Before we leave, Auntie blows air on us, as if she's a rotating fan head. Not only does she do it to Nasreen, but she also grabs me, puckers up, and blows air around my face. She whispers prayers in Arabic between breaths.
"It's for protection," Nasreen says when we're outside. "I'm sorry my mom blew on you."
"No, that's sweet of her." Strange, but sweet. My mom never does that.
We take the subway to the first store. My eyes don't waver from the windows as I look for station signs to see what the next stop is. Nasreen looks bored, but I can imagine that people take for granted what's right under their nose. In stations and on the streets I throw change into hats as people sing, play violins, and dance. People-watching is so much fun in New York.
On 14th Street, one store we visit doesn't have the tape we want, but we buy some lokum, getting white powder all over ourselves as we eat it under the awning of the store. In a Canal Street store we rummage through the small selection of cassettes, but we don't find Umm. On the covers we see heavily made-up women in elaborate dresses, both modern and traditional, but they all look like recent releases.
"Come on, let's go," Nasreen says impatiently whenever I check out the fares of street vendors. The street-shopping is amazing, even better than store items because of the prices. After we buy hot dogs and sit on the rim of a fountain to eat lunch, I put on a pair of earrings I just bought, feeling the rhinestone drops graze my shoulders. I know I shouldn't be spending what little money I have, but I should enjoy Manhattan right now, since Uncle may soon banish me from his home. From a park entrance I watch vendors wind toys with kids eagerly looking on. Businessmen, tourists, beautiful boys, and gorgeous girls walk past me. I love this city.
We travel uptown again, and the fourth store in Manhattan has nothing for us. We see plenty of newspapers, magazines, and some music... but not Umm. Most of these stores are for groceries when we need to look through a full music selection. "Let's try this place in Brooklyn that we wrote down," Nasreen says, wiping the sweat off her brow.
Brooklyn sounds like a long trip, but we have to do whatever it takes to replace that tape. We're back on the subway. The subway has taken me underground and above ground, I've seen darkness and light, we've stood on many platforms, we've been through regular waist-high turnstiles and then the full-body ones, we've walked through tunnels, gone up and down steps, we've switched lines... I now feel like a subway-traveling pro, but the journey isn't over.
Brooklyn seems like an entirely different city. The skyline is shorter and streets are more residential. After walking ten minutes from the subway station, we're at the last store on our list. The street is quiet, and all of a sudden there's a loud burst of voices to the right of us. There's a school across the street that children exit from.
"What's that about?" I ask.
"Summer school letting out," Nasreen says. "My own school has similar hours. Thankfully I passed all my classes and don't need anything this summer."
I observe little kids rush towards parents and older middle-school kids walk off alone. "I hope this is it," I say, turning my attention back to the store.
"Me too, or we're screwed," Nasreen says.
The window displays cassettes and videos, with signs about various imports. This looks like the most promising place, so a small light ignites in me. I follow Nasreen inside to see a wonderful sight -- there are rows of cassettes, videos, and records. There are no groceries, no newspapers, and no clothes. This is strictly an entertainment stop.
"Hello!" a round man with a bushy moustache greets us with a lilting accent. His stomach juts out of his body as if he were pregnant, and he has protuberant moles on his face. "Welcome to my store. How may I help you young ladies?"
Behind him is another man sitting next to a burgundy curtain. It's reminiscent of Omar's curtain, which reminds me of what's waiting for us back home. The man looks like a relative of the greeter, with the same round look and moles. His thinning hair is greasy, wrapped around his scalp in a comb-over. I don't like the way he's looking at us, especially at me. His eyes linger up and down my body. I eyeball him back and then look away from him. The nerve of that guy.
"We're looking for Umm Kulthum tapes," Nasreen says, getting to the point.
"Do you have any?" I ask.
"Umm Kulthum? I love her! She's very popular."
"Yes, she is," I say. "So you have her cassettes?"
"Let me see what I have..."
