The discreet garage entrance bypassed the grand foyer, but the hall he found himself in was expansive enough. A music room, with a grand white Kawai that seemed to menace any amateur who dared to approach. The wide space spreading out from its elegant presence suggested this doubled as a ballroom. There was no comparison to the Babylon Warwick here, but for a small city in a provincial backwater…it was stupendous.
Ari had no time to admire the Persian wall-hangings, faux hieroglyphics and Toscano furniture, although he could not help but pause in front of what appeared to be the Ark of the Covenant. What in the world was that doing here?
But his salivary glands were running full-throttle. The delicious aromas were accompanied by a raft of low voices from the room beyond. Like Aladdin snared by a nasal fishhook, Ari was drawn out of the luxurious pond.
The women from the semi-truck trailer stood at the end of a dining hall as large as the ballroom. At the far end was an enormous oak dining table from which about ten women, who had been seated, rose to greet the newcomers. More women, about an equal number, pushed themselves up from cloths laid out on the floor. They all strode over to the newcomers and shook their hands. Some of them embraced. Ari noted a reticence that could not be explained by the fact that the newcomers were strangers. There was a shyness similar to that shared by people caught in an embarrassing predicament.
"Please, you may wash your hands in the alcove over there." Nabihah waved the newcomers to a small passage. "When you return, you can choose your seat. The food is ready."
As the newcomers filed out, Ari's skin crawled with a sudden realization: he was the only man in the room. He was being stared at with such ferocity that he began to stagger out of the hall.
"Mr. Ciminon, when they are finished, you can wash your hands and then join us." Nabihah gave him a benign smile that was followed by a cautionary glance at the other guests. She was telling them that his presence was acceptable—dismaying as it might be to some of them. But few of them seemed put out. A few ogled him like a ripe avocado that was just out of reach. Ari, who had confronted dangers unimaginable to the rank and file of ordinary citizens, felt like crawling under the lush carpet. He smiled, cringed and turned sideways, as though presenting a smaller target.
"May I ask where everyone is?" he grimaced. He meant, of course, where all the men were.
Nabihah understood and smiled back at him. "Why, we are all here. Why are you limping? Are you injured?"
"It's nothing," he said, too tired to hide his mortification behind a lie, and too hungry to deal with the truth. The women had returned to their chairs or their places on the floor. The arrangement spoke of Nabihah's fine sense of etiquette. Her guests came from all over the Middle East and customs varied not only from country to country, but from household to household. Muhammed said he ate as a slave ate, seated on the floor, but that commonsense man added that it was no sin to dine otherwise. In the scheme of things, it did not matter if one ate on the floor, at a table, standing up, riding on the back of a camel, at one's desk, in one's car, in a plane, or sucked paste from a tube in a space capsule. More traditional Muslim families chose the floor, but not always; and those feeling less bound by the Prophet's example chose to sit on the floor, too, because that was how they were raised. But those who sat at a table were not considered tainted by unbelief or Western ways. That was just how they ate. Ari thought that many Americans ate out of fast-food feedbags. He used to find that disgusting. The secular table of his own youth had been refined almost to the point of parody. He might not know much about art or music, but he could tell a salad fork from a dessert spoon and that the blades of the dinner knives (meat, fish, salad) were turned toward the plate. Although these days he too often drank straight from the bottle, in company he used a snifter. And he could have given the proper names to the entire range of stemware that had shattered about his head when hiding from American bombs at the Baghdad Hotel. Since then, he had shared field rations with Coalition soldiers and learned the unique appeal of burgers at McDonald's. Imagine, having to unwrap a sandwich even if one was sitting down at the restaurant to eat it!
While Nabihah's dining hall might be arranged to accommodate differing sensibilities, to Ari it looked unbalanced. She could not place the table too close to those on the floor without appearing to look down upon them, but if she placed it too far away conversation would become impracticable. The result was unintended segregation. Rather than crane their heads upwards to speak to someone at the table, the women on the floor huddled among themselves. Those at the table averted their eyes from the women on the floor, either out of courtesy or an unfortunate snobbery.
