Mediteranean Sunset

by Yvette Canoura

  The door was not fully shut, and I could hear him speaking Arabic, but could not make out the words. He was pacing. I detected anger in his voice and wondered if it had to do with tonight. He was an intimidating man especially when he was angry.

  “What have I told you about listening behind my door?”

  He was fuming.

  “Sabah Al Khair, good morning, Baba,” I said as he slammed the door in my face.

  This was not the way I imagined starting out my day. Tears streamed down my face as I leaned back against the wall. It was my birthday and I had made my father angry.

  I stood there for a couple of minutes when the door suddenly opened.

  “Come in, Fatme, “he said in a sturdy voice. “I’m sorry, habeebtee. It has been one of those mornings and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Eid Meelad Saeed, happy birthday!” he said wiping my tears. “I really don’t know what got into me. Am I forgiven?”

  “Of course, Baba.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, giving me an apologetic kiss, dispelling my sadness.

  “Yes,” I said giving him a big hug. “I still can’t believe we are having a party. You’re the best, Baba.”

  “Don’t thank me. This is entirely your mother’s doing. You know I’m not that keen on these American customs.”

  “Oh, Baba! After all these years in this country…”

  “Birthdays are not celebrated in Antarah. They’re not celebrated in most of the Middle East, for that matter.”

  “Well, Alhamda Allah, thank God, we are in America,” I said with a big smile and a kiss. “Baba, do you think Mahmoud can take Jamila and me to the mall?”

  “It’s up to your mother. I won’t need him to drive me anywhere until this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Baba. I’ll let you work now.”

  “Tell Samira to bring me some coffee.”

  “Ok, Baba.”

  I was troubled. Something did not feel right. But it was my birthday. I did not want anything or anyone to ruin this day.

  “Good morning khalti Samira.”

  Even though Samira wasn’t my aunt, I refered to her as khalti because it implied respect for an older person that was like family. When my mother got married, my grandparents sent Samira to work for my parents because my mom could not fry an egg. My mother never denied the fact that she hated to cook. The only thing she enjoyed was making ahwa for my father and their guests. She was addicted to the coffee’s flavor and the cardamom’s aroma. That was probably why it had been the one thing she had mastered.

  “Sabah Al Noor, good morning, habeebtee. Eid Meelad Saeed,” Samira said hugging me and kissing me three times on each cheek. “Are you hungry?”she asked.

  “Who can eat? I have butterflies in my stomach,” Jamila replied.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Khalti, Baba wants ahwa.”

  “I’ll make it,” Jamila said.

  “No, that’s all right, I’ll make it,” Mama replied as she walked into the kitchen. “How’s the cooking coming along for tonight, Samira?”

  “Everything’s on schedule, Mrs. Iman. All of Fatima’s favorite dishes will be ready by this evening.”

  Samira spoiled us rotten. Every morning before we left for school, she would ask us what we wanted for dinner and then she would indulge us with our favorite foods. I loved to watch and help prepare traditional Arabic dishes. Unlike my mother, I enjoyed cooking. Stuffed grape leaves, lentil soup, hummus and babaghanoush were top on my list. Samira even prepared American delicacies. She was truly a fabulous cook.

  “Samira, the caterers will arrive in the early afternoon, so make sure you leave them some room to work. Also, if you need them to help you arrange some of the food, just ask. Henri is aware that you are taking care of the Mediterranean dishes and he will assist you in any way he can. I want you to be out of this kitchen early so that you’ll have enough time to dress for the party.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Iman.”

  “We wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said giving her a big hug.

  “You girls need to eat something. You have a long day ahead of you,” Samira insisted.

  “Khalti, we’ll have plenty to eat tonight. Mama, can Mahmoud take Jamila and me shopping? We still need to get a few more things. I ran it by Baba and he left it up to you.”

  “Are you sure he doesn’t need Mahmoud to take him somewhere?”

  “Not until this afternoon.”

  “Okay, but just for a few hours. I want both of you rested for tonight.”

  A simple gathering with close friends and family would have been just fine, but there is no such thing as small and intimate when your father has a reputation for throwing some of D.C.’s most lavish parties. The ambassador and his wife were quite a team and had been for many years.

  In 1970, my Baba, Gaffar Abdul Aziz, was instrumental in helping his close friend, Farris Saeed, overthrow the government of Antarah. When President Saeed took over, he rewarded my father by naming him head of the military police. Years later, he was appointed ambassador to the United States and relocated with my mother to the nation’s capital.

  Although my parents were eager to start a family, it wasn’t till two years after they moved to the States that their prayers were answered.

  For nearly six months, my mother was bedridden because of pregnancy risks. In the end, she gave birth to a 7 lbs. 9oz. girl. I was named Fatima after my father’s mom.

  I was the apple of my father’s eye. I was his miracle baby. I was the fruit of their love. He was so proud to have a little girl. He nicknamed me Fatme. He also called me habeebtee, my love. That was my favorite.

  My birthday was a special day to him because it was a reminder of the realization of his dream of fatherhood. Today was different. I could not forget the phone call that had rattled him and made me the victim of his wrath.