While he's searching, I look around. Even though the relative-looking guy is creeping me out, I near the curtain because I'm wondering if there's a selection behind there as well.
"No, do not walk through," the stranger rasps, his voice harsher than the other man's. He continues to study me from the top of my head to my sneakered feet.
"Sorry," I say. It must be a backroom or office of some kind. I walk back to Nasreen. We stand, watching the first man search for Umm.
The store is small, with narrow aisles, and I imagine his large belly must occasionally knock things off shelves. He proves me wrong, because he's quite graceful and knows where everything is. "I have three records... but you said tapes... ah, here's a tape." He pulls it out from underneath the register. It's a bootleg, and when he pulls out the cassette from the holder it even has a Sony label on it -- the tape we destroyed was Sony. I swing my purse closer to my chest, because I'm ready to buy it. The tape has to be mine. Even if it doesn't match the one we destroyed song for song, it's better than nothing.
"It's all her greatest hits," he says, ever the salesman.
"We'll take it," I say.
"How much?" Nasreen says. Her purse is across her body, like mine is, which is how she told me we need to wear it in the city -- not the way I normally sling it on my shoulder as if I'm at the mall. The city is dangerous. Normally I feel comfortable around relatives and other Middle Eastern people, because those people are like me, from the same fabric so to speak, but these men unsettle me. The relative guy stares at me harder, and the greeter gives off a bad vibe. His smile widens until gold fillings wink at us from the back of his mouth.
"Err, what's the price?" I ask.
"This tape is very special," he says. "Also this tape isn't on the shelves. It's from my personal collection. It's not an official recording."
"We know," Nasreen prods. "We don't have a problem with a bootleg. What's the price?"
"The cost is one..."
One dollar? My heart soars. This is like hitting up flea markets back in Miami and finding great dollar deals. The rhinestone earrings on my ears and the turquoise scarf I'm using as a belt were both a dollar. I never knock a dollar deal.
"One dollar," Nasreen murmurs. I hear the thrum of joy underneath her words. I grab her hand and she reciprocates with a squeeze. Replacing the tape is easier than we thought.
"Not one dollar, young lady. The tape costs one hundred dollars."
Chapter Eight
Dizziness hits me. I've been in the hot sun and I've only had a soda to drink since leaving the basement apartment. Something else adds to the surreal spinning feeling that wraps around my head. I believe the man in front of me asked for an exorbitant amount of money, which I don't have. There must be some mistake.
"What!" I screech.
"A hundred dollars?" Nasreen asks. "Is the cassette gold-plated or something?"
"It's the only one I have," the man says. "And it's straight from an Egyptian bazaar. It's a bit old, made when cassettes were gaining popularity. It's practically an antique. I bought this myself, and it carries many memories from my time in Cairo. Also, again, it's not an official tape. It's not on the shelves, and it's not really on sale. I pulled it out because you expressed an interest."
This is highway robbery. Where are we going to get that type of money? Between Omar ripping me off and basic living expenses during my trip, I don't have that amount of money to spare. I can definitely forget about getting Madonna tickets too. One... hundred... dollars. For a tape.
"L
isten, what are your names?" he asks.
"Why?" Nasreen asks, narrowing her eyes, far more street smart than I am, because I was about to blurt my name.
"I can take down your number, and if I get some more Kulthum tapes, I'll sell you a newer one for much less. But I can't part with this one that easily."
"Can't you just copy the tape?" I ask. "You must have the equipment since this is a music and video store." Many of Uncle's tapes are bootleg, and this is a bootleg as well. One copy can't hurt, right?
"Ahh, I don't really do that," the man says. "It is against my way. I don't want to dilute the quality. I've tried that before, and the quality really is affected. Also, I've only played this a few times because I don't want to wear it out."
Nasreen snorts. "So we can't have a bootleg of a bootleg."
"No, sorry," the man says, ever smiling, ever happy he's ruined our day. We find what we want, but this man has his reasons on why it's overpriced and we can't have it.
