That Other Me (21 page)

Sitting in the sakan's waiting room, I had tapped and hummed, restless as a bee trapped in a jar. I heard arguments in the foyer between the abla and the girls about who needed the car and driver most urgently. It sounded like the bickering would never end, and I lost patience and slipped away to wait for Mariam outside the building. But my nervous pacing had taken me to a kiosk; from there, I called him. And fifteen minutes later, he came. “Take me away. Take me out of the
city.” The words had dropped out of my mouth before I even got into the car.

Now the car stops. With a deep sigh, Adel eases back into his seat. “There, listen to that.”

“What?”

“Peace.”

He leans over and slowly cranks down my window. His elbow rubs my thigh. My eyelids slacken. “Yes, peace,” I murmur, wondering whether that might be just the medicine I need. Adel jerks back and grips the steering wheel. The moon peers from behind its veil. Under its cool alabaster glow, I sneak a look at his square-shaped hands, the way the wristbones stick too far out, the hardened hills of his knuckles. His chest heaves and ebbs. His breath, I notice, is heavier.

The air is still. It smells of burned hay and horse dung, drifted from the homes of the farmers living in Giza. It warms me that Adel made the effort to drive me all the way out here so that my mind could rest. What's this? A dot of perspiration trickles down my chest. I think I'm a little too warm. I blow out a breath, and the ruffles of my blouse quiver like a bed of butterflies.

“So, you see the pyramids over there?”

I allow a second's peep at them in the distance. Then my glance fixes back on him. How handsome he is. He stares ahead, lips parted and eyebrows puckered with some strong emotion. He looks as if he's ready to break out into a song of woe. He swivels to face me. This must be what they call a moment of magic: the way he looks at me, with those eyes filled with such brooding intensity . . . well, that prompts a rippling sensation in my belly, as if it were filled with a million little fish splashing about.

When he places his hand on my neck, my skin puckers. It's not a bad feeling, and I close my eyes. He kisses them, and my pulse quickens. “Habibti,” he whispers. I smile, even though I'm not really thinking about him. It's my mother's face that fills my mind: if only
she could see me, sitting in the middle of a vast and empty desert with a man who's absorbed with every part of me. Ah, Mama, I won't be waiting for you to make my decisions anymore. I shall do that on my own.

Adel is bent over, halfway out of his seat. The handbrake acts as a barrier, the hard metal poking him, preventing him from getting too comfortable. This suits me fine, because all I want is to feel desired, even a little precious: a short moment, nothing more.

I must call a halt to this soon, though. As every girl knows, such matters must never be permitted to go too far lest word got out and she be considered easy or end up with a soiled reputation. But Adel is discreet—I'm sure of it—and we are quite alone. A little longer, I think, relishing the way his fingers swim through my hair.

The moon shies away. It's dark once more. His hand follows a rhythm, sliding up and down my waist. When it slips lower, I decide it's time to ease out of his grip. Yes, Mama, from now on I take charge of my life.

I open my mouth but can only gasp, because suddenly my seat flops back. Adel ambushes me. How he managed to roll out of his tight space, I cannot tell. But now he's on top of me, heavy and grunting like a buffalo. He strokes and he gropes. And what's this? My ear is wet with his saliva.

I squirm. I tell him that's enough and order him to get off.

“Don't panic,” he murmurs. “Don't worry.”

I try to wriggle out from under him, but without success. “Get off, now!”

“I will, I will.” He doesn't.

My hands are pinned like fractured wings under my chin. With a mighty effort I loosen them enough to smack his face weakly. He chuckles. He probably thinks it's a game. He raises himself, and my hands are released long enough to plant a second slap. The force of it knocks him back.

It's too dark to see his face, but I can tell he's stunned because he freezes, then retreats back into his seat. He opens the door and tumbles out onto the gravel in a huff. “What's the matter with you?” he says, walking around to my side of the car.

“I told you to get off.” I straighten my seat. “I told you, but you wouldn't listen.”

“What can I say? I wanted you so badly I couldn't control myself.”

“Shame on you!”

“Shame on me?”

“Yes.”

I wait for his reply. His sneer brings back the shame of feeling small. He steps away. It's so dark I have to guess what he is doing. I hear him rubbing the sand off his clothes. There are a few long inhales, and I imagine him closing his eyes against the night air. Finally, I hear heavy footsteps that grow fainter.

He has left me in the middle of nowhere. I have the mad notion to drive away, even though I don't know how to drive. I check the ignition, but there are no keys. So I wait, agonizing over what he'll say or do when he comes back. A mosquito buzzes somewhere around my face and I slap at it as it follows an invisible halo around my head. I fidget, smoothing and flattening my shirt's ruffles between my fingers. He is away for so long that I wonder if he wandered off to take a piss. By the time he returns, I have decided it's only right that I apologize.

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because I upset you.”

He grunts.

“Look, things just went a bit too far. And I don't blame you for that. Let's just pretend none of this happened and then we can be friends again. Like before.”

“Like before? Dalal, you have been toying with me.”

“Huh?”

“All this time, you have been giving signals that you wanted me.”

Perhaps I did lead him on. “Don't speak such nonsense.”

“It's not nonsense. It's what women like you enjoy doing.”

I don't quite follow what he means.

“Come on, open your eyes! The day you decided to be a singer was the day you closed the door on modesty, on morals. Everyone knows that a girl who chooses such a career is open to affairs with all kinds of men.”

“You should know me better than that!”

“What do you think that that life is all about? No one respects a singer.”

