Forbidden Love (5 page)

A few minutes later, we were interrupted by a loud knock on the door, followed by her brother Rafiq’s voice bellowing, “Dalia, where’s the coffee?”

“Hiene Jia (I’m coming),” she hollered. She gave me an exasperated look.

Rafiq, although the youngest of her four brothers, was one of the most cruel and argumentative young men I’ve ever known. Although he was gorgeous-looking, his temperament was reflected in his face, making him ugly, in my opinion.

“Let me help you make breakfast, that way you’ll finish faster and

we’ll have more time to talk,” I said. \020”OK, that sounds good.”

Dalia hid the cigarettes and matches and sprayed air freshener, while I emptied the ashtray in the bathroom and flushed away the incriminating butts. I followed her to the kitchen, where, after preparing a gallon of mint tea and Turkish coffee, we began to cook breakfast. First the eejay eggs, onions, flour and spices, mixed together into a semi-liquid batter and fried) and then the fried tomatoes. We arranged the Jaban, cheese, zayt and zayter, olives, ka’ik, and Arabic bread On the table. Our job complete, we refilled our coffee cups and

went out to the back patio. Um Suhal came into the kitchen as we were leaving and began taking out the tea and coffee cups. When Dalia’s brothers and father came down, she would serve them before leaving the kitchen so they could eat. Dalia normally had to help her mother tidy the bedrooms and do the laundry as the men ate their food, but since I was there, she was excused.

We sat on wrought-iron chairs on Dalia’s patio, a large cement slab shaded by a prehistoric grapevine fastened to a metal canopy, and placed our coffee on the marble top of the wrought-iron table. The shade from the ancient grapevine was pleasant and the coffee good. We sat in silence for a while, taking pleasure in the morning calm. Since the back patio was near the kitchen, we didn’t want to resume our conversation for fear that Dalia’s father and brothers would hear us through the open window.

All of the men in Dalia’s family were in the kitchen except for her brother, Nasar, who was married and had moved out nine months before. Nasar was an older and, if possible, nastier version of Rafiq. He was an agricultural engineer at a government office. His wife Diana had a dental degree but had never been allowed to work, either before her wedding or now. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house without Nasar, even to take out the rubbish. The one time she complained, he broke her nose and sent her back to her family, who told her that he was well within his rights and that she deserved what she got for trying to defy him. Then they sent her back to beg his forgiveness. In the nine months of their marriage, she had left the apartment four times, once when he allowed her to accompany him to the Abai’ala (a supermarket), once to go to her family’s home, and twice to visit Dalia’s home.

Dalia’s brother, Suhal, dropped us off in front of ND’s, and

for us to unlock the door and go into the salon before

1 it

Now’ said Dalia, we have to find that Jenah’s or Jehan’s number and set something up with her. Since you worked on her hair you make the call.”

“I knew you were going to say that!” Then, a dramatic sigh Of resignation, and “OK, I’ll do it.”

The phone rang five times before someone answered it. As it was ringing, I almost lost my nerve and hung up, but when I tried to put the receiver down, Dalia grabbed my arm to prevent me.

Finally I heard a man’s voice. I stiffened, and Dalia knew that someone had answered. I couldn’t just hang up. I froze, unable to speak, until Dalia nudged me and I managed to say the opening words of my script, but so formally that it must have sounded like a recorded message.

“Hello, I’m calling from ND’s Salon. May I please speak to Jehan?” I asked, and held my breath.

“Dalia, is that you?” The voice sounded nervous.

“No, it’s Norma. Is this Michael?” I asked before I realized what I was saying. Then I felt my panic starting to mount.

“Yes, it is. Norma, where’s Dalia? How is she? Can I speak with her?” he asked in one breath, before I cut in, feeling my courage increasing.

Why should I tell you how she is? Or where she is?” I said,

astonished to hear the words coming out of my mouth. After all, I had never been so direct, or frank, with a man before.

“Norma, please, I’m begging you, put her on the phone. I haven’t been able to forget the look she gave me the last time I was at the salon. I can’t sleep. I can’t even work. I called in sick today, that’s why I’m here. Don’t worry, I’m alone. My mother went to the supermarket with my uncle. If Dalia’s there, just let me hear her voice.” Michael said. This was the sort of outpouring I could never, before then, have imagined being spoken by a man.

