Bibi’s house was still full of festive fun after the wedding. I passed between guests, seeing if I could recognise someone. I suddenly saw Omar. He signalled for me to catch up to him. Amongst the applause and dancing, I was careful not to be noticed. Omar suggested we walk together in the garden. We would be in big trouble if we were discovered, but his smile was so irresistible that I nervously accepted the offer.
We found ourselves walking alone, far from the lights. Neither of us had the courage to speak. Then we stopped in front of each other.
‘You look nice in this outfit,’ he said, embarrassed. Then, lowering his eyes, he added, ‘You too look like a bride.’
I smiled, blushing. Timidly extending his hand, Omar stroked my face. My heart started pounding. Being so close was intense; it had never happened to me before.
‘What are the two of you doing?’ Alì’s voice shrieked, shattering the magic of that moment. My treacherous cousin had followed and spied on us. He started yelling like crazy. Omar grabbed him by the arm, but he wriggled away and ran towards the villa where he immediately told Kasside everything. She dragged me to my father to have him deal with me.
‘Thank goodness, Alì was there! Mohamed, you have to pay more attention to your daughters. It isn’t right that they behave this way!’ she said, irritated.
‘Why? What happened?’ Dad asked.
‘She wandered off alone with Omar.’
‘But nothing bad happened, right, Michelle?’ he asked me gravely.
‘No, Baba, I promise. We were just talking.’
‘Well, Mohamed,’ Kasside interrupted, ‘I would never let my daughters wander around on their own, even in the company of a cousin. Good girls don’t act this way.’ She looked at me disapprovingly.
My father’s stern face mirrored Kasside’s, although he said nothing. Kasside continued goading, ‘Of course, you’re free to raise your daughters as you see fit.’
Dad lowered his gaze, then turned back to face me. Angrily, he said, ‘Go and call your sisters and your mother. It’s late. Let’s go.’
‘But, Baba, the party will go on for a long time. You promised we would stay all night! I wanted to dance.’
‘You’ve already had enough fun. Now it’s time to go.’ I could tell by his voice that he wouldn’t tolerate objection.
There was a deathly silence in the car on the way home. Mum rocked Linda, who had fallen asleep in her arms, and Klara dozed in the back seat next to me. I scanned my father’s profile as he drove in silence. His mute expression made me feel uncomfortable, even if I couldn’t understand what was so bad about taking a walk with my cousin. Moreover, what was wrong with being alone with the boy I might marry one day?
At home I put away my nice clothes in the closet. I heard Mum and Dad talking about the situation again. Mum defended me; if I had behaved this way it was only because of all the talk about marriages between cousins that went on at Bibi’s house. Dad responded by saying it had always been like this in his family and Kasside had acted fairly. Child-rearing was a serious and rigid affair, and there was little to discuss.
The incident was forgotten after two days. Everything returned to normal and I was again immersed in my usual day-to-day activities, including those that my aunts deemed ‘unbecoming’. I went to ballet classes with my sisters once a week. We couldn’t wait to put on our pink shoes and tie the satin ribbons around our ankles. The exercises were repetitive and tiring, but I felt like a real ballerina in my white tutu. The melody of the piano music was so romantic that I sometimes daydreamed I was on stage in a grand theatre. In my dreams, I danced on one of Baghdad’s most elegant stages. The orchestra played Ravel’s Bolèro and I moved gracefully, illuminated by ethereal lights reflecting onto the stage.
Soon after the wedding, Dad took us to a real ballet at a beautiful theatre. Maroon velvet armchairs and gold decorations accented the stalls. We waited excitedly for the show to start. Then the lights dimmed, the curtain opened slowly, and a male dancer started moving gracefully to the tunes of Ravel, as played by the orchestra. His muscles strained a thousand ripples; every gesture was animated with the overwhelming sensuality and strength of the performance. I was swept away in the moment and I found myself at home in the melody.
