by Nancy Madore
Helene suddenly had the urge to laugh. For some reason, a character out of Edward’s Dandy comics—Desperate Dan—suddenly came to mind. There was something about Aabid that reminded her of the cartoon outlaw. True, Aabid didn’t have Dan’s enormous pot belly, and while Aabid seemed barely able to grow a moustache, Dan’s beard was so stiff he needed a blowtorch just to shave. Still, there was something about Dan’s mulish and ill-mannered behavior—eating cow pies with the horns still attached and bending street lights just to prove his strength—that was eerily similar to Aabid’s boorish insistence that his way was right. Even the Bedouin camps were like Dan’s cartoon town of Cactusville, a throwback from another era, harsh and inhospitable—or so it seemed to Helene.
A strange hopelessness gripped her. London seemed to get further away with every minute that passed.
Aabid was speaking to her but she’d stopped listening. She didn’t want to hear any more about salah, fard—or especially haraam. She closed her eyes and fervently wished to never lay eyes on another turban, khirmah, or anything else that was even remotely Arab. Most of all, she wished that when she opened her eyes again Aabid would be gone. His bossiness was becoming unbearable. She opened her eyes to find him watching her.
“You need food,” he told her in that same insistent tone that he said everything. “I will get some and we will eat together.”
“Oh, so now you remember my hunger,” she replied sarcastically. “Well it’s too late!” She refused to say more or to even look at him. He took her arm and led her into an isolated corner of the tent and forced her to sit on a cushion. Then he left and in a few minutes returned with one large, steaming bowl of food. “You will enjoy this,” he told her, and dipped his fingers into the mixture, using them to scoop out the food.
“That’s disgusting!” Helene exclaimed. “I don’t want it now that you’ve had your fingers in it!” She remembered her father and Huxley saying that this was how the Arabs ate, but she thought they were only teasing her.
She heard his sharp intake of breath. “You will control your tongue!” he exclaimed in a low voice. Helene closed her eyes and lay back, wanting nothing more than to sleep.
“You must eat,” Aabid said, but she ignored him. “This is how a child acts!” he complained, and she felt a little satisfaction when she heard him sigh heavily, as if contemplating how to deal with the situation.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I will prepare for our departure.”
Helene felt a sudden panic. “I’m not going!” she announced, sitting up straight.
She could tell that Aabid’s patience was wearing thin, but she felt he would be more inclined to control himself with other people around. “I mean it,” she insisted. “Just leave me here. I’ll stay with the Bedouins until someone from England comes along.”
He appeared to be struggling to control his temper. When he spoke, his tone was as determined as ever. “You are coming with me,” he said—“Even if I have to tie you to the back of the donkey!”
He set the bowl on a nearby table and stormed out.
It was Helene’s turn to sigh. She looked around miserably until her gaze settled on the bowl. She reluctantly picked it up. She wanted to remain aloof but the smell was simply too irresistible. The worst thing was not having a fork to eat with. Her eyes filled, but she broke off a piece of the bread and dipped it in the still-warm mixture. She wasn’t surprised to find that it tasted good. It was a bit spicy compared to what she was used to perhaps, but she liked it. She told herself that it was because she was so hungry. She’d heard of people eating bugs when they were hungry enough.
Before Helene realized it she’d eaten every drop. She belatedly wished she’d thought to leave something in the bowl so it wouldn’t look like she enjoyed it too much. Yet she had to admit she felt better. The food had done wonders for her.
Aabid’s pleasure at seeing the empty bowl brought back her bad temper. “However,” he remarked as she followed him outside—“We must refrain from overeating. The prophet, alayhi s-salām, says we should only eat what we need to keep our back straight. We should fill no more than one third of our stomachs with food, leaving one third for water and the remaining third for air.’”
“Does Allah tell you how many times to chew before swallowing, too?” she asked. But she was secretly glad that she had displeased him by finishing all the food in the bowl. “I’m going to walk,” she added when she saw that he was preparing the donkey for her.
Aabid looked at her sharply, and she knew he was itching to remind her about being respectful but she rushed ahead before he had a chance to open his mouth.
“If we’re not going to Tel Aviv then where are we going?” she asked once they were back on the main road.
There was a long pause before he replied warily—“To the house of my father.” He seemed reluctant to say more. A horrible thought suddenly struck Helene and she stopped in the middle of the road. Aabid stopped too.
“Am I going to be a slave?” she asked, recalling stories she’d read in Arabian Nights.
Aabid actually laughed, and Helene was once again struck by how young he was. “Of course not,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate and Helene was still wary. They resumed walking.
“What then?” she asked. “How do you know your father will accept me in his house?” Another thought struck her and she stopped again. Aabid turned to face her, and she could see that he was growing frustrated again.
“I’m not…he’s not…” Helene wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say exactly.
“No, my father will not harm you,” Aabid assured her firmly. Perhaps a bit too firmly. Helene examined his face. Something wasn’t right.
“Tell me,” she demanded. She saw a look come over his face at her tone but she refused to back down. She was certain that something terrible was about to happen—she suddenly realized that she’d known it all along. She just hadn’t been ready to hear it until now.
