The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  At least Friday, the wedding day, she would be spared the awkward encounters. It was to be a traditional Somali wedding, the men, including the groom would meet with the Imam who would accept the word of the girl’s male relative that she was willing to marry the young man. This would be done before witnesses and the Imam would give a sermon on marriage according to the Koran. Afterwards, the men would have lunch with no women present. Friday night, the women, including the bride, would have their own dinner, with poetry and dancing. The couple had decided to have a modified western style wedding on Saturday. Before dinner on Saturday evening, the bride and groom would exchange vows and rings in front of their family and guests. This would be followed by a reception, cutting of the wedding cake and dancing. The older, traditional women would leave after dinner, before the younger men and women danced together.

  She was thinking of how difficult Saturday night would be for her, when she looked up and saw Maynard midway down the hall coming toward her, his glasses high on his forehead. He looked thinner, more lean and muscular. His smile, which initially had been honest and warm, became fixed and phony as he saw her frown and mistook it as directed toward him.

  “I see you’re taking off for a few days,” he said, a little too rigidly. “I saw the duty schedule for the rest of the week.”

  “Yes. I am going to a wedding in Minneapolis. I was thinking of something which may be unpleasant there,” she said by way of explanation, genuinely feeling sorry for making him think she was unhappy to see him.

  He chuckled with obvious relief. “You Somalis must have some pretty funny customs to cause you to be upset about a wedding. Unless the groom is someone you had a thing for” he said raising his eyebrows and looking at her.

  “No. Mr. Lewis. He is not,” she said haughtily, immediately losing her feeling of compassion for his initial discomfort. Why does he always manage to make an irritating comment, she thought.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sure you had a good reason for frowning since you almost always have that beautiful smile.”

  She nodded in appreciation of his compliment and involuntarily smiled. “It is nice of you to be concerned,” she paused and then surprised herself by adding “Maynard.”

  “Well, well,” he said grinning back. “You have me trained. I treat you with respect and you call me by my first name. I’ll try and keep up the good work. I like to hear you call me Maynard.”

  Amina was alarmed. This was not what she had intended. “Maynard,” she said, distracted by his grin, which broadened as she said his name again. “All I want is to have a civil and professional, entirely professional relationship. Nothing more and nothing outside the Home. I hope I am making myself clear.”

  Maynard bowed in a courtly manner, almost mocking her regal bearing, but not quite crossing the line of insolence. “Yes. You have. But as you know, hope springs eternal. A month ago, you wouldn’t even call me Maynard. So, I hope you have a good time at the wedding and nothing upsets you there. When you come back, perhaps we can just have coffee. I’m still on my thing about kicking you up the career ladder.”

  “I will have coffee with you on one condition. It will be a professional conversation about educational opportunities and my career.”

  “Ahh,” Maynard said sighing. “I love it when you impose conditions because it gives me the chance to comply.”

  “There is one thing you could do for me which will put my mind more at ease.”

  “Any conditions attached to it?” he asked mischievously.

  She ignored his question. “Please look in on Helen Plonsker for me each day. She is in Room 318A. You know who she is?” He nodded. “I told her I would be gone from Thursday through Monday. I am worried she will forget what I told her. Mrs. Bernstein is also going to check on her but she is very busy and may not remember.”

  Maynard inclined his head and looked at her with mock anger. “Surely you’re not implying that I just loaf around here from nine to five with plenty of time on my hands to play the numbers?”

  She began protesting she had not meant that at all, but his smile immediately told her he was teasing her.

  “You’re too easy to fool. There’s no challenge in it. Of course I know who Mrs. Plonsker is. She’s the one who grabbed the kid’s violin at the Duke Ellington concert.” He looked directly at her, which made her feel uncomfortable. “Amina,” he said gently. “You’re violating Rule 1 of working in a nursing home. Don’t get too attached to the residents. They tend to die sooner rather than later.”

  She interrupted but he held up his hand.