To me, Ravel’s music evoked Iraq, even if it came from Europe. It was Baghdad, with its gardens, minarets and red sky at dusk, the slow-running River Tigris, the perfume of the jasmine and orange blossoms, the opulence of the magnificent palaces, and people of all languages who mixed in the streets. It was East and West together. More than twenty years have passed, but when I think about that music, I’m there again: back in the theatre, at the first sound of that melody. The city I loved the most in my life is outside, still intact. I still see my father next to me, holding my hand, and I know he’ll always be with me. For an instant, everything returns to how it was at that time: perfect.
Dad wasn’t enthusiastic about our passion for dance, but he let us take classes anyway. One afternoon he abruptly decided neither my sisters nor I would dance again. We had returned home from our ballet lesson still wearing our slippers and tutus. We wanted to show Mum the progress we had made and she clapped with such enthusiasm as we twirled in front of her. When we heard Dad come home, Klara, Linda and I ran, full of excitement, into the hall. We hugged him, took him by the hands, and began pulling him towards the living room.
‘Come sit down. We have a surprise for you!’ all three of us girls yelled happily.
His face hardened. ‘What are these clothes? Where do you think you’re going?’
‘It’s a surprise! Come on. Sit on the couch. We want to show you something!’ While I spoke, Klara and Linda had already started to do some dance steps.
But Dad growled at us angrily, ‘I don’t like you girls going around in those tight leotards. Go and take them off, immediately.’
‘But, Baba …’ Linda and Klara pleaded, disappointed.
‘Enough with this foolishness. This isn’t decent apparel for good young girls. Go on. Go in the other room and change.’ He turned to look at me, ‘I’m surprised by you. You’re the eldest. You should set an example. Linda and Klara copy everything you do.’
‘What’s so bad? We’re just dancing,’ I said, twisting the tulle of my tutu in my fingers.
‘We just wanted … to put on a show for you, Baba,’ my little sister complained.
‘Quit throwing tantrums, Linda! It’s not becoming. I don’t want you dancing around half-naked.’
‘But even Renà wants to be a ballerina.’ I hoped that pulling my cousin into the argument would convince him that there wasn’t anything improper about it.
‘Kasside told me. She also said you girls were the ones who put these silly ideas in her head. And she’s right. It doesn’t look good going around in tight clothing. I don’t want you going to that dance school anymore.’
‘Why? What did we do?’ I replied. ‘Did Aunt Kasside tell you to forbid it?’
‘It’s not important who told me. You girls will stop going to that disgraceful school,’ Dad reaffirmed in an authoritative voice.
‘But Mum said –’ Klara began.
‘Your mother can say whatever she wants. I am the boss in this house!’ he said, raising his voice.
He considered the discussion closed. As he was leaving the room, he turned again to face me and demanded, ‘Get rid of those rags. I don’t ever want to see them again.’
I ran to my room and sat on the bed. I stared at my tutu, crumpling it between my nervous fingers. I felt two tears of rage run down my cheeks. I was confused and mortified. Why should I be ashamed to dance? I was good at it, and I loved it. I didn’t understand why my father had made such a scene. It was the second time that I had seen that enraged look on his face and when he was this way, it was difficult to recognise the charming, loving man I knew – my king who would take care of me and make me smile.
A tenuous peace returned to our family after that scolding. We quit dancing,
although disheartened, and everything seemed resolved. Nevertheless, I sometimes felt Dad was behaving strangely. Something made him edgy, but I wasn’t sure what. He was the same as before, smiling and sweet, but there were moments in which he seemed distant and pensive. When things were like this at home I escaped to my friend Dani’s house.
Dani was Christian and always wore a cross around her neck. Although we were used to visiting the homes of people who had different beliefs to ours, little by little my curiosity about her religion grew stronger. Dani told me that during Sunday mass she and her family all sat together: adults and children, men and women. This seemed bizarre to me. During mass, they prayed standing up, and only when the priest raised a wineglass did they kneel, keeping their hands joined. These were all strange things to me. My aunts would say that Christianity was a haràm, or sin. ‘Haràm! Haràm!’ they repeated vehemently. To pray with the Christians or to enter their churches was haràm. Whoever did so would be hurled to hell and would never escape. They would suffer eternal agony, forced to put up with an infinite series of tortures, the first of which would be the total skinning of the body and then an inferno of flames to consume the remaining flesh. But I stopped believing in these legends, even if they had greatly influenced me when I was young.
