me since I cannot stop thinking of her.
For the rest of the day I cannot concentrate on genetic sequences at all and my work is useless.
When the taxi crosses into the men's quarter, Jamin and I remove our veils although the driver leaves his own. Jamin relaxes instantly, more happily himself, making small talk about work. I smile too, but inside I am tense.
We're dropped off in a neighborhood where fruit trees shade the narrow streets. The houses are neat and tidy and old, the kind owned by government officials and couples who both have excellent jobs. Jamin leads me to a door by an elaborate garden that appears to be both lovingly created and recently neglected.
The man who answers is not quite twice our age, perhaps a little younger. His beard looks new, as though his chin has gone untended for about as long as the garden outside. He wears a comfortable, tailored suit.
Jamin embraces him, saying, "Hello, Hodge. This is the friend I was telling you about—"
Somehow I cheerfully complete the introductions. Jamin and I sit at a counter in the kitchen while Hodge finishes cooking the dinner. The room smells of garlic and oil. Jamin and Hodge discuss work—they are both employed in law—and I avoid nearly all the personal questions directed at me. The songs of Noh Sis stream from the speakers to fill most of the awkward silences.
We are seated around Hodge's elegant antique table, having finished a delightful chick pea soup and a satisfying pepper salad. A platter of mouth-watering spinach-feta pastries rests between us. As I am helping myself to a second serving, and laughing heartily at an anecdote that Hodge is telling about the prosecution of a man whose pet dog kept straying into the women's quarter, Jamin rises and wipes his mouth with his napkin.
"Please forgive me," he says. "I didn't realize how late it has gotten and I promised to meet Zel this evening. "
"But we've scarcely begun," Hodge says, evincing real dismay.
And all I can do is think: Jamin, you beast!
But Jamin insists, and I stand to go with him, but both men persuade me to stay by making promises of transportation. Then Hodge bustles around putting together a plate of food for Jamin to take with him, growing particularly distressed because his cake hasn't cooled sufficiently and falls apart when cuts a slice to go. The whole time Jamin smiles at me and refuses to meet my eyes. Finally he's gone, and Hodge and I sit back to our meal. Sometime during this the music
has fallen silent and Hodge is too distracted to reset it.
"How long have you known Jamin?" he says after a sip of wine.
"All my life," I say. "We grew up in the same Children's Center, and then attended the same. "
"He's well-meaning, but what a beastly thing to do. "
I think he means it as a joke, but I'm not sure so I stare at my plate and concentrate on eating, making extravagant praise of the food between the clinks of silverware on porcelain.
"So," Hodge says after another drink of wine. "You're the marrying kind?"
"Yes. " My heart trips and stumbles. "Yes, I am. "
"It won't be bad. Will this coming ceremony be your first time?"
"Yes. I mean, I haven't decided yet. "
"You'll be nervous your first time. It won't be bad. "
I choke out laughter. "Aren't you supposed to tell me how good it will be?"
He winces. Folding his napkin, he leans his elbows on the table and looks directly at me. "Look, Jamin thinks that we're both the same type. I just lost my partner—"
"Oh, I'm sorry," I say.
He holds up his hand. "No, it's all right. We'd been together for ten years or so, but he'd been unhappy for a very long time. I'm glad he ran off. "
"Where he'd go to?" I ask, desperate to change the subject.
Hodge shook his head. "Look, that's not important. I'm happy by myself right now. I hope you understand. "
He didn't sound happy at all. "Of course! I mean I—"
"I'm not like you," he said in a low whisper, and then drank the rest of his wine. "Oh! the story about the man with the dog, did I ever finish that?"
"No. " I had forgotten it already.
"The last time they caught him, they stoned him to death and set his body on fire. That kind of perversion can't be tolerated, you know. We aren't animals, with animal passions. "
"I know that. " My voice is strained because I am scared.
"Well, then. Good. " He rises abruptly. "I'll call you a taxi. " He fumbles at the counter, frowning. "The cake is a disappointment, but I'll send some with you. "
When the taxi arrives and I step off the stoop into darkness, I hear him say, "Good luck with the marrying. It's over quickly. "
He reminds me of a piece of topiary, a plant forced by wires and pruning into a facsimile of something else, so twisted over time that he no longer resembles himself. I can feel myself being twisted, misshapen more each day. But I'll resist it.
The taxi door slams and whisks me away.
I don't see Ali at work the next day or the following morning. At lunch, I am standing by the inner windows overlooking the courtyard below while the children. The weave an endless pattern of joy amid the trees and joys, untroubled by impossible choices. Pressed to the window, I am only slightly aware of someone next to me. The lobby is busy, many people rushing by. So several minutes pass before I look up and realize that it is Ali beside me.
She taps her foot on the tiles. "Rubber floor. Very smart. They aren't able to zap you here. "
"I'm sorry," I blurt out, sorry that I haven't noticed her, sorry that I hadn't talked to her earlier.
Ali lowers her long eyelashes and looks away. "Well, if you want to be zapped, you could always go back to your desk. "
"Wait!"
She pauses in midstep. "I'm waiting. "
And because I don't know what else to say, because there is only one thing besides her on my mind, I ask, "Will you be marrying this weekend?"
"That's a very improper thing for you to ask," she says and walks quickly away to the other side of the lobby where she stands by a tub of polished stones and bubbling water, watching the children below.
