That Other Me (13 page)

I groan as if just waking and slither out from under the blanket. I avert my gaze (better she not see what's in my eyes) as she touches my head. It's hot, and she pulls back her hand in surprise. “Your uncle called,” she says to me. “I told him that you were a little ill and asleep in your room. So he said he'd call you later.”

I wait for her to tell me more. But Abla Taghrid just stares at me, stretching her thin mouth so that it runs parallel to her square jaw. In the faint light, her round eyes shine like wet pebbles. High above them are tattooed eyebrows, two thick dashes, giving her an expression of perpetual astonishment. “Did he say what he wants?”

“No.”

This makes the hot and the cold rush through me at the same time, and once again I wonder whether a real fever is coming on.

“Right!” She slaps her thighs. “I'll let you know if he calls again. Otherwise, come down yourself and telephone him.”

She'd like that, I'm sure. The communal phone on the ground floor is close enough to her quarters that she can hear every squeak and breath. If that were not enough of an intrusion, there is another curious ear: the operator who places all the international calls. Every
few minutes there is a click as she checks whether the call is still running. Sometimes she even interrupts the conversation and, with her flute-pitched voice, warns us of the cost so far—as if the expense were coming out of her pocket! Not for the first time, I long for the convenience of my Dubai mobile phone. But it doesn't work here.

“And just to let you know, he did mention that he was coming,” says Abla Taghrid as she makes her way to the door.

“H-h-here? W-w-when?” I stutter.

“I don't know,” says the abla, and she closes the door behind her.

I claw at the blanket. I am transported back to the hospital room where my father, having two months earlier suffered from a stroke that affected his right side, lay recovering from a fall in which he'd broken his good leg.

He had turned unpredictable in his misery. I couldn't figure out which I hated more, the savage emotions that suddenly seeped out of him or the bouts of cloudy-eyed listlessness that lasted for hours on end. And then there was his vulnerability on that particularly sticky November day in 1987. He was blubbering, his body convulsing under the force of choke-filled sobs, when Ammi Majed walked in and calmed him down with talk of sending him to Germany for a faster, more efficient recovery. And then they began talking about problems at the company.

The sakan room feels hot. I hurl the blanket to one side and sit up. Not for the first time, I tell myself there was nothing I could have done. I didn't understand what was going on, and even if I did, what could I have done to prevent the grievous outcome? Spoken up? Who would have listened to the objections of a babbling eleven-year old? But no matter how many excuses I make, the fact remains that I failed him. The shame of it sits like a noose around my neck. It suffocates me.

“Cash flow, that's what worries me,” Ammi Majed had told my father. “We might need to sell a building because of this Iraq–Iran War that's dragging on. All those attacks on tankers in the Gulf—well, let
me just say it's affecting all the businesses, and the banks have grown more careful. They are not giving loans.”

My father groaned. “How serious is it?”

“Well, import and export is affected, too. But if we act quickly, we can control the situation, or at least minimize the damage.”

It was at this point that I got bored. My thoughts drifted toward my schoolbag and the diversions it held. I reached for it and pulled out two large-headed miniature gnomes from the side pocket, along with a half-consumed tube of Smarties chocolates.

“You must understand, brother,” Ammi Majed said, “I'm here for you. I just want you to concentrate on getting better. With your permission, I will do what is best for the company.”

“You have my permission.”

“Signatures.”

“What?”

Ammi Majed cleared his throat and shifted his gaze to the ground. “Well, you see, I would need the authority to sign,” he mumbled. Then, with a breath filled with resolution, he added, “I am talking about full authority, so that I can inject some life into the business.”

“Of course, of course,” said my father. “You have it. We are brothers, and I know that all you do is for the good of the family.”

“The permission would need to come from the courts. There are papers you have to sign.”

“Yes, yes. God bless you. Get it arranged.”

Ammi Majed shifted on his feet, looking a little unsure as to what he should do next. “He is right outside.”

My gnomes were violently quarrelling, but I paused my playing and gaped at the door. It surprised and embarrassed me that there had been a person waiting in the corridor all this time. Did he hear my father's outburst, the wailing sobs from earlier?

