Where Jasmine Blooms

by Holly S. Warah

  “Leave my family out of it.”

  “Plus!” Margaret’s voice became agitated again. “You got your brother educated, got green cards for your parents.” She tapped the table for emphasis.

  “Yes, I appreciate all of that. But we’ve been living here a long time.”

  “Who’s this guy offering you a job? How can you trust him?” Margaret thought of their restaurants, which had started out as one small café on Capitol Hill. She and Ahmed had transformed it into something unique, offering meticulously prepared Mediterranean meals and gourmet desserts displayed in a glass case. With sweat and sacrifice, they’d opened two more—one in Fremont and another in Greenwood. They had received a string of good reviews—and even a local award. Could he really give it all up?

  “Do you honestly think it would be better?”

  “I’m tired of working here.” Ahmed dropped his shoulders. “I just don’t feel I belong anymore—and it’s exhausting the hell out of me.”

  “You think it’d be perfect over there? It wouldn’t be.” She tried to picture this faraway country but couldn’t. Instead, memories of their trips to Jordan filled her head: the garbage on the side of the road, the clumsy stone houses, people pushing to be first in line. “How would we live?” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Calm down,” Ahmed whispered. “You’re entertaining the entire restaurant.”

  She looked around. People turned away when they saw her. Ahmed signed the bill as her mind swirled with thoughts of her mother, Lois, and how she adored her time with her grandchildren. Her twice-monthly visits were always planned in advance—such a contrast to the disorder of Ahmed’s family. Jenin, Tariq, and Leena were Lois’s only grandchildren living in the same state. Margaret’s brothers and their families had settled on the East Coast, five and six hours away by plane. Lois complained bitterly that she saw those children only once or twice a year. Margaret could never move so far away.

  When they were alone in the elevator heading back to their room, Margaret turned to Ahmed. “Isn’t our life already Arab enough?” She waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she went further. “We constantly have a houseful of your family. It’s like we’re already living in the Middle East!”

  Again, Ahmed said nothing. Once behind their door, he slumped into the love seat.

  Margaret paced the room, which now seemed cramped. “What about your mother?”

  “My mother goes where I go.”

  “Great.” Her voice was dripping with contempt, but she didn’t care.

  “I’d be a jerk if I didn’t take care of my mother.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe we should stop talking before we say something we shouldn’t.”

  He was right on both counts, but Margaret couldn’t stop. “If we lived over there, you wouldn’t need me. You’d be in one room with your mother and your family, and I’d be in another, by myself, wishing for our home to just be our home.” She realized that she had just described their current life. “It’d be like now—only worse.”

  “Is your life with me so bad?”

  “Everything has to be your way.” Margaret sat on the bed and felt her energy dissolving. “This is my life, too.”

  “I’m ready to leave this country.”

  She balled her hands into fists. “Please don’t say anything else, not another word.”

  They went to sleep without speaking, each at opposite sides of the king-size bed. She dreamt Ahmed’s family was socializing noisily in a crowded living room, while she ran back and forth from a kitchen, carrying an enormous tray of tea glasses. She opened her eyes in the morning, not knowing where the dream had taken place, in Seattle or over there. Margaret sat up and looked at Ahmed while he slept. Her chest filled with post-argument remorse. Could they salvage the rest of their anniversary?

  At breakfast, Ahmed asked, “What would you like to do?”

  “I don’t mind,” she replied.

  “We’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

  If only that were true.

  At Pike Place Market, the sight of the fishmongers tossing salmon to each other served as an agreeable distraction. It had been a long time since Margaret had walked among the bustling stalls offering fish and flowers, produce and crafts. The scene was vibrant but overcrowded with midsummer tourists.

  “Here, take my picture.” She handed her camera to Ahmed.

  He held it up. “Next to a statue of a pig?”

  “It’s a landmark. It’s not like we are going to eat it.” She posed next to the market’s iconic large brass piggy bank. Margaret told herself to smile—back to living the lie yet again.

