That Other Me (24 page)

Once the boys leave, I get up and peel off my shayla and abaya, giving both a good shake. Sand showers to the ground. The windows were closed, and yet I might as well have been swimming in it—the sand is so fine, it feels as though it has seeped into every pore. It's stuck to the back of my neck and fills my nose and ears, coats my scalp and has even slipped between my teeth. I spit as Adel tests the engine: a splendid purr, as if nothing happened. But as soon as I hop in, he switches it off.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Can you drive?”

“Of course I can. But it's too early to go back.”

“But after this . . . after . . .” Before I can string the words into a sentence, he hops out of the car and strides up the steep dune. “But you have to go to the hospital and get your hand checked out,” I call after him. I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. “It will get dark soon. We must leave!” Adel doesn't even look back.

It's sticky. I let my aggravation out in a noisy puff of steaming air. I would like nothing better than to go back home where it's safe, before anything else happens. I wait a while, and when he doesn't come back I get out of the car to drag him down. I leave behind my abaya but sling
my shayla over a shoulder. The warm sand swallows me with my every lunge up the hill. It's like wading in knee-deep water, and by the time I reach the top I'm exhausted.

There he is, sitting cross-legged and staring ahead at the horizon in what appears to be a rare moment of contemplation. I watch him as I recover my breath. It's as if a million holes have been pricked in my skin, and I wipe off the perspiration with my shayla before flopping down next to him.

Side by side, we watch the sun sink low on the horizon. A ball of brilliant red, its rim has gone soft, wobbling and blushing, leaking into the faded sky. He says, “You know, right now I feel terrible.”

“Why, Adel?”

“Because I put you through unnecessary risk, zooming all over the place like that.”

I wave my arm to indicate that he shouldn't give it a second's thought.

“No, no, no.” He turns to face me, and shifts closer on his knees. “Really, Mariam, you could have broken bones in that accident.” He shudders. “Or worse.”

“But I didn't, al-hamdulillah. And besides, you were speeding because you wanted to give me a thrill, because you know how much I love it.” I give him a playful nudge and add a soft rap to his cheek with my knuckles.

He pushes my hand away and blinks repeatedly. “Just let me finish: the fact is, I'm reckless. I never think about how my actions can hurt people.” He slaps his chest with his injured hand and cringes. It is swollen around the thumb and tinged a pale blue.

“It's over.” A wave of guilt washes over me. “If anything, it's my fault. I'm the one who told you to turn.”

“Maybe.”

“Yes, yes, it's all because of me. If you hadn't listened to me, we would have been all right.”

He shakes his head. “Don't try to make me feel better. I'm no good.”

He looks so distressed. Under a curtain of thick black lashes, his eyes moisten. There is a deep sadness in them, I'm sure of it. I hold back the urge to mother him, to hold him to my chest and stroke his hair. Instead, I rub his shoulder lightly to comfort him. But my touch prompts more than it should. He lays his head in the cradle of my crossed legs. What a situation! I try to pretend there is nothing meaningful in the gesture, but it's strange to have his face there, in such close proximity to my crotch.

He stays there, still as a rock, save for the occasional shudder. I suspect he might be crying, but I don't look down to check. (Better to spare him the embarrassment.) I keep my eyes glued to the sinking sun and wait for him to stop, patting his head, expecting him to pull away soon.

But then Adel's head starts to gyrate, nuzzling my navel. I shake him off and move back. He swiftly sits up onto his knees and grabs my face, stretching to plant a kiss on my lips. We've kissed before—tiny playful pecks or coltish expressions of desire, the intensity always monitored and kept in check by my ever-alert mind—so I am comfortable to let him finish before pushing him away. Then we can leave.

But this turns out to be a different kind of kiss: deep and excruciatingly long. It melts my resistance so that when he circles his arms around me in an embrace, I press closer, savoring the hardness of his chest. It's the smallest of moves, but it triggers a wildness in him that catches me off guard.

