by Nancy Madore
Aabid’s father suddenly moved toward Helene and she flinched as if he might strike her. He had a wild gleam in his eye that frightened her. He lifted the khirmah up over her head and gasped when he saw her. When he spoke again his voice was shrill with incredulity. Although Helene couldn’t understand the words, she recognized the tone, which said, ‘how could you do such a thing?’
Three women—one older and two that were closer to Helene’s age—rushed into the room, clearly drawn by the commotion. They wore ordinary clothes, without khirmahs. They all stopped in their tracks when they saw Helene. Aabid’s father said something to them in Arabic while they stared, disbelieving, at her. She knew her hair was flying in all directions but she didn’t dare call more attention to it by trying to fix it with her fingers.
At one point during the father’s explanation to the women, one of the younger women cried out loudly and nearly collapsed onto the floor. It was an agonizing cry that took Helene by surprise. The older woman took the girl in her arms and tried to soothe her, but she was inconsolable. The father hurled some kind of order at them, dismissing them with a wave of his hand, and the other two women removed the distraught girl from the room.
Aabid’s father was quiet and thoughtful a moment, and then said something to Aabid in a low voice before he, too, left the room. Only then did Helene dare to look at Aabid.
“I will take you to your room,” he said angrily—as if what just occurred was her fault—and she was dismayed to be confronted once again with the unreasonable, irate child. She knew it was because of the reception they got, but she also knew that Aabid had anticipated it. He had grown more and more irritable, the closer they got. She would have liked an explanation but she followed him without a word.
“They are upset because they think you are a nonbeliever,” he said. Helene refrained from pointing out that she was a nonbeliever. She had that all-too-familiar feeling that he was keeping something from her again.
“Why weren’t those women wearing their khirmahs?” she asked.
“Women do not have to wear them in the presence of family,” he replied.
“Are you the only one in your family who speaks English?” she asked.
“No. My sisters and my brother speak English,” he replied.
“Was that your sister who cried out?” she asked.
“No,” said Aabid, but he did not elaborate further.
“Who was it?” she persisted, suddenly curious.
They had arrived at a small room in the back of the house. It was sparsely decorated, with smatterings of light, bluish-gray the only color in the white-washed room. Aabid hadn’t answered her question and Helene sighed, fed up with his evasiveness. He reached out to touch her but she jerked away from him resentfully. Predictably, this angered him. He grabbed her face and squeezed it so hard that she wondered if he would leave bruises. His eyes were vicious as they burned into hers. Her own anger flared.
“You want to know who the woman was?” he shrieked. “Are you jealous of her?”
Helene just stared at him, too angry to appease him and too afraid to do what she really wanted to do, which was to fight back.
“Are you?” he yelled even louder. Helene was painfully aware of the other people in the house. She wondered if they could hear.
“I…no! I don’t even know who she is!” she said in a low voice.
“But you are jealous!” he insisted loudly.
She had the impression that he wanted her to be jealous, but she couldn’t bring herself to be. She felt strangely ridiculous with her face all scrunched up in his hands. “No,” she said. “I’m not.”
“Good!” he exclaimed, releasing her so suddenly that she almost fell down. “I am glad to hear it.” But he didn’t look glad, even though he was smiling. “That woman is Fa’izah,” he continued. “She is my first wife.”
Chapter 42
Life in the Al-Zaa’ir household was only marginally better than being alone in the desert with Aabid.
The house was partitioned off so that Aabid and his family had an entirely separate living area, although there was a communal dining room where all of them came together for their evening meals. Arabic was the only language permitted in the dining room and Helene came to dread that time of day in spite of her growing love for Arabian food. Aabid’s father remained disapproving where Helene was concerned, while his mother appeared to always be overwrought with distress. Aabid’s sister, Kulus, stared openly at Helene, fairly gawking at her, while Aabid’s first wife, Fa’izah, glowered menacingly in an equally open manner. Conversation was stilted, though they could have said anything they liked and Helene wouldn’t have understood them. She stumbled miserably through those evening meals, unsure where to settle her gaze as she fumbled to eat from the communal bowl using only her fingers.
It was a little boy of about five or six years old—at some point Helene learned that he was the son of Fa’izah and Aabid—who became her first friend. The first moment he saw her, his face lit up with pleasure. He followed her covertly the first few days, until one day she found him standing beside her, quiet as a mouse, slipping his hand over hers. Helene’s fingers hung lifelessly in the child’s, her first inclination being to withdraw them. But glancing down at his smiling face she found she couldn’t do it. And besides, she was hesitant to rebuff the only person to actually reach out to her. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed hers back. They smiled at each other.
“Helene,” she said, pointing to herself.
“Zaahid,” he replied in a raspy voice, pointing to himself. They smiled at each other again and he said—“Qamh,” and pointed to her hair.
“Hair?” she said, touching her hair. “Qamh is hair?” Zaahid nodded and she bent down so he could touch it.
“Qamh,” he repeated, reverently stroking her hair (It would be several years before Helene realized that qamh meant wheat, not hair, and that Zaahid had been trying to pay her a compliment).
