"No way in hell," Yilmaz said with a threatening shake of her body—which made sense, her whole body being a weapon. "If I catch you peeking, I'll detach every limb of your body."
"A thousand blessings to you, too."
With a parting glare of warning, she disappeared behind the wall. Ari flopped onto the sofa. It burped, as promised. And then it proceeded to swallow him. He edged away from the voracious center and sat on the plump edge of a cushion, bracing his hands on his knees to keep from falling back in. He quickly grew bored as he surveyed the room. He had seen it all before. Besides, the noisy women kept distracting him. He caught movement on the burnished flank of the Kawai piano. A reflection. No, the reflection of a reflection. A brass vase half his height stood in the corner, its shiny curve catching movements in the dining hall. Unable to make sense of the movement on the piano's wood-like carbon fiber, Ari stood and brushed his fingertips along the piano, as though preparing to belt out a tune. He followed the frame until he came to the strut of the piano lid. He leaned in the direction of the vase, his head almost touching the wall trim. He immediately made out the bronze reflection of Yilmaz standing inside the dining hall entrance. He would have a second's warning if she suddenly darted for the music room. That would give him just enough time to draw back and…look guilty as hell. But what he saw next encouraged him to take the risk. Nabihah Sadiq's guests were gathered in a large circle—or so Ari guessed, judging from the half-circle he could see in the vase. In the center sat a woman, blindfolded, her legs bare. There was something on her hands…rubber gloves?
The blindfolded woman was working desperately at something filmy that hung about her legs. They might have been stockings, but the reflection on the vase obscured details. He swiveled his eyes in Yilmaz's direction. She did not join in the laughter of the other women, but stared ahead in stoic indifference. Or horror. Impossible to say. But if she glanced towards the entrance she would see Ari's beady eyes in the bronze. Would she really attack him? Probably. This certainly seemed like a female rite that no man should witness. Even male members of the family must be excluded from this kind of riot, and with good reason. Forget the bared legs and strange torture. The unseemly hooting of these women reminded Ari of the raucous 'High, O Victorious Baghdad' chants of the crowds at the Home Stadium whenever the Lions of Mesopotamia played UAE.
Ari watched until the blindfolded woman had pulled her skirt far above her knees. With a shudder he retreated to the sofa.
Savages!
He released his gaze from the entrance and allowed it to wander along the walls. Between the fake Sasanian reliefs and raucously golden hieroglyphics were paintings that must have ranged over a century. The more traditional and presumably older works illustrated scenes from literature, such as the Mu'allaqat, as well as hazy images of imaginary harems. More recent pieces, like the Aflatoun, varied between a jagged, crude realism and the inarticulate abstract. His survey braked abruptly when he saw a painting that seemed very much out of place. Not because of what it was, but because of where it was. Ari never forgot a face. Ari never forgot a phone number. But he had never had the opportunity to test his eidetic memory on art. What he was looking at was garbage, of course: a nasty tangle of abstraction, cubes and arbitrary lines fit for the dustbin. But he had seen it before: 'Le Mur', by the Iraqi painter Shakir Hassan al Said.
What was it doing here?
The woman at the center of the circle must have succeeded in whatever she was trying to accomplish because the dining hall suddenly erupted in joyous mayhem. It went on for a full minute before it subsided into whispers. There was some shuffling by many people. It sounded like a canvas sack dragged by a train. Then Yilmaz appeared at the entrance.
"Come."
The women had not vacated the dining hall, as he had half expected and fully hoped. The fold-out chair in which the blindfolded woman had sat was empty, surrounded by women who remained in a circle around it. As before, at Madame Murphy's dinner, some sat on the floor while others had taken chairs from the huge dining table, which had been pushed against the wall. Mrs. Sadiq was wearing a full-skirt swing dress with a burgundy and gray geometric pattern that billowed above her black high heels. She looked like a vision out of a Fustany fashion magazine, if Fustany had existed in 1950.
"Mr. Ciminon, please join us," she said, nodding in the direction of the chair.
Ari hesitated, then announced, "I do not like to be the center of attention. I am very shy."
