When Sayyid Hassan died unexpectedly after an attack of pneumonia, Bibi’s life crumbled. She was only eleven years old; she had been inconsolable as she watched him losing his life force breath by breath. Even now, she still had occasional nightmares about the men who had removed his body from the house, and the wailing of the women during his funeral rites.
With his death, life had changed drastically for the lively household; it had shut itself away from the outside world, and Rumia too had seemed to fold into herself. Only Saeeda, Rumia’s young maid and confidante, had been able to lull Bibi to sleep, as she had become terrified of death, which became a lasting obsession for her. Saeeda soothed her, putting her strong arms around her and rocking her, recounting her own tragedy.
Saeeda had lost her family when she had been kidnapped as a little girl in Sudan. She had been sold into slavery several times over before arriving in Mesopotamia at the age of ten, whereupon she had been freed by a renowned Persian sage known as Al-Qotob, the Pivot. She had become a servant in the household of the Pivot, and as his family had close ties with Rumia’s household, she had eventually found her way into Rumia’s employ. Her story gripped Bibi’s imagination and demanded her sympathy, shaking her out of herself. She tried to put herself in Saeeda’s shoes, but the experience was too painful. The two girls, at least, had a common bond: both had suffered a terrible loss at a tender age.
Khadja sent word that she would like to pay Rumia a visit. Although she had approved the choice of Hadi’s bride in theory, she wanted to make sure there were no hidden flaws in the girl. ‘You can never trust anyone else’s eyes,’ she told herself.
Rumia realized what the honour of Khadja’s visit implied: there was interest in Bibi from the Chalabi household. She calculated that the prospective groom must be Abdul Hussein’s oldest son, Hadi, as his other boys were little more than children. She let Bibi know that they were expecting important visitors.
On the given day, Khadja set off on foot with her three daughters in tow. They were accompanied by a servant girl each, as well as by Jamila, the groom’s mother, who walked meekly behind. Jamila dreaded spending any time with her female in-laws, especially during social visits, when she could never get a word in edgeways.
Clutching their abayas, Khadja and her daughters muttered to each other in irritation. Jamila was certain they were talking about her. She was very unsure about this afternoon. Her son was too young to get married, she felt, but she was unable to express her opinion freely, especially to her mother-in-law.
Naturally apprehensive about the visit of the Chalabi women, Bibi prayed that her mother’s quiet manner wouldn’t turn the day into a disaster. But, to her immense relief, Rumia presented the visitors with a feast of a tea, dazzling them with her culinary talents and her natural elegance. She had used her skills in the marketplace to obtain goods that were now in short supply, owing to the military’s requisitioning of fresh produce. Saeeda had also proved invaluable, scouring the main square for ingredients. Back home in her kitchen, Rumia had prepared a variety of sweet pastries and stuffed bread, which she served on the delicate silverware her late husband had bought during his travels many years earlier.
A woman in an abaya walks by the river.
Khadja and her middle daughter, Amira, did most of the talking. Amira took after her mother, and rumour had it that she wore the trousers in her marriage. During the years that her husband Uzri was in prison, time had spun her misery into anger, which threaded its way through everything she said. An eccentric woman, she had a great dislike of the cold, and took to her bed in November each year, rising only in April once the weather had warmed up. During that time she received visitors in bed, had her meals there and continued to run the household from her bedroom. Her husband’s incarceration had compromised even this ritual, and she commiserated with Rumia on the hardships of living without a spouse.
The Chalabi women were impressed by Rumia’s elegant presentation, and the delicacies they ate sugared their moods. They exchanged glances with each other. Khadja even let slip a smile when she saw the trays of sweets, which were covered with delicately embroidered doilies and decorated with freshly cut rosebuds.
Custom dictated that Bibi remain absent from the room until near the end of the women’s visit, when she could come down to greet them. Having worried all morning about her appearance and fussed over what to wear – opting in the end for a dress in turquoise, that most regal of colours – after an hour Bibi couldn’t wait a moment longer. She knew her fate was being decided as the guests chatted away in the drawing room, and decided to stand behind the door, eavesdropping, until she was sent for.