Though conversation was a bit challenging, Helene’s friendship with Zaahid blossomed. He hung on her heels, following her around like a stray puppy until a sharp command from Fa’izah would send him running in the opposite direction.
The second person to reach out to Helene was Aabid’s sister, Kulus. Kulus was surprisingly like Helene’s school chums back home, in spite of their cultural differences. She was curious, friendly and extremely talkative. Her English was not as good as Aabid’s, but it was well enough that her errors were more humorous than confusing. She broke the ice by offering Helene a gift—it was a lovely barrette for her hair—and she further impressed Helene by making her laugh. Like most of the Arabs, Kulus was dark skinned with black hair. Her eyes were quite large and had the appearance of being lined even when they were not. Her hair was cut short in a kind of modern bob. Though she was generally obedient, she was mildly rebellious, prone to making snide comments about her parents in English to Helene (which brought many a disapproving look when Helene invariably laughed). Kulus was the last of Aabid’s sisters to be married, but at fifteen she was already betrothed to her future husband. She lived in that portion of the house that was designated to Aabid’s parents, which Helene didn’t dare venture into, so Helene was obliged to wait for Kulus to visit her. Between school and her many Muslim obligations, Helene spent most of her days wondering when—or if—her friend would appear.
Aabid alternated his nights between wives. In spite of Helene’s relief in having a reprieve from Aabid, she resented the cause of it. There was an inevitable bond that had developed out of her intimacy with Aabid (Helene refused to think of it as love) that left her feeling humiliated by his temporary defection. And for all of his boorishness in every other respect, Aabid was a surprisingly generous lover, expending long and—Helene imagined—tedious efforts to caress and coax the pleasure out of her, using his fingers and his tongue, until at last her body responded, often without her even wanting it to. He got her to do things for him as well, but he was adamant that above all
else, she should derive pleasure from the act. This impressed her until she learned that it was no self-sacrificing act on Aabid’s part, but yet another edict from Allah to satisfy one’s wives. It would become a bitter pill to swallow that literally every aspect of her life was now dictated by Allah or his prophet, Muhammad.
In spite of her conflicting feelings about Aabid, Helene couldn’t help wondering what he and Fa’izah did on their nights together. Fa’izah, meanwhile, was becoming impossible to live in the same house with. Though Helene tried to avoid her, the woman always seemed to be lurking in the shadows, spying. When she did approach Helene directly it was to correct her or give her an order. It was bad enough to have Aabid constantly telling her what to do but it was insufferable coming from Fa’izah. Yet there was no escaping it. They were trapped together in Aabid’s little corner of the house. Helene began dividing her time between sitting alone in her bedroom and sitting outside. When she chose the outdoors she was inevitably joined by Zaahid, who would sit quietly beside her.
The yard was neatly landscaped with rather dull, silvery bushes and a few trees. One warm day a crocus appeared, startling Helene out of her depression and reminding her of England. She pointed it out to Zaahid, who smiled and nodded, saying—“Kurkum.” They walked around the yard, hunting for more of the bright-colored flowers, and before she even realized what she was doing, Helene was on her hands and knees, pulling weeds so the ‘kurkum’ wouldn’t get choked out. Zaahid helped her, and what would become a life-long love of gardening began for both of them.
That day, Fa’izah interrupted them to call Zaahid in for mid-afternoon prayers. He went inside but Fa’izah remained. She approached Helene anxiously.
“Salah?” she said, motioning for Helene to follow her in for prayers.
Helene shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said, wishing the woman would just go away.
Fa’izah sighed resentfully. “Salah!” she said more forcefully, pointing to the door.
Helene just kept pulling weeds. “No!” she too responded more forcefully.
Fa’izah bent down and grabbed Helene’s arm in an attempt to pull her up. “Salah!” she said again. Her voice had a desperate edge to it and Helene stood up.
“I don’t want to!” Helene said, shaking her head back and forth vehemently, though the look in Fa’izah’s eyes gave her pause. The women’s distress was genuine.
Fa’izah took hold of Helene’s arm again, more gently this time, and attempted once more to pull her. “Meen fahd-lick…please!” she said. Helene tried to shake her off but Fa’izah held fast and continued the gentle tugging and pleading. In the course of the scuffle, mild as it was, Helene accidentally struck Fa’izah’s arm while trying to extricate herself from her grip and the woman cried out in agony.
“I hardly touched you!” exclaimed Helene, afraid that Fa’izah might be trying to create trouble between her and Aabid. She already suspected Fa’izah of turning Aabid’s parents against her with her constant spying.
But Fa’izah didn’t cry out again or make any further commotion. She lowered her tear-filled gaze to the ground, staring blindly at the place Helene had just finished weeding. “Salah,” she whispered miserably.
Helene suddenly felt sick. Without even really knowing what she expected to find she lifted Fa’izah’s arm and very gently raised her sleeve. The ugly, black bruises didn’t surprise her; nor did she need to be told where they came from or why. Fa’izah’s strange behavior was suddenly made clear. She’d been commissioned by Aabid to oversee Helene’s training to become a good, Muslim wife, and was being punished for Helene’s lack of progress.
