The Girl from Baghdad (9 page)

‘Little one, families can't plan marriages. People get married because they love each other, like your father and I did.'

Esmàa was happy. Her wedding had been engineered by her parents, yet she was very much in love with Samìr. He was a well-educated young man, intelligent and polite. He was kind to Esmàa and apparently fond of her.

Kasside and Ahlam, not just as sisters but as future mothers-in-law, accompanied Esmàa to buy jewellery for the ceremony without considering the cost, as was the Iraqi tradition. During the engagement party, Samìr also had to provide lavish clothes for his bride to wear during the week of festivities. Although Samìr and Esmàa would stay in a luxury hotel in the city on their wedding night, they were to return to Bibi's house to continue the banquet and show off Esmàa's new outfits and jewels in order to demonstrate her wealth to everyone.

The preparations were underway, and some took place in my house. For their wedding, I designed a new
outfit with puffy sleeves topped with satin bows. A full beige satin skirt opened up under the embossed bodice, the skirt concealing many layers of tulle. Klara, Linda and I went to the street of goldsmiths, to one of the best jewellers in Baghdad, to pick out tiaras and bracelets with Mum. The earrings were so heavy that they left a mark on my skin. We were often customers at that shop and the jeweller granted all our requests with exaggerated, almost nauseating, service. I would remember it a few years later, returning to him under very different circumstances, when he treated my mother, sisters and me with complete disrespect.

The day of Esmàa's wedding was a flurry of activity at Bibi's house. People continued to come and go, arranging seats and tables in the large garden, which was being prepared for the reception. Irresistible aromas wafted out of the kitchen into every room. The women had been cooking for a week and still hadn't finished. My young cousins and I, a blur of screams and colours, floated from room to room. There were clothes to try on and organise, and there was gossip about the unknown relatives coming from afar just for the wedding. The older girls said it was a great occasion to find a husband. I had thoughts of making myself pretty for Omar.

My cousins gathered in the luminous bathroom and performed their most secret rituals, like hair removal.
They held a twisted thread tight between their teeth and kept it in a triangle between their thumb and index finger. Then they used it to delicately pluck the hair from the skin until it was smooth and ready to be massaged with fragrant creams. We ironed our hair, laying our heads on the table. The kajal passed from hand to hand. Dark and dramatic, it accentuated the intensity of our chestnut eyes, as we continued to speak tirelessly of what was to take place shortly in the other room.

Two hours before the ceremony, all the women of the family gathered in the room where Esmàa was getting ready. The bride was submerged in a whirl of hands doing her makeup, her hair and arranging the veils of her dress. She was emotional. The aunts helped her to button up her opulent dress; its skirt plumped with tulle to complement her delicate frame. Esmàa had a skinny and elegant figure. The sleeves of her dress were decorated with ribbons and the gold-stitched bodice clung tightly to her waist. Her mother arranged a splendid tiara in her hair. Esmàa looked like a queen. Sooner or later, we hoped our moment would come too.

My mother watched, her eyes watering.

‘Are you crying?' I asked as I hugged her.

‘I'm just a little touched.'

‘Why?'

‘I was thinking about my wedding day.'

‘Who helped you get ready? Were the aunts there?'

‘No, dear. I did everything myself.' A tear came to her eye, but she dried it before it could run down her cheek.

Standing between the high-backed chairs where Esmàa and Samìr were seated, the sheikh pronounced the blessings three times, declaring the couple united forever. The enormous gazebo was packed. There were more than three hundred guests and the general feeling in the air was that this was going to be one of the greatest parties ever. The men had first access to the banquet while the women waited outside, remarking on other people's clothes and gossiping about the least known relatives.

Caught up in the party's euphoria, my cousins and I went around the garden relentlessly commenting on the showy jewels and clothing. Trying to understand which cousins came from other cities, I eavesdropped on the adult conversations. I felt excited and important. I walked through the crowd, holding Samar's arm. Without noticing, I was already moving with the rhythm of the music. Meanwhile, Omar's sister gossiped to me as my eyes followed her brother's departing silhouette. I was so excited that I hardly ate anything.

Sundus caught up to us excitedly shouting, ‘Come on! They're starting the dances!'

The roll of the drums became more intense. We ran toward the dance floor, which was illuminated by thousands of little lights. Some girls had already started
to belly dance. Samar and I jumped on the dance floor; we wiggled our hips sensually, raising our arms, under the attentive watch of the men who slowly joined us to dance the
dapka
. Omar came up to me. Although our bodies barely touched as we moved to the music, subtle contact was thrilling. I felt free. I lured him towards me with a look and pushed him away with my hips. His hands lightly played with mine. I couldn't speak freely with him in public, but I was involved in one of the most sensual and provocative of dances. I felt the music become ever more persistent until the rhythm of the drums was no longer distinguishable from my heartbeat. We danced without taking our eyes off each other.

The newlyweds were accompanied to their bridal suite at the Hotel Meridien. The next day, the story of their wedding night was whispered from person to person. It spread like news amongst the guests, who remained to celebrate for three days. Even us girls, still in the dark about sexual matters, came to know the most graphic details. Before leaving the newlyweds alone, the eldest relatives had given Samìr a pornographic tape that my father had purchased abroad. The door was closed on the couple and the relatives waited until the sheets marked with red had been displayed like a flag. ‘She's a virgin!' everyone yelled, welcoming the news with applause and exultation. For Esmàa, the wedding day was her one moment in life to feel like royalty.

Bibi's house was still full of festive fun after the wedding. I passed between guests, seeing if I could recognise someone. I suddenly saw Omar. He signalled for me to catch up to him. Amongst the applause and dancing, I was careful not to be noticed. Omar suggested we walk together in the garden. We would be in big trouble if we were discovered, but his smile was so irresistible that I nervously accepted the offer.

