Tender at the Bone (23 page)

We both dreamed about him. Serafina did more than that, but he hardly seemed to notice. “All this time and we’re still just friends,” she fumed. “I wish I understood this country.”

Then Noureddine started talking about driving down the coast
to Sousse and Mahdia and Sfax. “You must see the Great Mosque,” he insisted. “It was built in 851. And the Ribat, a masterpiece of Islamic architecture, which is even older.”

“How exciting,” said Serafina, barely repressing a yawn.

“No more monuments, please,” I demurred.

It was Taeb who insisted. “The Sahel is more than monuments,” he said. “The beaches are the most beautiful in the world. We’ll be back in time for my sister’s wedding next week.” And then he clinched it by putting his hand on Serafina’s arm and urging, “Please come.”

The road south was empty, or I remember it that way, lined with tall palm trees. Donkeys grazed along the side, looking up, ears twitching, as we passed. An occasional dromedary ambled into the road so that Taeb had to honk impatiently to get the rider to move over.

After a few hours we stopped to swim. There was nobody on the beach and as we separated to put on our bathing suits I had a sudden moment of modesty, remembering that the boys had never seen us dressed in less than skirts and blouses. Looking at Serafina’s full breasts and tiny waist I regretted every bite of couscous. Indeed, both boys gasped when they saw her.

Later we pulled off the road at a little whitewashed shack with blue awnings. We were the only guests, and the proprietor rushed about pulling chairs up to a table. There was a negotiation—Noureddine, of course, did the talking—and then the man left. We could hear him in the kitchen, rustling about and talking to the cook.

I was surprised when a bottle of rosé wine appeared on the table; in Tunis the boys had not touched alcohol. It was crisp, icy cold, and heavy in the mouth. With the first bottle we ate peppered almonds and olives from the trees growing all around us. We had a second bottle with the mechouia, the spicy mixture of charcoal-roasted chiles and tomatoes. By the time we got to the grilled fish
I could feel my cheeks start to flush. Across the table Taeb was feeding dates to Serafina, slowly, with his fingers. Then she picked up a slice of watermelon—the fruit was almost unbearably sweet—and devoured it with sharp, delicate little bites. Taeb watched so intently that for the first time she was the one who looked away.

It was almost dark when we checked into our hotel, a few simple bungalows scattered between palm trees on the sand. Serafina hummed to herself, quietly, as she undressed, and I felt sad and empty. We didn’t talk much. I woke up once in the middle of the night and thought Serafina was not in her bed. But she was there in the morning, fast asleep. Had I been dreaming?

We had rolls and coffee in the hotel and then went out to the beach, which was as fine as they had said it would be. It was empty and quiet. The sea was very blue and the sun was bright but not too hot. Fishing boats drifted along the horizon. We lay on blankets for a while and then Taeb jumped up and said he was going to visit his aunt. Noureddine said he would go along, to show respect.

“You didn’t say you had an aunt here,” said Serafina.

“Tunisians have family everywhere,” he replied. “Coming?”

I would have gone, of course, if Serafina had, but she wouldn’t go. Was this a lover’s dance? I couldn’t tell. She went back to her book and I rolled over, looked lazily at the water, and went to sleep.

I woke up famished. But as we walked along the sea road to town I grew skittish; we were unaccustomed to being alone in Tunisia. “It seems awfully empty,” I said. “It doesn’t look as if a single tourist has ever been here.”

“Ooh,” mocked Serafina, “scary.” We reached the edge of the town and peered at the menus posted in the café windows. Not one was translated.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, marching toward a little café with strips of red, white, and blue plastic hanging across the door. We sat beneath an awning at an outside table and Serafina ordered an omelet, a salad, and a glass of wine.

The waiter looked worried. In halting French he said something about flies, insects, the need to move indoors. “It will be stifling in there,” said Serafina, “we’re not moving. We don’t mind a few flies.”

The man nodded and went away. Ten minutes went by. Twenty. Forty. Nothing arrived. We called the man out and he said yes, yes, the food would arrive any minute. “And the wine,” I said, “don’t forget the wine.”

He nodded and went back inside. Another half hour passed. Nothing happened. “This is ridiculous!” said Serafina. “I feel like I’m waiting for Godot.”

She went off to find the waiter and came back with a quizzical expression on her face. “They’ve all gone home,” she said, “and the door’s locked. We’re the only people here. What do you think happened?”

“It is not a mystery,” said Taeb when we told him later. We were having dinner at the shack on the beach, eating ravenously. He was sipping wine. “This is not Tunis. This is a small town where Arab women do not sit outside by themselves drinking wine!”

