That Other Me (31 page)

First that vulgar dancer, then the family photographs that excluded its most dazzling member, and now this Budoor, who does not go to the platform that has been built for her. With microphone in hand she winds her way between the tables, swishing this way and that in her many layers of chiffon. They're pale violet and do nothing to lighten her complexion.

The beat is punchy, amplified by the throb of drums from behind the curtain. When the women start clapping, I stab the crème caramel in front of me with my spoon. This just happens to be my opening song: I have sung it at every Khaleeji wedding I've performed in. Someone throws a rose at Budoor, and the crème caramel disintegrates under the force of my jabs. I rise to my feet. Azza and Hannah gawk at me, their open mouths filled with a rainbow of gooey sweet things. “What?! I just want to see better.” And I do.

Three tables away, a girl stares at me with wonder in her eyes. She gasps and presses her fingers to her mouth. Her friend scrutinizes me, looking doubtful; they get into a piddling quarrel. A smile tickles my
lips. I push out my chin and loosen my shayla, letting it slide off my head. There: no question of my identity now.

And then they come—not just the two friends but a whole group of starstruck teenagers. They compliment my voice, my songs, my pretty face. I play it all down because I know the importance and power of seeming modest. They're close to me in age, but judging from their demeanor, it's obvious they lack my experience and worldliness.

Budoor is four tables away, but she might as well be on another continent. The girls talk over one another, and I wait; I know a crucial request will be made soon. And I'm right: “Won't you sing for us tonight, Dalal?”

“Oh, no, no.” I tap my cheek, my forehead, as if I'm burning up. Easing back onto the chair, I cross one leg over the other. I look down at my knee—revealed!—poking through the gown's deep side slit. My abaya sits in a crumpled heap behind me. Azza attempts to draw it up. I slap her wrist—discreetly, of course.

Basking in so much adoration, I understand their insistence. This is a wedding, and these girls want to feel alive. “I couldn't possibly get up and sing. I'm a guest here.”

There are heaves and hums of disappointment. Another girl says, “That doesn't matter.”

“It's not right. I mean . . .” I lean forward and they huddle around me, as if expecting the disclosure of some great piece of privileged information. “. . . Think how it would look. I'd be disrespecting Budoor, and, after the bride, she's the attraction here.”

“She's ugly,” says a girl with heavy braces. (How my heart warms to her!) “Come on, we love you!”

“Just one song,” begs a pudgy child with plum cheeks and a lisp.

Just as I'm about to refuse for a second time (before agreeing, of course), Budoor makes an announcement: “We have with us a beautiful and famous fellow artist.”

By now I am blocked from Budoor's sight and surrounded by a mass of fans, which, it pleases me to note, has tripled in size. Azza and Hannah can't hide the alarm in their faces—tedious, those two—and are unsure of what they should do.

“No, no, really,” I say, and allow the throng of girls to pull me off my chair. I'm aware that I am breaking my promise to Mariam. But I can't possibly walk out of my best friend's wedding without dedicating a song to her, can I? It will be quick, just one tiny tune. How much harm can come of that? Then I'll sit down and be quiet.

I continue my objections, but I let the girls drag me toward that big moon of a spotlight. I'm sure Budoor is not thrilled, but she cuts her way into the group and greets me with three sloppy kisses too fervid to be genuine. I don't know how she managed to get a second microphone so quickly, but her proposition that we sing a duet is expected. Graciously, I agree.

It should be just one song, but as our duet draws to a close I feel a tingle in my spine. I do not wait for permission to launch into a second song. I wave Budoor out of the way and launch into Adbel Halim's Hafez's much-loved “Ahwak.”

There is no accompanying music; the confounded musicians behind that curtain are no doubt in a panic, scrambling to accommodate this abrupt change in schedule. No matter: my voice booms clear and fine as can be as I drift up the steps and onto the catwalk, a meandering current on which I float, light as a leaf. By the time they join me, my movements have turned fluid—a soft dip here, a smooth nod there, a gentle sway every now and then—as I trap the mood of my audience.

They are enraptured by my delivery of this simple classical tune, its words so familiar, so cherished. To my right a large group of women sways, some with their palms held over their hearts, others patting their chests as if consoling that vital organ or perhaps blocking the escape of some tender sentiment.

