That Other Me (11 page)

There is a knock, and Saeed enters. I expect he'll tell me that Khaled was deemed too old for the girl, or perhaps that the girl's father had decided that his daughter must marry a cousin, make sure the money stays in the family—all expected, all reasonable, really. It would have been better if Khaled had let his family choose the girl for him—just as we did for his siblings, just as my marriage to Aisha had been arranged—instead of searching for a love match. That would have been best: easy on the mind, gentle on the heart.

I rise to greet Saeed with a kiss on the nose and a warm handshake as Mustafa slinks out of the room. Once we're settled on the couch, Saeed taps his head and says, “I saw the old man, and he's quite mad.” He snickers. “So you shouldn't take anything seriously, because his mind is not sound and he has started imagining things.”

I clear my throat and tell him to start at the beginning.

“I made four visits, and even then, even after using every skill to approach the matter without arousing suspicion—I mean, who am I, after all? Neither the groom's father nor his brother—I walked out with nothing.”

“Then what?”

“I went again yesterday, and this time I got him talking about all the various businessmen in Dubai—you know how these old men love to talk about how these people made their money—and that got him in the right mood. Finally!” He works up quite a laugh, sounding like a rusty machine. “What an imagination! Such a wild story! Barely worth repeating.”

“What did he say?”

“Yes, well.” He rubs his face. “We chatted, all friendly, just harmless talk, which I made sure led to the various distinguished families here in Dubai, and I mentioned you to see if I could provoke some sort of comment.”

“And?”

“First he sniffed.”

“Sniffed?”

Saeed nods. Through his teeth, he frees a hiss of apprehension. “You know, he has this medical stick that replaced the cane he carried when his legs got weaker from the diabetes. Well, he clutched that stick and started pounding it on the ground.”

“Why?”

“He told me that your son wanted to marry his daughter and he swore he would never allow it.”

“Why? What has the boy done?”

“That's what I asked him. ‘It's not the boy,' he said, with that rudeness you're obliged to forgive just because he's an old man. ‘It's the father. I cannot give my daughter to the son of a man who is responsible for his brother's death.' ”

For a second I'm not sure I heard him right. “Why would he say something like that? Everyone knows Hareb died of a stroke.” I shift on the couch to quiet the outrage that has gripped me. “The crippled shit! Why does he spread such malicious talk?”

Saeed dismisses the whole episode with a swoop of his arm. “What does it matter, anyway? Who is going to pay attention to the
blasted tongue-lashings of that grizzled fool? His brain is shriveled like a bad nut.”

There is heat, a slow fire in me that settles in the stiffening veins of my neck. I want to be alone, and as if he's read my mind Saeed glances at his watch and gets up to leave, with the made-up excuse that he is late for an appointment. The door closes behind him with a soft thump.

People talked when I took ownership of Green Acacia. With Dubai's small, close-knit community, it would have been naïve to presume that the episode would go unnoticed, especially since Hareb voiced his outrage to anyone willing to listen. I wasn't one to ask for details, but I knew many debated whether I was right to do what I did.

Still, after any seismic shift, things cool off and settle. I was sure this was what happened, convinced that my well-guarded reputation and good standing were not seriously affected—until now, when that crusty old Diab Al-Mutawa blamed me for my brother's death.

My gaze drifts to the cabinet in the corner, and suddenly I remember that that's where I'd put the photograph. I'm up and pulling open the drawer at the bottom. Slouching on folded knees, I sift through old bills, receipts, and other scraps of paper thrown in and forgotten among the paper clips, blunt pencils, and dried-up fountain pens.

The photograph is lodged between the pages of an old copybook. I satisfy my curiosity first, nodding at the date on the back. It was 1963, right after Hareb made that first sale. The likeness was striking in our youth: we both had broad shoulders and strong, straight backs. Later we'd grow the same belly, too, a firm padding that spread to the sides of our waists. David took the photograph and I recall him suggesting that we stand with the palm grove behind us, but Hareb was so proud of the repaired water pump that he insisted we stand near it. Behind us is the metal pipe, curving up at an awkward angle, its mouth emptying a surge of water into the reservoir.

