Hot Pink in the City (3 page)

"Hurry up and find Madonna before your father
comes home," I urge.

We sit on the carpeted floor, getting
comfortable, but then a sound coming from behind us chills me. It's
worse than Freddy Krueger or that freaky doll in
Child's
Play
. Those are movies, but the little monster behind me is
real and can cause some serious damage since he's everyone's
favorite little guy.

"What are you two doing?" Omar asks.

I turn around to face his wicked little grin.
One side of his mouth is turned up higher than the other in a truly
diabolical way. I look askance at Nasreen, and her throat goes up
and down in a nervous gulp. He's small, yet he can do a lot of
damage. There's no shaking him. He's like a bloodhound on a trail,
snooping on me not too long ago and now in my face. In the past, I
was here with family, and I didn't have too many encounters with
him since he was younger and less outspoken. It dawns on me that
I'm going to spend a prolonged period with this unsavory little
boy.

"We're not... not doing anything," I
stammer.

"Let's make our cousin feel at home," Nasreen
says.

Omar's face widens, blowing up. He's like a
balloon, full of devious notions and the itch to snitch. "You're
not supposed to be playing with Baba's radio!"

"Lower your voice," Nasreen orders between
clenched teeth, being big sisterly and menacing.

"Relax," I say.

"You're ruining Asma's stay here!"

"Please, give us a moment alone," I
plead.

Omar's face shrinks, the redness leaving his
cheeks. I believe our pleading has calmed him down. He opens his
mouth, surely to apologize or tell us to proceed with what we're
doing. After all, I am family. He is a cold little booger, but I
refuse to believe he's heartless.

"I'm telling Baba!" he yells. "You two will
be in so much trouble. Oooh, I'm telling..."

Chapter Three

"Nasreen, taste this rice!" Auntie commands.
She walks out of the kitchen with a spoon in hand, her short, curly
hair rising in all directions from the humidity of the kitchen.
"Blow on it," she says.

Nasreen looks from her brother to her mother.
I'm also waiting to see if Omar will say anything. His eyes stay on
us, as if his mother isn't interrupting. He wears his smirk with
pride.

My cousin crosses her eyes as the wooden
spoon, with a huge dollop of rice at the end of it, nears her. She
blows on it and then takes a bite. Auntie pulls the spoon up so
every grain ends up in Nasreen's mouth. Her eyes are fixated on her
daughter, as if the fate of the world is resting on Nasreen's
shoulders.

A beginning of a smile plays on her lips.
"How is it for softness?" Auntie asks.

"It's fine, Mom," Nasreen says.

Her lips turn up some more. "And for
salt?"

"It's just right."

Auntie fully smiles, unleashing her happiness
on us. She has received validation for her cooking. She walks back
to the kitchen, her bubble butt causing her dress to rock like a
pendulum.

With Auntie out of the way, Omar goes back to
grinning. "You know that Baba doesn't want you using his
radio."

"There are exceptions," Nasreen says. "For
example, we have a guest in the house."

"Baba has never mentioned these
exceptions."

"Come on, it's just for an hour," I say.

"I never use his radio, because I have
something called respect. Maybe you two need to learn about it.
What if you break his radio? He'll be so mad. And even if you don't
break it, he still won't like the idea that you're using it while
he's out. I know your game, Nasreen. I see how you turn the dial
and switches to the way he left them. I've been nice enough not to
mention what you've been doing all year."

"You're such a tattletale, I swear," Nasreen
says.

Auntie walks in again, spoon in hand. She has
a serious look on her face. She needs more praise. Her presence
relieves me, because her son acts less obnoxious around her. Auntie
and Uncle think he's an angel; they would never believe how evil he
really is.

"How is this gravy?" she asks in her accented
English. "Blow on it."

Nasreen rolls her eyes, but she does as
asked. Auntie crouches down so Nasreen can blow on the spoon and
its thick, red contents, and then in her mouth it goes. Auntie
smiles, waiting for the compliment. Her eyebrows go up and down,
willing the accolades to erupt. Everyone tells Auntie she's a good
cook, but she fishes for compliments so she can hear it again and
again.

"It's delicious, Mom," Nasreen says.

"Did I make it too spicy?"

