That Other Me (26 page)

The house is quiet. My aunt has bundled Mama Al-Ouda and Nouf into the car for a full day's visit at a friend's house. My uncle and his sons are hosting a lunch in the majlis. Sprawled on my bed, I close my eyes and rake my fingers through my bangs. I can still taste sand. How is it that my feelings toward Adel changed so quickly, from adoration to abhorrence? Was it ever love, or was it something else?

When I spoke to Dalal a week back, I imagined I'd be able to tell her about being pinned into the sand and molested. I thought I'd be able to express my anger at the humiliation, the horrible sense of having been used, violated, stripped of worth. But the whole thing continues to overwhelm me; every time I try to examine my emotions, I get the shivers. Dalal had not sensed my anguish. Why would she? As always, my voice was steady and supportive.

“So, where do you think she went?” Dalal had asked me.

“Who?”

“Who else? My mother, silly.”

“I don't know.”

“It's not as if she has any friends. Everyone hates her!”

“Maybe she went to that composer friend. What's his name?”

“Ah. Sherif bey. Can you believe I don't have his phone number?” Dalal sighed. “I'd go out and bang on his door, if only I could.”

“Why can't you?”

“Have you forgotten the smut on the door?”

I scoffed. “I can't believe that would stop you.”

There was a pause. “You're right!” said Dalal. “How hard could it be? It's just a turn of the handle, after all.”

“Yes, nothing more than that.”

“You know, I'm going to do it right this very minute.”

She had plunked the phone down and left me waiting. I remember my steady, even breathing as I waited for her to come back. Hearing her voice that day had returned my sense of composure, which had evaporated the day I met Adel.

What a fool I was, convincing myself that he had feelings for me. Why did I think I could change his volatile nature? So many signs, and I ignored them all. I should have walked away right at the start and never looked back. Instead I let him lead me into a cloud of beautiful dreams. I'd imagined such a future with him—one in which I would be more than a stay-at-home wife. We'd be dentists working side by side, first as employees, later in a clinic of our own. We'd have a house with a lush garden, crowded with my favorite exotic trees and flowers, and exactly four children, who would grow up to be decent human beings because they'd be rooted in rich soil.

Dalal had cut into these thoughts with a whisper that was both sharp and urgent. “You won't believe what happened.”

“What?”

“The door—someone painted it red. Some benevolent soul decided to get rid of the drawings.”

Now I smile as I picture the bold color; it matches my cousin's daring. My gaze drifts to the small clock on the bedside table, the hour
hand pointing to four. There are just ten days left before I fly back to Cairo. What then?

Ever since Adel took advantage of me, I have avoided all contact with him. How will I face him once I'm back at college? I imagine him in the lecture hall or clinic, brashly insisting on seeing me again. How will I deal with that? I practice what I'll say to him: “I'm not interested. Leave me alone.” How will he respond? He'll make a scene in front of all the students—that's what he'll do. Just thinking about it makes me jittery, to the point that I jump off the bed and start pacing the room.

Once I'm back at college there'll be nothing I can do but let my studies fill my time—and my head. My exam results arrived, and the grades I received were high, unexpectedly so; I thought they would be marred by my performance on that first oral test. Yes, that's what I'll do, even though I've been wondering whether dentistry is even the right vocation for me.

The closet door is open, and I scan the top shelf. I can't see what I am looking for, and even though I always keep it in the back, I panic, suddenly worried that my father's briefcase is not there. The chair leaves deep lines in the carpet when I pull it over. I climb up, and my hands grope in the dimness. I'm relieved when I feel the briefcase; I pull it out and settle cross-legged on the bed to open it.

My father used to carry the boxy black briefcase whenever he was traveling, and when he came back home he would use it to store important documents. A few months after he passed away, Ammi Majed gave it to me. I know exactly what is in it. For many years after his death, whenever I felt empty or lost, I would sift through the contents. It gave me comfort. I hope it will have the same effect now.

I punch the numbers into the combination lock: three–nine–six, the same as our post-office box number, and spread the items in a fan around me. There's my parents' marriage certificate, and the divorce papers from my father's first two unions. There are two faded airline tickets—Air India, to Bombay and back—and a pair of sunglasses in
a broken case. I look through my mother's passport, which expired two years after my birth. It's been stamped in Bahrain, Shiraz, and Bombay. There is no photograph, and printed in its place is the word
muhajaba
, veiled. (At that time, women's faces were not required to appear in their passports.)