The women could not contain their laughter. Nabihah clapped them into silence.
"No man is shy who dresses as nattily as yourself."
Silently cursing his Sid Mashburn jacket and silk tie, Ari shuffled over to the chair. He stared at the glove and panty hose on the floor.
"What is this?"
"We were playing 'hot fingers'. Try to put on a pair of stockings blindfolded while wearing oversized latex gloves. It takes a great deal of dexterity."
"Why would you do such a thing?" he asked.
"It's what they call an 'ice-breaker'. I am showing my guests ways in which to survive in America—besides being house cleaners and shopkeepers. Your timing is perfect. I can use you as a test subject."
"I…" Ari stared in horror at the panty hose.
"I'm not asking you to play hot fingers, although it's amusing when we can find willing husbands to participate. Please…rest yourself."
Ari gingerly sat, shunting the hosiery and gloves away with his foot.
Dozens of female eyes turned his way, just as they had done at the grand fête. This was natural, seeing as he was in the middle of the circle. Yet this time his sense of transgression was more pronounced. Perhaps this was because he had violated a special rite reserved for women. Or was he the one being violated? Feeling their eyes peeling away his skin, he wondered if he was being viewed as the main course.
Not just run of the mill savages. Cannibals!
"We are planning for Iftar parties at the end of September," said Nabihah, shading her palms across her very un-Muslim dress.
Iftar party? Those were held when Muslims broke their month-long fast. Ari had lost track of holy events. So…this year's Ramadan was in September? He spent a moment scrounging around his soul for any sign of interest, then gave it up and returned his attention to the women around him. His eyes fell on Karida, the woman he had nearly slain with an insult during the dinner party. Her glum expression was nothing new, but now it was etched deeper in her face. She was not looking at Ari. She must have found 'hot fingers' repulsive. Proper Muslim women did not behave this way. He agreed. His face began turning sour.
"I'm sure you're here on business, Mr. Ciminon," said Nabihah in a placating tone. "Could you indulge us for a few moments? We only have a couple of months to prepare for business in the new world. I want my guests to learn about party plans. I'm starting out with Avon and Tupperware, but there are many other products available for home sale. And one of the things they'll have to become comfortable with is a strange man in their midst. One of the common techniques is to lure down—these parties are often held in basements—the husband of the woman hosting the party. She can then test our alluring perfumes so that the potential buyers can see how happy they can make their own husbands. Unfortunately, none of my guests has a husband present to use as a test subject. Nor do they have basements…or homes. They themselves will be the invited guests. Fortunately, I am in possession of a list of households willing to hold our events. In brief, these women will have to bring utter strangers into their midst, and on unknown ground. I am sure Allah will forgive this very minor transgression."
What, did she think she was an imam? Allah would probably spit hellfire on these women just for being here. The whole idea was impractical. By behaving this way, they were casting tradition to the winds. But who was he to criticize? A pot that called the kettle black opened itself to all sorts of ridicule. Besides, the women in the circle were hanging on Nabihah's every word. They were mesmerized by the opportuniti
es unfolding before them. All but Karida, that is.
One day, Ari thought, all of them might be wearing miniskirts.
Once again, in spite of his own godlessness, he shuddered.
"I don't think we can interest you in Tupperware…" said Nabihah speculatively. "Very well, then, we will see if we can entice you with something more to your taste. Who will volunteer to show one of our fine products to our guest? Imagine him as the husband of your hostess. Harmless. A eunuch, if you must."
Ari squirmed uncomfortably, but froze in place when this drew titters.
"Now now, you know the old saying: Ifaalo bel Khair, tajidoo."
Hope for good and it will happen.
The laughter stopped when one of the women seated in a chair unhesitatingly rose to her feet and turned to survey the lotions and perfumes lined up on the dining room table. Choosing a bottle with a plastic pump, she dispensed a dab of lotion on her inner wrist and rubbed it in slowly with her index finger as she strode over to Ari. Dressed in slacks, heels and a filmy blouse, she oozed all the erotic essentials. Had she been a belly dancer she would have made the same impact. From the cautious and jealous looks of the others, Ari gathered she was the resident vamp. Languidly, with the charm of a scented cobra, she walked in front of him, sending waves of a familiar fragrance under Ari's nose.
