by Puja Guha
She heard his footsteps in the hallway and stepped out, still hoping to minimize the interaction. “I’m ready,” she said meekly.
“You aren’t wearing your abaya.”
Mariam froze at his tone, kicking herself for forgetting something that obvious. She stepped back into the bedroom where the full-length black robe was laid out on the bed. Just as she was starting to put it on, Tareq came in, and she looked over at him. One of her arms was still out of the robe, and she reached for it, fumbling in her effort to move faster. She recognized the look in his eyes, and it made her want to flee more than anything else. Perhaps if she could cover up fast enough, he wouldn’t force himself on her? Her shoulders relaxed for a moment when he moved past the bed toward the closet.
Thank God.
Mariam pulled the abaya over her other shoulder and fastened it in front before peeping into the closet. As he had done on numerous occasions, Tareq inspected her closet. That was how their first fight had started: she had hung up two of her dresses with the top of the hanger facing out instead of inward. Her throat constricted. Had she made the same mistake tonight? He moved down the length of her clothing, sliding one item at a time, and she chastised herself once again for taking so long to get ready. We could have been on our way there, she thought. Instead, she had basically invited him to come into her room for another inspection by forgetting to cover up. Once he reached the back of the closet, he picked out two items, a full-sleeved black shirt, and a long chocolate brown skirt.
“These shouldn’t be next to each other,” he said with a quick glance. He moved the hanger with the shirt toward the front of the closet where her black abayas hung, along with two black dresses. “Move the other one,” he motioned toward the brown skirt.
Mariam brushed past him and grabbed the hanger. Where should it go? The items in her closet were more or less color sorted—the way he liked it—but she didn’t have anything else that color. She looked back and forth between the skirt and the hanger and made a gamble. The closest color was maroon, so she might as well put this next to it. Her heartbeat sped as she stepped closer to him and made enough space to put the skirt, then reached up to hang it. “Is this okay?” she turned to ask, swallowing again.
He examined the hanger rod for a moment, then looked at her with a nod, “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down and Mariam bowed her head in defeat. There would be no getting away from him now. Still, she glanced to either side, hoping to find a way to get past him or to encourage him that they needed to leave for the party. Before she could come up with anything, he was on her, shoving her against the closet wall. She tried to catch her breath, to at least get him toward the bed, but he grabbed her wrist and threw her to the side.
She wriggled and wanted to protest. You’re hurting me, but he slammed her against the wall again. Mariam winced as her head hit the wall and she squeezed her eyes shut. He wrenched her arm, and then she was on the ground, and he was on top of her. Just give in, it will be less painful that way. She had learned that the hard way, so many times.
WHEN TAREQ FINALLY rolled off of her onto the closet floor, Mariam stared at the ceiling to stave off tears. This time had hardly been the worst, but she could feel pain radiating through her left forearm. She took a deep breath and waited for Tareq to disappear to the bathroom as he always did without a word, either that, or—had they been in bed—he would fall asleep. Small mercies, she thought as he disappeared.
Mariam rotated her left wrist and tears welled once again. That wrist had already been sore from the last time he had grabbed her, and now she could barely move it without cringing. She slid to the side and rolled into the fetal position before using her hands to get up. Even the limited weight on her hands made her torso go rigid, but she breathed through the pain. She found her underwear on the floor and pulled it on, then she struggled to fasten her bra. The bathroom door opened, and she could hear Tareq breathing heavily behind her, so she urged herself to move faster. Where is my dress? She looked around and spotted the fuchsia silk on the floor behind her, where Tareq must have tossed it.
Before she could pick it up, Tareq grabbed it. He held it out in front of him, letting it hang from the spaghetti straps and examined it, looking back at her several times.
“You were going to wear this?”
Mariam’s heart almost stopped, his tone made her want to huddle in the corner of the closet in the dark.
“I had a sweater on top,” she whispered, but she knew there was no use to her protests.
