That Other Me (25 page)

I've lied to Madame Nivine and told her I'm sick, because the thought of stepping outside is too daunting. I keep a croak at the back of my throat as I ask, “Why not together?” The phone line is crackly, and I repeat my suggestion.

“I hear you, ya hayachi, I hear you.” There's a thoughtful pause.

I sit up straight and fiddle with the buttons of my pajamas, ignoring the reek of damp and dusty potatoes that wafts from the fibers. Any discussion to do with my career calls for my full attention. Madame Nivine has been busy sprinkling her magic powder. Any day now and my song will be released. And then, as can happen in the world of Arabic popular music, things can change for me very quickly.

“Of course, if they do go out together,” she reasons, “then we have the added factor of publicity through television.”

“That's right.”

“But if people hate the
cleep
, that could affect the success of the song?”

She goes around and around over the same arguments. It's the third time she has called me about this, and I still haven't gotten used to the hesitation in her voice. “I suppose so.”

“Hmm.” Another pause. “And you? Better?”

“Yes.” I sniff. “Just this sore throat that's taking forever to heal. Tired, I guess.” The rush of excitement melts away and I slouch back onto the couch.

“Yes, well, get some rest. In the meantime, let me think about this a little more, and I'll get back to you with my decision.”

For the next ten minutes I glower at the tin and consider how much I hate the remaining flavors of candy. Ten minutes after that, I am splayed on the couch like a wilted star, an arm and a leg dangling over the edge. I am staring at the ceiling with no thoughts whatsoever passing through my head when the phone rings. Madame Nivine again? “So, what did you decide?”

“Hello?”

I shake the receiver. I think I must be dreaming, or else the phone lines must have gotten tangled up, as they often do. One more
hello
puts an end to the confusion. “Ooo, is that . . . ?” I need to be sure.

“Mmm, yes, it's . . .”

We are like infants learning to speak, replacing every word that gets stuck with a hoot, a burble, or a titter. “Where have you . . . ?”

“I'm in Dubai and . . .”

The initial awkwardness passes, and suddenly it's as if we'd never stopped talking to each other. Mariam tells me she's bored and that there's nothing much happening in Dubai. I tell her there's too much going on in my life—Mama's disappearance, the art on the door, the horror of facing eviction—and I don't know whether I can handle it all. She doesn't agree with me, tells me she has never met anyone stronger. Her voice is as fresh as a mint. It hardens my nerves and awakens my senses. I want to take off my pajamas and wash up, put on something bright and colorful. “I'm a hop away from fame,” I tell her proudly. “My first song will be released any day now.”

“I always knew you'd get there.”

The crackles in the line come and go, sometimes giving way to sharp whistles.

“So, are there really actual drawings of couples having sex on your door?”

Mariam's giggle makes me see the humor in it for the first time. “Oh, yes. My mother and many different men.”

We laugh after that for a long time. Then we grow quiet at the same time. It's a kind of magic, this harmony we share.

“I miss you,” I murmur.

“So do I.”

“So, should I make sure the Neely is ready for a get-together this coming Wednesday?” Saeed asks.

“You ask me this so soon after the Friday prayer?”

He shrugs.

“No,” I say mechanically. My mouth is pursed, but I can't hold the expression. My face stretches into a broad grin, and Saeed shakes his finger at me. He throws his head back and lets out a vulgar cackle. I've been so good, so very good and proud of these four months of abstinence. And just now with Saeed's question, a thought crossed my mind: it's not necessary to completely give up drinking, only stick to a moderate intake.

“I thought you'd refuse again,” he says, and happily joins Mattar, who sits at the far end of the majlis, flinging handfuls of peanuts into his mouth and concentrating on the advice of a religious sheikh on television.

I stay where I am by the door, jovial inside and out. Everything is going just the way it should. Aisha tells me that the rich widow
Salma Bint-Obaid is interested in a union between Mariam and her son. There has been a surprise message from my son Khaled, too. The envelope—covered in Thai stamps—contained two pages. The first was a short note informing me that he was ready to come back to Dubai; the other contained a poem he had written for me. I skimmed through it twice, and when it still looked like gibberish I crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the wastebasket. He has some explaining to do, that irresponsible idiot.

Weak, that's what he is. Not long ago, I received some disturbing news from a young man who went to school with him. He had just returned from Bangkok and couldn't look me in the eye as he informed me that Khaled was not well, that he has been taking drugs. When I asked what kind, the young man mumbled that he thought it was the worst type: heroin. Once my son returns I shall say nothing to him for a few days, but only for the benefit of his mother, who has been so worried about him. Aisha will want to pamper him. It's her right as a mother, and I'll allow her to enjoy doing so. But after that . . . My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of the first guest. I bend over to greet him.