"I overheard you speaking to Nabihah at the swimming pool," the woman said in a low voice, sounding for all the world as if she was inviting him into a dark corner of the Kasbah. He glanced up at her face. Yes, he had seen her at the pool, lying naked in the chaise lounge beyond Nabihah. Well, not Western naked, but in Ari's old neighborhood a woman in a bikini was as naked as they came.
"The famous cocoa butter," he nodded. "Very pleasant."
The woman switched direction and repeated her pass. "Are you certain, Mr. Ciminon? I wouldn't want to disappoint you."
"Yes, yes," Ari gulped. "A buttered woman is most pleasing."
This provoked startled laughter. Another woman shot to her feet and went to the table. She sprayed perfume on her wrist and began racing to the middle of the circle before forcing herself into a slow, seductive half-waltz. She flounced past Ari a little too energetically, but he nodded politely.
"This is Avon Haiku Eau de Parfum," the woman said seductively. "For the woman…and man…of few words…"
"No, A'idah, you didn't!" Nabihah cried out, covering her gasp of laughter with both hands.
It took the advances (that's how they appeared to Ari) of two more women in Western clothes before someone in a jilbaab rose from the floor and ventured to the table. She was very short. The hem of her robe hopped up and down in brief spasms as she turned to the center of the circle. Standing still in front of Ari, she demurely held out her hand, tilting her wrist for better sniffing.
"This is Avon 'Far Away', a long-lasting fragrance," she recited in a small sibilant voice like a child's. "Freesia and peach blend with hints of osmanthus, jasmine and orange flower to remind one of love in distant lands."
Ari stared into her dark eyes, mesmerized.
"Wonderful, A'shadieeyah," Nabihah complimented from across the room. "You just don't know how effective you are. Look at him…completely under your spell!"
A'shadieeyah's eyes widened in fearful wonderment. She raced back to her spot on the floor and plopped down.
Others took heart. Several more women, wearing hijabs, took their turns before Ari gave the hostess a pleading look.
"Mrs. Sadiq, if this continues, I'll be here all day!"
"Very well, Mr. Ciminon," said Nabihah. But one more, please…just one more. Karida!"
The sour woman from the Truck 7 jumped, horror-struck.
"Yes, you!" Nabihah insisted. "The Syrian authorities smashed up your little shop in Yarmouk Camp. Yilmaz told me. Do you think you can do better here? Will Americans really swoop down to gobble up your Haleem? The food inspectors will test your stew in their laboratories and find it wanting, no matter how good it is. There is a great fear of bacteria in this country, and a great love of licenses. You will have to find something else. If not cosmetics or perfumes, then…well, something else. But you must make a start somewhere. If you find yourself destitute here, there is no charity, no zakat al-mal. You will fade into nothingness. Is that what you want? Then bring forth your courage! Show your daughter you will not be a drain on her resources!"
Daughter? But before Ari could glance around, his dread was magnetized by Karida.
With a low, heated grunt of woe, she lifted herself to her feet and dragged her way to the table. Taking up a small jar, she slapped something pink across her wrist and walked over to Ari. Thrusting her hand in his face, she declaimed, "This is Avon Imari Skin Softener for the sick lickers of women."
"I think that's enough for now, Karida," said Nabihah, covering her eyes. "Please resume your seat. The rest of you ladies continue your training. Choose someone among you to act as the husband and continue the class. Now…Mr. Ciminon…?"
With vast relief, Ari rose and followed her out of the dining hall. They passed through the music room and across the main hallway to a front parlor half the size of the dining hall and twice the size of the local ABC store—which Ari knew all too well. Paintings similar to those in the music room flavored the walls. Nabihah caught him glancing at yet another modernistic mess that he had seen being toted through the streets of Baghdad. He thought she was going to ask him if he was interested in art. Instead, she looked away quickly, the opposite reaction one would have expected from someone who so proudly displayed their acquisitions or pretensions or financial investments. She directed him to a chair more solid than the slouching-couch in the music room and took a seat across from him.
