If, however, Masoud stayed away longer than three weeks, although Zulfa swore she didn’t want him, she would wish for his return. She wasn’t always sure if she missed Masoud or the motorcycle most, but, whichever one it was, her feelings would take a sudden turn: there would come a tangy churning in her stomach; a bulky weight would house itself between her chest and throat. If she felt like that, breathless, with an appetite for foods she couldn’t name, she sometimes used a cell phone that belonged to Masoud’s cousin (a businessman in his own right) to send Masoud a written message: I think of U. Buy me something nice. Masoud (fearing that any message he might send—have bought mattress covered blue cloth 4 U pls can we get married?—would meet his cousin’s eyes) never sent her a reply. His silences made Zulfa’s complex longings announce themselves more sharply.
When Masoud came back to Usilie with a gift (a watch, perfume, a pair of platform shoes), Zulfa would feel right again. Forgetting all about America, she would sit out on the stoop, slipping groundnuts into plastic tubes for the neighbor boy to sell, right there for all to see so that if Masoud passed by on foot or on his Honda he would notice her and stop. For some days after his return, Zulfa would be thrilled, and do her best to please him. Masoud made her feel pretty. His Honda, she thought, made her free.
The day Masoud asked Zulfa to be his partner in a shop he planned to start by Babu Issa’s coffee stand, he’d been back three weeks, and Zulfa, tired of being so delightful, had started hoping he would leave. On the stoop, Zulfa had been plucking petals from a batch of soft, pink roses that she wanted to set out to dry. Masoud sat down beside her. Before the mosque across the road, passengers laboring with bags stepped in and out of trucks. Drivers called out destinations.
Something in Masoud’s voice made Zulfa set down the flower she’d just lifted up. In Zulfa’s eyes, Masoud came sharply into focus. She slid just a little closer to him on the stoop. “Ebu, what’s that you just said?”
“The shop. I’ll need someone to mind it. You will be in charge.” Masoud tossed the rosebud up into the air and made a net out of his palm to catch it when it fell.
“The shop,” said Zulfa. Then, “I will?”
“Oh yes! No doubt! And . . .” Feet firmly planted on the ground, Masoud, thinking of how desperately he loved her, nodded gravely at his friend. “You’ll keep a full third of the profits.”
Zulfa made her eyes go needle-sharp. “You’re not asking this so that I will marry you? Put me in a shop so you can buy me, too? So I will owe you something?”
Masoud made his face look shocked. He pressed the rosebud to his chest. “Me? What? No. I won’t ask anything from you.”
But Zulfa wasn’t playing. She yanked the flower from his hand. “I’m very serious now, Masoud. You promise me? No games?” When Masoud said he promised, yes, and, utmost, absolutely, Zulfa opted to believe him, for it is expedient now and then to take a person at his word.
Three weeks later, Masoud and Zulfa’s Our Price Is Your Price Fancy Store was born. A cargo container was brought up to Babu Issa’s from the harbor and set down on its side. Masoud hired Nazir’s little brothers to repaint it. Once the room-sized box had dried to a brilliant shade of red, the shop was filled with novelties: wall clocks from Japan, bright embroidered gowns from Thailand and Malaysia, Chinese pots and pans enameled with blue flowers, fine perfumes brought from Mombasa and the Emirates, and incense, jellies, of all kinds.
Masoud hadn’t lied. Zulfa daily opened up the shop. She sold things, figured the accounts in a notebook just like Babu Omari’s, and closed up shop at night. Masoud kept track of what had to be replenished and ordered special trinkets if he thought that they might sell. Zulfa got so used to everything, to chatting with the customers, to making jokes with Babu Issa, and to catching glimpses of herself in the flat faces of the clocks, that she sometimes felt she had been keeping shop for years, that she had never been anything but this: a charming, able woman, brooking no dissent, and only handing back the most correct of change. It was true about the profits. Zulfa kept a third.
Habiba could plainly see her youngest child excelled at keeping shop and that she did it without the ambling rancor that accompanied her movements when at home. Masoud’s behavior is not conventional, Habiba thought, but it is always—just—correct. It was clear Masoud Hamad liked women, but, Habiba reluctantly admitted (though it made her set her teeth), at least he’d married them, so far.