“Who?” my father asked.

“The court notary.”

There were five men. I knew Mustafa from the office and I'd seen Ammi Majed's lawyer a few times, but the notary and the other two men, who were presented as witnesses, were strangers. I thought the notary was being funny when he asked my father, “Are you Hareb Al-Naseemy?”

“Who else could he be?” I said, bursting into a giggle that was cut short by the nasty look Ammi Majed directed at me.

The notary didn't seem to mind, though. He was a young man with steel-rimmed glasses. His eyes twinkled at me as he curbed his smile. Then he repeated the question, to which my father said exactly what I did: “Who else would I be?” Thinking my father agreed with me that it was a silly question, I was about to laugh again when I noticed that he was staring at the man with impatient eyes. This was grown-up talk, with all its riddles and mysteries, and I returned to the gnomes. “You want a Smartie, do you? I'll show you,” I muttered into my chest. The second gnome picked up a Smartie and squished it over the first gnome's head. The red shell cracked, and I smudged the chocolate filling over its face.

“As per procedure, I need you to answer me,” the notary said.

“Yes, yes, you can see that I am,” said my father.

“Do you, in your full mental capacity, give power of attorney to your brother, Majed Al-Naseemy?”

“You know, I've broken my leg. All I want from this world is health.”

“You understand that he'll be the person who will solely make all decisions related to the company—buying, selling, and the like—as he sees fit?”

“I have to go away to get better. I ask you,
ibn al-youm
, who is going to take care of the company?”

“I need a yes or a no, sir.”

“What have I been telling you all this time, young man? Don't you know to respect your elders?”

The gnomes were finished arguing. Both faces were smeared with chocolate, which I started licking off while sneaking glimpses of my father's reddened face.

“I'm sorry, ammi,” said the notary. “It's just that we have to do things according to the rules. And that means you have to actually say the word in front of me, in front of these witnesses.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” yelled my father. “That's three times I'm saying it. Is that enough?”

Ammi Majed had to placate him again before they could proceed. In addition to the signature granting power of attorney, other signatures were needed on documents from customs and bank authority papers, all of which were contained in a file that Mustafa had brought along. Ammi Majed spread them in front of my father. And my father signed them with his good hand.

I sit cross-legged in front of the mirrored closet door with half my hair in rollers. My mouth rounds into an alluring pout and I try out several facial expressions, mixing surprise with different degrees of innocence. “I don't understand. Could you explain it to me again?” My lips broaden a little. “So kind of you; I would be quite lost without you.” It's the perfect pitch, and, graced with that hint of a smile, it is enough to produce the illusion of warmth and compassion.

I take a deep breath, and even though my routine practice of matching vocal tones to facial expressions is over, the glow on my face remains. “How well things are going!” That's what my mother keeps saying. Sherif bey now takes us to private parties, which he says are filled with all the right people. He calls them career makers, so I had expected them to hunger for a talent such as myself, or at least show a little more interest. He's introducing us to his sisters this afternoon. Mama calls to me to hurry up just as I begin to tackle the other side of my head. I've barely zapped three strands of hair with heat and wrapped them into rollers when someone starts banging at the door.

“We want to speak to the sitt, the one they call Zohra!” It's an order, not a request.

“Open up!” That's another voice.

“Mama, can you get that?”

The raps grow louder.

I shove the rollers to the side and barge into her room. My mother looks like a shy bride. She is wearing an ivory-colored suit with a matching chiffon carnation pinned over one ear. There's an unspoken command for a moment of privacy, for silence, as she sits on the edge of her bed, slowly twisting open a tin of Nivea cream.

“Didn't you hear me call?” When she doesn't reply, I wave at the door. “There's someone there.”

“Well, go see who it is,” she says.

“How?” I exclaim, waving both hands at the unfinished shape of my head. “Besides, it's you they're calling.”

She takes her time rubbing the Nivea into her hands despite the ruckus at the door, which sounds like hundreds of pounding fists. “There's nowhere you can go, Sitt Zohra,” someone calls. “We know you're in there, and we won't go away. You have to face us.”