She became engrossed when Khadja spoke effusively of her grandson Hadi, his good looks and his excellent prospects. Although there had not yet been an official proposal of marriage, the old woman could not help letting Rumia know of the great honour she, Khadja, was bestowing on her with this association.
The door Bibi was leaning on was suddenly pulled open, as a maid came out with a tray of empty tea glasses. Unbalanced, Bibi stumbled into the room. Rumia closed her eyes and covered her mouth in shock and embarrassment, terrified that this display of bad manners might spoil her daughter’s chances of marriage.
The visiting party stared at each other in surprised disapproval, until Bibi’s aunt Fahima chirped up, ‘Ah, you’re here, my dear! I was about to come and get you. Come and meet Khadja Khanum [lady or madam] and Jamila Khanum, and Hadi’s aunts.’ The three aunts pursed their lips in unison, not amused to be introduced after the wretched Jamila.
Bibi desperately willed herself to look demure, and focused very hard on the flower-patterned carpets covering the floor. Her cheeks glowed from embarrassment, although she was by no means a naturally timid girl. But this occasion was different: she had heard of Khadja’s viciousness, and knew that the matriarch had the power to make or break this union. So the best course of action for her was suddenly to become shy. As she greeted each of the Chalabi women she was aware of their scrutinizing eyes roaming over every inch of her, and she silently recited a short verse from the Quran in the hope that it would temporarily blind them when they reached her neck, lest they see how short it was. If there was one thing she really envied her mother, it was her long, thin neck – that, and her height. Rumia was tall and graceful; Bibi was not. As all these thoughts tumbled through her mind, Bibi was so nervous that she nearly forgot to breathe.
When she finally approached Hadi’s mother, Bibi felt some relief. Jamila was warmer to her than the other Chalabi women had been, and asked her to sit next to her, complimenting her on her silk dress. Bibi missed the dark looks exchanged between Khadja and her daughters. However, the tension was broken when another tray of walnut pastries appeared.
Walking back home, Shaouna declared to the others that Bibi was going to be quite a handful. She turned to Jamila and said snidely, ‘You won’t be able to control her. She’ll walk all over you.’ Jamila didn’t reply, but her sisters-in-law started to laugh. Jamila could feel herself burning from all the anger she had stored up inside from the day she had married; she had never yet heard a kind word from any of these women. Her silence irritated them, but so did her words on those rare occasions when she had dared to answer back. Today, she kept her own counsel; she liked Bibi.
After the visitors had left, Bibi asked her mother what she thought of the Chalabis. Rumia was not very forthcoming; she told her that they seemed decent enough, but that it didn’t do to rush into such an important thing as marriage. Bibi was upset by what she took to be her unenthusiastic response. Her mind ran away with her as she imagined what her life would be like as an unmarried spinster stuck in her mother’s house.
The prospect was very bleak. She would always be at the mercy of her grandfather, her uncle or her brothers, and, worse, her brothers’ wives after they married. She would never be able to have a house of her own, or do anything with her life. Everyone would pity her if she was denied the one role that all wo
men were born to take on: that of wife and mother. She burst into tears. She would rather die than end up alone. Hadi has got to marry me, she told herself, he has to!
A few days later, with Khadja’s final blessing and Hadi’s consent, Abdul Hussein paid Bibi’s grandfather Sayyid Nassir a visit to ask for her hand in marriage on behalf of his son.
After Abdul Hussein had left, despite his weathered bones Sayyid Nassir wasted no time in rushing to find Rumia and share the good news. Bibi burst into the room. ‘What is it, Jiddi?’ she asked excitedly. ‘What did the Chalabis want?’ She knew their business of course; what terrified her was the possibility that they had found her wanting. Her grandfather calmly explained that they had come to ask for her hand for their son Hadi.
‘Yes, yes, I accept!’ Bibi grinned. ‘He’s the one with the blond hair and the blue eyes, isn’t he? I saw him once in the market and then another time during a procession at the shrine.’