At first Mzee Abeid was disconcerted to see his daughter at the heart of such activity, but Zulfa was always decently attired. And he could tell, even if Zulfa pretended not to know, that Masoud was thinking of the future. Moreover, Zulfa always gave a portion of her profits to Habiba, which made things easier for Mzee Abeid, with two households to run. What neither of her parents knew was that, one day when Masoud wasn’t there, Zulfa bought herself a separate cash box, a Chinese lock and key, and started making plans.
During her first few months at home, Zulfa’s older sister Warda stayed inside with Habiba, remembering her youth. There was the old, enormous tree with its sakua mango fruits, which people on the mainland claimed never to have seen. There was the floor’s familiar slope, just beside the bathroom. There was Babu, looking just as wiry as he had when Warda was a girl. She ate Usilie treats and gained a lot of weight. She listened to the nightly thump and wail of bush babies askitter on the roof and took naps beside her mother. Her in-laws brought her letters for their son and told her she looked just as fat and modest as a bride. They pinched and kissed the children. But after several months of rest, and of remembering so closely how she had been raised that she didn’t think she could forget again, Warda wished to make some special visits of her own. And wanted Zulfa to go with her.
“I’ve grown up,” Warda said to Zulfa in the bedroom after both of them had bathed. “I can’t go strolling by myself.” Warda, Zulfa knew, was shy. And also there was something slightly shameful, or too proud, about walking out in daylight with her children, round and handsome as she was. Everyone would call her over, asking why she’d been invisible for so many, many years: where had she been hiding? They’d ask her if she’d brought them gifts, and if she hadn’t, why. Warda knew they would be cataloguing everything: her size, the design and quality of her city shoes and cloak, if her little girls were far too thin or fat enough, or unbecomingly so fat that Warda must be showing off, if their frilly gowns were store-bought or handmade. Going out would be a chore, a battle. But go out Warda would, with Zulfa at her side.
“I want to visit Husna,” Warda said, her tight curls shooting up and out from her full face while she rubbed her hands with oil. “Husna who?” asked Zulfa, idly plucking hairs out from the comb and rolling them into a springy ball between her fingers and her thumb. Masoud was in Mombasa buying cloth, and Zulfa was distracted.
Warda took the comb from Zulfa and bullied down her spongy hair. “Husna,” she said, motioning to Zulfa for the tiny mirror that they kept beside the bed. “You know. I went to school with all her sisters. So did you.” Warda moved the glass around her head, to one side, then the other, then high up in the air, closing this eye and then that so as to see all her parts completely. “She’s married to Masoud.”
Warda didn’t intend Zulfa any harm by pointing this thing out. Like their father, Warda thought Zulfa had been cosseted enough after splitting from Kassim Majid, that it was time she had a man again. Like everybody else—because although she herself did not go out, news comes creeping through the walls—she knew that this Masoud Hamad was getting set to make her little sister number four. Warda thought it would be good for Zulfa to know Husna, and to see how well she lived. And, as she’d mentioned to Habiba (who had winced, who didn’t want to hear another word), if Zulfa did end up marrying Masoud, it would be best if she could befriend Husna now, so the transition would be smooth. But most of all, Warda, eager to see Husna for herself, didn’t want to go alone.
Zulfa felt two ways about her sister’s plan. She didn’t want to go; sh
e wanted very much to go. This doubled feeling matched the double feelings she had about Masoud when he was there and Masoud when he was gone. Sometimes she thought nothing was as nice as being free with someone and going your own way when you had other things to do. And she was sure that she had lots of things to do. But occasionally she wondered what Masoud’s life was really like inside those proper households. While she believed that she herself was more exciting than any of the wives could be, and told herself she didn’t want Masoud that way, once or twice she’d wondered if his wives could do some things for him that she couldn’t even dream.
When Zulfa felt unease, she teased him: “If you talk-talk-talk to me so long, Masoud, they will start to grumble. They’ll think you have forgotten them, or have you?” Or “What are those eyes for, Masoud, when your wives will let you stare them up and down?” Zulfa often thought Masoud was handsome, but now and then, when his face glowed bright with too much love, she’d think his beard was dirty, or see a weakness in his eyes. That was when she’d say, “Go home, go home! I haven’t made you dinner!”