"What do you think of my little training session?" she asked as she genteelly settled her skirt. "Do you find it shockingly Western?"
"Everything about the West shocks me," Ari smiled. "Everything about the East, also. I am immobile to shock."
"I'm not sure what you mean, but I'll take that as indifference. That's a better reaction than I would expect from most—"
"Italian men," Ari interrupted.
"Yes," she said doubtfully. "Do you know that some of the workers at the depot thought they recognized you?"
"Really? From where?"
"Baghdad."
"Do I look Iraqi?" Ari asked, brushing his dark hand across his face.
"Not quite. They also say they don't recognize you per se, but a drawing they've seen of you. Are you a former star, Mr. Ciminon?"
"I am obliterated with anonymity," Ari shrugged.
"Yes, I'm sure my people are mistaken," said Nabihah with a laugh that did not exactly dispose of the subject. "Now, what can I do for you?"
"Do you know a man named Sanad Raimouny?"
Her laughter trailed off. "Why do you ask?"
"He's a friend of your husband's. I was wondering if he was a friend of yours, too. He has an associate…Nizzar…"
"Yes…" Her eyes browsed the carpet, as if she had lost a contact lens.
"He says they are in the reclamation business."
"You spoke to Sanad?" Nabihah asked.
"I met him and Nizzar at Mr. Sadiq's home. Not as nice as your elegant mansion, but very pleasant. He has not been harmed financially by the disagreement between the two of you."
"My husband can be very resourceful. For all I know, he has begun a new business venture. Or he's gone into a partnership with someone."
"Mr. Raimouny?"
"Tareq knows nothing about…" She paused and looked up. "…'reclamation'. Why on earth are you asking me about Sanad? I can tell you that he has nothing to do with the hijackings."
"You can be so sure of that?"
"Many years ago, he was something like a deputy curator at the Sursock Museum in Beirut. For some reason he became very unpopular. Not with the museum, but with his neighbors on Rachid Karami Street. You might be more familiar with its old name, the Rue Verdun."
"Yes," Ari nod
ded. Rachid Karami had been prime minister of Lebanon up to 1987, when he was assassinated. Coming from a prominent Sunni family, his murder had stirred up a lot of discussion in Ari's neighborhood, especially when it came out that the Christian Militia was behind it. "Rue Verdun…that's a very posh neighborhood, I hear."
"Yes. You would have thought his neighbors would be more open-minded."
"Open-minded about what?"
"According to Sanad, everyone wanted his neck. The Sunnis, the Shia, the Christians, even the Druze, for Heaven's sake. And then an Israeli bomb blew up in front of his house. They were after Hezbollah, so why they would drop a bomb on Rue Verdun is anyone's guess."
"Probably a mistake," said Ari.
"Even so, Sanad decided it was time to pull up roots."
"No one likes atheists," Ari said with an inner sigh of sympathy.
"I wouldn't know about that. Let's just say I think Sanad is a shade luti."
"He's a sodomite?" Ari exclaimed, drawing back. "He…has a wife and children…"
"Yes," Nabihah shrugged. "This is only my woman's intuition talking. Please don't spread any unsubstantiated rumors. News like that might hurt him among his business associates. Anyway, he fled to America to escape persecution."
"He came to the right place," Ari squirmed.
"Like buggery is unknown among Arabs?" Nabihah scoffed. "Muslims have never liked women. That's why they…" She made a snipping motion with her fingers.
Once again, she was speaking of female genital mutilation, a subject only slightly less discomfiting to him as sodomy.
"But your homeland, Egypt, is a civilized country," Ari protested.
"Even the Grand Mufti has come out against the practice, and last year it was outlawed. But 97% of all girls are still…" She repeated the obscene snipping gesture.
It had not been fashionable in Iraq. Saddam, for all his faults, disapproved of it. He and his sons preferred women to be pristine. What was the point of rape if the woman didn't enjoy it? What was the point of beheading prostitutes, which Saddam ordered on occasion, if they were…incomplete?
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 27