Rumia was mortified that Bibi could talk to her grandfather with such a lack of respect; she reprimanded her, and Bibi rolled her eyes. Choosing to ignore the look on her daughter’s face, Rumia continued, ‘If you say the boy is of good character …’
‘I believe he is, and I will ask around. You don’t have any objections in principle?’
Before Rumia had time to reply, Bibi butted in, ‘Why should she, unless she wishes me to stay facing her all my life?’
Her grandfather looked at her and said tenderly, ‘All that is good will happen. Have faith.’
Bibi was sleepless from excitement and anxiety. It was a few days before her wedding day and she was worried, although she knew that Rumia had done her best to take care of the elaborate preparations needed to ensure that she went to her new home with all that was required.
Creating the trousseau had proved to be quite a production, from buying the material for Bibi’s new clothes and furniture, to finding seamstresses and embroiderers, to getting the best mattress upholsterer. Locating the necessary wares had been complicated by the wartime shortages, and Bibi was concerned that Rumia had dealt with the details with her usual degree of detachment. Her interest in earthly things was limited, and her enthusiasm for minutiae only went so far. Consequently, Bibi was fearful that she would be judged by her in-laws and their acquaintances as somehow inadequate, and Rumia’s calmness only irritated her further. She bit her fingernails to the quick.
What on earth would Hadi think of her?
4
Sugared Almonds and Jasmine
Bibi and Hadi’s Wedding
(1916)
IN ADVANCE OF the day of the mahir, the official religious ceremony that was held on a different day to the wedding itself, servants carried huge zanabil from Abdul Hussein’s house to Rumia’s. The enormous baskets were filled to the brim with sugared almonds, pistachios, dates, fruit jellies and mann al-sima, a prized local delicacy made from the boiled bark of trees, mixed with nuts and covered in icing sugar. Each basket was so large that it required two men to lift it. In addition, the Chalabi family sent several trays of shakkar borek, thinly layered sheets of pastry stuffed with almonds and baked. Rumia also received the small gifts of candy that were to be handed out after the mahir to the men.
Ever prone to dramatic outbursts, Bibi was once more beside herself with worry about whether her mother would attend to all the necessary arrangements. She paced the house, pestered Rumia with questions and locked herself in her bedroom for hours at a time, smoking furtively and ignoring her brothers when they tried to talk to her through the closed door. The death of her father had taught her that happiness could be snuffed out in a moment, and she couldn’t stop herself from fretting over what could go wrong.
The cuisine, at least, was no cause for concern. Besides God, Rumia’s passion was her kitchen, and she threw herself into planning the feast. Despite having several servants, she reigned supreme in her kitchen, where she took an active part in the preparations. The formality usually present between master and servant was absent in her house-hold, dominated as it was by women. Several of the servants had been there for such a long time that they had become part of the family. This did not mean that any of them had lost their respect for the unstated hierarchy.
Nevertheless, Rumia barely slept a wink herself the night before the mahir. There was so much to do, and she was exhausted by Bibi’s endless demands and tantrums. She was also depleted by the great efforts she had taken to fund this ceremony. Ever since her husband’s death, money had been scarce. Her wily brother-in-law had laid his hands on his brother’s business and assets. He gave Rumia a stipend, but it was barely enough to feed two, let alone a family of four.
Rumia’s lifestyle had changed dramatically over the past few years. Her house became less and less frequented by guests; she had never been as sociable as her husband. Nor had she shared his enthusiasm for collecting antiques, porcelain, opaline and silver, but now she was grateful for the pieces that remained. They had come to her rescue whenever she found herself with a large bill to pay. To fund the wedding ceremony, she had passed a chandelier discreetly to her brother Raouf to sell on her behalf.
She was loath to ask her brother-in-law for anything. After her husband’s death he had become the financial guardian of the family, taking over his brother’s estate, his shops and his capital, because Rumia was not versed in business and her own boys were still minors. Her father-in-law was officially her children’s moral guardian, as religious custom dictated, but he was old, and left all monetary concerns to his son. It was humiliating enough that her brother-in-law had robbed them of their rightful inheritance, but to have to ask him for what was rightfully theirs … that was simply too much for Rumia. So she lodged her complaint with God, certain that in His infinite wisdom He would see the injustice and punish her brother-in-law accordingly.