Why did I even buy it? What was I thinking?
“You were going to wear this?” he repeated, louder. She could see the fury in his eyes. “How dare you?” The veins in his neck were popping out, and he handed the dress to her, pushing her back a few steps. “Put it on.”
“I’ll…I’ll wear something else.”
“Put it on!”
Mariam slid on the dress and winced as she had to twist her left wrist to pull the zipper. After grappling with it for several seconds, she turned back to look at Tareq, her eyes wide with fear. She had never intended for him to see the dress without the cardigan. She had known she shouldn’t buy it, but it had looked so beautiful when she tried it on.
How could I be so stupid?
She hardly had enough time to make eye contact with him again before he was in front of her, slamming her into the wall once more. This time, though, all he did was rip off the dress, then pick it up and tear at the fabric. He stepped on the bottom and with a few strong tugs, two of the seams came apart and one of the straps tore off. When he was satisfied, he dropped it at her feet.
“I’ll expect you downstairs in five minutes. I don’t think I need to tell you to wear something else,” he said and vanished out into the hallway.
Salmiya, Kuwait – July, 1990
Mariam walked into the party at her sister’s house and let out a sigh of relief as she and Tareq separated to head to the areas designated for men and women. He gave her a brief nod before he disappeared, he seemed in a better mood now. I guess he calmed down with the thought of the alcohol he’s about to consume, she grimaced. His reaction to alcohol usually went one of two ways: either it increased his sexual desire and he would want to have his way with her again, or he would drop her off at the house, slap her around a few times, and head off on his own, most likely to find someone else to satisfy his urges. Both scenarios made her tremble. She didn’t care how many other women he slept with, but the prospect of being slapped around again made her wrist sting even more. She stepped into the women’s only section of the house and let the door swing shut behind her as she looked into the diwaniya style room which featured a long set of couches along the walls surrounding four small coffee tables. As usual, the women had shed their abayas, which were hanging on a portable wardrobe in the corner. Mariam walked toward the portable wardrobe, and her heart raced. She’d applied cover-up to mask the bruises on her arm, but the redness of the fresh bruise would still be noticeable up close, and in her rush to leave the house, she had forgotten to grab a long-sleeved cardigan that would have covered them up for sure. She was fiddling with the zip on the front of the abaya when she heard her sister’s voice behind her.
“Mariam, how come you’re so late?”
Mariam turned around and forced a smile, “Hi, Reema.” She greeted her sister with a kiss on either cheek.
“Aren’t you going to take off your abaya?” Reema asked. “Dinah said that you bought a new dress. I can’t wait to see it.”
“I didn’t wear it tonight. I think I’m actually going to return it. The fuchsia was just a bit too much for Tareq.” Mariam scanned the room behind her sister and noticed Dinah sitting in the far corner, talking to one of her friends. She tried to make eye contact, but Dinah was too engrossed in the conversation.
“Oh, I see.” Reema pulled her into another hug and whispered in her ear, “I’m so glad you’re accommodating him. I told you it would all be fine betw
een the two of you.”
Mariam nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. She extracted herself from Reema’s hug and sat down next to Dinah, careful to keep her arms straight down so that her three-quarter sleeves covered as much of her bruise as possible. On her way, she had greeted six other women who were friends of her sister’s, interrupting a lively debate about whether one of them should take their next vacation in Switzerland or Paris. Mariam found herself switching off as she moved past them. Not that she wasn’t interested in travel, she’d actually always dreamed of living in Paris—the movies made it seem so wonderful, every person in touch with their inner artist. She winced at the thought. She and her mother had talked about visiting Paris together many times before she’d passed. They had planned to travel there once Mariam finished university and got her degree in Interior Design. She’d even been admitted to Pratt, one of the premiere design programs in the U.S., but after her mother’s death, her father had squashed that dream, instead insisting she marry Tareq. Mariam rubbed her eyes, less than a year later her father was gone too, although the legacy of his brooding stare and disapproval remained with her. They’d shared some tender moments, but most of his affections had been reserved for her brothers, and even on occasion for her sister, all of whom had stuck to the mold that he’d had in mind.
