Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  Margaret hoped he was right. Nadia’s choice of a husband would be the most critical decision of her life. Of Ahmed’s five sisters, only Yasmine had married outside the family, and she lived an impoverished life in a refugee camp in the West Bank.

  Ahmed continued, “The engagement will be official next month.”

  Margaret conjured an image of the engagement party ahead: Nadia in a frilly dress, posing for photos and showing off her new gold jewelry.

  Ahmed took a sip of coffee. “We’re all going.”

  “What?” Margaret set her cup down and stared at him.

  “I told them already.”

  “We never went to Yasmine’s engagement party.”

  “Things are different. I have to be there because my father can’t. Allah yarhamhu.”

  “But you didn’t ask me.”

  “Honey, we need to go. Last time I was there, everyone wanted to see the kids. They haven’t even met Leena yet.”

  Margaret brought her hand to her cheek. “This is going to be expensive. Five of us, plus your mother.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “I think it’s a bad idea.”

  “I’ve already decided.”

  The new family patriarch had spoken. He had made up his mind in the middle of the night with his mother. Then Margaret remembered the summer vacation they had planned for the next month. She had negotiated with Ahmed through all of the details, and they had settled on renting a cottage for ten days on San Juan Island—not an easy feat for August. There was even space for the mother. “And our trip to the islands?”

  Ahmed leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “We’ll do it later.”

  Margaret stood up without saying anything.

  He reached out to her. “She’s my sister.”

  Margaret flinched and pulled away. She left the kitchen and went to her bedroom, closed the door, and sat in her armchair. In her head, she could hear the voices of her neighbors: I don’t know how you do it. You’re a saint.

  Damn! She tried to grasp what bothered her most. Was it the cancelled trip to the islands? The fact that he hadn’t consulted her? How he did anything to please his family?

  Then she remembered someone else’s words, those of Aisha from her Qur’an study group. “You’ll receive blessings for all you’ve done for your husband’s family.” Margaret wondered just when she’d be able to cash in on these blessings. Would she get double points for having the mother move in?

  She was aware, of course, that it was wrong to feel this way, so bitter and resentful, wallowing in self-pity. She was aware, too, of their anniversary the next day—twenty years. Yes, twenty years and three children and three restaurants and seven trips to Jordan.

  There was a tap at the door. Ahmed stood in the doorway and Margaret turned away. He sat on the bed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not easy going to Jordan.” He looked down and ran his hand along the bedspread. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  More promises. What could she do? She didn’t want to ruin their anniversary. Twenty years celebrated by not speaking to each other. Or worse.

  “I’ll go to Jordan—under one condition.” As if she had any leverage. “I want to stay in a hotel. Not at your sister’s.”

  “Fine. We’ll stay in a hotel.”

  Some of the pressure left Margaret’s chest. At least they wouldn’t sleep on floor mats at Fatma’s house. “I can’t believe Nadia’s getting engaged,” she said.

  “I know.” He shook his head. “She wasn’t even born when we got married.”

  The next day, Margaret packed her sexy nightgown in her suitcase and tried to push away the troubles with Ahmed from the day before. Check-in time at the hotel was two o’clock. Then, for twenty-four hours, there would be no meals to prepare, no housework, no children, no yard work, and, most important, no mother-in-law. It would be just the two of them, a normal couple. And when was the last time she had felt that way? With that, Margaret turned to her closet and to the soft waves of memory.

  Fall of 1983, the annual Culture Fest on the UW campus. Margaret had gone to watch the folk dancers as part of her anthropology research on the rituals of dance in daily life. Between performances, she went to the ethnic food booths run by students selling specialties from their countries. She decided on Middle Eastern food and took in the cheerful young man taking her order: his black curly hair, strong arms, and white apron tied across his fit body. He smiled at her as he placed two perfectly formed falafels onto the bread. He added tomatoes, pickles, and sauce and presented the sandwich with a flourish. She paid him, and he took his time with the change, the two of them lingering over the transaction.