Ghaith Al-Yasri is stooped and frail. “Long time!” he says in a mock scold. He was one of my father's best friends, and that means he has the right to pull my ear whenever he feels like it. He does so now, with a surprisingly firm grip. I only let him because I must be civil and honor his old age. Besides, it obviously gives him pleasure.

“Yes indeed, ammi.”

“We used to hear news from your family when your brother was alive. But nothing whatsoever, for so long now.”

“This is the world now, ammi. Everyone rushing this way and that, forgetting to make time for the important things in life.” I try to ease out of his grip, but it's tighter than a clothespin. I have to yank at Al-Yasri's wrist so that he lets go.

He guffaws. “You thought I'd lost my strength, didn't you.”

“Yes, ammi,” I say, glowering at Saeed and Mattar, who are snickering diabolically from the other side of the room like a pair of irritating children.

Al-Yasri's eyes have fogged with age, but he scrutinizes the majlis and misses nothing. His eyes dart along the plush seating fixed to the walls and the giant television screen. The program has changed; now squeaky-voiced little girls in school uniforms stand on a stage. They arc their arms over their heads as they sing some patriotic song.

Al-Yasri lingers at the doorway. He seems happy to stay right where he is, breathing in the scent of expensive oudh with a grin that confirms that this is indeed a grand occasion. He has come with two of his grandsons, who nudge him along to make space for the other old men who have started arriving, also in the company of their sons and grandsons. They file in and I press my nose to theirs, one by one, in a cordial greeting.

Feeling generous and in a celebratory mood, I had decided to organize this lunch for my relatives and friends from Ras Al-Khaimah, most of whom I haven't seen since Hareb (who'd insisted on staying in touch with people from the old days) had passed away. I had sent my sons to deliver the communal invitation, but I had no idea there would be so many grizzled faces—some I cannot recognize—eager to make the journey to Dubai. Still, it's good; it means that this feast will be talked about and remembered for a long time.

Here they come, with their age-thinned beards dyed black or brightened to orange with henna. Some use their canes to support their weakened gait; others have managed to preserve a surprising amount of the sturdiness of their youth. Their kandoras are starched and hover above their ankles, in the old style. The dashes of kohl on their eyelids have smudged.

They plant themselves on chairs, rigid as statues. Some fidget as they try to get comfortable, unused to the tall seats. They tuck a knee under themselves and try to hug the other leg to their chest, but the
seat is too narrow. So they end up settling on the floor; pretty soon the majlis looks like an airport terminal filled with passengers waiting patiently for their planes to arrive.

Some of the guests look peculiar and out of place, these tribesmen in central air-conditioning. A few brought along their yirzes, the small-headed ax of the mountain clans, and two arrived with silver daggers strapped around their waists. Every time they move, the elaborately decorated handles poke their ribs.

The houseboys serve goblets of freshly squeezed orange and lemon juice. My sons Saif, Ahmad, and Badr are here, as well as the grandsons old enough to be considered young men. Everything's as it should be, and I rub my hands with pleasure before mingling with the guests.

I am a perfect host, asking after their health and changing seats every few minutes so that no one feels neglected. Some tell me how they got lost trying to find their way to my house; most complain that Ras Al-Khaimah has become a different place, with too many highways and cars and foreigners and modern thinking. “Before, we all used to live together,” says Al-Yasri, who sits cross-legged on the floor, rubbing the thick carpet with his palms as if it were soft sand. “Now, the young want their own home when they marry.”

I nod my agreement. “Time has made strangers of people.”

From the other side of the room Ibrahim Al-Khadhar calls out, “With this modern work behind desks in offices, they've all forgotten the palms, and what real work, men's work, means.”

Theirs are the usual old-man grumbles. I sit in their midst on the floor and listen like a patient sage, inserting a calming comment here and there, clicking my tongue every now and then, or shaking my head sadly so they understand that I have sympathy for them.

“Before, we used to have all our meals together,” Al-Yasri continues. “Now we're lucky if we see our children and grandchildren once a week. And if you complain, they tell you they can't help it, that the work hours they have to put in keep them away.”

His grandsons are young, probably just starting college; they sit on either side of him. “But now you don't have to go hungry,” one of them says, leaning over. “You go to the supermarket and there's any kind of fruit you desire.”

“
Shoo ha!
” Al-Yasri pinches the carpet with disgust. “What are these new creations, oranges and apples? I don't need them. Give me dates; that's enough for me.”

