My father sighed. “How is it that you both turned out to be such turds but, at the same time, turned out so different?”
“Awful parenting?”
“Well, I think Zuha will improve our family quite a bit. I just remembered the other day how kind she was when she came over after your Naani Jaan died. Remember? You two talked about poetry then.”
“It’s impossible to forget.”
“Your naani would’ve liked her, I think.”
“Yeah. I don’t doubt it.”
He paused, looking at me intently for a moment, and I tried to smile for him. After a moment, he clapped me on my shoulder. “Let’s get this party started.”
* * *
—
Zuha wore an off-white raw silk lehenga with silver embroidery. The choli, though sleeveless, was longer than it was meant to be, covering her midriff entirely, the demands of fashion giving some way to religion. It was a modest change, but it wasn’t enough. I heard a few women whispering among themselves, scandalized, when she made her entrance. My mother’s expression was grim but, at least as far as I could tell, she said nothing to Zuha or the Shahs. The guardians of orthodoxy, those desi aunties who’d never admit to any indiscretions, youthful or otherwise, would be talking about Zuha’s bare arms for years.
Zuha wore a simple white-gold necklace cradling a pearl, with a matching bracelet on her left wrist. Her makeup highlighted the graceful line of her jaw, calling attention up to her brown eyes, which were darker today than usual.
My father startled me. I looked away from Zuha and the stage that had been set up at the front of the room, with two elaborately carved chairs for her and Aamir to sit on. In his life, this was the first time Imtiaz Faris had managed to sneak up on anybody.
“Don’t stare. That dress is going to be trouble, but we should pretend everything is normal.”
I cleared my throat, trying to compose my features into an expression both innocent and indignant at the same time. “You’re right, Dad, of course. I’m just shocked, that’s all.”
“Your mother will be very upset. What kind of Pakistani bride wears white? Did nobody tell that girl it’s the color of mourning?”
“To be fair, she is marrying Aamir, so maybe it’s entirely appropriate.”
“Repeat that in front of your mother and you’ll be the one people are mourning for. Go and mingle.”
I made a face. Surveying the large, gaudily decorated hall for innocuous, shallow conversation, I saw no one that I actually wanted to speak with—well, except for one person.
Zuha’s gaze found mine and she gave a quick little wave with her fingers. I was about to wave back when I heard my mom call my name and jumped, caught staring for apparently the second time that night. I wondered how long I had been standing there. My ears felt warm. I straightened my shoulders and turned my attention to Bariah Faris, who was walking toward me, a pleasantly plump-looking aunty and a pretty young woman, obviously the aunty’s daughter, in tow. I managed not to swear out loud, but just barely.
Ma laid a proprietary hand on my elbow, smiling at her companions. “Anvar, you remember Nusrat, yes? And this is her daughter, Aliyah Dzatil Himmah.”
“Wow. Try saying that four times fast.”
The girl blushed. “My friends call me Allie.”
My mother tightened her grip on my arm. Her tone of voice, however, did not change at all. “This is my younger son, Anvar.” She gave the women a smile loaded with significance and added, “The lawyer.”
“The lapsed lawyer.” I bowed in an exaggerated fashion, as if I were in a BBC period piece.
The middle-aged woman turned to her daughter, then to my mother and finally to myself with a look of confusion. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing at all,” Ma said. Her cheerfulness sounded ridiculous to me, but then I knew her well. I knew that Bariah Faris was never really cheerful. “This one thinks he is funny.” She trained her best death glare on me. “He’s the only one who thinks so.”
“My daughter,” Nusrat Aunty said, “is also superfunny. Always with the jokes about everything. Except about school, of course. She’s very serious about that. She’s studying the sciences at Harvard, you know.”
“All of them?”
My mother let out an exasperated sigh at my remark. Then, regaining her misleading sunny disposition, as if a sudden thought had dawned upon her, she said, “Nusrat, did I introduce you to Mrs. Shah? No? You must meet her, she’s such a lovely woman. I’m sure these two can find something to talk about.”
“Well,” Allie said, after a moment of uncomfortable silence in which we watched our mothers disappear into the crowd. “That wasn’t mortifying at all.”
“They were very subtle.”
We smiled at each other, her fingers playing with the edge of her shimmery dupatta, my hands clasped behind my back. Finally, she said, “Just get it out of the way now.”
“What?”
“Whatever outrageous thing you’re going to say to make me tell my mother I’m not interested.”
“Is that something people do?”
She nodded. “Sure. At least, I hope that is what they’re doing. If the guy who asked me, in our first conversation, if I was a virgin was genuinely trying…well, then I’d just feel bad for him.” When I didn’t reply, Allie said, “How do you drive unwanted prospects away?”
“Naturally, I guess.”
Allie grinned. “That’s actually funny. Too bad you’re not at all interested in me. You might not have scared me away.”
“How do you know I’m not interested?”
“Because I never understood the expression ‘deer in the headlights’ until we met. So, should we get our stories straight about why this won’t work?”