In one swift lunge, he flips me on my stomach and pins me to the ground. He chuckles, and, anticipating a torturous game of tickle, I shriek and laugh. I try to squeeze out from under him, but he's holding me to the ground so firmly that the only movement I can manage is a few swishing kicks and flaps that lack any real force. He loosens his grip, and for a second I imagine he'll let me go—I have enough
freedom to lift up on my elbows. But Adel has a different agenda. His hand creeps somewhere it shouldn't, and in one swift move he pushes up my skirt and traps me once more.

“What are you doing?”

“Don't worry, I won't hurt you,” he says as he fumbles with his kandora while still holding me down.

There is movement on top of me: a grinding of his hips, a hardness rubbing at my tailbone. All I can think about is how much of my bottom is exposed. “This isn't funny!”

“Relax, habibti, relax.”

My eyes widen; it feels like they'll pop out of their sockets. And yet, strangely, I find his voice comforting. I stop writhing and lie very still.

“Say you love me,” he moans.

“I love you.”

He strikes me dumb with reassurances—“There's nothing to fear, I'm here for you. I'll protect you, always”—and compliments—“You are too lovely. I cannot resist you, habibti. Tell me you love me again.” His murmurs are hot on my neck.

“Hmm.”

“I know you do,” he says, rubbing and moaning. “Come on, say it.”

I look over my shoulder and glimpse his neck stretched taut, his mouth puckered and twisted to the side, his eyes half-open and glowing in the fading, rosy light. There he is, on top of me, caught up in a mystifying knot of rapture.

Sliding up and down now. “Say it.” Gaining speed and urgency. “Say it now!”

Before I can oblige, he presses my head down.

I eat sand.

He grunts, and his body breaks into a series of quivers and quakes.

Dazed speechless, I stare at the Pajero's headlights bouncing ahead of us over the dunes. I am numb with shame and a vague sense of loneliness, a physical feeling of emptiness. It's as if some essential part of me—heart, stomach, gut—has been taken away.

It's not until we reach the main road that my lips start quivering, a sign of tears in desperate need of release. In my determination to stay in control—I will not break down in front of him!—I hold them back as questions roil in my head. Is this the way a relationship is meant to develop? If so, why do I not feel special, or even safe? What am I to him? I wish there were someone who could tell me. Where is Dalal? She might know.

“Are you all right?”

I don't say anything.

“Mariam, answer me. Are you feeling all right?”

“Used,” I mutter. “That's how I feel.”

“We were having a good time. You were giggling, you were laughing. I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

Perhaps I was. “You should have asked.”

He shakes his head. “I don't know what to tell you. I thought . . .”

“I'll never respect myself after this.”

“Why are you so tormented?”

“You'll never respect me.”

“That's not true. Right now you are closer to me than ever before.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why do you say these things?” he groans. “If anything, what happened is my fault. And it must be because I love you more than I can ever express.”

“That was love?”

“I know. I'm sorry. It's just that you are so beautiful, and the beast in me took over. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.” Adel lets out a hearty sigh. He sounds satisfied, as if he's just had a long and relaxing bath.

“Selfish, that's what you are.”

“What?”

I cross my arms and glower. “You heard me: selfish.”

“Yes, selfish in my love for you. And that I want to see you every day. I'm sorry for that,
yaani
.”

“I don't mean it that way.” I narrow my eyes at him.

“Then how? Please tell me.”

I don't answer him.

“Look, Mariam, I beg you, don't ruin this day, because it's the best of my life. I'll never forget it. Today your breath warmed me and you heard my racing heartbeat.”

“Stop it! I don't want to hear these words, dipped in honey so they taste sweet.”

“All right, tell me. What did you mean when you called me selfish?”

“You don't care about me. All you care about is yourself.”

“Myself? What are you talking about?” He sighs and shakes his head. “I'm here for the summer vacation, the hot months, which I should be spending with my family in Fujairah. Once a year, my mother gets the pleasure of having me home. And what do I do? I deprive her of this joy. I take all that valuable time and spend it with you instead.” His words stab the air between us. “After I see you, I go to my friends' apartment in Sharjah and spend the night there, because my house is too far and because I hope I might see you again the next day. Some of us can't afford to stay in a hotel! I could be with my family right now.” He punches the steering wheel with the uninjured hand. “I could be with my friends. Right now! Sipping cappuccino at Gerard's or playing cards in their majlis. Ah, how wonderful! So, go ahead and tell me again that I'm selfish.”