  They moved through the crowds, admiring the buckets of flashy dahlias and boxes of plump blueberries. “You don’t have to go to the Middle East to shop in a souk,” Margaret said as she swept her arm toward an artful display of vegetables.

  Ahmed smiled weakly but said nothing. She vowed silently not to mention the Middle East for the rest of the day.

  Across the street, they walked along the crowded sidewalk, glancing in the smoked salmon shop and pausing at the original Starbucks, a narrow coffee shop with no seating. Ahmed entered the little Middle Eastern grocery store, and Margaret followed him in. It was small and dusty and devoid of customers. The place, which normally interested her, now seemed unnecessary and irrelevant. They continued walking until they reached Sur La Table, the gourmet cooking store they both enjoyed perusing. They entered and surveyed the floor-to-ceiling selection of specialty pots and pans.

  “We could spend all day in here,” Ahmed said.

  She moved past the colorful table linens to the display of glossy hardback cookbooks. One book called out to her: Cooking of the Arabian Gulf. She read its subtitle: Recipes from Oman, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates. The sight of the book was profoundly irritating. She turned away and looked for Ahmed. He was handling a large couscoussière from North Africa.

  “Nice, but expensive,” he said.

  “I’m done here. I’ll be outside,” she said, leaving before he could answer. She waited alone on the sidewalk, in view of the retro-neon Public Market sign and the Puget Sound beyond. The Arabian Gulf was a world away and had nothing to do with her. In her mind arose a vision of an Arab souk, crowded with people in traditional dress. Would she have to cover her hair over there? She didn’t miss wearing hijab. In fact, she had finally accepted herself without it.

  Ahmed joined her on the street. “Usually I have to drag you out of there.”

  Margaret shrugged. “I want to keep going.”

  For lunch, they had more northwestern fare—halibut in a broth of tomatoes—at a sidewalk café in Pioneer Square. The clouds from the day before had surrendered to a brilliant, unbroken blue sky. Margaret looked up and down the tree-lined street, taking in the old brick buildings, flower baskets, and art galleries. “Let’s come down here more often.”

  Ahmed nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, sure.”

  Did that mean that he agreed to stay in Seattle?

  They crossed the street, and Ahmed suggested they enter a map shop. Margaret took only two steps inside, and there it was. In the center rack, amongst dozens of folded maps, she noticed the title of only one: The United Arab Emirates. She had never given a thought to this country, and here it was in front of her again. She stood frozen, averting her eyes.

  “You okay?” Ahmed asked.

  She steadied herself. “I’m fine. Just a little tired.” How had he missed the map right in front of them? “I’m not really into maps. I’m going to the bookstore.” She left the shop and breathed in the fresh air outside. The bricks and flowers of Pioneer Square were picturesque, but Margaret could scarcely appreciate the scenery through which she was walking. She crossed the street again, heading toward Elliott Bay Books on the corner. A car whizzed past her.

  She felt Ahmed take her arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  They entered the well-worn bookstore, which was f
illed with room after room of wooden bookshelves. Margaret proceeded cautiously. The floorboards creaked as she stepped forward, orienting herself so as to avoid the travel section. She thumbed through a stack of novels, searching for a book to read in Jordan. But could she get away with reading amidst the endless tea drinking and chatter at Fatma’s house? Torture by tea, as her friend Liz called it.

  Ahmed appeared next to her. “You should look at this book.” He held it up. Guide to the United Arab Emirates.

  Margaret recoiled and waved it away. “I’m not interested in that.”

  “Maybe it has some information you need.”

  “Not interested.” She picked up a novel and pretended to study the back cover.

  “Just try to open your mind. Please.”

  She blinked and turned away.

  As they drove back home, the Seattle skyline sliding away behind them, Margaret imagined their messy house, cranky children, and the unending list of complaints that would need tending. The mother would monopolize Ahmed the moment they walked in.