The newcomers emerged from the passage and Ari went into the small bathroom to wash his hands. He again did a mirror check and thanked his lucky star that Yilmaz had not hit him in the face. When he came out he found no free spaces on the floor and only a single chair open in the center of the table. Skirting the edge of the room, he worked his way to the chair, nodding apologetically at the women to either side. They both shifted their chairs, ostensibly to give him more room. Well, he was a big man. The woman to his left wore a hijab, while the one to his right wore slacks and a blouse. All of the women on the floor wore hijabs, though in a wide variety of colors. It looked like a tulip garden.
"I know we're starting late, but I have a first-rate chef here and I'm sure everything is fresh." Nabihah stood and went to the back entrance, calling over her shoulder, "I'll let her know we're ready."
Ari was surprised by the loud growling of his stomach, as if the Flying J Baconburger had completely sizzled through his digestive system in a record four hours. Usually, such meals sat like rocks for half a day, unassisted by the accompanying grease. There was no question, though, that the wonderful smells emanating from Nabihah's kitchen could rouse his appetite even on a full stomach.
The woman of the mansion returned and gracefully spread out her abaya as she seated herself at the head of the table. "Everything is wonderful," she smiled reassuringly.
A moment later two men and two women emerged with khiwaans (trays) heavily laden with sikrujjah vessels containing broad bean patties, falafel, stuffed grape leaves, chickpea and sesame dip and other appetizers that triggered several eye-rolls of delight from Ari. The women wore hijabs, the men embroidered dishdashas. They strolled silently across the room, dispensing the sikrujjahs with broad smiles, like beneficent genies. The woman to his left said her du'a, the usual "Bismallah" (in the name of Allah) and ate with her fingers. The woman to his right used a fork to worry at a grape leaf—not very practical, Ari thought, taking up the appetizer in his bare hand. He heard a grunt behind him and turned. The sour woman from the trailer had found herself close to the table and was looking up. She seemed to be judging his etiquette. She lowered her eyes and murmured:
"Allahomma barik lana fima razaqtana waquina athaban-nar. Bismallah."
Oh Allah! Bless the food You have provided us and save us from the punishment of the hellfire. In the name of Allah.
Then, using the middle three fingers of her right hand, she began to eat.
Ari would never be caught dead saying a prayer—unless it looked as if he might soon be dead—but he took comfort from the sour woman's prayer. One sometimes needed to be reminded that there were people of faith, even if you couldn't include yourself among them. The sour woman was joined by a chorus of whispered 'Bismallahs' as the women around her lifted their fingers to their lips. Nabihah looked up and nodded, smiling.
"Bismallah," she said.
Ari resumed eating, but grew annoyed when the sour woman began murmuring a prayer with every bite she took. It was the custom in some households, but none Ari had ever frequented. It was like a verbal nudge, as if she was saying, 'Hey, why aren't you more thankful?'
When one of the men (Ari summoned the almost medieval phrase 'retainer') rested another dish near him, he glanced up and said:
"Gracias."
"De nada," said the young man.
"¿Cuántas de sus personas están aquí?"
The man opened his mouth to answer, then caught Nabihah looking at him. He shrugged and moved on.
"I know you speak English and Arabic, and I presume you know Italian," Nabihah said convivially. "Spanish, too?"
"Some," Ari admitted. "I have to deal with many Hispanics in my line of work. It is a necessity."
"Yes…your line of work. You seem to take it very seriously, or else you would not have shown up at the depot tonight."
"I am a job-a-holic," said Ari.
"Ah, yes. But you need to work on that English a bit."
"Did I say something amiss?"
"Not at all, I understood you perfectly." Keeping her eyes on him, she swept a sesame wafer through her dip. Ari nodded his thanks as a young woman in a hijab poured him a glass of lime juice. It was none of his business how she imported her Mexican-Arab labor. But he was wondering if the women in the trailer might be very much his business—and Lawson's.