My lips quiver again, and this time I cannot keep the tears in check; they create rivulets that run down the sides of my nose. No doubt they are tinged a mucky gray with what's left of the kohl after he crushed my face in the sand.

There is no way to stop it, so I try to sob quietly, hoping he'll ignore me. If he so much as utters another word I fear I might start wailing.

He peers at me. “What happened to you? Why are you crying?”

The unexpected concern in his voice pushes me over the edge.

“Don't shake so. Let me pull over to the side of the road for a bit. All right, all right, don't, don't hit me, I won't stop. I'll keep going.” Pause. “Hold your nose tight. That will get rid of the hiccups. You don't need to push my face away, I won't look at you.” Pause. “Come on, don't bend over like that; you'll make yourself sick.” Pause. “You'll just feel worse if you keep everything in. Take deep breaths. Shout if you have to.
Ow!
” Pause. “Okay, don't shout. All I want is for you to stop feeling so miserable.”

“Then shut up!”

“Think sparrow, not eagle.” That's what the composer Amro Dahab had said all those weeks back during our first recording, when he was explaining the direction my voice should take. By now, when I've finished recording the last song for my first album, he does not say much anymore. The only thing he tells me once I'm warmed up is, “You shine like gold.”

Yes, gold. It's not an original analogy. Nevertheless, it pleases me, and I let it boost my already euphoric sense of accomplishment. Madame Nivine drops me off at home, and once I'm in the dim stairway of the Imbaba apartment I take the steps two at a time. I am ravenous and think I could probably finish an entire stuffed baby goat if there were one cooked and ready in front of me. I chuckle at the thought and decide that a sandwich will have to do.

It's one a.m., and when I get to our floor I see that the bulb is out. Hanging from the ceiling by a wire that's been partially chewed by rats, it has been flickering these past few days. I tap it, which usually
gets a tired glow going. This time, however, it emits a second's worth of dazzling light and then pops.

I stiffen. My mind must have played a trick on me. I'm sure I didn't see bloodred letters on the door. My first thought is that someone must have killed my mother. And I can't decide how to feel about that.

I blink and wait for my eyes to get used to the darkness. The word materializes. It's as simple and straightforward as a slap in the face:
Sharmoota
, slut! Upon closer examination, I notice tiny drawings spreading over the doorframe: men and women, stick figures with balloon faces, copulating in the crudest positions. This is some artist—he opted for the leisurely strokes of a paintbrush instead of spray paint. The male figures look different: some have big noses, others have mustaches or beards. The woman is the same, an obvious representation of my mother. I hold my mouth with disbelief. When did this happen? Feeling like a sleuth, I press at a clumpy part of the paint and gape at the glob that clings to my finger.

I plunk down on the stairs and wonder whether my mother is aware of this latest neighborhood insult. It surprises me that there's no sound coming from the apartment; Mama always waits up for me so she can gauge my mood when I get back. She isn't aware that I know she does this. The television is always on, and it illuminates her face with a spill of blue-gray light. She's keen to see me fail. Every time she sees that I'm happy, she tightens her face and stares daggers at me. Sometimes she tries to rattle me with a snide remark or a hurtful comment. But I've grown smart. I never answer her.

I get up and shift on my feet, unable to decide whether to go in or stay out.
Sharmoota!
The word is at a slight slant. I count seven paired stick figures. Whoever did this took his time. Is it possible that Mama didn't hear the strokes of the brush or the shuffling feet and snickering voices? What about the neighbors? Did they laugh so much that they exhausted themselves?

A strange sadness fills me, sadness for my mother. I've felt all sorts of emotions toward her—love and admiration, anger and resentment—but rarely pity.

I close my eyes. What's on the other side of that door? My stomach growls, but I decide to forgo the sandwich. I'll go straight to my room and stay there until tomorrow, and face whatever comes in the new light.

The click of the key sounds too loud. I tiptoe to my room and close the door softly behind me. I don't bother changing or removing my makeup, just slip under the sheet and twist the kinks out of my neck, willing my mind to block out all thought.