I wipe the surface of the photograph. Although Hareb was nine years older than I, we look close in age: able-bodied men with pride-filled chests pushed so far out that the bottoms of our kandoras hang just above our ankles. David told us to smile, but not knowing how we'd look with our teeth showing, we had decided on manly frowns.

He was the popular brother, friendlier, more talkative, and it was only because of his good relationships with people that he'd managed to secure those big contracts in Abu Dhabi and Al-Ain. With the country's boom in greening projects, the timing was right, and the contracts fell right into his hands. Yes, he started this company, and he was lucky enough to secure its assets, but I'm the one who launched it to the highest level. It would be fine if it is only Diab Al-Mutawa who thinks that I caused Hareb's death. But what if there are others, all those businessmen and acquaintances who have never once shown anything less than the highest regard for me?

I examine my brother's face, looking for the anguish I had dreamed was in his eyes. It's hard to tell. His ghitra is slanted too low on his forehead, casting a shadow over most of his face. And with that I conclude that the bad dream was the result of nothing more than indigestion, to be expected after last night's heavy supper of kebab and onions.

At the start of every meeting, I sing a few lines from one of Umm Kulthum's songs to get Sherif bey's creativity flowing. He clicks his tongue as an accompanying beat. Squeezed between two fingers, his cigarette leaves behind a wavy line of smoke as his hand glides in the air from side to side. My voice fills the room. His head sways with rapture.

It's a ritual he insists on. He is a “true artiste,” Mama insists every time I complain about the futility of what has begun to feel like a sacred tradition. His glasses are on the desk, and without them his lids look unprotected, as if they might lose their definition and melt into the rest of his face. They slacken and conceal his eyes, dark as watermelon seeds and slushy as the juice. His lashes flutter like moth wings as he takes careful glimpses of my mother.

Tonight she does not lean forward, her chin resting on her knuckles, to watch me. There is no giddy appreciation in her face, only a forced smile of stretched patience. Her legs are crossed and she jiggles her foot. Every now and then she exhales with a force that indicates
that some deep annoyance will soon explode. My voice strengthens with anticipation and I hurry my performance along.

“Bravo! Bravo! Excellent start to the evening,” Sherif bey says, slowly swiveling toward the wall to reach for his leaning oud. Hugging the instrument to his tummy, he plucks a few strings and embellishes them with a chord.

“Yes, my Dalal is consistent in her performances,” says Mama, “but you . . . well. It seems it is not in your power to facilitate our way.” After weeks of gentle prodding and encouraging hints, all aimed to hurry him along, she has decided to take the straight path to the source of our frustration.

Sherif bey flinches. It's the first time she has spoken to him that way. He sets aside his oud and rubs his eyes before shielding them with his glasses. “Are you upset with me?” he asks.

“I'm just wondering whether this . . . all this . . . is going anywhere.”

“I'm not sure what you mean, Sitt Zohra,” he says carefully.

I march to the couch. “She means it has been a month now and we still haven't gotten anywhere,” I say, plunking myself down next to her.

“Dalal! Stop it! All I'm saying is that I am deeply distressed that I feel we are not taken seriously.” She utters the words to me with unhurried precision in a whisper designed to be heard by Sherif bey.

He reacts immediately. He jumps up from behind his desk and hops over to face us. “Sitt Zohra, your words hurt me. How can you say such a thing?”

“You see, Dalal,” Mama continues without so much as a glance at him, her voice even, “the sight of us in this hopeless situation—me a divorced woman, you with no father to protect you—makes people disrespect us.”

“I don't disrespect you,” Sherif bey says.

“Well, what do you call this?” I interject with a wave of the arm. “All this time and you haven't thought up some measly tune for me,
or opened any doors for us. You must know everyone in this business. Why haven't you introduced us to them?”

“
Ah-ha-ha.
” It's a deep-throated chuckle, but there is no humor in it.