The church Dani attended was a small, light-coloured stone building. We passed it every day on our way home from school. It looked just like an Orthodox temple from the outside. One day, right there in front of the church, Dani said to me, ‘Why don’t we go in?’
‘It’s not allowed. It’s haràm!’ I envisioned the flames for a second. ‘It’s a sin to go inside. I can’t.’
‘And if you do? What happens?’
‘I’ll go straight to hell.’
‘You can’t believe in these things!’
‘I don’t. But my family does and if my aunts find out that I entered a church, I’ll really see hell.’
‘I won’t tell them. And besides, aren’t you hot? Let’s go in. It will be cool in the church. Come on.’ She pushed open the dark, heavy front door.
My eyes had trouble adjusting to the dim light inside. The sun streamed through a high window, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air. I was immediately captivated by the mysticism of that majestic place. I smelt incense and wood. The enormous stone columns cloaked in darkness were grand and imposing. It felt peaceful. I was completely enchanted.
A long shiver ran down my back. I was doing something prohibited. I didn’t believe in all those stories about hell, but I believed in Allah. I asked myself if He would ever pardon this insult.
Dani was already more than halfway up the aisle. She saw me hesitating and signalled for me to catch up. My curiosity overpowered my feelings of guilt and I joined her at the altar. Nearby there were candelabra, adorned with large, unlit candles, placed on top of a special tablecloth. A much larger candelabrum, decorated with strange symbols, stood at the side of the lectern.
‘Why aren’t they lit?’ I asked, pointing at the candles.
‘They only light them during mass.’
I wanted to know everything. ‘Show me how to pray. What do you do?’
‘There’s no special way. You kneel like this and join your hands together. Then, in silence, you speak to the Father.’
Behind the altar was a painting of a woman looking up towards the sky with a gold circle above her head.
‘It’s Mary, right? What do you call that thing around her head?’ I asked pointing at the painting.
‘A halo. It means she’s a saint, special. It’s a little like your prophet, Mohammed.’
‘What do you say to God when you pray?’
‘I confess my worries. I talk to Him about my secrets. I ask Him for help when I have some kind of difficulty.’
‘And He hears you?’
‘I don’t know, but it seems like it sometimes. When I come to pray here, I feel like He’s closer to me. My mother says it’s because this is His house.’
The idea that one could enter God’s house, that He could be seated on a throne or hiding behind the decorations on the altar and listening to people’s prayers, fascinated me. I started to feel Him too; He was there, closer than ever before.
‘Dani, do you think Allah and your God could be the same person?’
‘Yes.’
I knelt next to her and, together, our hands clasped in front of our faces, we each said our own silent prayers. I asked Allah to forgive me for this sin, but if it were true that He and Dani’s God were the same person, there couldn’t be anything wrong. Kneeling on that bench, I felt like I could confess anything to God. A great peace filled my heart. I didn’t tell anybody about my little transgression; it had to remain my secret.
It was around this time that I met Bàsil. Dani had spoken to me about a boy who lived in our neighbourhood, close to my house. I vaguely remembered a little green-eyed boy who used to join us on our bike rides around the quiet streets of Al Mansùr, but it had been many years since I had seen him. Dani had run into him a few days before and discovered he had grown up and become terribly cute. She suggested we take a walk around the neighbourhood, hoping to run into him.
The first thing I saw were two mesmerising catlike green eyes. His mysterious looks were powerful enough to make my heart jump. He was a tall, handsome boy with dark chestnut-coloured hair and light olive skin. He had a confident stride and hands with long tapered fingers. He was just coming out his front gate as Dani and I passed by. She squeezed my arm tightly. The timing was so perfect I suspected Dani had a stopwatch in her pocket.