The minutes drag. I yawn. I stretch. When sleep does not come, I kick. There is a churning, slow and rhythmic, in my belly. If only I could fill it. I sit up and listen carefully. All is still, so I slink out to the kitchen.

The white cheese looks appetizing. I cut it into cubes and stuff them into the pocket of a Baladi flatbread, along with sliced tomatoes and a sprinkling of pitted olives. I stand with my back to the kitchen entrance and take my first bite. My teeth leave neat punctures: a third of the sandwich furiously devoured. My second bite is smaller but equally satisfying; I savor the mash of different flavors on my tongue. I take a third.

“You're back, I see.”

Startled by my mother's voice, I bite my tongue.

“You had me wondering what happened to you.”

Is that concern? I swallow the mixture in my mouth in one go and choke. My eyes stream and my face heats up. All the while, my sore tongue throbs. Mama doesn't hand me a glass of water. I get that on my own. She does slap my back, though: hard, like pounding dust out of a carpet.

“Bit your tongue, too, huh?”

I nod and ease into the kitchen chair that she pulls out for me.
There is no iron in her eyes, just a vague look of anxiety. It's a look that warms me inside and out, and I decide it is concern. Not for the first time I find myself wishing for just a little parental worry, even if it leads to a lengthy interrogation, which most girls I know hate. That has never happened to me. I have been given free rein to come and go as I please. Maybe she will ask why I am so late, where I went, whom I saw. If she does, I will tell her everything: how I am moments away from fame.

When I finish clearing my throat, she taps my hand. And that's enough of a prompt for my report to come pouring out. She listens. There is no expression on her face and I'm sure it's because she doesn't want to miss a word, because she wants us to be close. Once I finish I am beaming, expectant, cocking my head like a puppy waiting for approval after performing a particularly clever trick. I make a mental note to scrub away that vile word and those flagrant stick figures, to spare her the pain. I will make sure there is not a trace of red paint left, even if I have to scrape, even if we end up with a door pockmarked with splinters.

“Just remember,” she says, “I can only bear so much. When you fall on your face, don't expect me to be there for you.”

I start coughing again, as if that sandwich is back in my mouth and going down the wrong way.

“You are building a future that will lead you to the gutter!”

Sharmoota! How could I allow myself to believe that she cares? Again. I get up, slam my hands on the kitchen table, and bend over her. In a voice spiked with animosity, I say, “You might want to go outside and take a look at what's on our door.”

She gives me a contemptuous snort. “And you might want to know that I'm not renewing the lease on this apartment.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The money has run out and I'm moving.” She taps my nose with her finger. “And you, Miss Golden Voice, will have to deal with it.”
She sits back with undisguised glee, savoring the effect this news has on me. It stuns me mute. She says, “Since you want your independence so badly—away from the mother who bore the suffering of giving you life—I've decided it's time you got your wish. Now I would like to concentrate on my own future.”

“What future?”

“You have two weeks.”

Air, I need air! I rush out onto the balcony and lean against the railing, dizzy. How easy it would be to just swing over. The thought frightens me and I look up, scowling at the slit of murky sky.

“That fat woman will destroy you.” Her hiss is hot on my neck. “You'll be so indebted to her that when you're unable to pay, she'll take you to court.”

Tears collect in my eyes. If I so much as blink, they'll drop. She wants to watch me crumble. I won't let that happen. I take a mighty sniff and slide my hands over my face, blotting the moisture before elbowing her to the side and stomping back in. “It may look rosy now. But mark my words, you'll regret it,” she calls.

She follows me through the sitting room, hurling insults. I wish there were somewhere I could hide. I hurry to the bathroom, where I lean over the sink and stare at the mirror. My lids are swollen, and, for once my eyes look the same size: shrunken, small, and hard, like peanuts.

I pick up my toothbrush and start brushing furiously, ignoring the sting on my tongue. I've never seen her this way, so hurtful, so intent on dragging me into a fight. She's still snarling at me. I spit into the sink and turn around. “You can't stand to see me succeed. That's what this is. Isn't that right, Mama?” I wave the toothbrush at her. “And what kills you is that you won't be a part of it. Actually, you'll never be a part of any success. You'll stay the way you are: one big nothing.”