His other grandson tries to soothe him. “Do you remember, Grandfather, you told me you used to get boils from the heat and humidity? And you'd scratch and scratch? Well, you don't suffer from them anymore because of the air-conditioning.” His face is suffused with the familiar smugness of youth. He pats Al-Yasri on the shoulder, oblivious to the temper brewing in his grandfather.

I make a tent with my fingers and rest my chin on it. I stay very still and wait for the outburst that is sure to follow. Al-Yasri slaps his grandson's hand off and cries, “I'd rather scratch until they pop and bleed than live with your conditioner. I'm too stiff to bend properly because of it.” His face reddens and he waves his arms to the ceiling. “Majed!” he barks. “Look how they talk to us. No respect anymore.”

The grandsons are embarrassed, and I raise my eyebrows at Badr, who understands what he must do. He hurries over and guides them out of the room with a quickly made-up excuse. Rising, I signal to Saif and Ahmad that it's time for the food to be served.

The houseboys emerge once more and spread semitransparent plastic sheets in the middle of the room, from one end to the other. There won't be any fancy foods for this group, like rice-stuffed zucchini or tightly rolled grape leaves; those wouldn't be appreciated. An exotic curry would certainly be regarded with skepticism. No, none of those new foods, either, like hummus, tabbouleh, and fattoush, which have become essential supplements to Emirati spreads. Not for this lot. Meat is king for these tribesmen. Large trays of meat—scattered on generous beds of rice and layered under paper-thin
regag
bread—arrive,
the finest anyone could ask for. There are eight stuffed baby goats flavored with saffron, cardamom, and our Khaleeji blend of herbs.

“
Igribou
, get close.”

No sooner do I utter the invitation to commence than the group begins a chorus of calls, starting with the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful: “
Samou!
Samou!
Say the name!” They move to the edges of the sheets and push their kandora cuffs up to expose a generous length of their arms. I do the same and shove my fingers into the steaming belly of one of the goats, extracting the stuffing of onions, chickpeas, cashews, and raisins. The meat is so tender it slips off the bones. Soon the only noise in the room is that of fingers ripping flesh, hands breaking bones, teeth chewing on meat.

Someone laughs, and the sound is so out of place that we all look up at once and follow his gaze to the television. There is a Khaleeji comedy on, with the usual frisky antics. A father is trying to thrash his moronic son, who jumps out of the way and bounces from one couch to the other. The wife yells at her husband to stop, but then he turns and starts chasing her instead. The group bursts out in laughter. I've caught snatches of this program before. There's also a mother-in-law who loves to make problems.

Once the chase is finished, we turn back to the business of feasting. I decide I've had enough and ease back to survey the munching, slurping group. They flick bones out of the way, making small heaps on the plastic sheets. Al-Khadhar busies himself with a goat's head, trying to get to the brain, and Bu-Surour pours so much buttermilk over his rice and goat meat that the mixture looks like soup. He laps it up, oblivious to the pearly drops that get caught in his stringy beard. I watch him and smile. It's good to stay in touch with one's people, and I decide I must invite them all again, perhaps make it a regular event every couple of months or so.

The gorging is fast and passionate. They rise to wash up, and the houseboys start removing the trays and wrapping the plastic sheets
over the mess of bones, flesh, and date pits. My gaze drifts back toward the television. A variety show is on now; I see the presenter, dwarfed on a massive purple settee, and try to guess her nationality. She has a flawless local accent, but it's obvious she's not Emirati, because no Emirati family would allow their daughter to appear on television. Her face is round like the moon, and her bangs, under the transparent shayla that sits high on her head, are ironed so straight they fall like sharp pins into her eyes. Moroccan, I decide. She introduces a young Kuwaiti singer I have never heard of, and a music video rolls: a scrawny man who wanders alone along the seashore and croons with a lovesick moan. The injured expression in his eyes reminds me of Khaled, the way he looked before he disappeared, and I try to decide how best to deal with him. Lock him up in a room until he sweats it out? Or . . .

The men return and the tea arrives in thermoses along with bowls heaped with apples, oranges, and bananas. Badr serves gahwa, and soon after that half the group—including the men with daggers and yirzes, their nomadic hearts pulling them away to other places, no doubt—abruptly rise to leave. They raise their hands in farewell, and Saeed, my sons, and I get up to see them out, as courtesy dictates.

When we return, the room has suddenly grown quiet. “What are you all watching?” I ask, pulling my shoulders back and grinning with satisfaction over how successful this lunch has turned out. I follow their gazes. And then I freeze. Only my eyes move; I blink rapidly, as if that will make me see something different. But what is on that screen is unmistakable: Dalal, fluttering her hands like a butterfly, lost in a lurid rainbow sky.