Dinah’s voice jarred her from the memories, “Mariam, hi, you look lovely.”
Mariam wrapped her arms around Dinah and lingered in the hug for a moment. She released her and broke into the first real smile of the evening, “It’s good to see you.”
“I love this dress,” Dinah tilted her head to examine it, focusing on the sequins stitched onto the fabric, “but I thought you were going to wear the other one tonight?”
“Some other time,” Mariam whispered, not sure if she could say any more about the dress. Her body went rigid as she recalled what Tareq had done to it.
Dinah put her arm around her shoulder, “I haven’t seen you in a few days. How is that design class going?”
“Shh,” Mariam glanced around the room, relieved that no one seemed to be paying attention to them. None of the other women knew that she had enrolled in a part-time class at Kuwait University. Frankly though, how else was she expected to pass the time? She could only go shopping so often.
“No one’s listening.”
“The class is great,” Mariam answered, still keeping her voice low and her attention on the rest of the room. “It’s hard, I’m not really that comfortable on a computer, and I have to keep all of the drawings hidden, but so far, I love it.”
“I’m so glad. I wish I could do what you do—your sketches are magic.” Dinah linked her arm through Mariam’s and leaned toward her ear, “Do you remember what I told you before?”
Mariam nodded and waited for Dinah to continue, of course she remembered. The whole thing terrified her, but she also couldn’t help but live vicariously through it.
“I’m still seeing him,” Dinah’s face flushed pink. “I know I shouldn’t be, but Fahad and I barely speak anymore. He treats me with respect, but we rarely spend any time together. Once a month or so he comes into my room for the night, but most of the time it’s just me alone. Maybe if we’d been able to have children it would be different…but it never happened for us.” She looked down at her hands, “John is so wonderful. It’s like he sees me and accepts me for exactly who I am. I don’t have to be anything in particular: this perfect daughter or perfect wife, or a good Muslim, or any of it. I can just be me—with all of my idiosyncrasies and obsessions.”
Aren’t you scared that Fahad will find out?
Mariam bit her lip, imagining the beating that she would get if Tareq ever found her with another man, and a shiver went up her spine. She held her tongue, though, she knew the answer to that question already. Dinah would never give up her relationship with John, not willingly anyway.
“Oh, I almost forgot, I brought you something,” Dinah slid her purse open, removing a dark green plastic bag and placed it into Mariam’s purse. “I know you haven’t made it there in a while.”
Mariam looked at her cousin, overwhelmed with gratitude. She knew exactly what was in the bag, another book that Dinah had picked up from the British Council library where she volunteered. It was where she’d run into John, he was a trade attaché at the British Embassy and had come in looking for a book a few months earlier. Mariam had never met him herself, but he’d actually picked out many of the books that Dinah had brought her. Once in a while she was able to sneak a purchase from the Family Bookshop on the Salmiya Main Street, but she had to be careful. Tareq didn’t approve of the mysteries and suspense thrillers that she loved, he’d rather her read religious texts—or nothing at all. Books that had any reference to smoking, drinking, strong female characters, or especially sex, were completely taboo, even though he smoked two packs a day and drank several times a week, along with the nights he spent with other women or prostitutes. That said, she felt nothing but gratitude for his proclivities, a night with them was a night that he wasn’t beating her up or forcing himself on her.
Mariam glimpsed into her purse but wasn’t able to see the book cover without taking it out of the bag. “What is it?” she asked.
“The Godfather,” Dinah answered, still speaking close to her ear. “John says it’s an incredible book, but it’s so violent. I’m not sure if I could get through it.”