Time-honored yet suited more for a small gathering, “Ahwak” is an unlikely choice for a wedding. It's full of nostalgia. The women start clapping at a steady tempo, which I follow. All those eyes on me, all those faces shining with adoration! I could go on all night, from one song to the next; but now, as I finish the last note of “Ahwak,” I spot Budoor flagging me to get off the catwalk. She wants me out of the spotlight so she can take back the guests and do what she is being paid to do.

The women clap. I stay where I am, blowing kisses at them. This propels Budoor up the steps. She tries to hide her agitation with an exaggerated grin; she tells me the groom is waiting to march in. I look to the far side of the ballroom, and sure enough, there are men amassing by the entrance, ready to wade through this water world of women. I rush, trying to fit in as many flying kisses as I can before exiting the scene.

The most anticipated occurrence of a Khaleeji wedding is the arrival of the bride. The second most anticipated is that of the groom, whether he appears on his own or escorted by male family members. The women stop their chatter. There's a burst of efficient activity as they hasten to cover up, extinguishing the dazzle of their necklaces and extravagant dresses with their abayas before positioning their chairs for the best possible vantage point.

It's time to leave, but my feet don't move. It would be insulting to have to skulk out like a burglar when I have as much right to be here as any other Naseemy. A thought zaps through my mind: what would my mother do? The idea flickers, then dies. I have stopped caring what she thinks. I see Azza waving at me with one hand and holding my abaya in the other, ready to fling it over me once I get near her. Hannah is by her side, collecting our purses. They skitter back and forth like mice in a pantry, facing the danger of being spotted and then cornered. They are anxious to rush me out, the forsaken family member. Perhaps I should go.

I turn for a final sweeping look at my cousin. My half sisters have just helped her up. One of them dabs her face with a tissue before pulling down her veil. The others fuss with her fish tail, arranging it so that it twirls around her feet just so. Mariam stands very still, waiting for the man who will lead her to her new life. She is like a tree waiting to be chopped, broken in all the critical places. A peculiar ache crawls toward my heart. Perhaps I should stay.

Dalal came after all!
The thought screams in my head.

There she stands, so full of fire, doing exactly what I asked her not to do. Strangely, I am not upset at her. I'm surprised to find myself smiling. How is it possible to both admire and dread her daring? To both want it and not want it?

Perhaps it is because she is my best friend, making sure I know she is near me at this difficult time. Maybe it's because she is the only person who dares defy this family. Whatever the reason, I feel a buoyant lightness, even though I know that Dalal's flamboyant display will have consequences.

The cousins hover like wasps, dizzy with rage, as Dalal pairs up with Budoor for a duet: light and night, swan and raven. Mona gets her wish; the girls are dancing. But there is no pleasure on her face. “Look how she shrinks, that Kuwaiti cow. If she backs away and stops singing, woe to her!” she says. “
Wallah
, she won't see one dirham of her fee of twenty thousand!”

For the first time I appreciate the advantage of being the bride, expected to be demure and sit poised like a pretty doll even in the center of a churning uproar. “Who invited her?” Amal demands, narrowing her eyes at me. There's an uncanny glint in them, as if they're filled with shards of glass. “Was it you, Mariam?”

I keep my eyes on the singing pair, a sparkling blue flame and the ash left behind, and answer in a level voice, “Only out of good manners.”

Lacking the combination of guts and spite shared by her sisters, Nadia, eight months pregnant, does nothing more than rub her tummy and moan, “Why doesn't she just go?” She has more to lose than the others. Her husband, the only son-in-law who's financially independent, had just days ago threatened to divorce her and take all the children if nobody put a stop to that brazen singer disgracing the family.

By the time Dalal is well into her second song, Nouf has accused me of being a traitor to the family. “Look at Mariam—she's not even pretending to be upset. I bet she did this on purpose to embarrass us,” she says, just as chubby Salem scrambles onto the bridal stage once more, pretending to be a train: “
Chi-chi-chi-chik. Chi-chi-chi-chik. Toot, toot.
” Mona orders him to stop and yanks him off the tracks in the middle of his journey.

“Well,” she says to me, keeping a tight grip around her son's arm, “it's your wedding, but know this: any embarrassment will affect us all. And God help us if she's still here when my father arrives.”

“You did a boo-boo!” Salem cries out, pulling free from his mother to deliver a thump to my knee.

“Control that child, Mona.” The group is so consumed with a torrent of questions and blame that Ammiti Aisha's emergence in their midst stuns them into silence. “People are watching. Look at you, bickering like monkeys.”