"Bismallah…Bismallah…Bismallah…"
The sour woman's muttered prayer should have been drowned out by all the conversations taking place around her. Ari wondered if she had raised her voice to set an example for all the mushrikun in the dining hall. Since it was hard to say which, if any, of the women were committing the sin of shirk (unless she was counting those wearing Western-style clothing among the sinners), she was probably directing her prayer at Ari, an obvious idolater.
"Bismallah—Bismallah—Bismallah…"
The prayers were speeding up. With a 'thank you' to Allah for each bite, she must be wolfing down her food. Ari turned to her and wiggled the three fingers of his right hand. See? I'm eating in the best Muslim manner. I haven't touched my fork!
He had caught her attention. She studied his fingers for a moment, then briefly met his eyes.
"Bismallah"…bite…"Bismallah"…bite…"Bismallah…"
Ari brushed his elbow across the edge of the table. His elegant napkin fell to the floor. One or two women seated on the floor glanced his way, then refocused on their appetizers. Leaning down to retrieve the napkin, Ari grinned at the sour woman, bunched the fingers of his right hand together, then pressed the index finger of his left hand at the apex. The sour woman choked. Ari took up his napkin and returned to his dish.
He had committed something of an atrocity, especially since it had been directed at a woman. The most universally condemned gesture of the Arab world, 'five fathers' signified that one's mother was such a whore that no one could guess one's father. It was the kind of insult that could get one arrested in some countries. It was so inflammatory that if you were killed for committing it, the murderer would be forgiven…and possibly rewarded. He couldn't really say why he had done it, except the charm of hearing the prayer had worn off quickly. He was a past master of shrugging off insults—one could not survive in Saddam Hussein's Iraq without that particular talent. But he had succumbed to the persistent Chinese torture of the sour woman's prayers. Perhaps it was a reaction to the multiple contusions he had received that evening at the hands of a woman. He was immediately sorry. He swiveled in his chair and leaned forward, preparing to help. The sour woman saw his approach and fell sideways, still choking.
Nabihah stood and rushed around the table. "Uh…" She looked around. "What is her name? She didn't introduce herself."
Several of the women from the trailer shook their heads.
"She didn't introduce herself to us, either."
"Why ever not?"
"Because she's a…"
Two of the women exchanged glances, then looked down.
Because she's a sour bitch, Ari thought unkindly.
Nabihah leaned over the woman. "Are you all…" She immediately saw it was a stupid question. The sour woman's eyes were rolling. "Help is at hand," Nabihah announced. She ran to the kitchen entrance.
What happened next proved to Ari that the worst crimes are usually punished in the worst ways. When Nabihah emerged from the kitchen, she was followed by Bill Mumford.
Ari began to choke.
This was the husband of the woman he loved almost as much as his beloved Rana. Madame Mumford had single-handedly rescued him from America's culinary atrocities. The woman who had made it worthwhile for him to live in this land of plastic plenty. Both Madame Mumford and her husband knew where he lived—information he was desperate not be shared. They also knew he had had, as guests, deputy marshals, a Methodist pastor (Grainger) and an accomplice to murder. None of whom would sit well with Muslim immigrants, legal or otherwise. Now he understood why the aromas from the kitchen were so deliciously familiar.
Bill Mumford spotted Ari right away. He was the only male guest, for one. And he was choking. Only when he ran over did he also see the woman gagging on the floor. Ari waved him off with a wagging finger and nodded at the woman. He gave Bill a half-shake of the head. Bill understood and gave him a half-nod before kneeling next to the victim of Ari's crime.
"Are you all right?" Nabihah asked Ari, who quickly took a sip of his lime juice.
"Fine. Such excitement!"
"If you want to call it that."
"Can you talk?" Bill shouted at the sour woman.