There's my father's small red telephone book. I pick it up and leaf through the pages. The handwriting is as careful as that of a child learning to write, and just as graceless. Poor Baba; how hard he tried. In his artless calligraphy, he managed to fit no more than a couple of names and numbers on each page. I used to make fun of the way he looped the letter
ya
,
Y
, allowing it to balloon and fill half the page; the extra teeth he added to the letters
seen
,
S
, and
sheen
,
Sh
, so they looked like bumpy roads; and the runaway letters
ra
,
R
, and
zein
,
Z
, skewed long so they were not missed.

Here and there, above and below the awkward handwriting, are dots, sprinkled as if they were an afterthought. And they must have been. I click my tongue as I remember all the times I lectured him about how incomprehensible his writing would look if he kept forgetting where the dots went. “No one can read this!” He would hold his finger to his mouth and look around. “
Shh.
” Then, with a conspiratorial wink, he'd add, “That's the idea. It's a secret way of writing that only you and I can decipher.”

“You left me too soon,” I whisper with a sigh. I want to dwell longer on the memory of my father, but I hear something big crashing to the floor. It comes from downstairs, and my first thought is that it must be one of the maids breaking a plate. But then there's another crash, and then another. I throw the contents back into the briefcase and rush out to investigate.

There are fireworks in my head. No colors; just explosions.

This will damage my standing in the community. It's an insult to my integrity, my manhood. Saeed, Saif, Ahmad, and Badr straggle like hesitant street dogs behind me as I stomp out of the majlis. When I reach the house, I holler at them to get out of my sight. Whimpering like women, they beg me to calm down. I swivel around to glower at them. That is enough; they back away, trying to retreat with dignity but failing.

I have often wondered about those scenes in Western movies when a character gets so angry he starts smashing things in the house. Why break something? What satisfaction is there in it? But there is satisfaction. I discover that now.

A large vase patterned with flowers sits on a side table in the hall. The glass is so thick there's no transparency to it. It's the first thing that catches my eye, and I sweep it to the floor. It doesn't smash into smithereens the way I want it to, beyond hope of repair, but my fury abates somewhat. A mad grin bursts onto my face as I watch it break
into uneven chunks, silver shards flying in all directions over the marble floor. But then the memory of that video clip comes back.

I had been in the best of spirits, but that blasted song had changed everything. I remember ordering my son, Ahmad, to quickly change the channel. He gave me a blank look, and I had to jab him in the ribs to get him to obey. Saif spotted the remote clutched in the thick hands of a rheumy-eyed old man, and motioned to Badr to snatch it. But he is my soft son, and he couldn't very well pry it loose from those hardened knuckles. Standing as politely as he could next to the guest, Badr crouched and rose repeatedly, as if willing the remote to leap into his cupped hands. When the man wedged it beneath his foot, well, that was that.

I wanted to leave the room, but shock kept me where I was. The camera wouldn't stay still. It kept moving, zooming in until Dalal's face filled the screen, then pulling back in that dizzying technique so popular nowadays. Behind her, garish colors gyrated into hills and hoops, mere frills of ornamentation for the master performer, the star, my daughter.

I couldn't stop watching. Frozen, I felt a spark of regret for having gotten rid of my Cairo spies. (I'd ordered Mustafa to cancel them a couple of months back.) They might have warned me, and then I could have taken action to prevent this mortifying display. What was she trying to prove, wearing that blouse of shimmering armor, with rows and rows of silver sequins that glittered like tiny mirrors? Her arms were bare. I cringed every time she raised them; it was humiliating, watching my daughter expose herself like that. Her mouth puckered into a lascivious pout. I waited for the leering comments. Dalal twisted her hips and snaked her arms in a way no respectable girl should. But when no one uttered a word, I snuck a peek at the group to find out why.

Al-Shamri had shuffled right up to the screen and was ogling her with an open mouth; his missing front teeth made him look particularly depraved. Al-Khadhar's cheeks had darkened like burnt toast,
Bu-Surour raked his wiry beard distractedly, and right next to him Al-Naqbi gawked at the television while absentmindedly kneading his small toe. Quite simply, the old men were under her spell, no doubt fantasizing about the alluring young flesh on the screen.

