That Other Me (20 page)

“
Mmm.
” Buthaina's moan sounds as though it's filled with appreciation for every blessing in life. When she turns and smiles at me, I think that if I had a mother, I would like her to be just as organized and capable as Buthaina is. She pauses at the second pot and, after tasting its contents, is so exacting in her description of what is missing that I start to worry about the taste of my molokhia. What if it doesn't meet with her approval? I chide my carelessness; I forgot to check that the color was the rich, deep green it should be, or that the water had separated from the finely chopped leaves. There's an essential test that marks a good molokhia, and in my hurry to get everything ready on time I forgot to perform it.

As if reading my mind, Buthaina steps toward my pot. She scoops a spoonful and raises it for evaluation. She nods when the slimy mixture falls in a straight, unbroken line—a sign that my molokhia has passed the test—and glides back to the stove.

“Did you know, Mariam, that from our first gasp of breath, we, as members of the female sex, are at a disadvantage,” she says, sampling the curry in the third pot and clicking her tongue. “Lemon, I think, and . . .” She pauses, considering what else it might need. “Yes!” A pinch of cumin and three squirts of lemon later and she's moved on to the fourth pot. “That is the tragedy all across the Arab world. From the moment we start grasping what life is about, we are told that we are the weaker sex, that we cannot do anything on our own, that we must depend on men—whether our fathers, brothers, or husbands—to lead us like sheep. But there is a way to avoid this: by using what's in here.” She taps her temple with her free hand. “In the end, it is the mind that is the treasure of our being, the part of us that has to be stimulated and developed every single day of our existence.”

It's hardly the subject to lighten a party's mood, and it's a sharp contrast to the noise in the sitting room. Someone has switched on the cassette player, and the Kuwaiti singer Nabil Shuail's willowy voice croons pure and clear, as smooth as butter. It's enough to silence the chattering. When his voice ebbs, the girls squeal.

“Listen to them,” says Buthaina, laughing. “You'd think he was in the room with them.”

She returns to my molokhia and stirs it while asking after my family, to which I give general answers. “You know, people say your father had a special kindness, a rare quality that made him loved by all.” She doesn't wait for me to confirm this. I can tell she detects it in my eyes, which blink now as if flushing out a stubborn lash. “They say he was progressive in his views, too. What a pity that he was taken away from you so early in your years.”

“
Al-hamdulillah
for the multitude of God's blessings,” I say, overwhelmed by appreciation for this person who seems to understand me so well. I wish I had an older sister like her: smart and worldly, untroubled about what society might think. Her attitude sets her apart from the other sakan girls.

Ah, what a relief it would be to talk to Buthaina about Adel, and how he makes me feel like a puppy chasing its tail. I have to admit that even though I appreciate his cordiality toward me—a sign that he already considers me his future partner—I do miss his cheekiness, which has disappeared. Sometimes, when I am with him, I crave the twangs of electricity that used to travel the length of my limbs, like that time he ran his fingers along my cheek at the Students' Club. Recently I've tried to encourage him. Whenever we sit side by side, I allow my shoulder to bend toward him like a bloom hungry for the sun's light. If I'm facing him, my foot might accidentally bump his in the hope that he might take some initiative, like tapping my thigh or reaching for my hand. But he doesn't, and then I feel foolish. If I suddenly told Buthaina that it's maddening to have the man you love show too much
respect, how would she react? Surely she would understand—she must have loved someone this way at some point in her life.

I picture Buthaina as my sister. She would have stood by my side and given me confidence during those crucial years when I grew up in a household that never felt like home. “So what can we do, as women I mean, to become more, er . . . to be more . . .” I pause to find the exact word I mean, the quality that would help me face my steel-minded uncle, that would make me shine whenever I am with Adel. How does one reclaim a destiny that has been snatched away without license? “. . . strong?”

“Self-assertive and competent, you mean? Mariam, Mariam, ya Mariam, this needs a proper sit-down. Sometime when we can talk alone, sip tea together, and discuss all sorts of things. Habibti, you know you can tell me anything, don't you.”