"No."

"I added some lemon juice. Is it too
acidic?"

"No."

"Should I add onion?"

"Why not?"

"Yes, I should." Auntie leaves, but I'd like
her to stay. Omar behaves, kind of, when she's around. When the
sound of onions being chopped begins, Omar rubs his hands together
and smirks.

Devious demon child! He knows he can dangle
this threat over Nasreen's head any time he wants. During my last
vacation, I witnessed Nasreen breaking out her pocket money to pay
for his silence. Nasreen had an unlit cigarette in her purse, given
to her by a friend. She did admit to me that she planned on smoking
it since she's never tried cigarettes, but she never got a chance
to. Omar said he spilled her purse's contents by accident and found
it, which is bull. He probably was snooping, which he's good at.
Omar took the cigarette and then blackmailed her. He has a cigar
box full of money that goes inside the locked coat closet by the
front door. The little booger saves his allowance and blackmail
money. But I don't want Nasreen to lose money for what she's doing
now, since she's trying to help me find Madonna music. This is my
fault, so I'll have to fix this problem.

"I ran out of money, and I don't want to be
the only one of my friends who can't buy anything at the candy
store after we finish playing ball," he says.

Nasreen's hand disappears inside her pants
pocket, but I grab it by the wrist. "I have something for you," I
say. "And it's better than candy."

"What do you have?" Omar asks, curiosity
softening the evil glee on his face.

"Let me show you..." I get up, beckon him to
Nasreen's room, and hand him his presents, which I wanted to give
to him tonight -- I have to get rid of him now, though. He's the
barrier between Madonna and me. Omar jumps up and down -- he seems
to do that a lot -- and he even puts his arm around my waist, which
is the closest thing to a hug I'll get from him. Not that I want a
hug from him. I want him out of my way.

***

I sit back down with Nasreen. Omar is behind
his curtain. I hear the metallic click of Gobots and the crashing
of toy cars. Now we can get down to business.

Nasreen tunes the dial. The sweet sounds of
FM fill the apartment. She finds a pop station, Z100. Commercials
are playing, so we wait. The first one is an advertisement for a
Madonna concert at Madison Square Garden. I heard about it in the
news, but now that I'm in New York maybe by some miracle I can
go.

"Do you think Uncle will let us see Madonna?"
I ask.

"My dad isn't one to let me go to concerts. I
begged him to see U2 awhile back, and he wouldn't let me go."

"But I'm a guest." Middle Eastern people are
quite hospitable to guests. My own parents drop whatever they're
doing to cater to them, whether it's serving them food or picking
them up from the airport. There is an issue of money, since I'm
sure tickets for Madonna are pricey. I hope I can figure something
out.

I grab one of the blank tapes I had pulled
off a shelf. Nasreen takes it from me and inspects it. On both
sides of the tape are slender strips of bright white stickers that
are blank. I'll find a pen and label it when we're done. She pops
the cassette in.

Commercials are over and I hear the beginning
of "Who's That Girl."

"Now!" I command.

Nasreen hits the Play and Record buttons
simultaneously. She also cranks the volume all the way up so we can
get a high quality recording. The sound drowns out Auntie's kitchen
noises and Omar's racket.

I place my head on Nasreen's shoulder as
Madonna's voice bathes me in a warm glow. I want to dance -- next
to soccer it's my other favorite activity -- but in this small
living room I'm afraid to knock something down and ruin the
recording. The song is about to end. With other singers I don't pay
attention to the endings of their songs, and I even fast forward to
the next song, but I listen to Madonna's songs to the very end.

"Nasreen, taste this meat and tell me how it
is!" Auntie orders.

"Nooo!" I screech. My heart jumps into my
throat. The recorder must have caught Auntie's voice.

Auntie walks out of the kitchen just when the
song ends. She was joyful a moment ago, but now she's frowning, as
if she's performing surgery. Cooking is serious business for her,
as music is for me. I'm upset, because I was so close to having a
perfect recording of that song. Maybe if I play back the tape it
won't sound that bad... but on top of Auntie's voice is my
protestation of her interruption.