As Mona hands Salem, now so hyper with fatigue that he attempts to bite her ear, to the waiting maid, Nouf says, “Mama, the bride has arranged this fiasco.”

“Quiet,” says my aunt, seating herself next to me. “We can't stop what is happening without making a scene. So, all of you . . .” She strokes the air. “Stop flitting about and act normal.”

That puts an end to the squabbling. My cousins squeeze next to us. “She will sing her song and go,” Ammiti Aisha insists, bobbing her head with vigor.

That doesn't happen. Although Budoor succeeds in escorting Dalal off the catwalk, she forgets to take back that second microphone. No doubt confident that things can finally resume to their natural order, the Kuwaiti singer drifts to the middle of the ballroom. And that's when Dalal raises the microphone to her mouth to make an announcement: “I want to wish the bride all the happiness she could ever hope for. She is the kindest and sweetest human being, and I love her dearly.” Her voice cracks with deep emotion: an escaping sentiment that takes flight and settles over me like a soft veil. I feel it.

“Look at her,” says Nouf, “the insolent bitch! She's half-naked.”

“What an actress,” Amal huffs, while Nadia fixes her gaze to the far end of the ballroom, squinting at the entrance.

“Let's all throw her out before she makes more mischief,” Nouf says.

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” says Ammiti Aisha. “She will go now, and everything will get back to normal.”

Budoor is ready to sing the verses of blessing and celebration that accompany the men's march to the bridal stage. But the spotlight pivots and lands on Dalal. By the time the Kuwaiti singer has opened her mouth, Dalal is back on the catwalk and strutting toward us. I sit still, conflicted, both wanting her near me and wanting her to leave.

“She's coming here!” Nouf blurts out.

My cousins jump up, pulling their mother with them to form a sort of shield that blocks my view. I part Mona's crisp taffeta gown and the nets of lace covering Amal's silk dress, and peer with amazement at Dalal.

Dalal aims a hard, scornful glare at her half sisters. Then she frees a lopsided grin that's charged with haughtiness. There's a swish of ruffling dresses. Urgent whispers pass between my cousins—what to do with “the half sister, the half-naked singer with her blatant display!”

I am up, standing tall and solid. No one knows that the dress is cementing me in place. Nobody can guess that my gut feels like butter being churned. Questions tumble over one another in my head: how will this predicament end, and what can I possibly do to neutralize it?

My thoughts are sluggish, too slow to catch up with what's happening. I flinch when I realize that Dalal is already in the heart of our group. I don't say a word; I don't know what might spill out of my mouth. She insists on a photograph with the bride: a simple request, but because it comes from Dalal my cousins react immediately with the hiss and venom of tangled snakes. They forget about me and envelop her in a ball of bridled limbs from which escapes the jumble of their reprimands and Dalal's sass: “No shame . . . as much my right . . . call security . . . ruin of this family . . . my family, too . . . leave now . . . not until I get my photograph!”

“They're here!” Mona cries out, and we all realize that it's too late for Dalal to get off the stage without being noticed. So my cousins agree that she can have a photograph if she stays out of the way until the men leave. They huddle around her and shift her to the far side of the bridal stage.

Everything happens very quickly, as if it's a perfect piece of theater. Drums thunder from behind the curtain, and, right on cue, a party of five men enters the ballroom like a band of desert knights without their horses.

Since the groom is an only child and his father is dead, Ammi Majed and his sons escort him. Both the groom and my uncle wear black
bishts
—the formal outer cloak that drapes the kandora for special occasions such as this one—edged in woven gold thread. Focused
ahead, they ignore the hundreds of goggling women, taking long, determined strides as if impatient to conclude this duty.

I'm shivering by the time they reach me. The groom takes his position to my right as my uncle places a light kiss on my forehead and steps to my left, adjusting his ghitra for the photographs. He doesn't need to spell out that this is a formality, not a pleasure. His sons follow with their congratulations. Saif, Ahmad, and Badr shake my hand with the tips of their fingers. When the groom's mother appears, Ammi Majed suddenly realizes that his wife and daughters are not with us.

He looks around, squinting against the bright lights, eager to finish this ordeal, and spots them in a cluster at the dimmed far end of the stage. “What on earth are they doing over there?” he asks. “Why aren't they here with the rest of us?”