That Other Me (30 page)

I am about to snap open my crystal-coated clutch to take out the invitation when the guard at the entrance gasps and then grins. She recognizes me, despite the shayla hanging low over my face. “No need,” she says, holding her hand up to her temple in a movement I decide is a salute. “You're the Gazelle of the Desert.”

That was the heading written in beautiful calligraphy under my image on the cover of this week's
Zahrat Al-Khaleej
magazine. There are sparks in the guard's eyes, like light on water, a sight that livens my mood even though I've seen the same on the faces of countless other devoted fans. I want to let my abaya slip off so she can see me in full stylish form. I'm wearing a turquoise sequined dress with a crystal beaded halter neckline and a bold V-cut open back. But I hold back and lift the shayla, revealing only my face. After all, I'd promised Mariam to be discreet, to blend in, to attend her wedding with no fuss whatsoever.

“That's my cousin getting married in there,” I say, glancing at the ballroom door. It is closed, muffling the throb of music within. “Has she arrived yet?”

The guard shakes her head.

I smile. My timing is perfect. The families of the bride and groom must already have retreated from their greeting post at the entrance to the ballroom. I'm late enough to avoid them, but not too late for Mariam's entrance.

The guard grabs a pen and ferrets out an empty envelope from among the invitations. She holds it in front of me. “Make it to Balquis.”

I enter the date: November 9, 1995. With broad strokes, I write: “To Balquis—may your life be filled with joy.” I pause before adding: “As much joy as this bride feels tonight.” These are the kinds of words my admirers long for. Then I write the signature Madame Nivine had me practice repeatedly while she watched with her tiger eyes. “The stiff
alef
and
lams
will show that you're strong,” she explained. “But the
dal
that starts your name, hayachi: you have to curl it just right, like a chile pepper, to show your femininity and vulnerability. Just a little bit of weakness, so that men will want to protect you. That's always a good thing.”

Madame Nivine is not with me. It's the first time she has refused me a request. When I failed to charm her into coming (I needed her for support) I'd threatened to look for another manager. Finally I ended up begging her. “As a manager and a friend, I advise you not to go, either,” she said. “You're fiery and unpredictable. And given your anger toward your family, you might do something foolish, which the press is sure to exploit.”

“You worry about everything.”

“I know she's your cousin, your best friend and all, habibchi, but just think: maybe she doesn't want you there. I mean, why did it take so long for the invitation to arrive?”

“Egyptian post!”

“Stop furrowing that brow, Dalal. Don't pretend you're puzzled. And who is this man she is going to marry, anyway?”

“How should I know? His name is on the card. Read it!” Madame Nivine's candor upset me, but I was not about to show it. It's true that
Mariam was tight-lipped when I asked her for details. She skirted my every attempt at probing. She made silly statements that sounded like defeat. I'd finally understood that she'd given up the fight. And that got my blood boiling: they had broken her. When I offered to sing at her wedding, she said, “Dalal, dear, I really don't have much say in anything. You know how these things are, more for the family, their prestige and standing in society, than anything else. They're arranging the whole thing.”

“There are weeds in this sea that you are about to swim in!” Madame Nivine had said to me. “Those weeds are your past, and they're going to wrap themselves around your ankles and pull you down.”

What rubbish she talks! I toss a sideways glance at my companions. Azza and Hannah, (newly employed as my public-relations manager and added to my retinue) are like schoolchildren trying to win points with their teacher by being attentive. They wait for a request or an order. Azza giggles and bobs her head at the guard. She's still waiting for the signed envelope, which I am clutching a little too tightly. I lean toward her. Handing her the envelope, I whisper, “Look, I don't want anyone to know I am here.” Balquis the guard seems pleased to be entrusted with my secret. She tightens her lips and seals them with an imaginary zipper.

Azza swings open the giant door and an arctic burst of air rushes out, plastering the shayla to my face. It takes a few seconds for it to settle. At that moment, the song ends. For a moment it's silent, and I freeze in place, embarrassed by all the eyes on me. Which ones are my half sisters? The only one I might be able to recognize is Nouf because we were in the same fancy school for a while—unless she has changed drastically. What about the others? What will they do if they find out I'm here?

I'm considering turning around and running away, when the next song begins. It has a strong Egyptian beat, and the deafening wail of the singer restores my senses. The singer, along with the rest of the
musicians, must be behind the giant curtain to the side of the bridal stage. It is a common arrangement so that the women feel more comfortable. Being in a ballroom filled only with women, those who wear head scarves are free to remove them if they choose to.

I squint through a dazzle of blue and white lights. The ballroom is filled with round tables arranged on both sides of a royal-blue carpet. It looks like any other Khaleeji wedding I've performed at. I let my eyes roam over the heads of abaya-clad women, searching for a remote seat to occupy.

I spot an empty table at the periphery of the ballroom. It's right below one of the speakers, but close enough to the bridal stage that I will be able to observe Mariam without being noticed. It's her wedding, after all, and I must respect her wishes and not attract attention. “Come on, follow me,” I tell Azza and Hannah, and I hurry over, all the while considering how strange it feels not to be the central attraction.