It's a statement, and I nod, because she's right: this is not the right setting for a proper talk. She's still occupied by adding the last flavors to her dishes, and her guests are making more noise than necessary in the sitting room. They are now singing along with Nabil Shuail, drowning out his voice yet failing to reach the high notes his talent allows him. They sound like mewing kittens stuck on a sinking ship. It's time for me to rejoin them.

I lean against the wall of the sitting room and watch the girls dance to the gentle beat of Mohammed Abdu's “Ana Habibi.” The steps are deceptively simple; the dance exudes cautious sexuality and an uplifting freedom of spirit. It's in the delicate lifted hand, the twirling of fingers just above the head as if letting drop some magic powder. It's in the hips that rise and ebb like gentle waves, and the shoulders that shudder as if responding to a chill that races up the spine. It's in the subtle workings of the neck muscles. Suddenly, as swiftly as a thunderbolt,
the head sways, releasing waves of of lustrous hair, while the hand settles on the chest as if steadying a runaway bandit of a heartbeat. This display is not mad abandon. It's a burst of energy that is checked and controlled. Any more would be vulgar. There is a reined-in swell of passion throughout the dance.

Tammy notices me and pulls me into the middle of the group. Even in a room full of girls wholly absorbed in their own thoughts, I feel self-conscious as I try to summon an essential ingredient to dancing attractively: sensuality. I picture Dalal and her ability to move different bits of her body independently, yet with the effect of a harmonious whole. I imagine Adel watching her as I try to imitate her. But my movements are awkward, and my joints make sporadic, clicking protests. As the song draws to an end, I decide that Adel must never see me dance. I am as graceless as a penguin waddling on ice.

Nawal switches off the cassette player and claps her hands for attention. “The food is nearly ready! So sit and relax a little.” Swishing in her thoub, she points to the vacant chairs and couches. “That's right, Mona, you can sit there. And Alunood, there you go, next to her.” She herds the group of girls toward the corner.

Tammy squeezes next to me on the couch. “Just like her to dampen the mood!” She lets a hiss of air escape through her teeth. “Really! If I wasn't so hungry, I would walk out. Right this minute!” This makes the girls laugh, and they start chattering. There is light talk of the coming exams. Then one of the girls, who will soon be returning to Dubai to marry her cousin, launches into an elaborate description of her wedding dress. This sets off the other girls, who natter on excitedly about how they envision their future wedding celebrations. One describes the romantic lighting and the color of the flowers on the tables. Another focuses on her dream stage, where she will wait for the arrival of her groom. It's a favorite subject, and Tammy leans over me so she can join in.

Nawal glides over from the other side of the room and settles into our midst, snug as a roosting hen. For a few minutes she nods them on. Then, at the first appropriate pause, she launches into a heated speech about Arab society's folly in placing so much emphasis on matrimony and its trappings. She lists every conceivable ill: the high cost of the ceremony; the bride's family's demand for expensive gifts and money, which forces the young man to take out loans and start married life with outrageous debts. “And of course, don't forget the divorce rate; it's getting higher every day.”

Whether out of politeness or timidity, the rest of the girls listen, but they make no effort to hide the dejection on their faces. Buthaina emerges from the kitchen with her maid and starts arranging the various plates and bowls of food on the dining table.

“Yes, divorce,” Nawal continues. “Remember that word. I'm sure the poor boy won't ever forget it, because all the money he spends on the wedding will have been for nothing.” She chuckles. “Look at you all, murky-eyed with illusions! What dreaming you like to do! What a waste of energy.”

I want to tell her that dreaming is a beautiful thing, a survival tactic. In the years after my father died, I would curl up in various corners of Ammi Majed's house and let my mind roam, hoping to find an untroubled place where justice and harmony reigned. Even now I flit in and out of dreams that shape a future with the man I love. In one's imagination, anything is possible. There's freedom to entertain rapturous aspirations that are too daring to actually be uttered or acted upon.