He greeted her as soon as he saw us. He blushed and smiled when our eyes met. Dani was so excited she barely noticed. He looked around to make sure no-one would see us talking to him in the middle of the street. When we were children, we were allowed to play together. But now that we were older, things were different. On this day, nobody was around so we drew closer to each other.
‘Hi, Dani and … sorry, you look familiar but I don’t remember your name,’ he said.
‘Michelle. It’s been years since I’ve seen you.’
‘I’ve been taking care of my mother since Dad died.’
‘I’m sorry. When did it happen?’ Dani asked.
‘Four years ago,’ he replied, then turned to look at me.
‘Did you stop studying?’ I asked, remembering he had always been very intelligent and studious.
‘No. I still study. I’m going to college soon.’
His voice was familiar and comforting.
‘Let’s go, Dani, before some nosey person leans their head out the window,’ I said to her, glancing around carefully.
‘Yeah, it’s best. Later, then,’ he said as he walked away. Then he stopped and said to me, ‘Hey! Wait a second. I don’t remember where you live. Which one is your house?’
I pointed at it. It was just a stone’s throw away from his.
‘Strange that we’ve never bumped into each other, in all this time. Let’s hope that another five years don’t pass before we see each other again!’ He waved goodbye and disappeared around a corner.
Dani was upset. I tried to convince her it was only her imagination; it wasn’t true Bàsil had eyes only for me. I knew I was lying. I didn’t want to hurt her, but it was obvious I couldn’t help being affected by him either. We were taken with each other from the first moment and couldn’t do anything about it.
I ran home so fast I almost flew. Those twinkly green cat-eyes had sparked a million fantasies in my mind. I felt woozy, delirious with happiness. I flung open the door, shouting, wanting to tell Mum about the encounter. She was on the couch next to Esmàa.
My cousin had her face against my mother’s shoulder, hidden by a long strand of Mum’s blonde hair. I guessed she had been crying. My mother caressed her head, trying to calm her. As soon as Mum noticed me, she signalled for me to go to my room. I listened in on their conversation from behind the door.
‘Calm down now, Esmàa. Everything is oka
y.’ My mother’s voice was comforting, ‘Tell me how it happened.’
‘He treats me like a slave!’ Esmàa couldn’t control her sobs. ‘He acts like a master. He doesn’t lift a finger, just orders me around day and night. And Kasside defends him. She doesn’t do anything but yell at me and take his side. I thought I was marrying a caring man. I should have realised it sooner. But how could I not have noticed after all these years?’
‘Men always change a little after marriage. It’s normal.’
‘Jana, he didn’t just change a little. He turned into somebody else!
‘Every time Kasside comes to visit us, she expects to be served and all she does is shout at me. I had hoped Samìr would take my side, but instead he told me his mother is owed absolute respect.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Yesterday, however, she went too far.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘She started to say how very strange it was that I still wasn’t pregnant; that I was good-for-nothing.’
‘And how did you reply?’
‘I didn’t even respond. I looked at Samìr … and he said it was my fault if I wasn’t able to give him a son.’
My mother sat in silence. Then she offered Esmàa a tissue. ‘Dear, it’s only been six months since your wedding. Sooner or later you’ll have good news. You’ve lost so much weight. You’re going to get sick. You have to take care of yourself and stay strong. You have to be healthy before you can get pregnant. Don’t think about what Kasside says. You know how she is.’
‘Exactly. She’s mean. She was mean to you too, no?’
My mother’s eyes widened. ‘Why do you say that? Kasside and I have always got along.’
‘Yes, but you know how fake she can be at times. She’s always judged you, even if she doesn’t show it around you.’ Esmàa looked Mum directly in the eyes and continued, ‘Jana, don’t pretend not to know. You know that not being able to give your husband a son is considered a crime. Not to mention doing things your way.’
The Girl from Baghdad Page 8