Aabid’s reluctance to tell her what it was only confirmed her fears that it was something terrible. “Your father should have told you,” he grumbled miserably.
“That was not my father!” she yelled. “Now tell me what the bloody hell you’re planning to do with me!”
“And you agreed,” he added defensively.
It suddenly felt as if the khirmah was suffocating her and she ripped it off in a sudden panic. Aabid gasped when he saw her and she was dimly aware that her white-blonde hair was flying in all directions. She could feel the static electricity making it stand on end. “What did I agree to? Tell me!”
“Your father gave you to me. To be my…wife,” he said.
Helene stared at him in disbelief. And yet she’d known it would be something like this. Wasn’t that why she’d been so reluctant to push him for the truth from the start?
“I won’t do it,” she said.
“It is already done,” he replied. His expression was that of a person whose mind was set.
“You have to have my permission!” cried Helene.
“The only consent needed is that of your father, but you agreed too…in front of witnesses,” he reminded her.
“I didn’t know what I was agreeing to and he was not my father!” she screamed.
“Your guardian then,” said Aabid. “A guardian can also pronounce nikah on your behalf. That is our custom.”
“What about my custom?” Helene demanded. “I’m not an Arab, in case you didn’t notice. You’ve spent every minute telling me your ideas about right and wrong, as if I didn’t already have my own.”
“I cannot help what is,” he replied. “I’m sorry if it is difficult for you, but resistance will only make it harder. These are not my ‘ideas,’ they are the laws that Allah has given us all. Allah knows best. If you disobey, it will go poorly for you and me, your husband, as well.”
“You are not my husband,” Helene said through gritted teeth.
Aabid approached her and there was no longer any trace o
f the shy boy that Helene thought was escorting her to Tel Aviv. This was a selfish, self-righteous man who was determined to have what he wanted regardless of her feelings. His face was the picture of obstinacy. He stood as close to her as he could possibly get without actually touching her, until his nose was a hairsbreadth away from hers.
“For once you are correct,” he said in a menacingly calm voice. She could see that he trembled with his effort to control his rage. “The nikah will not be valid until we have consummated our union.” He grasped her shoulders then and she could feel his strength in spite of his youthful body. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes that terrified her. “I was going to give you time to adjust to being my wife, but if you continue to argue the point I will take what is mine here and now!”
The threat terrified her so much she immediately gave in. “Please!” she cried. “I swear I won’t say another word.”
He examined her a moment longer and then released her with a little shove. Then he grabbed the donkey’s rope with a jerk, startling the poor creature as he drove them onward without another word.
Chapter 40
Two weeks passed in a dismal haze that was sporadically brightened by moments of curiosity, fascination and even—on a few occasions—amusement. They traveled from one Bedouin camp site to the next, except when they set up camp alone. Helene learned how to fish, how to make khubz—the flat bread they always served with meals—and how to be a Muslim. In the course of all this, her marriage to Aabid became official.
The sense of isolation was often too much for her. It was a rare pleasure when she came upon a woman who spoke English. The men—excepting Aabid—never spoke to her at all.
The khirmah made everything seem worse. Helene felt as if she was invisible when she wore it, which was every minute that she and Aabid were not completely alone. She remembered being curious about the women who wore them. They seemed so mysterious, so secretive and coy. Now she saw it differently. The black coverings reminded her of sadness and mourning. There was a suffocating quality to them, for though they were lightweight, the color attracted the sun, and therefore the heat, making them terribly hot at times. It seemed to her that their overall purpose was to darken and diminish.
Aabid was now her only connection to the world. She needed him as much as she resented him. She tried to understand him even though everything about him repelled her. Yet he was not an ugly man. She wondered how he appeared to the Arab women who were more accustomed to the domineering qualities she so disliked. Were all Muslim men like him? Did they all fly off the handle as easily? There were, of course, times when he made an effort to be patient and tolerant, but she could not count on it and that left her tense all the time. It was like being at the mercy of a spoiled toddler. He was nothing like Edward, who could argue a point without causing her to fear for her life. Edward! How she missed him! But thoughts of him—as with any thoughts from her past—brought such anguish that she erased them from her mind. And though she missed Edward she couldn’t help feeling resentment and anger toward him too. If not for that letter…!
The more Helene learned about Islam, the more she resisted it. It was too invasive for her spiritual requirements, with directives on everything from when to pray, how to eat, and even how to go to the bathroom. It seemed like almost everything was either haraam (forbidden) or fard (obligatory). Very little was left to choice. With each added regulation Helene became more defiant. Thankfully, Aabid did not force her to participate in salah or wadhu, or any of the other obligatory acts for Muslims, focusing all his attention on simply keeping her from doing those things that were haraam.
Helene tried to envision a life as Aabid’s wife, but the thought of it filled her with foreboding. Her marriage to him didn’t seem real. She thought of it as a bad dream that she was simply waiting to awaken from. She often thought of Lilith and wondered if there was some way to bring her back. Maybe they could help each other. Lilith would know how to get Helene out of this. Thinking about it gave Helene hope, and kept her from losing her mind during those weeks in the desert.