  “It’s ok. I’ll do it. I’ll not only look in on her, I’m going to tape five sheets of different colored paper to a wall in her room and label them Thursday through Monday. Each day when I drop in, I’ll take down one sheet and tell her to count the number of sheets left and that’s when you’ll be back. It’ll remind me too, just in case I forget to miss you,” he said winking at her.

  Amina felt a flush in her cheeks. “That is very clever, Maynard.”

  “I’ve been around old folks a while. They frequently key off a visual reminder better than a verbal one. It helps them remember if they can see something. Ok. Have a good trip and enjoy yourself.”

  He walked past her humming a tune she didn’t recognize at first. By the time she was back at the CNA station she had identified it from the concert as “I Loves You Porgy.” It is a nice song, she thought.

  On Thursday morning, Amina and Mariam, Jama, Medina, Mohamed and the two younger children were out of the house and at National Airport by 7 am, more than ninety minutes before their flight. Jama insisted they get there early to allow extra time to pass through security. None of them had flown recently, but they were all aware of the experiences other Somalis had gone through. The extensive searches of carry on luggage, wanding of their persons and in some cases, even questioning. Amina and Medina had decided not to wear any jewelry to decrease the chances of setting off the personal scanner. They had to carry their winter coats because, although the promise of spring was in the air in Northern Virginia, it was still winter in the Twin Cities. Mariam had Googled the four-day weather forecast for the Twin Cities and the prediction was for light snow, strong winds and temperatures in the low twenties.

  Amina put her coat in the plastic bin along with her purse and half boots. The two little ones went through security first, followed by Jama and Mohamed without a problem, and then Mariam. Amina stepped up to the electronic screener, waited for the TSA agent to motion her to proceed, and walked slowly forward in her stocking feet, carrying her boarding pass. The agent glanced at the pass and then at her long brown ankle length brown skirt, fringed with a dark green pattern and her matching green shawl, covering her head.

  “Funny, you don’t look Irish to me” he said, grinning at his own joke and waving her on. “Have a good flight.”

  She glanced at his name tag- “P. Murphy.”

  “I am Somali-American, Mr. Murphy,” she replied but he had already turned around to watch the scanner as Medina walked forward.

  “Mom,” Mariam whined. “Please don’t embarrass me.”

  “Mariam,” Amina said severely. “Now what is the matter?”

  “It’s St. Patrick’s Day, mom. The man was joking. He knows you’re not Irish. Look around. Lots of people are wearing green today. I would have, if I had gone to school this morning.”

  Amina was about to reprimand her daughter for her disrespectful tone but was interrupted by the beeping of the metal detector.

  “Female wand on Three,” Agent Murphy called out.

  Medina, wearing her hidjab and shawl, looked like a pinned butterfly specimen as she held her arms straight out for the female TSA Agent.

  “Ma’m. Is this your purse?” another agent asked, taking it off the conveyor belt to a small formica table. Medina nodded.

  “I need to look through it.” The agent carefully started taking everything out and laying it on the table.
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  “You’ll have to step back ma’m. Away from this area,” Agent Murphy said to Amina. She stood next to Jama and Mohamed across the white line on the floor delineating the end of the security zone.

  “They are doing this to mom because she wears the hidjab,” Mohamed said angrily. “I hate these guys. Publicly humiliating mom like that.”

  “Maybe they are doing it both because she set off the metal detector and they saw something on the monitor in her purse. Do not be so quick my son to find offense in every action,” Jama said in a calm tone.

  The agent searching Medina’s purse confiscated a small bottle of perfume, put the other contents of her purse back and indicated she was free to continue into the terminal.

  Medina joined them chagrined and took the hands of her young children as they walked to their gate. “I was wearing a bracelet. I meant to pack it but I was so excited about the trip, I automatically put it on this morning. What a silly mistake,” she said laughing at herself for being absent-minded. “But Jama, what is wrong with carrying perfume? All women do so.”