  We lived in the exclusive neighborhood of Kalorama, which is Greek for “beautiful view”. Kalorama sits on a hill above Dupont Circle and houses some of the greatest buildings in Washington D.C. It was a community filled with fancy mansions, elegant embassies, museums and some of D.C.’s most influential people. Tonight, many of those people would be attending my extravagant celebration.

  As the evening approached, Mama helped us get ready. Jamila’s mom, who was a seamstress in Antarah, had sent me a dress that she had designed and made especially for this day. It was a pale pink fitted, strapless, taffeta dress under a sheer, long sleeve lace dress. One sleeve fit like a glove and flared at the hand. The other was oversized and flowing like a bird’s wing. Each peek of the diamond shaped lace pattern ended in a minute pink stone that made it sparkle. I wore my hair down and pulled back on each side with small pink flowers.

  As I stood there looking into the mirror, Mama handed me a small, beautifully wrapped box.

  “This is from your father. He wanted to be sure you had these for your 16th birthday.”

  As I quickly unwrapped my gift and opened it, I let out a gasp. My father had given me pink tourmaline earrings to match my dress.

  “You look perfect!” Mama cried out after she applied a hint of strawberry gloss on my lips. “You have developed into quite a beautiful and sophisticated young woman. You both have,” she said giving Jamila and me a hug.

  Shortly afterwards, they rushed out of my room. It was almost 7 o’clock and they wanted to make sure that everything downstairs was just right.

  Limos lined around the circular driveway as guests arrived. It was an evening of glamour. The women wore gowns by top designers and the men were equally fashionable in their penguin suits. The camera flashes blinded them as photographers rushed to capture every move of Washington’s most elite. Walking into the foyer, they were captivated by the huge chandelier that hung from the center of the dome shaped ceiling. As they looked up, they admired the hand-
painted sky mural surrounded by gold Arabic writing which read the 99 adjectives used to describe Allah.

  “Gaffar, Iman, when did you have this done?” the Egyptian ambassador inquired.

  “A few weeks ago. I actually had an Arabic writing specialist flown in to hand paint the lettering.”

  My father was proud of this room and made it the center of all our entertaining. Everyone always gathered around the beautiful, black baby grand to sing or just relax to the music. For this special evening, Baba had hired a pianist to play all the classic and popular American tunes.

  As the pianist began playing “Daddy’s Little Girl” I knew this was my cue to make my entrance. I stood at the top of the stairs and a hush fell over the room, Baba sung his version of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable”. My emotions took over, and with tears in my eyes, I made my way down through the crowd and into my father’s arms.

  “Thank you, Baba. That was beautiful.”

  “You are beautiful,” he said gently wiping my tears.

  This would be a night that I would never forget.

  Finally, after hours of eating, drinking and dancing, I made a wish and blew out the sixteen candles on my cake.

  The men assembled in my father’s study. It was off limits as they gathered to drink ahwa and to smoke the argheele. I went into the hallway storage closet located behind Baba’s library because, as a child, I often sneaked in there to play. One day I noticed a hole which allowed me to look into the study unnoticed. Many times I watched Baba as he worked in his study. Today, it was the perfect spot to peep and listen to what the men were saying.

  “Gaffar, what kind of tobacco is this?”

  “Who said anything about tobacco, it’s the best hashish from the Middle East,” he said while puffing on the bubble pipe.

  Chuckling, they all looked at each other and wondered whether it was truly a joke.

  Baba’s study was surrounded by built-in bookshelves that housed mostly rare collections of Arabic books, including a signed first edition of “The Prophet” by Gibran Khalil Gibran and copies of the Holy Qur’an in every language that it had been translated. There were also pictures of him with presidents, secretaries of state, and entertainers he had met throughout his political career.

  Although Mama was usually careful not to disturb my father and his friends while they were in the study, on this night she knocked on the door to remind them that the belly dancer had arrived.

  As the musicians started playing, the belly dancer made her way to the Arabian Nights-themed garden where men and women quickly gathered to watch the sensuous dance.

  “I wish I could move like that,” the wife of the Chinese prime minister said in a mischievous tone.

  As I overheard the women, I smiled knowing that thanks to Mama, I had already mastered the fine art of belly dancing.

  “It is the secret to a great waistline and a passionate marriage,” Mama always said.

  When my father was out of town, we would invite my girlfriends over for belly dancing lessons. We would crank up lively Arabic music, shake our hips and swerve our arms. That is the most fun I remember having with my mother, giggling and feeling that our whole lives were ahead of us.

  Across the Atlantic

  “Rauf tells me that you’re from Antarah.”

  “That’s right,” she said as she twirled a ring on her right wedding finger with her thumb.

  “I’m Major Fouad Mustafa,” he said as he extended his hand to shake hers and held it a little longer than usual. “A pleasure meeting you.”

  “I’m Esmaa Al-Basheer,” she responded unfazed by the long hand shake.

  “So, Esmaa, what brings you to Shrivenham?” he asked pulling a chair out from a table for her to sit then taking a seat across from her.

  “A semester abroad.”