“If he introduces us, we can get the right exposure,” I persist, turning back to Mama. “Look at us, meeting like this in the middle of the night, wasting our time—and for what?”

Sherif bey waves a finger at me. “That's quite a tongue you have for so young a lady.”

“He's right, Dalal. I didn't bring you up to talk that way,” says Mama.

“You listen to your mother, little girl,” Sherif bey says.

“It's true, Mama,” I moan. “He knows all the right people. They have parties he can get us into, make introductions. But he doesn't.”

“We are instructed to come at this awful hour,” says Mama, nodding with resignation, “and expected to stay behind these closed doors. After all, there's no one out there asking after us.”

“That's exactly my point, Mama. He doesn't care about us.”

“One thing you must understand, Dalal, is that this is a business full of insincerity. Wherever you turn, there are people who you might think are looking out for you. But no, it's all an act. They're all the same, putting your noble interests to the side and taking advantage of you.”

“Don't talk like that, please,” he shouts. “You make me sound like a brute.”

She looks up at him, and their eyes lock. All is still. All is tense. I get bored waiting for it to pass, and I gaze at the wooden screen standing in the far corner of the room. Behind it is the other entrance, the alternate route that he uses to get to his office without having to pass the secretary. It's the door we slip through when night sets in.

Finally Sherif bey looks away in a huff. “Yes, it's hard to be patient, and I know how hard this life has been for you. In fact, I can't
sleep at night thinking of the cruelty you have endured out there in the Khaleej.”

“You mustn't have sleepless nights over us,” Mama says. A quiver of vulnerability—so convincing I want to salute her—rattles her speech.

He flings his arms in the air. “I can't help it. An artist is always too sensitive for his own good!”

She nods. “It's not fair that we should ask for more. You have been too kind already. But now I think we must part.”

He sniffs and mutters, “So be it. Everyone has a destiny to follow.”

She sighs and says to me, “What hurts me, daughter, is the disrespect. But we have our dignity, after all. We should get going now, Dalal.”

All this time wasted! How much more can I handle? I can't hide my distress. “No, Mama, we must not be hasty,” I begin, but she has already risen and is sidling through the various bits of furniture; she disappears behind the screen. I expect him to rush over and plead with us to come back. He does not. I expect my mother to turn back with some clever excuse. She does not. She's already by the elevator, tapping her foot as if her impatience might speed it along.

“It's too early to leave,” I protest. “Hassanain won't be here yet.” Although it is convenient to have the microbus driver pick us up every evening and drop us off at home in the late hours, after yesterday—when he made a vow to protect us if ever need be—the thought of seeing him makes me groan. He's just like the others, the helpers and facilitators, the people of the street who want to be a part of our lives. How many of them have claimed to know someone in the world of the stars who is that VIP ticket to success?

Not too long ago there was Abdo the butcher, who set out on a thorough investigation. In between his gifts of flesh and bone, he went out of his way to make sure we understood that he was trying his best to help us. “I called, but the man has left town . . . I met his assistant (you know how it is, they all have assistants) and he says it's as good as
done . . . Soon, soon, I'm this close.” It's not the charade that I mind. What bothers me is that Mama reveals our life to them, with uncalled-for details, and they feel they have a claim to it.

Abdo the butcher wanted her. A couple of months back, just before she gave him the brush-off, he called out to me as I passed in front of his shop. Standing between carcasses hooked on railings, he grinned broadly and waved toward another complimentary provision to nourish the dainty divorcée. “See how tender and marbled it is?” he said, holding up the supple piece of meat for me to see. “It comes from the rump!” He slapped it with his other hand, as if it were a woman's buttock. “It will make you strong, and your mother, too.” Of course, I pretended to be interested, which was difficult with the damp, meaty odor and the pestering flies. “How is she, anyway?” he continued as he wrapped paper around the meat and tied it with string. Then he lowered his voice and scrunched his eyes at me. “Why didn't your mother remarry? Has she rejected the idea completely?” I shrugged, and he patted his heart with his right hand to illustrate his humility and kindness, following the gesture with a downward gaze to demonstrate his good intentions.