  “There are some new rules about not taking liquids on airplanes. I’m not sure what they are. Can you replace the perfume in Minneapolis at one of the Somali beauty shops?”

  Medina thought for a moment. “I am sure I can. Maybe, I will also get some new incense. But I’ll be sure to pack it in my shipped luggage,” she said laughing again at her mistake. Jama glanced at his son. “You see, Mohamed. Learn to control your emotions until all the facts are known. Then act on knowledge not in anger.”

  “Yes, aabe,” Mohamed admitted in a reluctant tone.

  Northwest Flight No. 623 departed from National Airport only twenty minutes behind schedule, which meant they would arrive in Minneapolis-St. Paul around 11. Amina noted that Medina arranged for the two of them to sit next to each other in a three across row. The third seat was occupied by a grey haired, white woman, engrossed in People Magazine. Amina, in the middle seat, glanced with disapproval at the article the woman was reading about some movie star, indecently displayed in a photograph exiting a limousine in a short skirt. How could women choose to expose themselves in such a manner in public, she thought. Medina was talking to her in Somali, extolling the virtues of her cousin from Vancouver. She heard snatches of what she was saying. He owned a big house and was very loving toward his elderly parents who lived with him, he regularly sent money to other relatives in Somalia, he drove a Mercedes, his electronic business was the largest in British Columbia, he attended the Mosque every Friday and fasted during Ramadan and of course did not drink any alcohol, and on and on and on.

  Amina finally interrupted. “So please Aunt. Tell me why this flower of Somali manhood and paragon of religious virtue is still unmarried?” She planned to ask this question of each of her female relatives pressing her to look with favor on their candidate.

  Medina took a sip of tea from the Styrofoam cup on the tray. It was obvious to Amina she was thinking of how best to answer in a way most favorable to her cousin.

  “Oooh. This is too hot,” she said fanning her hand in front of her tongue, stalling for more time. “He wanted to be well established financially before taking a wife so that he could provide for her properly. Remember, he would also be responsible for helping support his wife’s parents because…” Medina stopped embarrassed.

  “It is alright, auntie. I wish my mother were here to advise me and my father to give me away. I am sure your cousin is a very nice person. You can introduce us on Saturday night. But do not get your hopes up. Perhaps he is not interested in a divorced woman.”

  “Oh no,” Medina said too quickly. “I have already mentioned that you are divorced and he indicated that was not a problem.” She put her hand to her mouth as she realized what she had said.

  Amina looked at her aunt, amazed at all the scheming and arranging that had been going on behind her back. Medina meant well. She wanted to see Amina married and taken care of. How could Amina explain that she wanted to love and be loved, to feel the spark she had felt when Earl had courted her and looked at the way Earl had looked at her in the beginning. She wanted a life partner in love not a house or a Mercedes. She would rather be single and provide for herself and Mariam, than be in a loveless marriage. To do that, she thought, she had to be more financially self-sufficient instead of relying on her brother, Bashir, for extra money, in case of an emergency, or living with Jama and Medina.

  This time she would listen to Bashir when he talked about a career in nursing. Better skills meant better pay. That’s what Maynard had told her time and again. Now, why was she thinking about him. One marriage to a non-Muslim was enough. She would not and could not marry outside her faith. That was a certainty. How did the concept of marriage and Maynard come together in her mind? Too much prattling by Medina about marriage she thought, exasperated. Well, Medina won’t be the only one to discuss Amina’s single status this weekend. Nor would she be the only camel at the auction, Amina thought. Despite the awkward forced introductions to eligible young men, there still be would be a party. It had been a long time since she had been on a dance floor. She had to admit, there had been some good times with Earl. She resolved to enjoy herself both nights.

  As they taxied toward the gate, Amina leaned forward and stared at the piles of bulldozed snow on the sides of the runway. The Twin Cities had the largest Somali population in the United States. Why they had settled here in a land of bitter cold, snow and long winters, was beyond her. If she ever married again, one non-negotiable condition was they would have to live somewhere warm. She shivered at the icy air leaking through the canvas accordion folds of the jetway, wrapped her thin shawl more tightly around her neck and squeezed Mariam’s gloved hand in hers.