Nawal cocks her head to one side and focuses on the girls one by one, as if to ensure that she has dissolved what spirit had quivered in them, before loosening a toothy smile of victory. “Look at me.” She slaps her chest. “Do I look like I need a husband?”

I'm about to turn away, but seeing the girls' faces, as long and pale as mangoes sucked dry, I say, “Maybe you don't. But that doesn't mean
everyone else wants what you want.” I'm surprised by how calm my voice is. “You are right to point out that there are many drawbacks. But surely you are not saying that a girl shouldn't get married.”

Nawal grunts. “I'm saying it's not the solution for happiness.”

“Not always,” I say, just as Tammy pinches my thigh to prompt me to go on. “But many times, it is. Whether we like it or not, marriage brings security.”

“Respectability,” one of the girls adds.

“A home of your own,” says another.

“Children.”

“The sharing of a life,” I say, and the girls nod. “Besides, who can determine what the solution for happiness is? That all depends on the person.”

“Yes,” blurts Tammy. “And right now, what would make me very happy is to get up and dance.”

Nawal stays focused on me. “Quite the philosopher, aren't you, Mariam?” She blinks with annoyance. “But you are still young, and your experience is limited. When you grow up, we can discuss this further.”

“I don't think we'll ever be able to have a proper discussion, Nawal, because you're only interested in imposing your views.”

Nawal opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

The nerve of having silenced Nawal spreads into my very bones. I am on my feet just as Buthaina announces dinner. For the first time, I put my manners to the side: instead of waiting, I march toward her and take the first plate she hands out.

“Look at you. Look at the way your waist curves just so. Why, you have crescents on either side.” I speak to the closet mirror while admiring the new dress I'm wearing. I talk to my reflection because there is no one else to talk to, because Madame Nivine says that it's unhealthy for a talent to be in a gagged atmosphere, and, most important, to chase away the self-doubt that washes over me whenever I am in the apartment with my mother.

Even if we are in the same room, Mama ignores me. At first I was thrilled, convinced that she finally understood how frustrated I was at being bossed around. I thought she would just sulk for a bit and then get over it. But it's been over three weeks, and with every passing day her resolve grows stronger. She shuffles about the apartment as if I were not there. She stares at me as if I were a cockroach.

“And her face, look at that face, so radiant, so thoughtful, so grown-up.” I slap my thighs and rise. Opening the bedroom door, I see Mama ambling toward the kitchen. An idea flashes in my head and I overtake her, blocking her way. She shows no surprise at my rudeness,
and I half imagine she'll walk right through me. “Do you like this violet color on me, Mama?”

Her face is as pale, flat, and empty as a sheet of paper. She crosses her arms as if bored, and runs her eyes over the length of me. Feeling foolish and insignificant, I realize I won't receive any compliments and that I should probably step out of her way, but I give it one more try: “How long are you going to stay silent, acting as if I'm just a piece of furniture?” She lets out a forceful snort—like the warning sound of a raging goat—just as we hear a shuffling of feet outside the apartment and a great big thump.

Though we both see the same thing when I open the door, we react differently. I stand frozen like a block of ice with bulging eyes, while Mama shakes visibly. I hear the opening of doors, our neighbors peering and giggling, but my eyes are focused on Mama. She sways, and her hands tremble.

The lowlifes who dumped the putrid pile of rubbish at our front door have already scrambled down the stairs, leaving behind echoes of their sneers. If I rush to the balcony, I'll probably be able to yell curses at them before they've escaped down the street. But I stay by Mama's side.

She is in distress. She needs me. She steadies herself against the wall and holds a hand to her face. Her eyes are scrunched tight in anguish. Poor Mama, looking so fragile. I rush to find a chair and place it next to her. When she doesn't sit, I pat her on the shoulder to get her attention. And she eases into the chair while hiding her eyes from me. It moves me that she doesn't want me to see her vulnerability.

I kneel in front of her and grasp her free hand. I'm not sure whether it's the stench or true daughterly love that causes my eyes to moisten. Carefully I place my head on her lap, and there I stay, inhaling the scent of Nivea and decay.