They were on the last leg of their journey to the house of Aabid’s father, and the day of their arrival had come. Helene could not help looking forward to the change. She was dismayed when Aabid steered them off the main road and began setting up a private camp. Helene knew what this meant, and she sighed, torn between revulsion and a strange, unwanted thrill of anticipation. Like all of Aabid’s mandates, she considered this ‘duty’ between a husband and wife to be invasive and embarrassing—on the surface. But beneath the surface it kindled something bewildering and overwhelming in Helene, something almost pleasurable—or, at least, something that made it less disagreeable.
Aabid was more attentive than usual. Foregoing his usual eagerness, his hands became gentle—almost tender—as he lifted Helene’s khirmah up over her shoulders and meticulously arranged her flyaway hair. A shiver shook her.
“You are nervous?” he asked. She knew he was referring to his family and it suddenly occurred to her that he was the one who was nervous, though she supposed she was a little nervous too. Were they like him?
“This has been a lot to…take,” she stammered.
“There is no strength but by Allah,” he said in a tone that implied he knew exactly what she was going through but was helpless to do anything about it. Helene struggled to hide her resentment. It was galling that he could expect her to give up so much, while himself refusing to give an inch.
“Surely Allah would allow me one small reward for all that I have given up for him,” she ventured, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. They both knew what she was referring to.
His fingers had moved down to unbutton her shirt, but his eyes remained glued to hers. She could see that he was quickly becoming consumed by his arousal, and she too was consumed by emotions, but hers were of resentment, anger and grief, which warred with any desire she might have felt. Aabid fondled her body freely while Helene fought the urge to brush his hands away. She felt like a caged bird, forced to endure the overtures that happened to come through the bars of her cage. In these moments she couldn’t help thinking of Edward and wondering how it would feel to be touched by him.
“Allah is an exacting God,” Aabid said, his voice growing husky with lust. “It is not for you to say what He should or shouldn’t do.”
“Then shall I appeal to my…husband?” she asked, choking on the word.
This seemed to please Aabid. A small smile formed on his lips and Helene was once again struck by how good-looking he might have been if he wasn’t such a tyrant. She wondered how she would feel about him if he had approached her—as an equal—in London. Would she feel differently if she had been given a choice in the matter?
“Yes,” he replied softly. “I would like you to appeal to me.” His hands continued their leisurely perusal of her body and she was becoming distracted.
“Then I appeal to you…my husband. Can we go to London after I meet your family?”
“It is my strongest wish that we be happy together,” he said earnestly. “As I told you before…I will take you to London once you have given me a child.”
“But why wait?” she persisted. “Why…” He cut her off with a kiss. A small sigh of frustration escaped her lips, and Aabid instantly became more aggressive, mistaking her sigh for passion. Helene’s mind was still focused on returning to London. She didn’t want to wait. And she most certainly didn’t want to have a child. Yet she knew it was possible that she was carrying Aabid’s child already. Supposing there was a child, Helene felt she still might escape him…provided she could convince him to take her to London. She clung to him with sudden hope and for Aabid that was all it took to send him over the edge. Any small advance from her drove him wild. Helene took some satisfaction from that.
The tenderness remained, even after his passion was spent, and Helene couldn’t help being suspicious of it, wondering what brought about this sudden munificence. Yet she supposed he c
ouldn’t help hitting the mark once in a while. For there was no denying that he never stopped trying—she could feel him trying, constantly, day in and day out—in his quest to make her love him. It was clear how much he wanted her. But she couldn’t help wondering; Why put forth the effort when you’re just going to resort to force in the end anyway?
“You are mine,” he murmured vehemently, burying his lips in her hair. “My wild, beautiful bird.” When she didn’t respond he got up. “Come!” he said. “Your new home is just over that hill.”
Chapter 41
Helene was surprised to find that Aabid lived in a modern village with real houses. She was suddenly struck by how little she knew about him and his family. As they drew nearer he became more and more anxious, and with the anxiety emerged the ill-tempered, petulant little boy. Helene tried to ignore him. She found this side of him extremely repellent. He seemed to grow more unmanageable with every step.
The houses in their village were well kept, single story, rectangular buildings that were mostly constructed of the terra-cotta colored bricks that were so prevalent in their part of the world. The streets were clean and neatly landscaped. There were trees in nearly every yard and even an occasional flower. There was a feeling of affluence, especially when compared to the Bedouin camps. Aabid led her to one of the nicest homes on the street and tied his donkey to a tree. Helene’s heart fluttered nervously as he led her into the house. It was cool and dark inside. The floors were lined in tile.
An older man with a thick beard—Helene learned later that it was Aabid’s father—appeared, casting curious glances at Helene as he greeted his son, hugging and kissing him affectionately while alternately speaking to him in Arabic. After a moment the man asked Aabid a question, pointing his finger at Helene with a little laugh.
Aabid answered his father in a sullen manner.
The man took a closer look at Helene and then turned back to Aabid. The smile had gone from his face. His voice now grew loud and accusatory as he continued to interrogate his son. Aabid, meanwhile, answered the questions like a defendant in a trial.