  They pulled off the freeway and passed Margaret’s favorite park, her library, her supermarket—all of which looked exactly the same but had taken on a new significance. These were her places, the sites of her memories, her life, and her future.

  Ahmed pulled into the cul-de-sac. A neighbor waved at Margaret. She was home.

  Then she saw it. The driveway was filled with cars. There was Khalid’s car and Mona’s and Ibrahim’s. Damn.

  Ahmed parked. “Looks like everyone’s visiting my mom.”

  “She can’t go one day without seeing someone?”

  “Why should she?”

  Margaret opened the front door, and Tariq and Leena rushed down the steps to hug her. She squeezed them tightly, inhaled their scents, and told herself to smile as she entered the living room, which was littered with tea glasses. “Salaam,” she said with a nod.

  Khalid, Mona, the mother, and the cousins looked up from their conversation and acknowledged her. Nearby, Alison and Jenin were deep in discussion. As usual, Alison was talking politics. This time, she was explaining why Yasser Arafat had been confined to his headquarters in Ramallah.

  “How was the anniversary, Mom?” Jenin asked.

  Before she could answer, Mona spoke, a sneaky smile on her lips. “So, you’re moving to the Emirates?”

  Margaret stood in shock. She stared at Ahmed, who looked away.

  Then the mother was saying something. Khalid translated. “She says in the UAE, you can live in a compound with foreigners.”

  Once again, Margaret’s chest squeezed in on her. “Everyone knows about this?” She looked at Ahmed, and the room became quiet. “Am I the last to know your plans?”

  He moved toward her, took her by the elbow, and led her down the hallway. “I only talked to my mother,” he whispered. “She must have told them. I’m sorry.”

  “You already discussed this with her?”

  “So what? I talk to my mother.” He shrugged and left her standing in the hallway.

  Margaret, trying to compose herself, put on a brave face and went back to the living room, where everyone acted as though nothing had happened. Alison was explaining to Jenin the difference between Fatah and Hamas. Why couldn’t Alison give it a rest?

  Margaret sat next to the mother. “How was everything?” Margaret asked in Arabic, her voice strangely high-pitched.

  “Alhamdulillah,” the mother replied. Praise be to God.

  Alison leaned forward and caught Margaret’s eye. “I’d move there in a heartbeat.”

  Margaret inhaled slowly. Alison was giving her advice. How could she know anything about moving overseas? Leaving a home? Uprooting a family?

  Margaret felt a sudden urge to get out of there. Not to just go hide out in the bedroom—but to get out of the house altogether, far away. She thought of going to see her friend Liz but remembered her husband’s parents were visiting from Lebanon.

  “Ahmed,” Margaret said. “I’m going to my Qur’an study group tonight.”

  “That’s good.” He looked pleased. “You haven’t been for a while.”

  It was true. Margaret’s involvement in the Muslim community had been on a downward spiral since she had stopped covering her head. At the mosque, some women had pestered her about dropping the hijab, so Margaret rarely went there anymore. However, her Qur’an study group was still a bit of a safe haven.

  On the couch, Alison and Khalid talked softly to each other, then he turned to Margaret. “What time is the study group?”

  “Seven.”

  Alison’s eyes lit up. “Do you mind if I come?” Before Margaret could reply, Alison said, “We’ll go home, and I’ll come back tonight. She stood up. “If that’s all right?”

  “It’s fine.” Margaret said.

  Of course, it wasn’t fine.

  Chapter 9

  As they drove home, Alison asked Khalid, “So if I go to this Qur’an study, you’ll stop bothering me about my clothes?”

  Would he really let up? His new habit—to evaluate each of her outfits, checking to see if a garment was too tight, too short, or too see-through—was making her nuts. He used to like the way she dressed, but now Alison had gotten rid of some of her favorite tops and skirts for him. Not only was it exasperating figuring out what to wear, but his requests were so silly and unfair.