"You can see that she can't!" Nabihah said with emphatic courtesy.
"She can't say 'boo'," Ari added, his own voice strengthening.
"Can you cough?" Bill asked the woman. "Try to cough!"
A strained noise came from the sufferer. Bill lifted her hand, glanced at her fingernails, and nodded. He shifted position behind the woman and raised her to a seated position. The woman tried to move away from him.
"Stop it!" Nabihah commanded. "He's trying to help!"
Bill administered five blows between her shoulder blades with the heel of his hand. Beneath the croaking sounds came a moan and gasp of protest. Standing, Bill lifted her up and wrapped his arms around her waist. Guessing at the location of her navel beneath her robe, he joined his hands over her abdomen and thrust upwards. At the fifth thrust a plump green wad shot from her mouth. A sound like water drawn through a trumpet came out of her throat.
"There, you're all right." Bill began to massage her back. She jerked away.
"No!"
Blushing deeply, he said, "Right, sorry, I forgot…"
Relieved that he had not unintentionally murdered the woman, but not yet fully recovered from the shock of seeing Mumford, Ari summoned a feeble smile of gratitude.
"Don't mind her, Mr. Mumford," Nabihah reassured him. "You deserve the Grand Cordon of the Nile for your lifesaving skills."
"That sounds nice," said Bill, unaware that it was Egypt's highest civilian honor.
"Yes," said Ari. "I'm tickled with amazement."
"I work weekends for the Volunteer Rescue Squad," Bill shrugged modestly.
An indiscernible shout that was discernibly French came from the kitchen.
"Back to work." Bill watched the sour woman wipe the tears from her face. "You'll be all right?"
She nodded.
"You can thank him," said Nabihah.
"Shukran," the woman said brusquely.
Nabihah pouted in disappointment and turned to Bill. "If I remember my French, I believe you are being summoned to the kitchen to help your wife."
Bill darted Ari a furtive glance, then hastened out of the dining hall.
"All's well that ends," said Ari, returning to his appetizer.
"Well," said Nabihah. "Don't eat so fast, dear," she admonished the sour woman before returning to her seat.
The rest of the meal met all of Ari's expectations, now that he knew the identity of the chef. As the women around him finished eating, they offered the traditional Alhamdulillah (Praise be to Allah). Ari ignored them and continued eating. He was more gluttonous than the average Arab (outside the Imperial Palace), but he forgave himself with the reminder that he was Assyrian…who presumably were gluttons. He was much darker than the average Assyrian. He assumed a dastardly Moor had slipped into the family tr
ee.
"Alhamdulillah il-lathi at'amana wasaqana waja'alana Muslimeen." (Praise be to Allah Who has fed us and given us drink, and made us Muslims.)
This came from the sour woman, who was giving the full version of the after-dinner prayer. Feeling a little abashed, some of the other women said:
"Allahumma at'im man at'amanee wasqi man saqanee." (Oh Allah, feed the one who has fed me, and quench the thirst of the one who has given me drink.)
"Yes, thank you," said the woman in Western clothing to Ari's left. "That was wonderful. Please give me the name of the chef. Once I get settled down…"
"Of course," Nabihah nodded graciously.
Ari fought mightily against calling the woman a cow and slamming her with a throat-chop. Madame Mumford had already cancelled twice on him, leaving him bereft and unfed in his lowly non-mansion. Now he knew why. She had been kidnapped by the owner of a truck company. He wondered how much Nabihah was paying her. Considering the number of guests, the bill must be stupendous. His father had paid through the nose to hire a decent cook when Ari was growing up in a fashionable Baghdad neighborhood. Ari was agreeable to high rates when it came to excellent food. But he wanted to have a nose left when he dabbed his lips with his serviette.
"Je suis repu," Ari said finally, pushing his empty plate away. He felt slightly chagrined upon realizing all the other plates had been cleared away. "Let me add my congratulations. A most wonderful meal."
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 18