That Other Me (5 page)

“It is! It is!”

“Are you the most beautiful girl in the Emirates?”

“I am! I am!”

“Ah, thank goodness. For a moment I thought this was the neighbor's place. A kiss, please?” He would bend down so that I could kiss him on his right cheek.

“Another one.”

“Baba!” I would object, but hurry to place another kiss on his left cheek.

Satisfied, he would straighten. “Now, what could it be?” He would look up. His eyes would narrow and he would move his lips without making a sound, as if counting stars. And then, with a dramatic twirl, he'd swing his arms to the front and hand me the gift.

A doll, crayons and a coloring book, a jump rope, a LEGO set, anything to keep me occupied so that he could be alone with my mother. I would grab it and rip open the package, then hop off to play with it in my room as he settled on the couch with a glass of what he called “apple juice for grown-ups.” Foul smelling, it soon got him slurring his words.

I want to talk about our past, when Baba treated us like queen and princess at the snow palace, but I curb my nostalgia. Mama probably doesn't want to hear anything more come out of my mouth. Her face is fixed in a frown as she picks up a fork and starts crushing the ful into a paste. Once more, our day is about to begin with a meal that is both breakfast and lunch: fried eggs, mashed ful, and bread and cheese, all washed down with two cups of strong, sugary tea.

The chair is hard. I relieve the stiffness of one crossed leg by uncrossing it. I stare at the tiny specks of dust that have collected on the table, which I'd wiped with wet pieces of tissue as soon as I'd arrived. Even though the study rooms at the Emirati Students' Club are cleaned every day, it's impossible to keep Cairo's pollution outside. It floats in. It leaves behind a sticky film on the metal grid of the window and collects as black grime on the beige shutters and windowsills.

We sit at the edge of the large rectangular table. Adel fidgets and looks around. There is nothing to call his attention away from the lesson: no television, no view through the window, no pictures hanging on the walls.

As always, I have left the door open. I speak loudly so that curious people outside the room know we are studying, and nothing more. “Pay attention to this here,” I say, pointing, and Adel straightens up. He takes a long breath, and his eyebrows furrow as he focuses on the text. After no more than a minute his gaze strays once more. I follow it and spot the haphazard movements of a pair of flies mating at
the other end of the table. “Pay attention,” I repeat. The echo sounds louder than my voice. I feel as if I am talking to myself. And I am—talking to myself, that is. The flies detach and take to the air. Adel narrows his eyes and follows their flight.

It is our third session, and Adel has proven to be an erratic student. Sometimes he arrives with an incredible ability to concentrate, swallowing the lessons with as little effort as he would guzzle down water. Other times I have to go over the same point again and again. Whatever mood he is in does not take away the warm tingle I feel just from being near him. Always, I convince myself that it's nothing more than that of a committed teacher whose student is showing progress.

Adel is wearing a blue shirt tucked into jeans. His face is narrow at the forehead and broadens into a well-defined square chin. His mustache and beard are neatly trimmed in a
gofel
, the lock design that traps his long, thin mouth in its center and leaves the cheeks bare. He seems to have lost the thread of the flies' progress.
Daydreaming again
, I think as I pitch a sidelong glance at him. He raises his hand and runs his fingers up and down along a strand of his soft, black hair, which is always swept to one side and falls in a glossy tumble just over his collar. I look away. It is clear that he will not absorb much in today's session. “Maybe we should stop now.”

His hand swoops down and bangs the table. I flinch, thinking I might have insulted him—until I spot one of the flies stuck to the base of his palm. “Got it,” he says, flicking it to the floor. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I just said that maybe it's better to stop for today.”

He is suddenly alert. “Why?”

“Well, it seems you're finding it hard to concentrate. It's all right to end the lesson if you don't feel like continuing.”

“No, no, no. I don't want to have had you come all this way for nothing.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“No, please. What you're teaching me is vital, and I appreciate all your help.” He leans closer to me and I catch his scent, fresh and antiseptic—talcum powder and Lifebuoy soap. “You're right, though. For some reason, I am finding it hard to concentrate today. But I must, I must.” He puts his hand on my cheek, then quickly drops it and gives my hand a soft squeeze.

