by Amal Awad
Lara’s eyes widened. “Oh Lord, they’re not going to be there, are they?”
When we got back from the dress fitting, we had to set up Zahra’s living room for her layleeya. This was a traditional party with dancing and food and good company Arab girls commonly had before their weddings. Sort of like a hen’s night, minus the alcohol and antics. Sometimes Arab girls would also opt for a henna party; an evening spent getting intricate tattoos of swirling vines and petals over hands and arms. But for whatever reason, Zahra decided to forgo the body painting and stick with dancing.
We didn’t have to do much though. We just set up some chairs and put out finger foods and drinks. Even Lara seemed to be excited about the party and she helped without complaint. I had a sneaking suspicion her mood had something to do with her blossoming “relationship” with my cousin, but I didn’t want to think too deeply about that just now. In fact, I preferred not to ask her about it at all, in case she revealed too much, and then I’d have to become all Mum-like. Frankly, I just couldn’t be bothered.
We’d intentionally asked people to arrive at 6.00 because they’d all be operating on Muslim Standard Time. True to form, guests started trickling in at 7.30, just as we’d finished setting out the last plate of food. There were mini pizzas, homemade spring rolls and, of course, sweets. Sahar brought with her pink-iced banana cupcakes and a trifle.
Lara and I were already dressed – me in a light blue sleeveless chiffon dress with a V-neck, Lara in a floor-length green satin dress. I wore my beloved silver Robert Robert heels and a silver ankle bracelet. I didn’t skimp on the occasions I could dress up. Lara had also straightened my hair for me with her GHD and lent me a pair of silver dangly earrings that practically dropped to my shoulders. I felt rather glamorous and while I never cared about dressing up for men, I wondered what Menem would think of me if he saw me like this.
Sahar emerged from the bathroom and met us in the kitchen. She’d come in an abaya and white headscarf, and the transformation was striking – her sparkly silver dress hugged her curves and she’d curled her wavy hair. She looked amazing.
Zahra was yet to come out and I hoped she wasn’t going to keep everyone waiting. She seemed a little better after the dress fitting, her bridal glow beginning to return. Surely she wasn’t obsessing over her looks? Was it even possible for a bride-to-be to look less than beautiful?
“Yes,” said Lara as we went to check on our cousin. “Of course you can. There’s only so much make up can do.”
We found her alone, sitting on the edge of her perfectly made bed, her hands fisted at her sides.
“Are you all right, Zahra?” I asked. She nodded but she looked terrified. There was certainly no bridal glow now. She looked as pale as a ghost. Not that I’d ever seen a ghost. Nor did I ever hope to see one, truth be told. But I assumed they tended to be translucent in any case not pale.
“You’re not going to lose it again, are you?” said Lara over my shoulder.
I sent her a reprimanding look – I was pulling them out with increasing frequency lately – and she held up her hands in mock defence. Then Lara rolled her eyes and went back to the sitting room.
I went in to sit beside Zahra. I grabbed her hand and she squeezed it tight.
“It’ll be fine. You look beautiful. Mashallah.”
She wore a gorgeous vintage-style dress, beige and beaded, similar to the one she’d worn at her engagement.
“Thanks,” she managed, adjusting the straps distractedly.
“Are you ready?”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said.
“What? That’s it your layleeya?”
“Yes. It’s surreal. Like … it’s like I’m up on the ceiling looking down and watching myself.”
She shook her head. “I know that sounds crazy.”
“Well, it’s understandable. Getting married takes its toll,” I said.
Zahra made a face. She looked like she was about to say something, so I waited patiently, expecting her to tell me that she’d sorted things out with Malek (she’d spoken to him on the phone for an hour). But eventually she just smiled and stood up.
“Let’s go party,” she said.
And party we did. The music was loud, the food was great, and we danced like crazy. Lara led the dabke, the Arab equivalent of Lord of the Dance, all stamping feet and enthusiastic kicks as we moved around in a circle holding hands. She tied a glittery scarf around her hips and held a hanky in her hand, which she twirled frantically above her head. She was mistress of the dance, so good at it that no one dared try to take her place at the head of the line.
Eventually we dispersed though and congregated in small groups. Lara removed the scarf from her hips and placed it around mine, dragging me to the centre of the sitting room. It took a moment of shyness to subside, but eventually I succumbed to Amr Diab’s voice as he sang joyously about the love of his life. Habibi ya nour il ayn – literally, “sweetheart, the light of my eyes” – was a must at every party, even though it was an old song.
As it blared through the speakers, the small room pulsed, full to the brim with dancing girls, while mothers sat on chairs along the walls chitchatting and, no doubt, scouting for potential wives for their sons/nephews/next-door neighbours.
Lara and I twisted and turned as seductively and cheekily as belly dancers, shaking our hips furiously whenever the music called for it, arms outstretched. The more we were egged on, the more adventurous we became, sparring and half-heartedly staring each other down. She was a much better dancer than me, but I could hold my own.