I wait. I wait for her to stroke my head.

I wait. I wait for her fingers to glide through my curls.

What comes is an order to get up and clean the mess.

There are brown paper bags turned soggy with potato peelings, zucchini pulp, old gravy, sodden tea leaves, and sugarcane stalks chewed so thoroughly they look like clumps of grimy hay. I stick to the edges, carefully leaning over the pile so I don't soil my new dress. I use two squares of cardboard to scoop the rubbish into a bucket.

I know I should finish the miserable task quickly, but my hands move in slow motion as my mind processes what has just taken place. Why did I obey her? Why didn't I refuse? Why didn't I tell her that this garbage was meant for her? It was an act carried out by a community she has hurt. This stale bread must be from Mitwalli's bakery, these rotten tomatoes from Shehata's grocery—it's all from outraged people whose feelings she has toyed with, who glare at us whenever we pass by their shops. She must know that the neighborhood pooled its rubbish to deliver their message: that she, too, is trash.

A mother cat, her teats hanging like empty sacks under her bony frame, slinks up the stairway and mewls her presence. I throw her a rib of chewed meat. As she devours it, I realize it must have come from Abdo, the butcher.

I am so lost in thought that I don't realize I have sunk to my knees. Drops of a putrid liquid streak my dress and some sort of unidentifiable muck has hardened, like a dried-up stream, along the blue vein of my inner arm. “Disgusting!” My voice has the force of a cannonball, and it alarms the cat, who scoots down the stairs.

Mama is in the kitchen by the stove, waiting for some Turkish coffee to boil. “Well,” she says, directing a cool glance at the overflowing bucket clutched in my hand, “is that the lot?” My scowl is lost on her. She turns away and swirls the pot over the fire, then tames the rising liquid with a spoon. “Get some soap and water and mop the floor to get rid of the smell.”

“Revolting.”

“Of course it is. It's garbage, isn't it?”

I gawk at the small coffee cup, cream-colored and ringed with delicate powder-blue blossoms, sitting ready in its saucer on the kitchen table. She didn't even wonder if I would want some, and that's what turns my throat dry with hurt. It's about as much as I can take. “Not the garbage, Mama.” I cough. Even though the frog croak stays in my throat, I continue. “You.”

“What's that you're saying?”

“You, Mama. You have used every person in this neighborhood, and now they hate you. That rubbish out there, in here . . .” I swing the bucket, and bits of soppy newspaper tumble to the floor. “. . . I shouldn't be the one cleaning it up. It's meant for you. They want you out!”

“What do I care if they want me in or out?” She bangs the pot on the table, and dark liquid spews like mud over the sides. “And what tongue is this that's grown longer than a snake? You call yourself my daughter? I didn't bring you up to talk to me like this. Don't think you can be impertinent and get away with it.”

This is when I should retreat, even apologize. I should be satisfied by melting that icy exterior long enough to feel the heat of some genuine passion. Daughters never shout at their mothers like this—I never have before—no matter how much of a tyrant the mother might be. It's unimaginable, even in the boldest fight scenes on television dramas. But the sight of that one coffee cup keeps me from coiling back into submission. “This daughter has had enough!” I drop the bucket to the floor. “You sicken me.”

Hunkering down in the bathtub, I scrub like a madwoman. I scrub until the loofah turns my skin pink. There is only one thought in my head: to get out of the apartment and away from my mother.

She bangs on the locked bathroom door, calling me an ungrateful animal. I plug my ears, but I can still hear her asking the heavens why
she was cursed to have a daughter like me. Then the banging stops and I bend under the tap, feeling as vulnerable as a rabbit as I hurriedly try to rinse the soap off.

I imagine that I will feel better once I am out of the apartment, but when I am, I still feel a rage and frustration that I can't shake away. The cat laps at the residue of muck at the door. I kick. I miss.

I am wearing a flowery top with a bouquet of ruffles that arc around my chest. Out in the street, a gust of wind slaps them into my face. The first person I spot is one of my father's spies, practicing headers with a half-inflated ball. Every few bounces he hits a superheader and, from somewhere deep in his throat, expels the noise of crowds cheering.