It's the first time he has touched me. Instinctively I pull away and glance at the open doorway to check whether any prying person might have chanced to look in. There is no one. Awkwardness settles between us. Before I can think of how to respond, Adel suggests that he go down to the canteen to get some refreshments, something to get his head working again. “Yes, juice is a good idea,” I mumble, running a finger through the new dust on the table.

As soon as I'm alone in the room, my hands start shaking, and I busy them by tapping the edge of the table with my thumbs. My heels follow, clicking on the floor. What was that touch? How was I supposed to react? I should have slapped his hand away immediately, but it happened so suddenly, too quickly for me to react.

Was there a secret signal in that touch? The tapping and clicking grow louder. Was there some infatuation in it? How bold of him! I should have said something smart to put him in his place right away: a strong “How dare you?” or even a slightly quizzical “What do you think you're doing?” accompanied by a tilt of the head for extra emphasis. That would have been the right reaction. That's what the daughter of a respectable family would have said. That's what I should have done: slapped his hand and scolded him. But I'd done nothing.

I stop all movement and stare at the textbook in front of me. A sense of confusion and vulnerability washes over me and I start turning the pages slowly, deliberately, while I try to retrieve the leonine self-assurance I'd had so long ago. The more I think about it, the more I realize how much I've changed. I used to be a lanky girl with a confident stride: big, brash steps and strong, swinging arms. I'd believed
I was special. My tongue was sharp and my spirit free. That was when my father was alive.

“My miracle child.” That's what he called me.

When my mother died giving birth to me, my grandmother came to live with us. Not yet seventy, she was a strong and obstinate force. Mama Al-Ouda—“the big mother,” as the family calls her—was unflagging in her efforts to weave some feminine restraint into me. She was quick to lose her temper and slow to let go of a grudge. Whenever I made a cheeky comment, she'd swoop in as fast as she could to slap some discipline into me. But she was a heavy woman. I could bend, twist, and hop out of the way before she had time to swing her arm.

Over and over, she took her complaints to her eldest son, my father. “What gentleman would want her? She mocks me and respects no one. I tell you, Hareb, the heart of a man is growing behind that girl's ribs.”

Mama Al-Ouda found no sympathy in my father. He was my safety net. As far as he was concerned, I could do no wrong. When she accused me of being presumptuous, he insisted that it was the desirable attribute of courage. If I asked too many questions and she told me to stop being nosy, he countered by saying I had an intelligent curiosity. And so it went: if I sulked, it was a natural shyness; if I made too much noise, I was acting as any normal child would. There were steady bursts of squabbles over my constitution and development. She said
skinny
, he said
athletic
. She said
lazy
, he said
deep
. Knowing he would always take my side, I became fearless, and my spirit grew plump with self-importance. After all, I was the child he thought he would never have: the miracle child.

Throughout his two marriages that preceded the union with my mother, my father watched his younger brother's family grow from one to four children strong while he remained unable to produce any of his own. Even after my mother became my father's third wife in 1960, Ammi Majed's family kept expanding—another boy, then a
girl—while my mother lost two through miscarriages, the second of which came with some added unhappy news from the doctors: a stern warning that another pregnancy could pose a threat to her life. She did not die with her third miscarriage, but she lost enough blood that the doctor declared further conception to be impossible.

So my parents gave up. My father could have divorced my mother and married another woman, just as he'd done with his first two wives. It was the conventional action by men with a longing to have children, accepted in Khaleeji societies by men and women alike. But Baba was older; he'd grown settled. Besides, he cared for my mother deeply, and for a long time, my parents settled into a life pattern of acceptance. Their yearning for a child dulled as they put their trust in God's decision. But then my mother was with child once more. “A miracle,” my father declared. The doctors were baffled. They pleaded to my parents' common sense, to consider aborting lest she lose her life during the pregnancy. But Baba would hear none of it. It was God's will, after all, and what right did a mere human have to question His supremacy?

This time my father decided to take my mother to Bombay for the full term of her pregnancy; he was convinced that the doctors there would do a better job. The labor was long and ate at her strength without mercy, and I entered the world moments before she exited.