My aunt doesn't acknowledge my anger and
surprise. Madonna's voice must have drowned out my outrage. Nasreen
is her focus. Her daughter is her official taste tester. Maybe my
cousin can make it into those Pepsi versus Coke commercials, make a
name for herself in the cola wars. I stop the cassette and lower
the volume as Auntie bends down, aiming a fork into Nasreen's
mouth. Madonna transitions into Duran Duran. I usually picture
myself marrying John Taylor when I hear them, but I can't fantasize
with Auntie in front of me. She's ruined any chances of
daydreaming.

"How is it?" Auntie wants to know, hovering
over us like the chef of the gods. She won't pull her eyes off her
daughter, who can bless or condemn with her judgment.

"Hmmm," Nasreen mumbles, still chewing.

"Is it too dry?" she intones.

"No, it's moist."

"How is it for salt?"

"Fine."

Auntie breaks out into a smile, her eyes
squinting shut. Meanwhile, I'm seething inside. "I'm so glad you
like it."

"Is that all?" Nasreen wonders, voicing my
thought, because I'm too polite to ask.

"I'll see... I'm off to finish this." She
walks away, and I'm hoping she's not coming back.

"I think that's it with her," Nasreen says.
"Unless she wants me to taste the salad."

"Please, no." I shake my head. My aunt has
always been like this, having people test and praise her food, but
today her timing is wrong.

"Let's see how this sounds." Nasreen presses
Rewind. Now that we're no longer recording and I'm not afraid of
moving around, I put my arms in the air and gyrate my hips,
grinding my butt into the living room carpet as Madonna croons one
of my favorites. I'm still sitting down, close to the radio,
because this recording seems fragile. I'm positive it's bad.

Then I hear it.
Nasreen, taste this meat
and tell me how it is
, followed by me protesting,
Noooooo!
The recorder caught everything. The last thirty
seconds of the song are good for nothing. We'll have to play the
radio forever, while Uncle is out, until we find this song again
and other Madonna hits. I can even call radio stations with my
requests to speed up the process. At least Uncle is going to work
tomorrow. He writes Farsi and Arabic subtitles for a movie company,
and he freelances as a translator for books. With him gone
tomorrow, we'll have more time to look for songs.

The last three seconds of the song wind down
in volume, and I hear Auntie's first question regarding the sliced
cut of beef. Then I hear something else.

There's no more Madonna, Nasreen, or Auntie.
This blank tape has something else after "Who's That Girl." Poetic
wailing and Arabic song follows.

"What's this?" Nasreen asks.

"I don't know," I say. "We didn't record
this."

The voice trills on, coming from the soulful
gut of whoever is singing. Nasreen and I lift our heads to look
each other in the eye. She grabs the cassette holder and studies
the label. The front is blank, with lined paper for note-taking.
Then she turns it so we can look at the spine.

My jaw drops.

Most of the cassettes in the boxes have
labels on the spine as well as in the front, but this only had
writing on the spine and on the inner flap of the insert.
Umm
Kulthum
, it says in English on the spine. On the inner flap is
a list of songs in Arabic.

The breath is knocked out of me. "We recorded
over one of Uncle's tapes!" I gasp. "He'll kill us."

"Holy moly shit," Nasreen says. "We did. I
thought this was blank."

"I did too."

"Dad sometimes has duplicates. Let's see if
he has other Umm Kulthum tapes. She's his favorite singer!"

"I know!"

There are three shallow boxes, and we look
through all of them. Let there be another Umm Kulthum tape with the
same songs. Pretty please with a cherry on top. Umm Kulthum, who's
deceased, has to be the most popular Middle Eastern singer out
there. She was Egyptian, but people all over the world adore her,
and my uncle is one of her biggest fans. Not only does he have all
these collages, but he's also gone to her live concerts before he
immigrated here.

I don't want to fall in Uncle's bad graces on
my first day in town. What if he treats me like his own child and
grounds me? Maybe he'll lock his radio up when he's not here so
that I have no access to Madonna. I can forget asking him for
permission to see her in concert. My parents will get wind of this
and never trust me again to travel by myself. I'll be a prisoner
during my stay in New York as well as in Miami when I go back home
to a tongue-lashing.
You shamed the family!
I hear my
mother's voice in my head. Yes, I did something bad. How do I make
things right?