  Later that afternoon, she went to the Middle Eastern dance performances, sat in the front row, and took notes. There was a voice behind her. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

  She turned and saw him, no longer wearing his apron, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Behind him was row after row of empty chairs.

  She gestured to the seat next to her. “Please.” She lifted her chin toward the stage. “Do you know anything about this folk dance?” Somehow she sensed that he would.

  He looked at the dancers, four women of uncertain origin, twisting their bare midriffs and swirling their wrists. “This is not really a folk dance.”

  Thus began their first conversation, an interview on Arab dance customs. Margaret was amazed that any man could know so much about women’s dancing. She pulled out her camera and took photos of the dancers, who, according to Ahmed, were performing a variation of Egyptian cabaret. When he wasn’t looking, she snapped a photo of him, too.

  They met again over tea, for the purpose of Margaret’s research, as Ahmed explained the role of dabke dancing at Palestinian weddings. He was an international student, a Business Administration major, working his way through university. Margaret took careless notes and focused more on Ahmed’s hands as he spoke and on his eyes—holding her gaze until she blushed.

  At the end of their meeting, he invited her to dinner at a Lebanese restaurant in the U District. He ordered a generous sampler of his favorite Arab foods—he wanted her to try them all. A few days later, he came to her apartment and cooked maqluba. She was transfixed by the sight of him in her kitchen, arranging the platter of rice, chicken, and fried cauliflower. As he moved about her tiny space, he had a familiar, carefree way about himself.

  The two of them sat on the floor and ate together at the coffee table in Margaret’s living room, which was decorated with foreign film posters and Iranian tablecloths. She noticed the way he garnished the food, set the table, and arranged it all. She felt taken care of, and at that moment she found herself falling in love with him.

  They saw each other twice a week, then daily. They met quickly on campus, stealing moments together before dashing off to class or their part-time jobs. On his days off, Ahmed would prepare complex Arab meals for Margaret and describe in great detail the restaurant he planned to open. He struck her as sincere and hard-working, spontaneous and fun. Her love for him grew steadily, and she said yes without hesitation when he proposed to her one evening over a candlelit meal of savory lamb kabobs and fragrant rice pilaf.

  Margaret’s parents, impressed by Ahmed’s respectful manner and earnest work ethic, accepted him right away. A year after meeting each other, the pair exchanged vows at the Seattle mosque. A month later, under the July sun, Ahmed and Margaret were married in a small ceremony in her parents’ rhododendron-filled backyard on Whidbey Island. Their university friends attended, as well as Margaret’s two brothers, who flew in from the East Coast.

  In order to meet Ahmed’s parents, however, Margaret needed to get a passport and they had to save up for airline tickets. When they eventually traveled to the West Bank six months later, she took pleasure in getting to know his family and seeing their simple way of life. His mother gave Margaret three gold bangles, which surprised and touched her.

  But at the same time, she was secretly overwhelmed by Ahmed�
�s family, by their noise level and sheer numbers. Granted, they were warm and welcoming, but the small house overflowed with people and chaos. So many siblings! Five already, and a sixth on the way. Margaret remained patient throughout the monthlong visit, reminding herself that she and Ahmed would be back in Seattle soon, just the two of them.

  Meanwhile, Ahmed showed her the most historic sites in his country: Bethlehem, Jericho, Yaffa, and Jerusalem. It was years before the political problems of the intifada, and they were able to travel around freely. The high point was Jerusalem. Walking together through the covered alleyways of the Old City, they held hands, and she fell in love with him all over again. Margaret believed that she would love him all her life.

  Two decades later, the memories from those early years swept through Margaret as she packed the small suitcase for their anniversary getaway. She thought back to that younger version of herself, so optimistic and full of confidence. What began as tiny adjustments to accommodate Ahmed’s culture had expanded over the years into a life that her younger self could never have imagined—the endless family obligations, savings sent overseas, the long trail of visitors and houseguests, the mother moving in—the main requirements of which were tolerance and flexibility of an extreme variety.