“What about your wife?” I asked, bracing myself for his reply.

“My what? I’m not married. Who said I was married?” He sounded genuinely shocked.

“Well, no one, but if you’re not, then who is Jehan?”

“Jehan’s my baby sister. You thought she was my wife?” He began to laugh, though it was a relieved and lovely rather than mocking laugh.

“Well, what was I supposed to think? It was quite late when you came in and I assumed that your family, like mine, doesn’t let your sisters out at that hour.”

“Oh, that is so funny. She’s not my wife. Now, please, where’s Dalia?”

“She’s here next to me. We don’t have any appointments for the next hour, so I can put her on.”

“Please, please do,” he urged.

I tried to hand Dalia the phone, but she pushed it away, her face turning beet red. I covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “What are you doing? It’s Michael. He’s home alone and wants to talk to you.”

“I can’t, Norma. I want to, but I can’t. You talk to him,” she said and moved out of the cord’s reach. I tried everything, even tossing a magazine at her from the counter in an attempt to get

her to come to the phone, but she wouldn’t budge. I was trapped.

\020”Michael, Dalia’s in the back doing something that really can’t wait. She should be done soon, though,” I said as I narrowed my eyes and curled my lips at her. “She asked me to talk to you until she’s finished. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not. Norma, does Dalia say anything about me? I mean, I know we don’t know each very well, but has she ever even mentioned me?”

“She’s mentioned you.”

“What does she say? I mean … I really like her. I feel as if I’ve known her for a long time. I just want to talk to her, be with her, you know what I mean. It’s strange, I’ve seen thousands of women, but I’ve never felt anything like the emotions I felt when I first saw her three months ago.”

Though I had no experience with romantic relationships, his clarity about his feelings didn’t strike me as unusual. Arab culture is so structured and formal, that men often choose their partners based on a glance. Michael’s instant attraction to Dalia seemed normal, even if this confessional flood did not. Could my brothers have said these things so freely? And it still nagged in my mind that he had waited three weeks. Why? Yet I knew that if Michael and Dalia had shared the same religion, his next step would have been to ask her father for her hand in marriage. They would then have had the opportunity to get to know each other through chaperoned visits.

“Dalia claims that she felt the same way towards you,” I said.

“Oh, that’s such a relief. You have no idea how many nights I’ve stayed awake wondering if she felt anything for me.”

I plunged on, hardly able to believe my own forwardness. I think the three of us had been so bottled up, so ready to explode with tension, that this chance to talk was like a dam

bursting. “Well, I don’t know exactly what you two plan to do about it. She’s Muslim and you’re Catholic. If you were Muslim, you could ask for her hand, but as it is, you can’t. I can tell that you both want to see each other. But why would you want to invite all the problems when nothing can come of it?” By this point, though, I already knew I would be playing the go-between as events unfolded, since the feelings between them were clearly deep, and also mutual. So, I acknowledged to Michael, “I’ve promised to do all I can to help her.”

“I know the dangers, but I’m willing to risk it. Is she? I don’t care that she’s Muslim, she could be Buddhist and it wouldn’t matter to me or change my mind.”

“I feel the same way you do about religion, and so does Dalia, but her parents are more traditional and won’t understand. She’s willing to risk it, though.”

“We can worry about that later. First we need to figure out how we can see each other. Do you think I could come to the salon?” he asked.

\020Looking back, this was the moment when I should have paused and reflected. Whatever I answered would be the beginning, the first act, of a conspiracy I could scarcely imagine being part of. This was the moment when I should have been suspicious of his garrulousness, of why he’d waited three weeks-of why, if he loved her, he could care so little about the risk he was putting her in. He was Arab, he knew the code, the dangers. We all did.

Yet, with hindsight, I realize that I trusted his confidence. Coming from a long line of military men, he was trained from birth to win not just battles but anything he attempted. He was not trained to face the possibility of losing. I knew he’d probably travelled and been schooled abroad, lived in freer cultures where women were not crushed, where honour crimes did not

take place. Just talking to him made me feel our prison was a little less inevitable, our risks a little less real, but what if his emotions had blinded him to some of the dangers? Or if he was fooling himself that in his absence Jordan had progressed beyond the primitive codes?