I no longer felt outraged or embarrassed. Hope crept through me—I realized that they didn't know who she was. The song would finish and then they'd leave. They would go home without realizing that it was my daughter entertaining them and the rest of the country.

Yes, hope! Of course, that didn't last long. At the end of the video, Dalal's name had appeared on a glittering pink splotch at the bottom of the screen.

“Al-Naseemy!” Al-Khadhar cried out.

It was as if someone had shoved hot coals into my ears.

Old man Al-Yasri laughed. “From your tribe, Majed!”

Al-Naqbi quit molding his toe and protested. “Shoo ha? It's not enough that this lowly girl from who knows what backstreet is prancing like that for all to see.” He flicked his bamboo cane, as if about to propel it at a target just past my ear. “She has the temerity to take your name. Impostor!”

“She's Emirati,” said someone's insipid grandson. He confessed to having seen this video clip just the day before, on another program.

“Impossible! What rubbish you talk!” said his grandfather.

“Our girls appearing on television like that? What father would allow it?”

I wasn't sure who'd made that last comment, but it prompted an uncomfortable silence—so long and foreboding, it felt as though it had been dragged out of the deepest grave. I noticed their eyes on me all at once, and oddly enough this affected my vision: the room clouded over. Damn that Dalal! I shook my head sharply and my vision returned to normal. I don't know what expression was on my face, but whatever it was convinced them that the rumors of a secret wife, a secret daughter, could be ticked off as truth.

They left in one giant wave after that, forgoing the last ritual of sweetening their clothes and beards with oudh. The houseboys were unsure how to handle such an abrupt departure. They stood to one side of the doorway, their eyes misting with the clouds of smoke that wafted up from the incense holders in their hands.

The guests' mutterings of thanks on their way out felt like pepper on a wound. Oh, there would be much to talk about once they got home. Snake tongues would lash, describing the milky skin and tumbling curls of Majed's daughter, the one he kept hidden. And I was powerless to stop it.

Let me carry on. There's a miniature coffee set, complete with cups and tray: all crystal, all decorative, all immensely breakable. My vision starts to shake. I knock the set over with a punch so powerful it sends me spinning into a wobbly circle. I lose my balance and fall.

Sprawled on the floor with chips of glass and crystal biting into my bottom and my scrabbling hands, I watch the hall warp. My right hand tingles, and when I try to lift it, my movement is slow and labored. Tiny rivulets of pink blood trickle from pin-sized cuts, and for a moment I swim in a muddle, unable to remember what just happened. Someone is watching me from the top of the staircase. I know who it is, but her name eludes me. “Ammi?” she calls, looking hesitant, staying far away. I can't understand why I am not alone in the house. (Didn't Aisha say they were all going out? Where?)

The girl comes down, her face pale as a biscuit—I tilt back my head and watch her move, upside down: light footsteps, as if treading on air. I widen my eyes, half expecting her to grow wings and soar, but my vision grays once more and the next thing I know, she is crouched by my side and pulling glass out of my hands.

“I don't like surprises.” I'm not sure why I say this to her, especially since I cannot remember what I am referring to. There's a cushion under my head. (I can't remember putting it there.) It makes me feel like an invalid, and that annoys me. When I try to get up, she presses
me back down with a firm but gentle hand. I let her, because I still feel disoriented. “Where's Aisha?” My voice is coarse and muffled.

“I called her, and she's coming soon,” says the girl.

When did Aisha meet Dalal? When did they become friends? I shake my head and again see the vase breaking into pieces. There's a reason I did what I did, but the memory sifts through my mind like sand through fingers. Then I catch it, and I glare at the girl by my side, looking soft and lovely and nursing me with feigned concern.

I squeeze her fingers and lunge, swinging at her face with my other hand. I use every bit of strength in me. But Dalal ducks out of the way, and I only manage to leave a barely visible scratch on her chin. The effort is colossal and I collapse back onto the pillow, wheezing.

“You must stay calm!” she commands. When I groan, she adds a little more gently, “It's important you rest, ammi, until the ambulance arrives.”

Why does she keep calling me
uncle
?