I call him. “
Ya wad
, come here!”

He jerks his head, and the ball bounces off his nose before tumbling to the ground. He searches the full street, looking everywhere except in my direction. Clearly this spy has not been briefed on what to do when uncovered. “Yes, you.” When I march toward him, he tries to look busy searching for the ball, even though it's no more than a few steps behind him. “I have a message for you.”

He holds his hand to his chest. “You must be confusing me with someone else, ya sitt.” He is taller than I am, even with his head crumpled to his chest. His mouth loosens into a silly, apologetic grin that I want to scrape off his face with a scouring sponge. “I don't know you.”

I scoff. “Fine, whatever you say. But I have a message for you to deliver to the big bey who is paying you to keep an eye on me and my mother.”

“Your mother?” He shrugs and keeps staring at the ground.

“Yes, the one you've been following for so long?”

“Following?”

“What are you, deaf?” My voice cracks. He flinches and starts carefully retreating, looking around for someone, anyone, who might tell him what to do. No one seems to care. Suddenly he turns on his
heels and runs away. “Come back,” I call out. One glance at those spindly legs racing down the street is enough to convince me of the pointlessness of giving chase. But it doesn't stop me from yelling out my message: “She's getting married. Yes, you tell my father that my mother is getting married. Again!”

It's an inky night. There is a moon, round as a plate, but it hides behind a thick patch of mist. For now, the pyramids take its place, illuminated at the bottom, the peaks lost in darkness.

Throughout the drive, I vent my frustration. Adel keeps his eyes on the road and listens, interjecting brief words of concern or, every now and then, clicking his tongue with disbelief. Whenever my agitation swells, he rubs my arm or playfully pinches my cheek. As always, I push his hand away, even though I find myself smiling. It subdues the pain of being insignificant in my mother's eyes. Each time, it temporarily quiets me, but just for a moment; eventually I start again, gabbling like an agitated goose. I keep certain things to myself. He doesn't need to know that I was on my knees, scooping up trash. Mostly I ramble about my mother and how she treats me like a child.

After my outpouring, I wait for some relief to magically ease the pulse of torment. When it does not come, I take a breath and look around. Adel turns off the main road and onto a narrower one, bumpy with potholes. The road crumbles into gravel and sand. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quiet. Isn't that what you wanted?”

My jaw aches from talking too much. I fall silent and consider what made me call him. I had plodded through the streets for what felt like hours, crossing roads crowded with people, cars, and rumbling carts heaved forth by weary-faced mules. I was flushed and breathless as I tried to decide what to do. I first thought to call on Azza, since she
lives closest to me, but I quickly decided she was too witless and trivial and would be unable to add insight to what I was feeling. The second option had been to head to Madame Nivine's apartment in Mohan-dessin, but I disregarded that idea, too. It would not do to burden her with my personal problems—not this early in our partnership, anyway. She might lose focus of the more important task of making me famous. Then, without considering that Mariam might not want to talk to me, I'd found myself hailing a black-and-white taxi to drop me off at the sakan.

Sitting in the backseat, I had been soothed by the thought of seeing her after such a long time. Even though she has never said as much, I know she's never liked my mother. With a little prodding, I could get her to speak up. That's what I wanted to hear, after all: someone criticizing Mama's cruel and unfair treatment of me. Mariam would prepare me a cup of
karak
; I pictured her boiling the tea leaves in a pot of milk and sugar, dropping a pod or two of cardamom into the mixture. She'd serve it steaming hot, and I would have to pour it into the saucer and blow on it. She'd watch me and understand my torment. She'd rest her hand on my knee to give me strength. And if I cried, she would do the same. The shared emotion would make us hug and cry some more. I simply wanted someone to stand by me, to make me feel good again. And it's Mariam who can make me feel best.

I got out of the taxi just as the streetlights came on. This time I did not hide behind a bush or throw stones at the window. I walked straight in and asked for her. She was not there.