  “A beautiful woman like you doesn’t need an education, just a man to take care of her. Is that an engagement ring on your right hand?” he asked after signaling a waiter and ordering two espressos.

  “No. It is to scare off unwanted Middle Eastern suitors, ” she said in a sarcastic tone, “I neither need nor want a man to control my life. I left Antarah for exactly that reason.”

  “An overbearing father.”

  “And six brothers. I needed to breathe.”

  “You can’t blame them for being over protective. It’s the Arabic way.”

  “I was born in the wrong part of the world. I love the United States. After I graduate from Texas A&M, I want to work for NASA and go for my Masters.”

  “A Muslim, Arabic woman in NASA is quite a coup.”

  “Stirring up controversy is what I do best,” she paused as she sipped her coffee. “I have to ask you. Are you Rauf’s friend because he’s the President’s son?”

  “Where did that come from?” he asked drinking his coffee as if it were a shot of liquor. “And so what if that were the case?”

  “Rauf is a bore. I just can’t imagine anyone being his friend for any other reason.”

  “One day, he will be the next president of Antarah.”

  “If someone doesn’t kill him first.”

  “Smart and outspoken. I like that in a woman. What can I do to convince you to have dinner with me?” he asked as he held her hand.

  “Just ask,” she said slipping her hand from his and twirling her ring as she stared into his eyes.

  “I like you, Esmaa Al-Basheer. You are a very intriguing woman; unlike any Antarahan woman I’ve met before.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve met many.”

  “Have I told you that you are also beautiful?”

  “A couple of times. I’m sure you tell that to all the women you meet.”

  The Legend of Antarah

  What a wonderful evening! It was like a fairy tale.I thought to myself. Samira and Jamila helped me carry the gifts to my room.

  As I collapsed into my large canopy bed and stared at the hand painted flowers over the soft pink walls, I glared at my dresser and spotted a nicely wrapped box. At first, I thought it was a doll or a camel figurine to add to my collection. As I unwrapped it, I found a note that read: “For generations, this book has been passed down to the women in my family. Now, it’s time for you to have it until you pass it on to the next generation of Antarahn women.”

  This was truly unexpected. I always wondered why my parents did not talk much about their upbringing or their lives in the old country. I often tried to ask Samira about my parents’ lives in Antarah, but she always told me the same thing.

  “I’m only an old cook.”

  My mother avoided my questions.

  “That was a lifetime ago,” she always replied.

  Although I was tired, I started reading the book. For the rest of the evening, I read page after page and was unable to put it down. I was totally captivated by the story.

  Soon, it was already morning and I heard a faint knock at the door. I looked up as Jamila slowly walked in.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “A book on Antarah. It was a gift from Mama. I’ve been up all night. I couldn’t put it down. Did you know that the name of the country is very symbolic? Listen to this.” I read out loud: “Legend has it that Antarah was the knight of the desert, a warrior who won every battle, a hero among men. Antarah was also a poet, who was strong and sensitive.

  He wrote his poems for his first cousin, the love of his life, Ablah,” I paused and placed the open book on my lap. “Did you know that the Arab world encourages first cousin marriages as a way to protect family unity and wealth?”

  “I know marriages between first cousins are very common in Antarah,” Jamila replied.

  “The book says that their love was so real yet so out of reach,” I continued reading.

  “How romantic!” Jamila sighed. “Tell me more.”

&
nbsp; “Despite Antarah and Ablah’s many obstacles to fulfill their love, they did marry and live happily ever after. The poems he wrote for her were full of passion with an undying love that would transcend time and all its boundaries,” I put the book against my chest as I allowed myself to dream.

  “Jamila, I sense my parents had that same kind of passion for one another; the kind of love I hoped to find some day.”

  Mama walked in as we sat talking.

  “You girls are already awake?”

  “I haven’t gone to sleep yet, Mama. I was up reading. Your gift was the best. Thank you,” I said giving her a big hug.

  “I’m so happy that you can appreciate it. It’s such a romantic story. When I was your age, I dreamed of marrying someone like Antarah. I was blessed. Allah made that dream come true with your Baba.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “Why don’t you get some rest and we can talk about it later.”

  “Come on, Mama.”

  “Please, Mrs. Iman,” Jamila interjected.

  “Ok. It was an arranged marriage,” she said.

  This was mind-boggling. I could not understand how she could marry someone she did not know or love.

  “Love comes with time. He was my cousin, on my father’s side, my aunt’s first born. He was so handsome. When his family came to visit, I always made sure to look my best. I was worried he wouldn’t like me because we never had an opportunity to talk. When no one was looking, we would glance into each other’s eyes. I was hoping that he would give me some indication that he might be interested. Then, one day his father and the eldest men from the family came to talk to my father. They came to ask for my hand in marriage. After a dowry was decided, my father proudly accepted Gaffar’s proposal to marry me. I was so happy I was going to be a wife. I was also anxious to be a mother,” Mama said.

  “But at least there was a spark between you.”

  “I guess there was.”

  “Marrying cousins, dowries, all that has really changed since those days, right?” I asked.

  “Not back home,” she said, “you are just so accustomed to this country you don’t understand the way it is done in the Middle East.”