I want to run after her, take her by the elbow and make her understand. I want her to feel for me the way I feel toward her. I want her to peel off her gloves and sink her bare hands into my flesh, stripping it away to the bone, until she reaches my heart and can soothe away the ache I feel for her.
Instead, I also turn and look out the window again. From this height, I can't tell if the children below are boys or girls.
Heart Nouveau is even more crowded than normal tonight because of the Bachelors Party. Jamin and Zel have brought me here to celebrate, just as all the other normal men have brought their friends who will be marrying tomorrow. Smoke swirls across the bar and dance floor, eddying with the currents of moving people and the crashing waves of music. Zel has taken off his shirt and is dancing half-naked under the strobe lights with the others in an orgy of arms and hands. I'm standing off to one side of the dance floor beside Jamin, who doesn't dance, but nevertheless gazes on Zel adoringly.
Our scripture says: “And in his own image God made them, man and woman; and bade them be fruitful and multiply; and set them apart from the beasts and gave them dominion over the beasts. "
And also: "It is good for a man never to touch a woman, nor a woman touch a man, lest they be tempted to behave as the beasts of the field do in their passions. "
I have never even seen beasts in the field. Theology classes glossed over that, only teaching us that before God gave people the wisdom of science we behaved as they did. With peace and prosperity and time, we have become a very secular people, falling into relationships, doing our work, and living our lives with questions.
Zel grabs me by the hand, pulling me onto the dance floor where the lights are flashing, music pumping, and ecstatic faces surround me. He only wants me to be happy and he only knows what makes him happy, and so he tries to bring me to that too. I resist him—I resist everything these days—and pull away.
"Smile," he shouts at me above the din. "Have some fun!"
"I'm having fun!" I shout in reply.
"Are you excited by marrying tomorrow?" I mumble my answer to him, but he doesn't hear me and leans forward, sweat dripping from his forehead on my shoulder, shouting "What?"
"I said, ‘Scripture says it's better to marry than to burn!'"
He laughs as if this is the wittiest thing in the world, and spins around, arms and fists pumping in beat with the music.
But I am burning already. The thought of Ali is a fire in my mind and a searing pain in my flesh, an unquenchable flame, even though I know all my feelings for her are wrong. Still, I will go do my duty tomorrow, and marry rather than burn.
The next morning, I arise with the other bachelors before dawn. Many have hangovers, and some are too sick to marry this time. Their absences are noted by the priest's assistant in his white jacket as we board the bus. Those who have not made it are roundly mocked by even the sickest of those aboard. The other men are hugging, wishing each other well, but I hold myself apart. There are only a dozen of us, so it is easy to take a seat away from the others.
My stomach is queasy as we head for the Temple of the Waters, and not just from last night's drinking. Our route takes us along the edge of the women's quarter and none of us are wearing veils. I slouch in my seat. Several of the men pull their robes up over their noses; others put their hands on their heads, or pretend to rub their faces. The priest's assistant, who misses nothing, points this out to them and they all laugh. But I can only think that perhaps Ali is sitting in another bus without her veil on either; and I wonder if her mouth is as round and full as her eyes, if the arch of her lips matches that of her brow, if the curve of her neck is as graceful as the bridge of her nose.
Would I even recognize her? I do not know.
The Temple of the Waters sits at the center of the Government Quarter, across from the Palace of Congress. It is an oasis of green and blue marble in a desert and steel and concrete and sandstone. The giant telescreens that surround it show images of the ocean, the surge of waves in calm weather, but they remind me of the storm-tossed gray of Ali's eyes and I breathe faster.
As we're climbing off the bus, the priest's assistant steps in front of me and grips me by the shoulder. Instantly, I know that he saw how I stayed apart, he knows that I am different from the others.
But he o
nly says, "Why don't you smile? this is going to be a good thing— think of the pride you'll feel!"
I force myself to smile and pull away from him to follow the others. We strip in the anteroom. A few of the men are as young as I am, but they range in age up to a solemn gray-haired old man who goes about his preparations with all the grim seriousness of a surgeon in a touchy operation. The room is as hot as a sauna and several men grow visibly excited. One man, a boy almost, younger than me, can't help himself and spills his seed there on the floor. The others chastise him until he starts to cry, but the priest enters through a second door and all falls silent.
Noticing the mess, he says "Don't worry, I'm sure there's more where that came from. "
Everyone laughs and the boy rubs his tears from his cheeks, and grins, and everyone is at ease again; everyone but me.
The priest asks how many of us have married before, and most of the men raise their hands.
"Yours is a sacred trust," the priest tells us. "there are two kinds of people in the world, those to whom society is given, and those who have the sacred duty to give to society, to perpetuate it. You have been called to that latter. It is a holy trust, a gift from our heavenly father, who spilled his seed in the primal ocean and brought forth all the manner of life. "
This is the standard speech, words, except for the calling, that we've heard all our lives. It is meant to be calming, we were taught, but I feel a rising surge of panic.
"Earlier this morning," the priest continues, "the women entrusted with their half of this sacred duty came down from their quarter. They entered the main chamber of the temple a short while ago, and even now immerse themselves in the pool. In just a moment it will be your turn to enter. Look to the older men who have been here before and do what comes naturally to you. "
Some nervous laughter follows this.
The priest looks at the boy who spilled himself, who is already excited again, and says "Hold on to that a little longer, friend. "
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