"This isn't fair!" I say.
"Life isn't fair." He shrugs. Now he's sounding like a parent or a teacher. I want to get out of here, even though he's holding exactly what we need. I'm beat after spending hours looking for this tape. It looks like a glass of water on a sizzling day, but I can't have a sip of it.
Nasreen asks for a pen and paper. I see she's writing down fake names. She calls herself Shireen and I'm Isma. That's easy to remember, not that it's likely I'll see this guy again... although he has the answer to our problem. The Middle Eastern community seems small. I wouldn't be surprised if Uncle or someone else I know has been to this store before. Fake names are a good idea. Nasreen also writes down a phone number, which makes me feel ill at ease.
"This is the number to the payphone outside my window," Nasreen whispers to me. "No way am I giving out our house number."
"This guy is a total rip-off," I whisper back.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"Good-bye," I say aloud.
"I'm Wahib, by the way," the owner says, "and over there is my brother Tahir. This is our store."
Tahir winks at us. Nasreen's body shakes. Wahib hands us two business cards with the address and phone of the store next to a colorful picture of a cassette tape. I don't see myself calling him, but maybe I can put this in my scrapbook.
"Okay, bye," Nasreen says. She grabs my hand and pulls me out of here, away from the money-hungry storeowner and his perverted brother. I can breathe freely again. The air is humid and there's no breeze, but I gulp it in. I need some water soon. I envy the boys a block away who are jumping through the spray of a fire hydrant.
We've smeared the notepad paper full of addresses from handling it all day. We look out across the street at the school. There are a few kids lingering out front, but then they dissipate. It's time for us to go home too.
"Maybe I can tell my dad I ran out of funds and he can send me some money," I say. "I don't know if that'll work since he said he gave me enough. I guess he thought his nice little daughter isn't capable of getting into a situation like this."
"We can look harder and find another tape," Nasreen says. "There's no way this is the only Kulthum tape in the whole city."
"But we went to all those places today," I say. "This was it."
Nasreen's lips are a grim slash. Her lined eyes look tired. "You're right," she says. "Let's just go home, and maybe tomorrow we can resolve this. Hey, maybe we can explore the other boroughs, even other states. Maybe there's something to be found in New Jersey."
I don't feel good about all the traveling we may have to do, which might not be fruitful. What if we go to other stores and they don't produce a tape? Also, I enjoyed the city somewhat today, but the tape is pressing on my mind and the time we took going to all the stores were draining. "Great. I hope Uncle doesn't have a sudden hankering for Kulthum tonight," I say.
"Yeah, we can only distract my dad for so long," Nasreen says.
***
There's one more hour to go until Uncle's home. I'm watching a music show when Madonna comes on. I have the urge to take Uncle's stereo and pull it to the TV to capture the sound, which I've done in my own home, but I can't do that. Auntie is walking in and out of the living room, and Omar is playing with his toys behind his curtain. I miss the privacy of my bedroom back home. I suppose I could've bought a Madonna tape while I was out today, but the Middle Eastern stores didn't have them. Also, I have to be money conscious. I'll buy Madonna after I get the Kulthum problem out of the way.
Auntie continues with her superstitions. She blew on me hours ago, and now she's frowning at me because my bedroom slippers are flipped over on the floor. Using her foot, she nudges them right side up. "That's bad luck," she says.
My dad said that once, that it's bad luck if shoes are lying upside down. I don't know how much worse my luck can get. When Auntie leaves the living room, I put the slippers back on my feet.
I continue to sit by myself in the living room, watching TV. Nasreen is in her room looking through college and scholarship applications. She's deep in that paperwork and I don't want to disturb her. Anyway, this is a great time to figure out how to make some money fast. Maybe I can get a brief summer job, although that would totally ruin my vacation. Why would I travel somewhere to work? Any job I'd be hired for would be some grueling, horrible job like waiting tables or operating a cash register -- not my idea of fun.