  Bashir was waiting for them at the luggage carousel. He looks so much like their father, she thought, unable to hold back her tears, hugging him hard, his grey flecked beard scratching against her cheek. Her nephew Musa, Bashir’s oldest son, a gangly, awkward 14 year old, politely insisted on pulling her wheeled luggage with one arm and Medina’s in the other to Bashir’s van. They all squeezed in, Jama taking the bucket seat up front and Musa and Mohamed behind them. Bashir first dropped Jama and Mohamed off at the bride’s parents home where they were staying. They drove through the snow lined streets to Bashir’s house and up his freshly plowed driveway. Inside, she was enveloped by the warmth of their home, and the delicious aromas of food simmering on the kitchen burners. Bashir’s wife, Zara, greeted them, followed by her two girls, both older than Mariam. Mariam went with her cousins to their room and she and Medina were settled in a guest room in the basement.

  That afternoon, Amina willingly stayed inside with her brother while Medina went shopping for perfume with Zara. Dinner was a family affair interrupted by the phone ringing continuously as relatives checked in after arriving for tomorrow’s wedding. Some dropped by in the early evening. Amina helped Zara serve coffee and sweet aromatic Somali tea with cardamom, and half listened to the chatter in Somali, with a surprising number of English words, about who was living where, who was getting married, who had given birth, and who was dying, ill, or recovering. It was a floodtide of information, breaking through the dam of distance and the impersonal one- on-one phone conversations. It would be repeated anew to the larger group of women at their dinner, after the wedding, the poems and the dancing.

  After breakfast the following day, Jama’s friend, Abdulkadir, sat down with his daughter and asked her, in Jama’s presence, to name her bride price. As Jama listened to the young girl describe her love for her fiancée, his mind drifting back to when his father had first heard the bride price named by Medina’s father in the presence of the elders of his subclan. He had seen Medina in Garoe where he had been assigned as a young Police Officer. They had barely exchanged a few words before the elders had met. Still, their marriage has been a good one, he thought. But the customs have changed. When he was a young man, the price was in terms of camels, horses and rifles, which m
ade sense in a nomadic society. Today, many young Somali girls living in the diaspora demanded cash, cars, or even homes. In Somalia, the girl’s family determined the bride price. In the United States, it was the young people, not the elders, who discussed it among themselves in advance of the wedding. He didn’t approve of Somali parents whose children couldn’t speak a word of their native language and knew even less about their culture. It was precisely because they were in a foreign country that the parents had an obligation to teach their children Somali and their heritage. But he had to admit permitting a young couple to get acquainted before being married was a change for the better. Some new brides even contributed to the cost of the wedding reception so the groom and his family could pay the bride price. He waited to hear what this young woman would say.

  Abdulkadir’s daughter was seated on the sofa next to her mother and married sister.

  “Uncle,” she said, addressing Jama respectfully. Her eyes glowed with merriment and excitement. “I ask as my bride price, five sets of gold jewelry, each set to have no less than four pieces, and each piece to weigh no less than two ounces. After Osman becomes my husband, he will have no obligation to pay my bride price unless he divorces me and then it shall be immediately due. That is my price. Please communicate it to him before witnesses.”

  Jama nodded his assent. This was a very smart young woman and very much in love, he thought. He did the math. She had demanded about $20,000 at the current price of gold per ounce. Gold was bound to increase in value so, in the unlikely event her husband were to divorce her, she would receive more than $20,000 at the time of divorce. Yet, she had expressed her deep love and her faith in the young man’s love of her that no bride price had to be paid because they would be married for as long as they lived. Jama knew from her mirthful expression that she and Osman had agreed on the price beforehand and if left on their own, probably would not have even followed the custom.