“Most girls just tell their mothers I’m a jerk.”
Allie shook her head. “That’s not true, though. I don’t like to lie.”
“It’s a little true. Besides, you don’t get to be a lawyer and still insist that people tell the truth.”
“You’re sure? It’ll hurt your reputation with the aunties, you know.”
“Somehow I think I’ll manage to survive the disgrace. It was nice meeting you.”
I wandered away, though not without offering a grandiose curtsy, in case my mother was watching, drifting from group to group, until I noticed that Zuha had been left alone for a moment. Everyone around her seemed occupied with something or other, so I had a small window of opportunity to speak to her. I drifted casually up to the stage and took Aamir’s chair beside her.
“Saw you talking to Allie,” Zuha said. “How’d that go?”
“She seemed nice.”
“Very nice and much too good for you.”
I ignored the comment. “So, your dress seems to have caused quite a stir.”
“You like it though, right?”
I shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“Fine? I look great.”
“I’ve seen you look a lot better in a lot less.”
Zuha’s breath caught and she glanced around us, as surreptitiously as she could manage while sitting on a stage in front of a crowd of a hundred people, to make sure no one had overheard. Then she hissed, “You can’t say that. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“It’s not one thing. It’s more of a cascading malfunctions type of situation.”
“I think the correct technical term is ‘cascading failures.’ ” Aamir’s voice broke in and I nearly leapt up in surprise. What was with my family and sneaking up on me tonight? I looked away from Zuha to see my brother standing before me. “Anvar, you’re in my seat.”
I considered telling him that I was exactly where I was supposed to be but thought better of it. Instead, I got to my feet, so Aamir could sit down next to Zuha. Smiling at his fiancée to be, and without bot
hering to look at me, he said, “Go get Mom. It’s time to exchange rings.”
* * *
—
I found myself standing with a crowd in a circle around the couple. Aamir held Zuha’s hand. I was so intent on the sight that it took me a while to realize that everyone was looking at me. Aamir had asked me something and everyone was waiting for a response.
“The ring, Anvar,” my brother said, with the air of someone unhappy at having to repeat himself. “Where did you put the ring?”
I shook my head, trying to clear the storm clouds that had suddenly gathered on the shore of my thoughts. I did not remember being in possession of a ring. It seemed like something I would recall.
Aamir grinned. “Just kidding. We wouldn’t trust you with something that important.”
There was silence.
Aamir’s smile sank out of sight as he realized that the joke was a bad one, perhaps even a cruel one, and no one thought it was very funny.
I looked down at him. Then I glanced at Zuha, who was staring at me intently, with those quicksand eyes. She seemed to expect me to do something, so I laughed, to make the moment easier for Aamir, and everyone else laughed as well.
Laugh and the world laughs with you.
Except Zuha. She did not laugh. She did not even smile as my brother slipped his ring on her finger and let her hand go.
* * *
—
The next night my parents had a party at their place. Zuha’s extended family had come to town for the engagement, and the rules of desi hospitality dictated that Bariah and Imtiaz Faris honor them by hosting dinner. I slipped out onto the porch when the music and pedantic conversation got to be too much. Making sure I was alone, I lit a cigarette and stared up at the starless night.
My jaw ached from forcing myself to smile and the effort of maintaining a happy, sunny disposition was exhausting. I couldn’t wait to get away, get home and be alone, so I could begin to process what was happening.
“Not having fun?”
I fumbled with my lighter and almost dropped it. I turned. Zuha stood in the shadows. She walked up beside me, smiling at my surprise. A moment passed in silence, then she folded her thin arms below her chest and pointedly looked at my cigarette. “You’re not going to offer me one?”
“When did you start smoking?”
“I don’t,” she said impishly. “But that does not give you license to be rude.”
I shook my head and offered her a cigarette from my pack. She took one.
“You said you don’t smoke.”
“You offered. I didn’t want to be rude either,” Zuha replied, amusement still hiding in ambush in her tone. “You’ve got the fire?”
Wary and obviously out of my depth, I held out my lighter without comment. She plucked it from my hand with her delicate fingers and flicked it on after a few attempts. She lit her cigarette. She didn’t smoke it though. She just watched it burn, her expression strangely intent, as the red embers ate away the pristine white paper, turning it into black ash. Then she dropped it to the ground and it went out.
“That was a waste of a perfectly good cigarette.”
“Really?” She handed me back my lighter. “Strange. I didn’t realize there was such a thing as a good cigarette.”
“Clever. Did you come out here to give me a hard time? You realize that I am an adult? I’ve earned the right to slowly destroy myself.”
“I came to talk.”
“About what?”
“I’m going to tell Aamir everything that happened. It would be pretty shitty if he found out after we actually got married.”
“It’ll be pretty shitty either way. If you were going to do it—”
“Not everyone has your infuriating certainty about everything.”
I took a long drag and blew smoke out forcefully, trying to exhale my frustration.
“You don’t think I should?”
“I told you to do what you want.” I shrugged. “I meant it.”
