That Other Me (32 page)

I'm supposed to stay hidden and wait patiently until the men leave: that was our agreement. Seven of them are keeping me cooped up—Aisha, her four daughters, and a couple of granddaughters—so close to the edge of the stage that the smallest nudge could send me tumbling over. Staying still is harder than I imagined, because curiosity heats me up: I just want a peep (the tiniest glimpse!) of the groom. My little stirrings ruffle them, and the silks, satins, and chiffons fluff around me like the feathers of a bunch of distressed hens unable to settle down for the night's rest.

But now the seams are loosening, and this puzzles me until I spot my father gesturing for them to join the bridal party. They dillydally, and for good reason: he's a formidable presence. Aisha breaks away first, dragging her feet toward her husband; the rest follow.

A bite of frost zips up my spine, a reminder of my naked back (why did I have to wear such a bold design?). I'm suddenly so self-conscious that I consider jumping off the bridal stage. But my heels are high and
there's a possibility that I would break one of my legs, or both. So I settle for the next best thing, and cower.

There's the groom, certainly old enough to be Mariam's father. He holds her hand with the tips of his fingers. I can't tell whether he's shy or indifferent toward her. As my half sisters assemble the family around the stage for photographs, I scrutinize him. His shoulders are raised as if stuck in mid-shrug. His beard is thick. Darkened with too-black dye, it cuts across his cheeks in ruler-straight lines. What kind of husband will he be to my dear Mariam? I search for some sign of goodness in him. But it's difficult with that chest puffed out like an arrogant turkey's. I wait for it to deflate, but it doesn't.
Born that way
, I think.

Someone has delivered my grandmother, who looks weighed down with too much gold, and planted her on the clamshell couch. There's a crusty expression on her face as she watches my half sisters' attempts to impose order on the little ones, who won't sit still. The main troublemaker is a tubby boy who keeps flipping onto his stomach and slithering around on the bridal stage like a lizard. There they are: a family having trouble squeezing together for a photograph. They're not a model family, but the sight of them clumped together makes me feel so alone. Standing at the edge, as always, I am forgotten: so near, but still blotted out of existence. I take a step nearer as emotions swell in me all at once. They're like a broth with too many ingredients; it's impossible to sift through them, or to understand why they are there in the first place.

The family finally manages to get in order: a picture of happiness, which the photographer is eager to snap. My vision blurs. Tears well up, and any moment now they will spill. What happens next dries them up.

The groom's mother, who until now was content to stay on the periphery, suddenly drills her way into the middle of the group. My father politely steps to one side, and she wriggles into the gap so that
she is next to her son. She hooks his elbow and weaves her fingers into his. With that, he pulls his hand out of Mariam's—even shakes it, as if he had been holding a filthy rag. There is confusion and dismay in her expression when she looks at him for some explanation of his sudden callousness. He stares ahead with a stony face, and I realize that this man will never make her happy, that she must not walk out of this ballroom with him.

The family doesn't notice a thing; they are too busy putting on their best smiles. I inch closer, feeling useless. My poor Mariam! She tries to hide her humiliation as best she can, but her mouth is twitching and her fingers are shaking. Someone needs to hold her cast-off hand and bring warmth back to her. But then, quick as the snap of a finger, my father spots me. “What's she doing here?” It's a low-pitched growl, but I hear it. I take a futile step back, as if that would reverse the flow of time. His eyes are ablaze, so heated that I imagine the ballroom burning to ashes under their intensity.

I had wandered closer without realizing it. (Every one of them now stares at me.) I look away. Azza and Hannah wave at me with urgency. Whether I walk or run, they want me off the stage. I am tempted to do just that, to get as far away as possible from this fraud of a union. But there is Mariam, and she needs me. I sniff. From behind me comes a whiff of spicy Arabian perfumes, and a viper sputters curses onto my bare shoulder. “Go now, or else I'll call security to drag you out,” Mona threatens.

Right then, I make my decision. “It's time I got my photograph with the bride,” I say, and elbow her to the side. With my nose in the air and my chin pointed out, I make a beeline for the bridal group. Clutching Mariam's hand, I glower at the lot of them, fish eyed and stunned mute with disbelief. “What?” I say. “Have you forgotten that I'm an Al-Naseemy, too? Now look ahead and put on your best smile.”