Later, when I told Mama, she wasted no time getting rid of him. The next day she handed him a five-pound note as gratitude for his efforts to help us. He would have objected with the vulgar outcries typical of someone of his class, but Mama had caught him by surprise. Before he could react, we had strolled out of his shop. He doesn't talk to us anymore. He stares at us with dagger eyes whenever we walk by. We have learned to enjoy chicken since then.

We're out on the street, and a breeze blows the smell of greenery from the neighboring Shooting Club. I have not given up hope. I'm convinced this must be some ruse to send panic into Sherif bey's heart. Surely she will linger at the building's entrance to give him a chance to rush down and beg us to come back. I hurry after her as she marches through the treelined streets, bewildered by her bold steps. After all,
we are walking away from “the genius of the music world, the artiste among artists,” as she has repeatedly described him. Sherif bey composed the music of her youth, the tunes that turned her head sodden with romantic reveries. Surely she won't give up on him so quickly.

I am not the only one who is surprised by her early departure. The spies my father sends to watch us—there are two of them tonight—are caught off guard, too. As Mama breezes past them, one is quick to pretend he is looking for some important item in his pocket, while the other drops to the ground to tie his shoelaces, even though he is wearing sandals. What a clumsy duo!

We end up on Wezarat Al-Zeraa Street. It's 9:30 p.m., and dust and fumes ride on gales whipped up by zooming cars and rumbling buses. “What was that all about?” I shout over the noise.

“We'll talk about this when we get home,” she says, craning her neck as if anxious for a taxi. A few slow down, but she ignores them.

I am aghast. All the effort, all the time, all the hope—what was it for? “I want to know now!”

“This is not the time or place,” Mama says just as a taxi jerks to a stop. She takes a step back, then forward, as if trying to remember what she was about to do. When she opens the door, I refuse to get in.

“Now, Mama, now,” I insist, stomping my foot on the pavement.

“You will not talk to me like that in the middle of the road,” she scolds.

“We can't keep wandering from place to place, always getting nowhere,” I whine. “I'm tired. I can't do this for much longer.”

Her grip tightens around the door's handle. “You can't do this for much longer? Have you ever bothered to think about me? Huh?”

I look away. One of the spies has crossed the road, rendering his position useless since he is too far away to hear us; the other is closer, once more tying his imaginary shoelaces. I reckoned that the taxi driver would wait a little, pick up pieces of our argument through the open windows and add his own spoonful of wisdom. But he is not
interested. He yells at Mama to shut the door and zooms off with a screech. What a night of volatile tempers! And then there is a honk.

It's a Mercedes, a well-kept old model, ivory-colored with a burgundy interior. The uniformed chauffeur waves his gloved hand at us, and through a curtain of cigarette smoke in the back we see Sherif bey's anxious face peering through the window. Mama and I refuse his offer of a lift and walk away, ignoring his pleas to talk things over. The car follows us as we backtrack onto a smaller street; the pair of spies trails us.

It's a glorious moment when Sherif bey hops out of the car and dashes toward us. Elated by this welcome twist to the evening, I hide my smile as best I can and watch him, plucked out of his cocoon of an apartment and looking disoriented in Cairo's streets. I suddenly realize that he is besotted with my mother. He begs her to be reasonable, to come back to the office so we may talk like adults.

Mama looks as cool as the moon as she accuses him of taking us for granted, thinking we'll always keep coming back. I want to raise my arms in a cheer when she demands: “No more hiding us. Introduce us to all the important people in the music business so they can hear Dalal sing.”

“Yes, and after that you needn't bother with us anymore,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the spies, making sure they hear me well and proper. Finally they'll have something worth reporting to my father. “We can take it from there.”

“No, Dalal. You're wrong,” Mama says. “This is a journey, a long one, which I, for one, would feel privileged to share with Sherif bey.”

With that, Sherif bey's lips curl in a lopsided attempt at a smile, and I feel sorry for him—but only for a flash.