When she snorts, I fling the toothbrush. It hits the wall and bounces into the bathtub. I rush to my bedroom and slam the door
shut before she can wedge her foot in. “Leave me alone. Why don't you go and open the front door, see what the world thinks of you.” I drag the bedside table over and sit on it. There is a loud banging as she tries to force the door open.

“I have only so much patience for you!” she yells. I plug my ears against the abuse that follows. The people above us wake up and start yelling curses. They strike warning thumps that shake the ceiling light.

“Why don't you just go away?”

And then, silence. I'm not sure what to make of it. I find it hard to keep my breath steady. At some point—I'm not sure when—tears begin to trickle down my face.

I hear a muffled shriek, followed by a flurry of footsteps, urgent and noisy. My ear is glued to the door. Yes, she's on the phone, there's her voice. It is muted—a little shaky?—and I can't hear what she says.

Fatigue washes over me. A heavy feeling, like thick slime, settles on my shoulders. It weighs me down. I whimper as I sink to the floor, a trembling wreck of agony and resentment. There I stay, curled like a baby in the womb, with my back pressed against the bedside table. I close my eyes, and three breaths later I am asleep.

It's five days later, and on this morning I awake and smell fresh paint. That's curious; it'll be the first time anyone in this ghastly neighborhood has tried to make his dwelling more livable, more beautiful. Someone in my building must have had enough of the grunginess and decided to freshen up the inside of his apartment.

I sigh at the prospect of another day of boredom. There's a tin on the coffee table. I run my finger around its rim, staring at the drawing on its lid. A lady in a violet gown holds a matching parasol; it looks like she is about to open it. Behind her stands a gentlemanly-looking soldier in a regal red uniform.

I shake the tin, which used to be full of treats. Not many of the Mackintosh chocolates are left; I've been devouring them since I finished the Danish butter cookies. The chunky green candies with the coconut filling were the first to go, followed by the purple variety filled with hazelnuts and caramel. After that, I ate the stick and coin toffees. I pull open the lid and push the sparkly wrappers about, hoping to have overlooked one of my favorites. But there are only creams left, an overly sweet orange and a too-bland strawberry. I toss one of each into my mouth and let the tastes blend as I chew with the sluggish munch of a camel. Drool slides down the sides of my mouth. I wipe it off with my cuff, leaving a muddy streak on the pajamas I've been living in these past few days.

Mama has disappeared. She packed some clothes and left.

At first I was relieved. But then I was overwhelmed by a variety of other emotions. I suffer from fits of restlessness punctuated by long intervals of blank lethargy. I'm quite exhausted with the experience of being alone, but I lack the energy to venture out. I topple back onto the couch and groan, “I'm a prisoner.” I don't dare leave the apartment because of what's on that door. I've kept the shutters closed and am careful to move as quietly as a rabbit so that people think no one's home.

Helplessness sucks the air out of my chest. “Too much pressure!” I'm too young to have to deal with so many problems. Besides the effort I'm putting into achieving fame, I have this unwanted responsibility: I need to find money so I can extend the lease. Otherwise, where will I sleep? I need to buy food, too, and pay the bills for the phone, gas, and electricity. They're heaped on the dining table, collecting dust. Yes, too young. I should be in college (despite the fact that I'd loathe all the studying I'd have to do), and my only worry should be passing my exams.

In a burst of frustration I kick the coffee table, sending the Mackintosh tin rolling toward the door. There are footsteps outside, and
whoever it is pauses by the door. No doubt it's another nosy neighbor anxious to make sure everything is fine. That's what they say when they knock every day. “Anyone there? Everything okay?” I never answer because I know it's nothing more than vile glee, a need to further ridicule the divorcée and her daughter.

I bite my knuckle and wait to see if the neighbor will knock. He doesn't, but the phone rings, and once I'm sure the encroacher has trudged away, I get up to answer it. Madame Nivine wastes no time: “Should the main song of the album be released before the video
cleep
(that's how Madame Nivine pronounces it) or the other way around?” It's a new trend, a music video accompanying a song, and it has older managers like Madame Nivine baffled over how best to handle it.