I look at the gold bracelets on my wrist. Maybe I can pawn them, but they're family heirlooms. They're twenty-one karat, thick bangles given to me by my mother, given to her by her mother, and they wouldn't let me live if I got rid of them. Money... I need some right now. I'm good at dancing and playing soccer. I also write a mean essay -- I always get As in English, and if it weren't for soccer I'd have joined the journalism or yearbook staff. I have talents, so there must be something I can do for some quick bucks in a short amount of time.
Auntie walks out of the kitchen, a spoon in her hand. She's seeking her daughter out for her taste-testing abilities. Her eyes skim over me, and then she goes into Nasreen's room. "Habibti, taste this for me. What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Nasreen asks.
"Why are you applying to a college in Los Angeles? No, no, I won't have this. You cannot go there."
"If I get a scholarship and a job to support myself, I'll go wherever I please!"
"How dare you yell at your mother..."
They're arguing in a mix of Farsi and English, their voices muffled behind the wall, yet I can hear everything since the door is open. This doesn't look good.
"I don't want to stay with you, Mom. Get over it. I want to leave this apartment. I want to leave New York."
"Why do you want to leave us? Have we not provided for you? Don't we love you?"
"You don't get it."
But I do. I know that intense yearning for freedom. I've felt it many times myself. I've felt it at school, when I'm out by myself, at the airport, in the airplane... being out on my own, no parents telling me what to do, making my own decisions, the freedom to make mistakes I can learn from. Why is that so much to ask for?
I hear a sniffle. I'm not sure whether it's Nasreen or her mother who's begun crying. They lower their voices, repeating their argument. Auntie walks out of the room, rice still on her spoon. She's frowning, walking past me and ignoring me. Nasreen rebelled by refusing to eat the offering, which I've never seen her do before. I want to rush in and comfort her, but I'll give her privacy. It's bad enough she shares her room with me during my stay and that she just had a tiff with her mother. When I'm in a crying mood, I don't want anyone talking to me.
I wonder if there's anything I can do to help, but things aren't right with me either. How am I able to help someone else when I can't help myself? My first priority is to replace the tape, but I also want to help my cousin. It'll be tough since Uncle and Auntie think the way they do, but there must be some way to crack their old-fashioned resolve.
With this heavy stuff swirlin
g in my head, I decide it's time to call my friends in Florida. I sneak into Nasreen's room to get a handful of quarters from underneath the clothes in my drawer as well as the letters I wrote to my friends last night. She bends her head down and doesn't look at me. Auntie is also in a funky mood, chopping up vegetables and not saying anything when I tell her, "I'm going to drop off these letters in a mailbox."
First I go around the corner to a heavily graffitied mailbox, and then I return to the building to where the payphone is. I deposit a coin and after I dial Tamara's number, an operator asks me for more money. Ugh, long distance is a pain in the ass.
Tamara's mom answers and then puts her on the phone. "Hey," I say. "I wanted to check up on you."
"Hey, girly," she says. "I miss you. How's New York?"
"It's great."
"Doing anything wild?"
"Well, I met this guy, but I lost sight of him at the airport."
"Oh, Asma, you should've been more aggressive, be more of a go-getter."
"I know," I admit.
Please deposit twenty-five cents, an automated message rudely interrupts.
"Can you hear me?" I ask.
"Yeah, I can now," Tamara says. "Get me a souvenir, at least a keychain."
"Err, okay. Hey, something else happened, something sort of bad--"
"Bad? To a goody-goody like you?"
"Yes, it's because I left a Madonna tape at home."
"You and Madonna! It's not that big a deal."
"But there's more..."
Please deposit twenty-five cents.
I give the greedy payphone more money while picturing myself throttling whoever owns that voice. Stop stealing my money! I want to scream. I also want to tell Tamara to stop interrupting so I can tell her about my problem with the Umm tape.
Hot Pink in the City Page 5