The sheer brutality of it took Helene’s breath away. As if having a second wife thrust upon her wasn’t enough! Helene tore her eyes from the bruises to Fa’izah’s face and saw that Fa’izah was watching her anxiously, possibly afraid of how Helene would use this discovery. Helene was overcome with sympathy. She nodded her head. “Okay,” she said, choking on the sobs that were racking her body as if to cleanse it of a lifetime of grief. “I’ll do salah! Okay?”
Fa’izah’s expression was so overflowing with gratitude that Helene couldn’t stop herself from taking the woman in her arms and holding her close while they both wept—Helene with horror and dread, and Fa’izah with relief.
But even with the added incentive of Fa’izah’s well-being Helene found the task of becoming a Muslim daunting, and she could only bring herself to do the very least that was expected of her. She found the daily prayers inconvenient but managed somehow to make a good show of it, and did her best to steer clear of everything even remotely haraam. It was not, in truth, all that hard to do. She had little freedom to act on her own. On the rare occasions when she left the house, she was covered from head to toe in the dreaded black khirmah and was accompanied by either Aabid or his father.
As Kulus became more absorbed in her own activities, Helene found herself more drawn to Fa’izah. Still, there was the language barrier to overcome. Since poor Fa’izah was already overwhelmed with the task of teaching Helene the rules of Islam, it was decided that Helene would teach Fa’izah to speak English. This worked well; Fa’izah was a much more willing and adept student than Helene.
Just as she was adjusting to all of this Helene realized that she was pregnant. The realization affected her more profoundly than anything that had happened to her so far in her life. This was a new opportunity, for the child growing inside her (she was convinced it was a girl) represented the only real family she had. She had no other living relatives that she knew of. Yet she couldn’t help worrying; what would become of it? How would she protect it? In that incident with Fa’izah, she’d become painfully aware of how much her behavior affected others but now, with this child, Helene knew it would become even more true.
She took stock of her situation. Her problems with Aabid appeared to escalate in direct correlation with her resistance to him. This gave her hope that she might have some control over what happened after all.
It was time to grow up. Any dreams she’d harbored of returning to London were put on the back burner. She knew Aabid well enough by now to know that he would never take her there. He was neither honorable nor decent. He had no incentive to be; the incentive had been taken away from him when he was granted absolute power over the women in his life. However, all was not lost. Aabid’s power came with a price, and that price was steep for him. Deep down, she knew that he wanted genuine affection from her. He craved it. When he couldn’t force it out of her he turned cruel. This could be turned to her advantage.
On the next night that was hers, Helene forced all her anger aside—focusing on the child she was carrying—and did everything she could think of to please Aabid. She lowered her eyes respectfully and was openly affectionate with him. By the end of the evening he was like butter in her hands.
“This is how it could be between us always,” she told him.
Aabid sat up in bed and eyed her warily. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Our marriage…I don’t really know much about marriage actually,” she admitted—“But I think for it to be happy there must be some give and take.” She saw him bristle and tried to soothe him with a kiss. “Please, Aabid, I beg you to listen to what I have to say. Allah says a man should listen to his wife before making a decision.” She saw that her reference to Allah pleased him and was relieved when he visibly relaxed.
“I will listen,” he said, lying back down. His manner had all the imperiousness of a corrupt king and Helene had to fight back a wave of irritation.
“Thank you,” she said, kissing his hand. She could see that he was impressed by her behavior. “I…we are going to have a baby,” she said, surprising him even more. “I think it’s a girl.”
The smile left his face when she added that last part, but he reached out and gently stroked her cheek. “You do not know that,” he said in a dismissive tone, as if to say, ‘do not worry about that.’
“But if it is a girl,�
� she persisted—“If we have a daughter, I want something from you.” He sat up again. “And I will give you something in return!” she added quickly.
“What is it that you want?” he asked suspiciously.
“I want her to go to college in England,” Helene blurted out, perhaps too abruptly. “I want her to have the choice I never had.” This angered him. She could see the resentment burning in his eyes.
“And you would not want this same opportunity for any boy child we might have?” he demanded.
“Of course, but I thought you would never permit a son to leave this country,” she said. “And besides, a boy would not have the same…challenges here that a girl would face.”
His lips became set. “No,” he said decisively.
“You have never compromised on a single thing, Aabid,” said Helene. “I, on the other hand, haven’t been left one thing not to have to compromise on!”
“It is Allah…”
“I know! It’s Allah who makes the laws,” she interrupted. “But there’s no law that says Muslims can’t leave the country.”
“You expect me to allow my daughter to just go off alone to be corrupted by the world?” he asked.
“There are schools in London where other Muslim girls go,” answered Helene. “I’m asking you to give her a choice. Whichever path she chooses will be what’s in her heart anyway.”
“The prophet says that women are not capable of making the right choice. That is why he made men responsible for them.”
“Allah also says that he will judge every individual by what’s in their heart,” she said. “That includes women. We all have a choice in what we feel in our heart. Even you can’t change that, Aabid.”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you going to do for me?”