Masoud didn’t like to talk about his wives with Zulfa. Only once, once when Zulfa had been closing up the shop, and everyone in town was cleaning up for prayers, or already at the mosque, Masoud had pressed himself against her as she unhooked the dresses from the doorframe, and she had let him do it. She had squeezed his forearms and she’d sighed. Despite everything he knew, Masoud had whispered, “Oh, Zulfa, they’re not anything like you.” And Zulfa, aware that, while what she held felt hard, it was also soft and fragile, closed her eyes and heard him. But when he moved away from her she had looked right into his face and said, her mouth a little swollen, “What? What is that you’re saying?” The next time she teased him, Masoud closed himself against her and told her not to speak their names. “It’s disrespectful, Zulfa,” he had said. Then he had looked at her quite squarely. “Sometimes you go overboard.” In the bedroom, Zulfa snatched the mirror from her sister, took a hard, deep breath, and thought, Overboard I’ll go.
On the way to Husna’s house, Warda gave out little nods and raised her hands in greeting to those who hollered after her. At the last mango tree before the turn, Zulfa bent to re-adjust her shoes, and Warda, who was thinking of this visit as the unofficial start of satisfactory proceedings, said, “If Husna’s jealous, she’ll be too well bred to show it.” Warda tucked a stray curl back into her scarf. “You just be polite.”
Zulfa had an awkward thought. What if Husna likes me? She tried to picture herself sitting next to Husna on a warm brown night beside a heap of cloves during the harvest, plucking stems from buds, or squatting at the well with laundry, but she couldn’t really see it. How could a woman like you if her husband was a fool?
When Husna came to welcome them, Zulfa, doubled once again, felt at once very, very small and extraordinarily superior. The two boys and the girl who stood shyly in the hall behind their mother looked, thought Zulfa, exactly like Masoud. The three were sleek and long. Six slightly pointed ears poked up and out from either side of three pointed little faces. Six great brown eyes grew round beneath six matching inky brows. The youngest boy, the shyest, took to Zulfa right away. He beamed so hard his eyes crossed.
Husna was as beautiful as everyone had said, but bigger, older, now. She had a rich, slow look to her, as though she were not thoroughly awake. Her eyes were shaped like zaitun fruit, narrow at both ends, high, and widening in the middle. Zulfa, spiteful, found Husna’s pupils very black and large. As if she’d gotten drunk on nutmeg, Zulfa thought and did not say. Husna took hold of Warda’s hands with hers. The soft sounds coming from her throat made Zulfa think of Babu’s doves, restive in their cage.
The two sisters were shown into what Zulfa couldn’t help but call “Masoud Hamad’s Front Room.” While Husna went into the kitchen, Warda beamed, and said, “Isn’t Husna fine?” Something about Warda’s fat, round face, and the way her teeth looked small inside her mouth, irritated Zulfa. Husna isn’t fine, thought Zulfa. I’m more beautiful than she is. Warda curled her legs beneath her on the painted purple mat. She leaned against the wall and thought how comfortable it was to have left her children home, to be something like a girl. “If my husband takes another wife,” said Warda, “I hope she will be as gentle and as well brought up as Husna. How warmly we would manage!”
Zulfa scowled. The small boy toddled towards her and collapsed in a hot heap at her side. He peeked at Zulfa through his hands. Zulfa edged away from him and catalogued the items on display: a wall clock like the ones on offer at the Fancy Store (bright ladybug ashiver on the slender minute arm), a vinyl carpet (blue design of roses), a picture in a frame (Buraku, the prophet’s woman-horse), four big cushions (fringed in gold). Everything was nicer than anything Mzee Abeid had ever given to Habiba, except perhaps that big TV: Husna didn’t have one.
When Husna came in with the tray, Zulfa saw that Husna’s kanga cloths were even softer than those she sorted at the Fancy Store. With a businesswoman’s eyes, she thought, Her cloths come from China. Zulfa drank three cups of coffee while the married women laughed and slapped their thighs. They reached out now and then and clapped their fingers heavily in one another’s palms, smiling while they talked about their boys and—Zulfa unhappily suspected but could not quite be sure because she didn’t want to hear—when they talked about their husbands. Husna looked at Zulfa now and then and encouraged her to drink. She pushed a bowl of mango pieces towards her, but Zulfa couldn’t eat. She squinted at the open window and wondered why the light outside seemed bright, although the day was overcast.