“Also, I wanted to tell you that you have been laboring under a misapprehension.”
“That’s a nifty phrase. Austen?”
“Bridget Jones’s Diary.”
“Of course it is.”
“Are you done being a snob? Can I go on now?” When she didn’t get a response, Zuha continued, “I wanted to tell you that it wouldn’t have been that way and you’re a jerk for thinking so little of me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said I would’ve turned you down because you aren’t successful, because you think you have nothing to offer, because you don’t have money. It’s been bothering me. I wouldn’t have cared where you lived or how much you made. You should know me better than that and it hurts that you don’t.”
“Really? Despite everything that I am—that I am not, I should say—you would have said yes if I had asked you to marry me?”
Someone called her name before she could respond. They wanted her back inside. Zuha gave me a tight smile and walked out of the black night.
* * *
—
My hangover the next day was a wounded tiger in its unrelenting and deranged fury. It seemed to claw and tear at the inside of my mind. I must have drifted off on my couch because I woke to the cruel sound of an insistent doorbell. Muttering under my breath, I stumbled to my feet, hurrying as best I could, to make sure that the chime wouldn’t go off again. It irritated the predator in my mind.
It was Azza’s father, Abu Fahd.
I stared at him.
“As-salamu alaykum,” he said when I didn’t speak, but the sudden panic of my heart made the greeting of peace seem ironic. What was he doing here? It was impossible that he’d found out Azza came here. Wasn’t it? I knew enough to know he’d be furious if he found out about our relationship. That was true of most men who forced their daughters to wear the niqab.
“This is a bad time. You look ill.”
“No, I’m fine.” My voice was burnt, husky and hoarse. “Sorry. It’s been a tough few days.”
This seemed to amuse him. “I know something about tough days.”
I glanced down at his hands, at the missing fingernails I remembered from the mosque. His meaning was clear. Whatever you’re going through, I’ve been through worse. “Right. What can I do for you?”
“Where are you from?”
I frowned. “What do you—”
“I’ve been to Pakistan,” he said. “And hospitality is not dead there.”
I sighed and stepped back. “Come in. Pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
As he stepped inside, his troubled eyes fell upon the discarded bottles of scotch I had not yet put away. “In a Muslim country, you’d be whipped for this. Seventy lashes.”
“That’s not how it works here.”
He gave me a grim smile. “That is not really how it works anywhere. There are no Muslim countries anymore.”
“Doesn’t Saudi still have Sharia Law?”
Abu Fahd made a dismissive sound at the back of his throat. “The law is for the poor,” he said grimly. “Money is the new furqan in this world.”
Even I winced at the bitterness of that thought. Al-Furqan, “The Criterion,” was a name of the Quran, as it decided between what was good and what was evil. He was saying that money, not justice, governed the world. It was true in Saudi Arabia, and it was true here.
“That is why I am here. I asked Hafeez for your apartment number because I need advice from a lawyer, and I have nothing to give you in return.”
I exhaled sharply in relief, then gestured to the sofa. “What can I do for you?”
He glanced at the bottles of alcohol again, hesitated, then sat. “I don’t mean to preach—”
“No, no. By all means, go ahead.”
; Either he missed the sarcasm or he ignored it. “Getting drunk is not the act of a good Muslim.”
“I’m not a good Muslim. I am, at best, a remedial one.”
“Do Americans think you are funny? It doesn’t appear to me that you are.”
“The jury is still out on that one.”
I considered making some coffee. It would revitalize me but would also prolong Abu Fahd’s visit. I decided it wasn’t worth it. Best to end this quickly. “So do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
He smiled at me, an unsettling expression. I don’t really know what it looks like when tectonic plates shift, but I imagine it looks a little like Abu Fahd’s smile.
“That is most kind. I need some information about this country’s immigration system. Can you keep a secret?”
“If you have anything you can give me for a retainer, a fee, you’ll be protected by attorney-client privilege.”
Abu Fahd fished around in his pocket, pulled out an almost empty roll of Mentos and put it on the coffee table.
I really have to do something about my hourly rates.
“Just so you’re clear, there are exceptions to what I can and cannot keep to myself. For example, if you tell me you are going to kill someone, then I’d have to report that to the police. You’re not going to kill anyone, are you?”
“Not today.”
I chuckled and then met his hard gaze and realized that Abu Fahd had been perfectly serious.
“Well, that’s not at all terrifying.”
He decided to get to the point. “I am here because I’m worried for my daughter. Her name is Safwa.”
“Safwa? How many children do you have?”
“Just one now. You seem confused.”
“I’d heard people call your daughter Azza.”
“That is not her true name, just as Saqr is not mine. These are the names of the people we became in order to live in this country. I would not make it here otherwise.”
I steepled my hands in front of my face and sank back into my seat. I couldn’t afford to appear shocked. So far as Abu Fahd knew, there was no reason for me to care about that information. But Azza hadn’t even told me her real name. We’d been sleeping together for months and I didn’t even know who she really was. That was incomprehensible.
The Bad Muslim Discount Page 23