“But we aren’t Arab women,” Serafina said.

Taeb gave Serafina a sidelong glance. “Really?” he asked politely.

I looked at Serafina, suddenly realizing what they had been seeing all along: Her shiny dark hair and honey-colored skin.

“But I’m not!” she said.

“I know,” said Taeb, in the soothing voice you use to calm a fractious child. “I know.” He started peeling oranges and feeding the sections to Serafina, who took them delicately with her teeth, like a cat. The back of my neck prickled; Taeb’s stillness had disappeared.

We went back to the bungalow and Serafina spent a long time at the sink, washing her face. “They think you are here to discover your roots,” I said. “They think you don’t know it.” She bent to
rinse off the soap. She dried her face, muffling it in the thickness of the towel.

A few days later Taeb’s sister Fatima was married. The wedding was held in a large, fragrant Tunisian garden so filled with flowers it looked tropical. The men in their western suits were somber spots of darkness, but all the women, even Mina, were arrayed in long silk robes and colorful veils.

The men left before the bride was carried into the garden on a high palanquin, wrapped in silks and holding her henna-dyed palms before her face. All we could see were her eyes, heavily rimmed in kohl. As she was set on a dais, all the women in the garden began to ululate, the sound bursting from their vibrating throats as if their hearts were speaking. The primal sound, agony and approval, floated up into the air and over the garden wall.

The music began and the women started to dance with wild, sexy movements, swinging their hips and shaking their breasts with a freedom they never displayed in mixed company. It was lovely. Tiny cakes were served, punctuated by laughter, music, and songs. It went on for hours; toward the end I allowed myself to be pulled into the dance. It was an odd feeling, knowing that no men were watching. I was just relaxing into the rhythm when I noticed that Serafina had disappeared.

In a panic I went rushing from table to table, searching for her. She was not at any of them. She was not dancing. Finally I saw a knot of women in the farthest corner of the garden. There she was, very still, surrounded by a dozen women talking in high, animated voices. Mina was in the circle too, holding a garment over Serafina’s head as if she were a child about to dress a doll.

Mina pulled the long silk red robe over Serafina’s short western dress. She covered her hair with a silver-embroidered silk scarf, pulling the ends so that they fell across her shoulders. She looped
silver chains around her neck and began to outline her eyes in kohl. I watched as this new, softer woman emerged. Serafina looked as if she belonged in the garden. I was alone.

A few moments later the groom came to claim his bride, followed by the rest of the men. Taeb was taller than the others so I could see his eyes light up when they landed on Serafina. Serafina saw it too. Her mouth twisted and she began pulling off the costume. By the time Taeb had worked his way to her side she was herself again, but for her kohl-rimmed eyes.

The party was over. The bride was carried out and everybody made suggestive jokes about the wedding night. The honeymoon would start tomorrow. Serafina and I stood outside the garden with Taeb and Noureddine, wondering what to do with ourselves. It was too early for bed. “Let’s go to the movies,” Noureddine suggested, “there’s a new James Bond.”

We went down the hill to the huge new cinema on the Avenue Habib Bourguiba. We settled into plush seats in the balcony. The ads were already playing and on the screen some boys skateboarded dangerously along a California sidewalk holding up bottles of Coke. Taeb must have tried to take Serafina’s hand because I felt the jerk of her body as she pulled away. Then the camera tilted up to the San Francisco skyline and I suddenly wished I had a bucket of popcorn in my lap and that I could go outside and find that all the cars were Fords.

Two days later we took a plane to Algiers. It was clearly time to go. Taeb said nothing, but he was wearing his most intense look, as if he were a hungry man who had been shown a feast. He kissed Serafina gently, one cheek, then the other, then back to the first. Noureddine looked rumpled and miserable. “Why are you leaving?” he cried, as if his generosity had failed and it was somehow his fault.

I threw my arms around him, grateful and sorry. “You were right,” I whispered in his ear. “Once you get to know Tunis it is impossible to leave.” And then I boarded the plane.

Serafina immediately ordered a bottle of wine. “I feel as if I am waking up from some very strange dream,” she said. “In Algiers it’s just going to be us, okay? No more men.”

“Fine with me,” I replied.

But in less than an hour we got off the plane to find a tall dark Tunisian named Dris waiting on the runway. “I am a friend of Noureddine’s,” he said. “He asked me to take care of you while you are in Algiers. This is a dangerous city.”

LOVE STORY

North Africa fixed nothing. I came back as depressed as when I left, and more alone. I didn’t know where to go or what to do with myself.