“He always knows what to pick,” Mariam’s smile widened. John had a real knack for identifying the books that she liked, she could sense that he might be a kindred spirit, especially because of how Dinah’s face lit up when she spoke of him. So dangerous though… Mariam suppressed that thought and zipped her purse shut, she didn’t want any stray eyes to catch a glimpse of the bright green plastic. Without realizing it, she tugged at her cardigan sleeve—Dinah’s embrace had pulled it up slightly.
The expression on Dinah’s face changed and she grabbed Mariam’s arm, “Let’s go for a walk.”
Mariam followed her down the hall and out the back door into the small garden nestled on the east side of the house. This garden was secluded from the rest of the grounds. It was warm outside with the late July heat, even in the early evening well after the sun had disappeared.
“It’s hot out here, and no one can see you,” Dinah said in a firm but quiet voice. “Take off your cardigan.”
For a split second, Mariam considered refusing, but the glare in Dinah’s eyes was clear. She took a deep breath and did as she was asked. Dinah took it from her and stepped closer, examining her forearm and elbow closely in the dim light. She rubbed her hand against Mariam’s skin and glanced at it, some of the cover-up now on her fingers.
“Did he do that to you?”
“Of course not,” Mariam answered with a stammer. “I ran into a door.”
“A door?” Dinah gave her a painful glance, her eyes moving between the bruise and Mariam’s face. “I knew he was mean, but I never thought…” She handed the cardigan back, “I’ll help you cover it up again, let’s go to the bathroom.”
They stepped into the bathroom, and Dinah locked the door behind them before turning the dimmer up to its maximum. She pulled up Mariam’s sleeve and applied a fresh layer of foundation to conceal the bruise.
Mariam didn’t know how to react to the silence, normally Dinah was so talkative. When she finally pulled the sleeve back down, Dinah met Mariam’s gaze, “You have to leave him. This is only going to get worse. Please, Mariam, you can’t stay with him.”
The whimper in her cousin’s voice caught her off guard. Mariam opened her mouth to protest again but was unable to find the words. The truth of what Tareq had done, along with who he was, was tomato-red against her skin. Her wrist and elbow were both tender, and it hurt to move her arm. Mariam hesitated again, It’s not as if I can even leave him. He kept her passport locked in a safe in his office, and her sister had already refused to take her in when she’d confided in her after the first time it had happened. “It�
��s really okay,” she said softly. “I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.” The words didn’t even sound convincing to herself, but she still chose to believe them. What other choice did she have?
“Why are you staying with him?”
“He’s my husband.”
Dinah finished dabbing Mariam’s arm with more cover-up in silence. After she put her compact away in her purse, she let out a long sigh. “Mariam, I’m not a good example to follow. I don’t dare leave Fahad, even though I have this wonderful person in my life now.” She pursed her lips, “But flawed as he is, Fahad would never hurt me. You can’t let this happen again.”
Mariam snatched her arm away, “I told you it was an accident.” Her eyes smarted with tears, the shame of her situation weighing on her. Tareq’s actions, they had to be her fault. Why else would he be so harsh? She stormed out of the bathroom, she refused to talk to Dinah about this anymore.
Sabah Al-Salem, Kuwait – July, 1990
Mariam rushed out of the bedroom and—willing her legs to move faster—sped down the stairs. She had left her purse on the living room couch. Several weeks before she had left her purse out on her bed and gone to take a shower, only to find Tareq inspecting its contents when she emerged.
How could I leave it downstairs?
The question ran through her mind repeatedly as she reached the last step and went into the living room. Her shoulders relaxed, the purse was nestled in the corner of the couch, just as she must have left it. Tareq was nowhere to be seen, so she grabbed her opportunity, picking it up and heading back upstairs. When she was safely in her room, she entered the closet and shut the door. She let out a sigh of relief, she could hide the book along with the rest of her collection. She was about to remove the green plastic bag when she heard the door to her room open, and her posture stiffened.