“Why is the singer here with us?” Mama Al-Ouda asks. When no one answers, she taps Dalal on the calf with her stick and says, “Shouldn't you be out there, dear? Singing?”

Dalal leans over and says, “I'm a singer with special privileges.” She waves at my daughters. “Ask them about it.”

“Special privileges?” I don't need to see my mother's eyes through the window of her burka because I know exactly what they look like when she's baffled: wet marbles, the watery blue age rings expanding like an encroaching tide. “Well, move to the side with your special privileges so I can see what's going on.”

It's strange that I can hear them over the noise, but I do. I bite the inside of my lips and try hard to think of the best way to deal with this nasty twist. “She should not be here,” the groom's mother says, sticking her tongue out to indicate Dalal as if I might have trouble understanding her meaning. Soon after Dalal had bulldozed her way through, the widow gave me a grave look—a signal that had us both shifting away from the middle of the group. Now positioned on the
periphery, I try to placate her. It's imperative that we maintain a strong relationship; she has agreed to invest a fortune into my various business projects. Even though I'm raging inside, I honey my voice and try to make light of the situation. “Don't let such a small thing ruin the evening.”

“Yes, think of our poor bride: blameless,” says Mona, who emerges from behind me.

“He's my only child, you understand,” the widow tells her, “and it's his happiness that is the most important.”

Mona and I nod our agreement. “And what happiness she will give him,” says Mona, just as Saif and Ahmad join our small group. “She is ready to give her heart and soul to him.”

“Mariam is generous in all ways.” I keep my tone gentle and confident. “She will provide you the best company, too. She will serve you with more dedication than if she were your own daughter.”

“Yes, I guess you are right.” The widow clicks her tongue grudgingly. “I must think of us as one family, I suppose.” She crosses her arms tightly over her barrel-shaped waist and gazes toward the groom, who keeps looking over his shoulder back at her. “Still, you need to get rid of that unscrupulous singer right away. And mind you don't make a scene.”

I share her exact thoughts, but how she expects me to do that I cannot tell, especially with all those eyes on us. We stand frozen in place beneath the ballroom lights, which are dim now. We're all grinning hard, ideal subjects for the photographer, who clicks her camera with blinding speed. The video-camera woman is just as efficient. She leans from side to side, keeping her tape running, as if in wait for something big to happen. She won't have to wait much longer.

“I will not have my son's reputation soiled because you happened to make such a big mistake,” the widow hisses. The humiliation is hard to bear, and I have to force back the temptation to retaliate with a curt response.

How to satisfy the widow? The opportunity comes quickly: a series of mighty ululations erupts like sirens, burning my ears as though hot oil had been poured in them. I am dazed; it takes me a while to realize that the noise is coming from three women I do not recognize, who seem to have appeared out of thin air.

They surprise us all, having managed to barrel their way the length of the catwalk to face the bride without being noticed. There they stand, with their arms raised high. One of them tilts her head and flutters her tongue. The other two follow suit, and out drops an even louder gargle of high-pitched noise. They fling their arms in the air; the contents of their hands flutter down over the group. Owl-eyed with anticipation, Salem cries out, “
Nuthoor!
”

It's the money typically showered over the bride and groom—a messy business. We are bombarded by waves of hard one-dirham coins and crisp five- and ten-dirham notes. Squealing children clamber onto the bridal stage like ants escaping a crushed nest. They jump into the air, limbs unhinged, poking and pinching and tugging, crashing into one another in a scramble to collect as much of the bounty as they can. They crawl on all fours, kicking ankles and stepping on toes, lifting dresses and tugging kandoras.

One of the children accidentally steps on the bride's foot and another pulls at her tail to locate any coins that might have rolled under it. When Dalal lets go of Mariam's hand to shoo them away, I spot the opportunity I've been waiting for. I will extract her from our midst now—who will notice in this mayhem? I must take action swiftly.

It would be better to send one of my sons to take care of this loathsome business while I stay with the widow to keep her calm and reassured. Both Ahmad and Saif await my command. Saif is too edgy and impatient for my liking, and I can't trust him to take charge of this delicate operation. I opt for Ahmad, the more composed of the two. “Discreetly,” I mouth, and give Ahmad a go-ahead nod. But it's Saif who lunges ahead.