We found ourselves walking alone, far from the lights. Neither of us had the courage to speak. Then we stopped in front of each other.

‘You look nice in this outfit,' he said, embarrassed. Then, lowering his eyes, he added, ‘You too look like a bride.'

I smiled, blushing. Timidly extending his hand, Omar stroked my face. My heart started pounding. Being so close was intense; it had never happened to me before.

‘What are the two of you doing?' Alì's voice shrieked, shattering the magic of that moment. My treacherous cousin had followed and spied on us. He started yelling like crazy. Omar grabbed him by the arm, but he wriggled away and ran towards the villa where he immediately told Kasside everything. She dragged me to my father to have him deal with me.

‘Thank goodness, Alì was there! Mohamed, you have to pay more attention to your daughters. It isn't right that they behave this way!' she said, irritated.

‘Why? What happened?' Dad asked.

‘She wandered off alone with Omar.'

‘But nothing bad happened, right, Michelle?' he asked me gravely.

‘No, Baba, I promise. We were just talking.'

‘Well, Mohamed,' Kasside interrupted, ‘I would never let my daughters wander around on their own, even in the company of a cousin. Good girls don't act this way.' She looked at me disapprovingly.

My father's stern face mirrored Kasside's, although he said nothing. Kasside continued goading, ‘Of course, you're free to raise your daughters as you see fit.'

Dad lowered his gaze, then turned back to face me. Angrily, he said, ‘Go and call your sisters and your mother. It's late. Let's go.'

‘But, Baba, the party will go on for a long time. You promised we would stay all night! I wanted to dance.'

‘You've already had enough fun. Now it's time to go.' I could tell by his voice that he wouldn't tolerate objection.

There was a deathly silence in the car on the way home. Mum rocked Linda, who had fallen asleep in her arms, and Klara dozed in the back seat next to me. I scanned my father's profile as he drove in silence. His mute expression made me feel uncomfortable, even if I couldn't understand what was so bad about taking a walk with my cousin. Moreover, what was
wrong with being alone with the boy I might marry one day?

At home I put away my nice clothes in the closet. I heard Mum and Dad talking about the situation again. Mum defended me; if I had behaved this way it was only because of all the talk about marriages between cousins that went on at Bibi's house. Dad responded by saying it had always been like this in his family and Kasside had acted fairly. Child-rearing was a serious and rigid affair, and there was little to discuss.

The incident was forgotten after two days. Everything returned to normal and I was again immersed in my usual day-to-day activities, including those that my aunts deemed ‘unbecoming'. I went to ballet classes with my sisters once a week. We couldn't wait to put on our pink shoes and tie the satin ribbons around our ankles. The exercises were repetitive and tiring, but I felt like a real ballerina in my white tutu. The melody of the piano music was so romantic that I sometimes daydreamed I was on stage in a grand theatre. In my dreams, I danced on one of Baghdad's most elegant stages. The orchestra played Ravel's
Bolèro
and I moved gracefully, illuminated by ethereal lights reflecting onto the stage.

Soon after the wedding, Dad took us to a real ballet at a beautiful theatre. Maroon velvet armchairs and gold decorations accented the stalls. We waited excitedly for the show to start. Then the lights dimmed,
the curtain opened slowly, and a male dancer started moving gracefully to the tunes of Ravel, as played by the orchestra. His muscles strained a thousand ripples; every gesture was animated with the overwhelming sensuality and strength of the performance. I was swept away in the moment and I found myself at home in the melody.

To me, Ravel's music evoked Iraq, even if it came from Europe. It was Baghdad, with its gardens, minarets and red sky at dusk, the slow-running River Tigris, the perfume of the jasmine and orange blossoms, the opulence of the magnificent palaces, and people of all languages who mixed in the streets. It was East and West together. More than twenty years have passed, but when I think about that music, I'm there again: back in the theatre, at the first sound of that melody. The city I loved the most in my life is outside, still intact. I still see my father next to me, holding my hand, and I know he'll always be with me. For an instant, everything returns to how it was at that time: perfect.

Dad wasn't enthusiastic about our passion for dance, but he let us take classes anyway. One afternoon he abruptly decided neither my sisters nor I would dance again. We had returned home from our ballet lesson still wearing our slippers and tutus. We wanted to show Mum the progress we had made and she clapped with such enthusiasm as we twirled in front of her. When
we heard Dad come home, Klara, Linda and I ran, full of excitement, into the hall. We hugged him, took him by the hands, and began pulling him towards the living room.

‘Come sit down. We have a surprise for you!' all three of us girls yelled happily.

His face hardened. ‘What are these clothes? Where do you think you're going?'

‘It's a surprise! Come on. Sit on the couch. We want to show you something!' While I spoke, Klara and Linda had already started to do some dance steps.

But Dad growled at us angrily, ‘I don't like you girls going around in those tight leotards. Go and take them off, immediately.'

‘But, Baba …' Linda and Klara pleaded, disappointed.

‘Enough with this foolishness. This isn't decent apparel for good young girls. Go on. Go in the other room and change.' He turned to look at me, ‘I'm surprised by you. You're the eldest. You should set an example. Linda and Klara copy everything you do.'

‘What's so bad? We're just dancing,' I said, twisting the tulle of my tutu in my fingers.

‘We just wanted … to put on a show for you, Baba,' my little sister complained.

‘Quit throwing tantrums, Linda! It's not becoming. I don't want you dancing around half-naked.'

‘But even Renà wants to be a ballerina.' I hoped that pulling my cousin into the argument would convince him that there wasn't anything improper about it.