Adel's laugh outside the room brings me back to the present. I realize that my shoulders have risen, stiff and stuck to my earlobes. I loosen my neck. It makes a cracking sound and he says, “
Oof!
Don't do that,” as he peers through the doorway. “You'll damage that delicate neck.”

What am I supposed to say to that? There was a time I would have been able to come up with an answer that was both sharp and graceful. Instead, I stare at his empty hands, as he eases onto the chair. “You said you were going to bring us juice. Where are they?” There is accusation and aggression in the tone of my voice.

With his quick wit, he makes light of the situation. He lifts up his arms in surrender. “Before you kill me, let me explain.”

This time I follow his lead. “No explanations for a dying man.”

“All right, then—a wish?”

The charade continues, and I cross my arms as a judge might. “The law specifies that a dying man must have his last wish.”

Adel rises. “And are you a follower of the law?” He bows his head and indicates the open doorway.

“That I am,” I say.

It sounds like a crowd has gathered, but there are only five students downstairs, their chatter amplified by the echo that bounces off the club's walls. They are waiting for their private tutor to arrive. The television is on, but no one pays attention to it. “Poor things,” Adel whispers. “They have to start their private lesson when we've just finished.”

“Well, actually, we haven't finished anything,” I correct him. “We're just ignoring today's lesson. Technically, that is.”

“Technically, huh?”

Heat rockets to my cheeks over my lumbering choice of words. Thankfully, Adel is too excited to be leaving to notice. His car is a four-door silver Hyundai that has fared well on Cairo's roads, with no more than a series of feather-light scratches on the sides. The lethargy and distraction that filled him during the study session are gone. There's an odd glint of intensity in his expression that does not suit his light mood as he keeps joking about all the other wishes he might have if he were a dying man. He shifts gear and reverses onto the road. I keep my eye on him as I sit curled into the door with my arms crossed tight, hoping he does not touch my hand (or face) again, wondering why I agreed to accompany him to Farghaly, a blatant flirting hot spot. The Khaleejis will be arriving soon, once the sun dims, leaving behind the
shadowy thrill of all sorts of possibilities.
It's still early, though
, I think; it's only half past six.

After a few quick turns, we reach the brightly lit juice shop on the corner of the bustling Arab League Boulevard. There's an elaborate arrangement of fruits running the length of Farghaly's curving glass display. Above is an empty space through which I catch the staff's flitting eyes as they go about their business of peeling, chopping, and blending the fruits.

Six beggar girls, their ages ranging from five to nine years, appear as soon as we arrive. They hop around the car with palms pushed flat out. A boy in his early teens plods over to my window with a tower of about twenty thick books cradled in both arms. To keep them from plummeting to the ground, he hooks his nose firmly over the top book while trumpeting the titles: “
The Ottoman Empire
,
Interpreting Dreams
,
Akhenaten
,
Healing Through Herbs and Plants
.” The group disperses when the waiter shoos them away. Adel and I don't bother reading the menu, which is a giant, brightly colored wooden slate hanging by the door. He raises his hand and calls out their signature juice: “Two fakhfakhinas!”

Feeling comfortable with the evening so far, I sit up straighter and uncross my arms. Despite the murmur of traffic, the bursts of car honks and bicycle tinkles, and the sounds of shuffling people—talking, shouting, hawking—I say, “It's so quiet.” I've never seen the juice shop so empty. Adel agrees, with a weary groan that makes my voice sound too cheerful. He seems to be waiting for something to happen. I follow his gaze to the beggar girls and consider whether I am boring him. Huddled on their heels in a semicircle at the side of the shop, they seem engrossed in a game that involves pebbles and dirt. But they're quick to look up whenever a car stops, to calculate whether there's an opportunity waiting.

The fakhfakhinas arrive in long, narrow glasses, each with a straw and fork. They brim with chunks of banana and strawberry packed
with other fruits in an exotic slush. For a while, there is only the clink of metal on glass. When I look over at Adel, I notice he is taking his time. With a deliberate twirl of the wrist, he forks a cube of pineapple and closes his mouth around it. He does not chew, just waits for it to melt on his tongue.