Lara wouldn’t leave her spot in the centre of the room, even dragging Zahra towards her a few times. She clapped for the
bride-to-be and swept around Zahra, who danced happily but in her usual proper, subdued way. Thankfully, the belly-dancing aunts didn’t attempt a dance-off with Lara, seemingly content to stick to one half of the makeshift dance floor (once again clad in sparkly outfits).
It was here we could let loose and dance without worrying about anything; no concerns about how we were dressed or the appropriateness of our behaviour. We just let our hair down, literally in some cases, and danced and danced and danced.
29
We’d all been recruited to assist Zahra and Malek on Sunday in setting up their new apartment (the boys), and putting together 250 bonbonnieres (the girls).
Even Lara was coming, without being asked, because she was “bored to tears and sorta curious”. I knew she was really coming in the hope that Jamal would also be around as the boys would be going back and forth while the girls took care of the party favours.
“I need Hakeem,” said Zahra the night before, as we were leaving after the layleeya.
“What for?”
“We need more men!”
“Very true. There really are so few real men in the world.”
“Samira!”
“Well, ask Hakeem then, Zahra. Why are you telling me?”
“I need you to ask him because he won’t say no to you.”
“But it’s your moving day.”
“Look, can you just help out?” she said, exasperated.
“It’s a bit last-minute, Zahra.” I wasn’t purposely being difficult. Honestly. I just didn’t understand why this task was being appointed to me.
“What is up with you, Samira? Sheesh!”
“Fine,” I relented. “I’ll ask him, but there’s no guarantee that I’ll reach him and/or that he’ll be available.”
“Whatever. Thanks, cuz,” said Zahra.
Cuz? Oh Lord. What next? A secret handshake? Genuine three-cheek kisses?
“Why are you moving so many things in the first place?” I enquired.
“Our apartment wasn’t ready when we bought some of the furniture so they got delivered here,” explained Zahra. Her glory box alone would probably require a few trips – or, as Zahra would quip, her “glory garage”.
“Okay, see you tomorrow inshallah, Zahra.”
I sent Hakeem an SMS when I got home.
Zahra’s moving day tomorrow.
Tall, swarthy types required.
Are you available?
(By request of Her Highness; sorry about the short notice).
Hakeem responded ten minutes later.
K. Address and time?
I wrote back with instructions. Hakeem wrote back with a quote.
Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock.
I hazarded a guess.
Paul Newman.
I logged on to Facebook, where Hakeem was waiting. I imagined him sitting at his desk, brooding in the half-dark, a glass of whiskey-, oh no wait, we don’t drink – a cigarette (he didn’t smoke but it would have to do) perched between his fingers as he stared at the screen, the smoke wafting dramatically about him.
Hakeem: Why do you do it?
Samira: Do what, pray tell?
Hakeem: It’s from Frankenstein, a book I know you’ve read and loved.
Samira: Very true. But hard to say why really.
Samira: Anyway, I have one for you!
Hakeem: OK.
Samira: “It’s amazing the clarity that comes with psychotic jealousy.”
Hakeem: I told you I rarely watch movies.
Samira: Who says it’s from a movie?
Hakeem: Isn’t it?
Samira: OK, yes, it is.
Hakeem: So what is it?
Samira: What’s what?
Hakeem: The movie?
Samira: My Best Friend’s Wedding.
Hakeem: Ah yes. It’s on my list of movies to watch. I know I have the list somewhere.
Samira: I can lend it to you if you want.
Hakeem: I’m right, thanks. I finally watched The Princess Bride btw.
Samira: And you’re only telling me now?!
Hakeem: Apologies. Little things get in the way sometimes. Like a full-time job, spiritual commitments, etc.
Samira: Lol, spiritual commitments?
Hakeem: :)
Samira: So what did you think?
Hakeem: It was a good movie.
Samira: Good? You thought the movie was good.
Hakeem: I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?
Samira: It was ‘good’.
Hakeem: Remember that I have very limited knowledge of films and therefore no reasonable means of comparison.
Samira: Whatever.
Hakeem: Look, it was very humorous, I agree.
Samira: Ahuh. Don’t try and fix it now.
Hakeem: No look, in all seriousness, I can understand why you like the film. It’s very clever and has a lot of memorable moments.
Samira: OK. Well, that’s better. Anyway, how’s things?
Hakeem: Alhamdulillah. You?
Samira: Alhamdulillah.
There was a pause. I was smiling like a fool. Balance had seemingly been restored to the universe by a quote.
Hakeem: Are things progressing with you and that guy?
Samira: I think so. Yes.
Another pause. Then typing.
Then nothing.
Then more typing.
Hakeem: Insha’Allah everything progresses well.
Samira: Knowing me, it’ll all come to nothing.
Hakeem: Don’t say that. Trust in Allah. He knows what’s best for you.
Samira: I know.
But I suppose the reminder didn’t hurt.
We arrived at Zahra’s house to find Jamal standing in the driveway beside a ute. Lara practically flew over and I soon joined her, albeit at a more orderly pace.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jamal when he saw my confused look.
“That’s not your ute, is it?” I said.
“I borrowed it,” he explained. “A buddy of mine owed me a favour so he hooked me up.”