  Ahmed walked into the bedroom. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. “Honey, let’s get out of here.”

  “Yalla, let’s go.” Margaret closed the suitcase and handed it to him. She checked herself in the mirror and smoothed her long red hair. They went to the living room and kissed their three children good-bye. She gave Leena a tight hug. Margaret nodded good-bye to the mother. “Ma’a salama.”

  While Ahmed was offering a lengthy good-bye to his mother, Margaret gave final instructions to Jenin. “Sweetheart, let your grandmother do the cooking. Keep Tariq from chasing Leena. Don’t call unless there’s an emergency. Make sure Leena keeps her clothes on.” She blew a last kiss to Leena and followed Ahmed out the front door. He turned and looked back at her expectantly, then grabbed her hand and led her to their waiting car. She felt a rush of anticipation, yet one question continued to disturb her.

  Could she ever have a normal life with Ahmed?

  Chapter 8

  Dark clouds hung over the skyline as Margaret and Ahmed drove toward downtown Seattle. He reached over and placed his hand on hers.

  “Thanks for understanding about the trip to Jordan.”

  “You’re going to make it up to me. Remember?”

  He flashed a smile, a genuine one, and Margaret willed herself into a better mood. After all, it was the first time they’d been alone in months—the undeniable consequence of the mother living with them. Stop! Margaret told herself. There would be no more thoughts of the mother. Margaret intended to enjoy herself and make the most of their little anniversary getaway.

  The hotel room that Ahmed had booked was a spacious suite with a love seat in the corner. Margaret stretched out on the king-size bed; she was relaxed yet excited at the same time. Ahmed joined her. He kissed her and something stirred inside her, a flicker of their old passion.

  Their lovemaking was that of a couple who understood each other’s bodies, preferences, and rhythms. It was the usual sequence, slightly prolonged in honor of their anniversary. Afterward, they curled up together and caught their breath. Ahmed caressed her shoulder. “That was the warm-up.” He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. “Wait till tonight.”

  Margaret smiled to herself and then realized the time. “Honey, we need to get going for the afternoon tea.”

  Ahmed held her closer. “Do we have to?”

  Margaret sat up. “That’s why we chose this hotel.”

  The Victorian Room was aptly named. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, curtains flowed from the arched windows, and the chairs flaunted a brocade motif. The hostess led them to their table, where they relaxed into their chairs, and Margaret touched the thick linen tablecloth. After having worked at their Capitol Hill restaurant for so many years, she relished being in an establishment run by other people. She looked at Ahmed and fixed him with an affectionate gaze.

  “What?” he asked.

  She glanced down at her tasseled menu. “I’m just happy.”

  When the tea server arrived, Margaret ordered the Imperial Afternoon Tea for two. The server brought two gold-rimmed teapots with matching cups and saucers. The food arrived next, a three-tiered silver tray, delicately arranged with tiny sandwiches, petit fours, and scones.

  As they admired the food and took their first sips, Margaret savored the moment—the same glow she had felt before during other special times she and Ahmed had shared, times she deeply missed.

  She waved to the server. “Could you take our picture?” Margaret handed over the anniversary gift that Ahmed had presented her with that morning: a Canon Rebel, her first SLR digital camera. She liked the name. Rebel.

  Ahmed reached for her hand. Margaret turned toward the lens and smiled big. With an opening and closing of the shutter, their perfect moment was documented. They weren’t living the lie this time.

  They left the Victorian Room satisfied and in high spirits. Next, they explored the rest of the hotel, then walked the streets of downtown Seattle, cozily sharing an umbrella under the drizzle. Back in their room, Margaret was content and relaxed as she prepared for their eight o’clock dinner reservation. She did her hair and makeup with care and put on a new wraparound dress and long beaded gemstone necklace, a gift that Ahmed had given her the year before. Meanwhile, he looked striking in his crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks.