In the meantime, she wanted to make Bibi feel as confident in the arrangements as she could, so she had spared nothing to make the banquet as fitting and sumptuous as possible. Rumia was keenly aware that, of her three surviving children, it was Bibi who had felt her father’s loss the most, and she had a deep fear of financial insecurity.
All the ingredients for a splendid celebration were in place. Rumia had prepared all the desserts the day before, with the help of her two servants – Saeeda and Laleh, a pious young Iranian maid from Kuzaran – and a few women who were regular visitors to her kitchen. The kitchen was filled with the trays of burma, dark vermicelli covering glazed pistachio nuts; walnut-and sugar-stuffed pastries; claytcha, date-stuffed round cakes; mihalabi, a rice pudding flavoured with orange blossom essence; as well as her signature halawa, with shaved carrots, cardamom and saffron.
The morning of the mahir, Rumia rose in time for her dawn prayers, but she couldn’t concentrate properly, and knelt three times instead of the required two. Every time she recited a verse, her mind would wander to the kitchen and she would lose the train of the sacred words in her mouth. After her prayers she went to the kitchen, where she was expecting to find Saeeda and Laleh already up and working. But the house was silent. Everyone was sleeping in besides her.
She crept up to Saeeda’s room, which was located behind the kitchen, and stood outside, debating whether she should wake her up or not. She took a deep breath and gently tapped on her door. There was no sign of life. She whispered Saeeda’s name softly. Nothing. Rumia opened the door and gave a gentle cough. Saeeda croaked, rubbing her eyes when Rumia told her the time and urged her to get up as soon as she could.
‘But we worked so late yesterday,’ Saeeda complained. ‘Just once it would be nice to get a proper lie-in.’
A couple of hours later Rumia left the kitchen and walked to her daughter’s room, where Bibi was still sound asleep. She went over to the window and opened the shutters. Mosaics of light flooded in through the shanashil, the wooden lattices that framed the windows. Bibi sat up in alarm. ‘What’s happened, what’s happened?’
Her two mahir outfits hung from the side of her cl
oset. There was the cream embroidered kaftan that she would wear for the actual ceremony, and a light-pink silk dress, with gold embroidery and a round neck, for the lunch afterwards. Lying on the dresser opposite her bed were the ornate metal hair combs, with flowers painted in lacquer, which Bibi had insisted upon and which were to go on either side of her parting. Her custom-made high-heeled shoes were set out on the floor.
Rumia murmured her approval as she ran her hands over the outfits, but Bibi complained that they made her look short. ‘What if they realise how short I am and change their minds?’ she asked. Taking a deep breath, Rumia calmly told her to stop her nonsense: she was going to look lovely, but she should get up now as there was still a lot to do. She paused as she turned to leave the room. ‘Oh! You nearly made me forget to get out the pearl earrings your father – may he rest in peace – gave me. They will go with your outfits perfectly.’
Bibi perked up at this piece of news. She had always coveted her mother’s jewels. She had often thought that if they were hers she would wear them all the time, in contrast to her mother, who never let them see the light of day. Bibi didn’t know how precious the gems were to Rumia; that she was relying on them to save her from dreaded rainy days ahead.
As with all mahirs, many of the ceremony’s details were filled with symbolism for the imminent marriage. Bibi sat on a chair in the loose-fitting kaftan, which had a large round neck. This garment had to be free of any clasps, tied knots or fastenings, which were considered to be symbolic obstacles that might prevent her from speaking the truth when asked if she wanted to get married. Her hair shone and she wore kohl around her eyes, and sibdaj, a paste used as a blusher, on her cheeks. She hated the effect of the strong red and wiped most of it off immediately. However, she didn’t mind the diram, a walnut-based lipstick applied with a finger.
Late for Tea at the Deer Palace: The Lost Dreams of My Iraqi Family Page 7