“What have you done?” I say, suddenly alarmed by the realization that it's the neighborhood women out there. They have made snide remarks at my mother before, obviously feeling threatened by their husbands' attentions toward my mother. But that was on the street, and Mama had brushed their animosity to the side and marched ahead. Now they are here with clear and dangerous intentions, it seems.

She waves her creamed hand in front of her face. “What are those stupid women thinking? That we'll be in this stinky neighborhood forever, that we're interested in stealing their good-for-nothing husbands? I want you to go out there and handle the situation.”

“What do you mean by . . .” I can't finish the thought. “No, no, no, no.” I imagine opening the door to women spraying spit through their gnashing teeth, their thick hands and fingers ready to rip. “Do you
hear them? They are ready to draw blood, and it's you they want.” Then a thought occurs to me. “Is this a test?”

“Test?” In her gray eyes, there's a flare like a mirror caught in light. “This is life!” I shrink back when she chides me. “If you can't tackle a bunch of loudmouthed vultures, what hope do you have in the world of music?”

I nod with resolve. There must be no hesitation when I deal with them. After all, this is life. With a brusque swing of the arm, I yank the door open and snarl at the women, “What? You've woken up the dead!” I must be a frightful sight with half my hair puffed up and frizzed, tangled like a fisherman's net. With the element of surprise to my advantage, I act before they have a chance to overpower me. “Don't you have any shame, banging on people's doors like this?”

The woman at the front is the glaring constable of the group. I recognize her as the wife of Abdo, the butcher. She steps back, nudging the group into retreat. I'm about to end the confrontation when someone pushes through. And then my father is in the room, a concrete force towering over me. My first reaction is to run away. I scurry past him, but there's a man blocking the door. He kicks it shut.

“Enough stupidity!” says my father, his voice barely audible, and he gets a grip on the untamed side of my hair, tugging at it as I cower and make mousy sounds. “I've had just about enough of your antics.” He forces me onto the sofa just as my mother comes out of her bedroom.

“Oh,” she says, tapping at the carnation in her hair. Out of nervousness or disbelief, she speaks to him as if he were some regal guest who has graced us with a visit. But she can't quite finish her sentences. “How did you . . . ? When did you . . . ? What are you . . . ?”

“Sit!”

We sit side by side, the sofa swallowing us as my father castigates us for our blatant disregard for his good name, our reckless and selfish behavior toward the family. He doesn't need to shout or strike us. The
sight of him is enough: all that blood filling his face, the thick purple veins on either side of his neck. “So, you've decided that you are special?” he growls. “I'll tell you the truth, the both of you: you're not. You're as ordinary as they come!” He aims his fiery eyes at me. “But it's not your fault. It's mine, because I made the mistake of choosing your mother—if you can call her a mother, filling your head with such dreams, bringing you to this filthy place. Oh yes, it's my fault. But that doesn't mean I'll stand by and let you ruin all that I've built!” Mama keeps her gaze fixed to her hands, shiny with cream, accepting all that he says without demur. When he commands us to drop everything and go back home, she nods her head in agreement. Crushed under an abrupt flood of thoughts that spell defeat, the best I can manage is to emit a tiny whimper. This is the end, the end of something that never quite began. I look away and sob quietly.

And then, a pause. I suspect he's gone quiet so he can hear my sniffles. Time ticks, and in the silence I imagine he's gloating over my sorry state, my mother's shaken haughtiness, the strength he still holds over the pair of us. When I finally look up, however, he is quite changed. His face has lost the color of moments ago. It's ashen, as if gripped by shock. He frowns at the ground as he holds on to a chair with one hand and clenches his other hand repeatedly. Then he says his final words, and I find out that the force of earlier has not abated: “Heed my words, the two of you, or by God I promise you: there will be consequences.”

With that, he turns and stomps out of the apartment. The neighborhood women are still lingering at the door, shifting on their toes and murmuring their curiosity at what ill wind has just blown in with this stranger from the Khaleej. Mama flings the door shut in their faces and starts pacing the apartment. “Go wash your face,” she says to me. “And make sure to fix that hair. We don't want to be late for our meeting with Sherif bey's sisters.”