Now, rest assured that my cousin Jamal was an honest, God-fearing young man. I knew there was never anything untoward in his dealings. But someone always owed him a favour and I was yet to ever figure out why.
“It’s so cute,” Lara giggled.
“It’s a ute,” I said.
“Come on, Samira, where’s your sense of adventure?” said Lara.
“See that?” said Jamal. “I like her style!”
“Lara,” she offered, demurely.
Jamal lowered his gaze shyly. “I know,” he finally responded, before blushing profusely.
For goodness sake. I wasn’t like that, was I?
We’d barely stepped into the hallway when we were met by Zahra, hands on hips.
“Come on, lots to do! Is Sahar still coming?” asked Zahra.
“Yes, later,” I replied.
“Welcome to the working bee,” said Zahra in her syrupy tone.
As we followed Zahra into the dining room, Lara looked at me in desperation and made choking motions.
Everything I’d collected for Zahra was neatly arranged on the dining table, still in the cartons. We had the flat cardboard sheets ready to be constructed into the little boxes (a lovely sheer silver). We had chocolates (each box was to have four), and there were yards and yards of organza ribbon (forty centimetres per box, a neat bow, must be even).
I felt like an air hostess as I offered instructions. I’d always wanted to do one of those demonstrations they do before the plane takes off – that one where they point in a fancy way at the exits and explain what to do in the event of an emergency. However, as that bore no relation to bonbonnieres, I stuck with what was relevant to the task at hand.
Half an hour later, Lara threw down her box and pouted. “This working bee sucks,” she said. Never mind that she’d spent half the time so far SMSing and checking Facebook.
Zahra rolled her eyes. “So go home then,” she said, finishing off a box. She looked at it and smiled before delicately placing it in the ‘done’ pile.
I was actually starting to enjoy myself even though none of us were doing an outstanding job. My bonbonnieres were serviceable. Zahra’s were fine too. Lara had managed two and they were lopsided.
Sahar joined us half an hour later, armed with cupcakes. She bashfully took her place in the working bee and got to work without instruction.
That girl was like a Muslim version of Martha Stewart. Perhaps I could convince her to write a book. She’d resisted the business idea for ages, but writing might seem appealing since it wouldn’t involve people as such. And if her only objection was having to sit down and type it all up, I’d arrange for someone to take dictation while she shyly but passionately recited her secrets to homemaking success.
She’d be on Oprah’s TV network. She’d become one of those “I’m Muslim but I’m just like you” spokespeople. You know, the ones who reminded the viewers at home that not all Muslims strapped bombs onto their chests. Dispeller of myths. Fighter against ignorance.
Sahar was squeaky clean. Her biggest challenge in life to this day was to determine the most suitable halal substitute for white wine. So far she’d settled on apple cider.
Totally terror-free.
Sahar was soon followed by the male contingent: Malek, Menem, Jamal and Hakeem.
Menem smiled at me as he entered, looking relaxed in cargoes and an old business shirt, and not at all as though he’d been lugging heavy furniture for the last three hours or so. He was still growing a beard and it suited him.
I smiled back, a ripple of excitement working its way up my throat. I couldn’t help it. The man just seemed to have that effect on me. I’d never had someone look at me the way he did or, if I had, I hadn’t cared enough to notice. I felt special, and not in a bad way. But most importantly, he made me feel as though there was no one else he cared to look at or think about.
Now I know that all seems rather mushy and, well, I suppose it was completely unnecessary information, but you’ll have to forgive me for the occasional sentimental asides. In fact, this is where I should be sighing a little contentedly, but pangs of anxiety were popping up with more frequency and strength th
an before, so I wasn’t blissfully unaware. I’d think I was rid of them when suddenly my anxiety levels would kick up a notch. “Wait for us,” they’d yell. “We’re coming. You need us here! Things have been going too well! It won’t last!”
I really had no idea how anyone ever managed to get together with another human being. It seemed so complicated and difficult. So many elements needed to be in sync. The feelings had to be mutual. The emotions needed to be high. And well, lots of other things needed to be just right. Chemicals and whatnot. This is all before you even get to physical compatibility.
I suppose I really should have been preparing myself for some nasty shocks. But I doubted there’d be any with Menem. You know, like a previous marriage, or a current one for that matter. I knew he’d had some fun in his early twenties, but it wasn’t anything to be alarmed about – after all, he’d volunteered the information himself.
Lara told me not to believe him. “He’s probably one of those guys who’s fooled around and just wants to ‘settle’ now,” she accused.
To which I thought, yikes, and said, “The whole madonna/whore complex, you mean?”
To which Lara replied, “No, what’s Madonna to do with anything?” before looking at me as though I was daft.
But his “past” did temporarily freak me out. What if I had him pegged completely wrong? He could have spent the last few years attending wild parties on the Greek Islands. He may have been a complete Casanova like that lecherous Syrian (or was it Lebanese?) who preyed on innocent girls, and the sweetness was just all an act to capture the hearts and minds of unsuspecting young women. How was I to know? I mean, truly?