Almost as soon as we take our seats, Azza jumps back up. She points ahead and whoops. “Look, look! There's Noosa.”

The famous belly dancer emerges from a back door with her arms spread as wide as eagles' wings. She glides between the tables under a spotlight, searching for an appreciative audience, one that will cheer her on and not eye her with disapproval. She singles out a group of middle-aged ladies and shakes her chest, her emerald fringe of beads clacking. It's a sensuous display, and when the women do not cover their noses and mouths with their shaylas, Noosa knows she has chosen the right table and continues to demonstrate her talent.

She starts with a snakelike coiling of the waist, her midriff held firm under a transparent body stocking, and then launches into a series of abdominal acrobatics. Her belly rises and dips, creating mounds and hollows and impossible shapes; there's a roll from the ribs down to the hips and back up again. Her layers of translucent gold chiffon shimmer with each belly twist. The cloth parts like a curtain to reveal her shining alabaster thighs.

Watching Noosa, all glitter and dazzle, reminds me of all the times I've pranced about beneath a luminous moon of light with a microphone in my hand and glitter in my hair. Mariam is my cousin and best friend, and I have to endure the torture of being invisible in the midst of my father's family. I can't help but feel a little betrayed. To distract myself, I settle back and look around.

The wedding has an underwater theme. The bridal stage, looking to have a height of up to my hips, is garnished with white roses and cream-colored starfish; the divan—where the bride and groom will sit—is shaped like a clamshell. Above it hangs a delicate arrangement of softly swaying strips of ocean-colored fabrics. Luminous white balls cling to the cloth: pearls, the most beautiful of underwater creations. To the left is a low platform shaped like a spiral seashell. It has just enough room on it for one person, probably the main singer, who has yet to materialize.

All this must be the work of my half sisters; it's customary for the women on the bride's side to handle the design and arrangement of any wedding. They set the price—no expense spared: a bellowing message sure to score points with the guests—and the groom's side must foot the bill.

Azza's hand drifts over the bowls of starters—hummus, tabbouleh, samosas, stuffed grape leaves—and taps the funnel-shaped glass vase in the middle of the table. It is filled with a variety of seashells. “So pretty,” she says, running her index finger along the glass. “How many people do you think dove to the bottom to fetch them all?”

Just the thought of shouting over the loudspeaker to answer her stupid question fatigues me. I sniff and look away, narrowing my sleepy eye at Noosa. She is balancing a cane on her head. The cheering squad of middle-aged women is now sodden with boredom (all those belly bumps do get repetitive after a while), and that pleases me. But Noosa tickles their interest once more when she lets the cane slip off her head and looks toward her three assistants, who lug over a bronze
candelabra with no fewer than fifty burning candles. Noosa slaps her chest. Her eyes round with playful alarm at the candelabra, four times the size of her head and a meter tall. She crouches, and the assistants fix it to her head.

“Her neck must be as strong as an ox's,” says Hannah, just as the tablah tap-taps the dancer into rising.

“She should be in a circus, not a wedding,” I add, smirking.

The beat crescendos, a deafening cacophony of synthesized flutes and violins. Noosa's head dips and swivels; there is awe on the guests' faces. Openmouthed children scrunch their eyes as she tilts to an extreme degree that makes it look like the candelabra will topple to the ground. But Noosa retracts her neck just in time and balances her head with an unflappable bob. Little girls clap and cheer—some of them are my nieces, I'm sure. A jolt of envy rushes through my bones.

I am in the middle of my flesh and blood, and yet I must act like a stranger. No, worse than that! I must be an invisible stranger. Mariam and her weakness! Why couldn't she have shown some boldness and insisted I sing at her wedding?

The candelabra is removed from Noosa's head. Someone passes her a microphone. She holds it to her mouth and wags her tongue in an energetic ululation: the announcement for the
zaffa
, the wedding procession. The bride has arrived.

A traditional troupe of women musicians leads the way. They sing, clap, and slap their tar drums. The flower girls follow them, carrying conch shells filled with white petals, which they scatter on the navy-blue carpet. Next is the video crew with their harsh lights. Then it's me.

I am a mermaid.

The dress clings to me all the way to the middle of my calves, where it loosens and fans out to the ground in an elaborate fish tail. In case anyone needs more clarification, nacre fish scales are embroidered to the dress with pearly threads, the shapes fortified with sequins and beads. Like any mermaid treading on solid ground, this one is finding it difficult to walk.

My face glimmers under the spotlight. Little girls gape at me with stars in their eyes. Older girls gaze at me with dreams in their heads. One day soon, they, too, will have their transforming moment and become the bride in white.

The video-recording team, a group of three Filipinas with serious faces, wades backward in front of me. The camerawoman has her eye glued to the viewfinder. She is careful not to make any sudden moves; she doesn't want to bump her head on the light that is raised above her head by the first assistant, or trip over the wires that the second assistant is uncoiling.