Maybe we were all naive. But as I talked to Michael, I was sharing what Dalia had felt from the first; I could feel our dreams, our stifled rebelliousness, being fanned into fire by his optimism and strength. I didn’t have it in me to deny either of them this chance to be together. And part of me was drawn in by the thought of living this dream vicariously.

“You, come to the salon? That’s out of the question. Dalia’s brother Mohammed, the one who walked in as you and Jehan were leaving, is here every day. He conics and goes as he pleases so we never know when we’ll be alone.”

“Well, what if you and Dalia befriended my sister? We could see each other through her. Jehan and I are very close, and she’s willing to help me. I’ve already told her how I feel about Dalia.”

“That might work. It would take time, though, and Mohammed would have to see her here a lot before he’d trust her to go anywhere with us. Is she very busy?” I asked.

“Don’t worry, she can juggle things if she has to. She’s continuing her studies so my father doesn’t force her into an arranged marriage, as he did my other sisters.”

“Really? Are your other sisters older or younger than you?”

“They’re younger and what he did to them is terrible. Aida is twenty-eight and has a beautiful two-year-old daughter, Jasmine. Her husband’s OK, he’s not a hakeer (jerk) or anything, it’s just that he wasn’t her choice and she’s not in love with him. She loves her little girl, though; I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more devoted mother. She has a nursing degree,

but her husband won’t let her work. Now she feels as if it was all a waste of time. My sister Miriam is only twenty-three, and my father made her marry a forty-six year old/“5 (fart) instead of continuing at university. She cried for days when my father forced her to stop going. She wanted to become an English professor.”

As he rattled on, nonstop, about his family, I could still hear nervousness in his voice. I hadn’t expected this kind of open, detailed description of his family but he made it easy to keep the conversation going while we waited for Dalia to find enough courage to come to the phone. I was nervous, too, and thankful that he was doing most of the talking. It was rare and refreshing to hear a man being sensitive to his sisters’ lives, and daring to be critical of other men.

“I’d love to meet Miriam. I went to English schools but rarely have the chance to speak English any more,” I said.

“No such luck. The hakeer she’s married to hardly lets her visit us, much less go anywhere else.”

“Well, I guess that’s life, here at least. Since Dalia and I are the only girls in our families, our mothers need us to help out at home and so we haven’t been forced into marriage yet.”

“That’s the only thing saving Jehan. That and my mother’s failing health. She isn’t physically ill, or at least no one had diagnosed her illness. I think my father’s tyranny has worn her down over the years. He’s a very stern and controlling man. He spent most of his life in the armed forces and treats my mother like one of his recruits, always yelling at her and cutting her down. The whole thing makes me so angry. I wish I could get her away from him. Oh, let’s talk about something else; this is too depressing. Obviously, I don’t come from a model family, but then who does?”

“Well, every family has its secrets.” By now, I felt brave

enough to lighten the tone of our conversation. “Hey, I have an idea. Since you’re Catholic and I’m Catholic, maybe you could set me up with one of your brothers. Dalia said you have two. Then we’d be related. If that happened, you could see Dalia all the time.”

Michael took me seriously. “Oh, you don’t want to get involved with them. Jerius is younger than me but has been married for four years. He has two young sons, and sometimes I really think that’s he’s trying to raise them to be the next Arab Hitlers. But instead of targeting Jews, he’s teaching them to target women. It’s a pity, really, because his wife Samia is so gentle, quiet, and kind. She never smiles, though. I guess I wouldn’t smile if I had to deal with Jerius. She reminds me of my mum. I think that’s how my mother must have been at her age.”

“What about your other brother?” I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“George? He’s twenty-five, and the picture of male beauty -but that’s where his perfection ends. I hate to say it, but he’s very shallow, vain, and arrogant everything you wouldn’t want to spend the rest of your life with. He’s a typical young Arab man, financially successful and expects everyone to treat him as if he’s a god. I think he might actually try to force his wife to give up her religion and worship him. You wouldn’t want to be the lucky woman, would you?”