He cuts through the clamoring children, his ghitra flying on either side of his head like a pair of powerful wings. Dalal latches onto Mariam's hand as though it were a lifeline. He reaches Dalal, and for a moment it looks like he might be able to reason with her. His expression is sober, with just the right touch of intimidation, and even though I can't hear what he's saying, it seems he'll be able to convince her to leave quietly. One glimpse at the guests assures me that they haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary. I will the episode to terminate quickly and quietly. But I realize it's a fool's hope when Saif starts wagging his index finger at Dalal. She eyes it as if it were a worm and shakes her head.

Mama Al-Ouda once more insists on knowing why the singer is not out there singing. Dalal scoffs and leans over to ask the old woman, “Don't you know who I am?”

“Who you are?”

We all hear Saif when he says, “Don't talk to my grandmother. You said your mabrooks, woman! Now, for the last time: walk off this stage and leave us to celebrate in peace. Go back to your people.”

Dalal lets go of Mariam's hand and slams her fists to her hips in a bold challenge to his authority. “
You
are my people. Whether you like it or not, I am a part of this family. Your sister—that's right—with the same blood running through my veins.”

His face darkens like clouds gathering for a violent storm. “Silence!” he says, the words hissing through his teeth. “If I had a knife I would sharpen it and slice your tongue to bits. You will leave now.”

She doesn't budge, and that's about as much as he can take. He lunges, grabbing for her. She whoops and wriggles behind Mariam, bumping her forward. The bride somehow doesn't trip—the group gasps anyway—despite getting her feet tangled in that damned mermaid's tail.

“This is not the way,” Mariam pleads with Saif. “She'll go, she'll go now, won't you, Dalal?” Saif's left hand swoops around behind her waist. “And even if she doesn't, what's the harm?”

Saif could easily have snatched Dalal at this point, but he stops short and points a thick knuckle at Mariam. “You shut your mouth!”

“No, you shut your mouth,” Dalal says to him, and pokes him on the chest. “How dare you speak to her like that? She's the bride!” And then they are scuttling around the stage, unable to maneuver in the midst of the fidgeting family.

There's a whistling sound coming out of my dry throat. I was just supposed to deliver the groom to the bride, pose for a few pictures, and leave. I hold on to the hope that Saif and Dalal have still been overlooked; observers might assume that the family is doing nothing more than rearranging for more photographs. Until Saif catches Dalal and holds her in a firm grip. He pulls; she resists. Having had enough of the commotion, Mama Al-Ouda launches an adrenalized attack on both Saif and Dalal, poking their thighs and rapping their calves with her stick. I look around for Ahmad or Badr, but they've both disappeared.

“Stop the video,” Mona says, rushing to cover the lens with her hand.

“One, two.” A flash bounces off the edge of Saif's shoulder just before he yanks Dalal out of the group. “Three!”

“No photos,” Amal shouts.

I tighten my eyes and hiss through my teeth; I didn't want this to escalate. In real time, it's seconds; in mind time, it's hours. That cursed Kuwaiti singer and the musicians waver to a halt. In the quiet, I hear what sounds like a million gasps coming from the guests. Some of the women at the tables close to the bridal stage rise and fuss about with their abayas, wrapping them tighter around their bodies. Then they are off, fleeing like creatures who have sensed an earthquake before it strikes.

The widow pinches her cheeks with disbelief. Dalal is leaning back, using all her weight to keep from being dragged off. But Saif is stronger, and he lugs her to the middle of the stage. He'll have to pull her along the full length of the catwalk, all the way to the steps, to get rid of her. That thought jolts me into a reality that now looks impossible to reverse. When the widow wails, I know I cannot stay on the sidelines any longer. I must take action, whatever that means.

The bridal stage has erupted into chaos. Saif drags Dalal farther down the catwalk. Mariam seems to be the only person not moving. I wade through the family with outstretched arms.

“It's an occasion for celebration,” Budoor announces in an upbeat voice. “A thousand mabrooks to the groom! A thousand mabrooks to the bride!” She does her best to divert the guests' attention. But it's too late; nobody is listening.

I'm not sure how she manages, but Dalal breaks free from Saif as soon as she sees me. She darts toward me, her feet dangerously close to the edge of the raised stage. With her bright-red fingernails curved like claws, she looks set to scratch my eyes out. I brace myself. And that's when I hear a sudden, ringing wolf howl.