  The candlelit dining room was just as spectacular as the tea room. After serious consideration, they selected their starter and main courses. Over a smoked black cod appetizer, Ahmed looked at her and caressed her arm. Margaret loved how their life still revolved around food, whether they were preparing it together or enjoying a meal out. And Ahmed was still so charming when he focused all his attention on her, rather than on his family—or worse, his mother. Margaret pushed this thought aside as he reached for her hand and held it between his own. Then he lifted it and gently kissed her fingers. This was how a twentieth anniversary was supposed to feel.

  The main course arrived, and Ahmed raised his glass. “Next year, Jerusalem.” Margaret met his gaze and raised her glass, too. They took in the presentation of the food, the unique garnishes and flavor combinations. They tasted each other’s dishes and agreed that their choices were excellent.

  Ahmed laid down his fork. “Honey, there’s something I want to discuss.”

  Margaret bit into a grilled prawn dipped in a buttery sauce.

  “There’s an opportunity …” he began. “Something I’ve been thinking about, something I really want to do.”

  She swallowed and held her breath.

  His eyes met hers. “I have a job opportunity in the Gulf.”

  She blew out a breath of air. It wasn’t the first time Ahmed had brought up vague plans of returning to the Middle East. In fact, he had been mentioning it more often lately. Fortunately, Margaret had always found a way to dissuade him.

  “An opportunity?” she asked.

  “There’s a hiring director in the United Arab Emirates. He’s seen my restaurants. He wants me to manage a chain of coffee shops there.”

  She raised her eyebrows, speechless for a moment. There was something about his tone and the look in his dark eyes that unnerved her. “You can’t be serious.”

  “The UAE is a small Gulf country.” He spoke as though he were already convinced. “It’s located next to—”

  “I know where the hell the UAE is.”

  Ahmed cleared his throat and looked away.

  Margaret sat back in her chair. “You know how I feel about this.”

  “And you know how I feel.”

  “There’s no way,” she said, shaking her head. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “We never have any time alone.”

  She rolled her eyes. �
�You know why that is.”

  “I need a change. Do you know what it’s like being an Arab in this country? The prejudice we face?”

  “Oh, please, not this again.” She closed her eyes for a moment.

  “It’s growing, this discrimination against Arabs and Muslims.”

  “I know it’s unfair,” she said, “but has it affected you personally? No, it hasn’t.”

  “Am I supposed to wait until it does?”

  She pushed away her plate. “Have you lost your mind?” She leaned in. “It’s not enough your mother’s living with us?”

  “Leave my mother out of it.”

  “You want to drag us around the world, as well?” Margaret’s chest tightened and squeezed in on her. “We’re not leaving our house.”

  “You hate that house.”

  “Three successful restaurants.” She touched her breastbone to relieve the pressure. “You’re willing to start all over? And with someone else’s business?”

  “We can have a good life there. The kids can learn Arabic, experience the culture.”

  “Our kids are settled in school.”

  “They’d be better off there.”

  “How can you say that?” Margaret’s voice was shrill. “They were born here.”

  “Jenin’s going to be sixteen.” He said the word like it was a disease.

  “So?”

  “You know what happens to teenage girls here.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she hissed.

  The waiter approached their table, then took a step back and disappeared.

  “It was your dream to have those restaurants,” she said.

  “That was never my dream.”

  “All of sudden it’s your dream to live there?”

  Ahmed crossed his arms. “I’ve been living here for twenty-four years. I’ve done more than enough. It’s my turn now.”

  “Are you saying you’ve stayed here for me?”

  He grimaced. “Keep it down.”

  Margaret became aware of the gentle sounds of silverware clanking and the conversations coming from nearby tables. She lowered her voice. “You were educated here.” She counted on her fingers. “You started your business here, you send money to your family.”