But when she heard Warda asking Husna, “Do you see them? Do you see the other two?” Zulfa couldn’t help but pay attention. Husna closed her fruity eyes and smiled for what seemed to Zulfa a long time before she spoke. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I do.” With a great show of nonchalance, Husna eased her kanga off her head and shoulders and revealed to her two guests a fiery pink gown aglitter with bright sequins. A beaded peacock sparkled on her chest. “The third one,” she said, peering down at her own bodice, “often makes me dresses.” The fine pink gown was more elaborate than old Mafunda’s pantaloons. Warda’s top teeth snuck over her lower lip like children peeking at the grown-ups. Her eyes went very wide. When she looked over at Zulfa, Warda’s envious face was saying, Well now, Husna’s life’s not bad!
Zulfa, for her part, found herself wondering if Husna was as stupid as she looked, or if maybe she was clever. Husna brought her Chinese kanga back over her head with an apologetic sniff, as though she knew but could not help that Warda wished to bore her eyes into that dress until she’d memorized the pattern. “The second one sends me the best of her big baskets.” The walls of Zulfa’s mouth felt thick, as though she’d eaten something that had turned. She darted her tight tongue along the grooves behind her teeth. How nice for them, she thought, imagining Masoud’s three wives ariot, laughing on a spacious double bed. How nice that they all get along so well. She spread her legs out on the mat and dropped her elbows to her knees, not caring she looked bored.
Although Warda knew full well that Masoud was in Mombasa, she nonetheless asked Husna, “Your husband is away?” Warda, Zulfa thought, was setting up a little demonstration to which she would refer at night, once they’d gone to bed. She had something to prove. Husna slid a mango square into her mouth, and, softly chewing, smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Masoud is still away.” She very delicately dipped her forefinger and thumb into the water bowl. “But,” she added, taking up a quilted towel, “he’s bought me a cell phone, and he calls me every day.”
Warda said, “Ahh,” and raised her eyebrows at her sister as if to say, A cell phone! See how wonderful it is to be a decent wife? Zulfa felt a wrenching at the very bottom of her stomach that continued down her legs. She wondered why Masoud had never thought of getting her a phone. She thought, How nice for dear Husna that she is number one.
It was almost six when Warda tugged at Zulfa’s gown and said, “All right, dear
Husna, it’s been a pleasure seeing you, but we really have to go.” When Husna said, “So soon? You’ve barely stayed at all,” she was looking straight at Zulfa. Husna made as if to get her sandals on to walk them home a little way, but Warda whispered something, and both Husna and Warda gave Zulfa a look. “Husna, you stay here,” said Warda, slipping into her own shoes and holding on to Zulfa for support. “The two of you together would just make people talk.” Both the women laughed. When Husna took Zulfa’s hand in hers to say good-bye, Zulfa thought she felt—briefly, so she wasn’t sure—a harshness in her squeeze.
Back on the main road, Zulfa stayed three steps ahead of Warda so she wouldn’t have to see the satisfied expression on her older sister’s face. It wasn’t until after dinner that she spoke to her again. From beyond a mountain of soiled dishes, Zulfa said, “Don’t think I’ll be a wife with her.” Warda gave her little sister a mild, beatific smile. She didn’t comment until later, when they were close and warm in bed, with her baby tucked between them: “Chickens,” Warda said, “can be lied to every day, but Masoud Hamad’s a man.”
Perhaps if Zulfa hadn’t gone to visit Husna, if she hadn’t seen how plump and sleek, how self-satisfied she was, if she hadn’t seen the children, who looked just like their father, and who had gazed at her in the same soft way that Masoud gazed at Zulfa, too, Zulfa might have responded differently when Masoud broke down the first time. But the visit niggled at her. Zulfa saw the clock in dreams, felt suffocated in her sleep by heavy, tasseled cushions. She slipped on vinyl roses and landed on her back, waking up to find herself spread out on her bed as though she had fallen from a height, her fingers clutching at the frame.
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