  “Study the real Islam.” He took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “Not the one taught at university. Those classes aren’t even taught by Muslims,” he said. “They’re taught by Jews.”

  “That was just one Jewish professor.” She wished she’d never told him.

  He took the exit to Capitol Hill. “It’s their strategy, having Jews teach Islam.”

  “It was just one.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not a conspiracy!”

  Alison knew better. All sorts of people were drawn to Near Eastern studies and for different reasons. She had never told anyone about the mix of danger and fascination that drew her to the conflicted region—the same region that her own Syrian-American parents had rejected. How could she explain? Since her first visit there, she had felt an adrenaline rush, a magnetic pull toward all things Middle Eastern. She daydreamed about traveling there again—only now Khalid would be her guide.

  He drove down Broadway and took the turn to their apartment. They passed a dumpster overflowing with garbage. Nausea fluttered inside her. Fortunately, they would be off Capitol Hill by the end of the month, away from the stench and the litter.

  She said, “We should do some packing when we get home.”

  He glanced at her. “Maybe you shouldn’t push yourself so much.”

  “I could get more done if …” Nearly four months along, she blamed her pregnancy for slowing her down. That’s why she had given in to that Pine View complex in the suburbs. The new place was clean and sterile, the only apartment that didn’t make her ill. Besides, they couldn’t afford to live in the city anymore, now that they needed two bedrooms. As soon as Khalid got a job, though, they would save up and move back to Seattle.

  They packed two boxes together before Alison’s thoughts turned to food. In the kitchen, however, nothing looked good. She flipped through her cookbook of Middle Eastern cuisine and decided on ful, the food she had subsisted on while studying in Cairo, the food of Egyptian laborers and unemployed Arab-Americans. Khalid made tea and warmed bread while she smashed the fava beans with lemon and garlic. The dish was usually a favorite, but when it was finished, it looked unappealing. She suffered a fresh wave of queasiness as she added chopped tomatoes, a drizzle of olive oil, and fresh parsley. On their tiny table, they arranged the simple meal.

  “Bless your hands,” Khalid said in Arabic.

  “And your hands, too.”

  They sipped their tea and ate in silence while Alison thought ahead to the Qur’an study group that evening. Khalid probably expected her to convert right away—if so, he would be disappointed. If anything, the study group would improve h
er classical Arabic.

  Meanwhile, the graduate school printouts remained set aside, no longer on the table, but placed out of sight. Her intention to apply gnawed at her, yet there was always something to do: write a cover letter for Khalid, prepare a meal, go to work, or wait for the nausea to pass.

  After a few bites, the sight of the ful swimming in oil sickened her. She pushed the plate away. “I can’t eat any more.”

  He touched her arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She turned away until the ful was out of her vision.

  Khalid stroked her belly, which was just starting to swell. He was clearly pleased with the pregnancy, showing no worries or doubt. In the beginning, when Alison had first expressed her concerns over finances, he had said with an earnest look, “God will provide for this baby.”

  At the time, Alison stared at him. God will provide? She had never heard Khalid say anything like that before. She hoped he would hurry up and get a job. He would need more than blind faith to support a family.

  They cleared the table, and she went to change. She put a tunic on over an ankle-length skirt. Long over long, that’s what she called her new look, overdressed for July but perhaps underdressed for Qur’an study group. As she removed her Qur’an from the shelf, her anticipation switched to unease. Would she have to wear a scarf? Would they pressure her to convert?

  Alison slipped the Qur’an in her bag and kissed Khalid good-bye. He would soon be off to play tarneeb with Ibrahim and Salim and another friend. The card game, Khalid’s escape of choice, lasted for hours.

  When Alison arrived, Margaret was ready for Qu’ran study, already wearing a green headscarf which concealed her red hair, making her look like a different person.

  As they drove out of the cul-de-sac, Margaret told her, “We’re going to Aisha’s.”

  “Where’s she from?” Alison asked.

  “From Seattle. She changed her name when she converted.”