“Keep your shyness, but try to look content,” Mona says. She struts alongside me, handing out infinite tips. Every now and then her hand runs over the rhinestones studding my shoulders as if they had suddenly grown dusty and needed a polish. Other relatives follow my trail, too. I imagine their eyes on me, radiant with celebration, taking in my extravagant gown. They do not realize that I would gladly give it up and settle for a rag if only . . . if only . . .

“Mariam!” Mona hisses. “No teeth in your smile.”

I adjust my smile and continue at a tortoise pace up three steps and onto the catwalk that leads to the bridal stage. There's a seat at the end of it: a clamshell. Could it open up and swallow me?

The folk music group has made the noise it was paid for and left, as has the belly dancer. There's a blissful hush, a signal that dinner is about to be served. An army of waitresses emerges, threading its way between the tables to deliver trays of stuffed baby goat. I spot three types of rice—dill green, saffron yellow, and plain white—along with an assortment of kebabs and curries. It's a brief respite, and I listen to the sounds made by the eight hundred or so hungry guests: the clink of cutlery on porcelain, the gurgle of water poured in glasses, the murmur of light conversation, and the sleepy bawls of the odd toddler here and there
.

It's the perfect moment for family photographs with the bride.
Seated on the satin clamshell couch, I watch Amal as she rearranges the scaly tail at my toes.

Mama Al-Ouda doesn't wait for anyone to come get her. She climbs the steps with the help of two Filipina maids, her abaya bundled to her waist so she doesn't trip. Under it she wears a traditional dress made of fine brocade. She lumbers down the catwalk while my cousins struggle with their children. Respectfully, I rise to kiss my grandmother's hand, then give her another light peck on her forehead, over her brand new burka, which shines like a polished bronze shield. She whispers, “Masha'Allah,” and cups my face with both hands to give an extra dose of approval.

Mama Al-Ouda settles next to me on the couch, fidgeting, releasing a whiff of Arabic perfume mixed with Yardley English Rose talc. She is bedecked in some of her finest traditional gold jewelry, most of which were gifts from my father when he started making money: heavy earrings; a shimmery necklace that gushes over her chest like a honeyed waterfall; thickly spiked bangles that look like weapons; and more modern gold rings on four of her fingers.

The photographer holds her hand up and says, “Ready, steady.” She lets loose an erratic sequence of clicks and flares before saying, “Go!” Alerted by the spray of flashes, the rest of the family hurries to huddle around me. Mona arranges the small girls and boys in two rows according to height and then takes her place. Again, “Ready, steady,” clicks and flashes, and the delayed word, “Go!”

I must look the picture of contentment with my bride's smile (no teeth showing). Only Dalal would have been able to sense my agony. I don't bother to look for her, because she would have made her presence known by now if she were here. After all the warnings I gave her, I'm sure she understood that it would be wisest to stay away.

“Mama, Mama! Salem pulled my hair!” Mona's four-year-old, Reem, tugs at her mother's gown just as her mobile phone starts ringing.

“Don't pull her hair,” Mona says to her son, Salem, two years older than his sister and double her size. She answers the phone. A pause, then a declaration: “They're coming. The men are coming.”

My conjugal life is about to begin.

Reem's incessant tugs turn to furious yanks. “Stop it,” orders Mona, and shifts away, blocking her free ear. The music resumes; it's a Khaleeji beat that begins with the piercing throbs of more tar drums. Frustrated, Mona bonds her ear to the phone and shouts, “You can't come now. We're not ready.” Little Reem is whimpering and clinging to her mother's knees. Mona ignores her. “Let the singer finish a few songs so there's some dancing. You know none of the girls will dance if there are men in the ballroom.”

My conjugal life has been delayed to make time for the girls who want to dance.

“They're tired. They're all tired, these children,” says Mona, and winks at me. “Don't worry, Mariam, insha'Allah, he'll be here soon enough.” She marches the squirming Reem off the stage, struggling to keep the child's snotty nose as far away from her dress as possible.

I'm not worried
, I think. I have sat with him twice. The first time he visited, he was received in the formal sitting room. I was bathed, coiffed, and dressed suitably for the visit, which lasted half an hour. I'm not sure if it was shyness or the awkwardness of two strangers meeting under the gaze of my aunt and her children, but mostly we avoided looking at each other. He asked after my health and I asked after his. We drank gahwa and ate Omani
halwa
. The second time, he visited for lunch, and Ammi Majed was present. I'd felt invisible. The man was certainly more talkative, but only with the other men, my uncle and his sons.

The man is much older than I, just over forty. I call him
the man
because he is just that—the man who will be my husband, who will share my bed, whose children I will deliver. “The older he is, the better,” Amal had told me, “more mature, more settled, more able to
take charge.” And Nouf had added, “More important, he's as rich as a sheikh.”

Just as the waitresses start serving the grand array of desserts, a trill echoes in the entrance, and Budoor proudly sweeps into the ballroom. I see Mona light up at the arrival of the much-anticipated Kuwaiti singer. (She will get the girls dancing, after all.) Budoor begins with an upbeat song that is filled with blessings for this special occasion.