“Listen, I'm not some poor homeless orphan you picked up off the street! I have a father. I have a mother.”

“Not from what you've been telling me. All that whining about how no one loves you: do you think anyone cares?”

The moon reappears. Adel smirks, his teeth glinting. He is ruthless. He is enjoying hurting me! For once, I am tongue-tied. In the silvery stretch of sand and sky, I suddenly notice that we are not alone. There are six or seven other cars, each parked a short distance from one another. I spot the glow of a cigarette in one; someone stretches in another. This is obviously a lovers' spot. He brought me here on purpose, for one thing only. It's not love he feels, only lust, and I am nothing more than an object to be conquered. The realization turns me cold with contempt. I look at him. I want to scratch the grin off his face. “Take me home!”

“Or what?”

“Or I'll scream—and I won't stop until the men and women in those cars grab you by the neck and bury your head in the sand.”

You'd think an elephant had grabbed her with its trunk and started shaking her about. That's how petrified Amal's baby looks as I bounce her on my knees. She twists and struggles, looking this way and that for a savior. She's nine months old, and already she knows where she doesn't want to be.

Aisha is at the edge of her seat, a hop's distance away, ready to spring to my aid. On the far side of the sitting room, my mother spews her thoughts on child care, repeating everything twice as if addressing an imbecile: “Don't shake her. Don't shake her. She'll vomit, vomit she will.” Her voice is as maddening as background static.

Worried I might be squeezing the baby, I loosen my hold. Aisha gulps, and Mama Al-Ouda warns me—twice—that babies can wriggle out of one's grip without warning and smash their heads on the floor.

I blow kisses at the baby. I am determined to extract a smile, perhaps even a drooling baby burble. I coo at her, but the little one writhes with all her strength, searching for her mother.

“Water. Water. A tiny spoonful of water is enough to cool her temper.”

“Mama!” The baby's round eyes water, and the kohl that rings them streaks down the sides of her nose. Her cheeks turn red; her wail is as shrill as a whistle, with a force that pierces the center of my head.

Amal rushes into the room and takes her from me. “I'm sorry, Baba. It's just that she isn't comfortable with strangers.”

I can't decide what makes my blood boil more: that I couldn't shake a smile out of the baby or that my daughter called me a stranger. It requires a colossal effort to hold back a stiff retort. But I've turned over a new leaf. I will give up alcohol and stay close to my family, and the strength of our bond will give me peace of mind. It's bound to be difficult at first, but with resolve and time I'm sure I can become a patient, tolerant, and supportive person, an ideal husband and father, a grandfather with a wealth of wisdom, a noble member of the community.

If there's a lesson to be learned from the incident with the Russian bitch, it's this: it's time to straighten a path gone crooked. She's left for good, boarded a plane headed north with her friend. All it took was the one phone call to Sergei. I nod in silent approval and think,
That's that
.

In Amal's arms, the baby collapses into a fit of giggles—all it took were a few tosses in the air (why didn't I think of that?). I ask Aisha, “When will the arrangements for Mariam be complete?”

“Well, you know I had to be very discreet. What would people say if they thought we're looking for a husband for our girl? Everyone knows it's the boy's family that must initiate things. How embarrassing. I mean, they'd think we're desperate!” She covers her mouth at the thought.

“Yes, yes.” I roll my hand to hurry her along. “I don't need a lesson in how things are done.”

“Ali Al-Mutawa and Atiq Al-Najar both have sons who would make a suitable match. So does the widow of Humaid Al-Rawi.”

“Salma Bint-Obaid? She has wealth of her own and only the one son, who's already a bit old—is that not so?” I consider the widow's money—which is just lying there, from what I've heard—and come up with no fewer than three ideas of how she could invest it. First I'd have to convince her, but once I did, I'd benefit from being her partner in a number of ventures.

Aisha nods. “And I'm sure she would love for him to marry Mariam. Her husband held your brother in high regard.”

“Good, good. Let it not be said that I ignored the future of my niece. There's nothing worse than depriving a girl of an excellent match.”

“There is a problem, though,” Aisha says, fiddling with her shayla. “None of them is willing to wait for the girl to finish her studies.”

“Who said anything about her finishing her studies?” The force of my voice frightens the baby into sniveling again. Amal quickly bundles her up, and, mercifully, the screech that follows explodes in the hallway.

“I thought . . .” Aisha's mouth quivers. She, too, looks set to start whimpering.

“I said nothing about a long wait, woman! Do you want my niece to end up like your sister—a dried-up old woman with nothing to do but willfully aggravate me?” I cross my arms and look away. Such carelessness! I can't help the sudden flare in my temper because I think of Dalal and her mother. I was convinced that they'd rush back to Dubai after that harsh telling-off. But now, a month later, and it's obvious that that will not happen. My mind is a blank as to what to do next.

“Yes, Aisha,” Mama Al-Ouda says, “people won't wait.”

Back to the subject of Mariam, and I say, “I want her married and out of this house by the end of the year!”

“Insha'Allah.”

“And where are all the children? Don't they know to come here so that we may all have lunch together? Why is lunch so late?”

“I'll go see.” Aisha stutters over the last word.

I stop her with a raised hand. “Sit.” I don't need to explain anything, but, remembering my resolution to be more patient and tolerant, I do. “You must understand that I don't like Mariam being exposed to so much out there in Cairo.”

“Always right,” Mama Al-Ouda says, “always right you are, my son.”

“We don't know what company she keeps, who she sees, what she does.” My voice turns soft—considerate, even. “Her place is with her own people, here, where we can keep an eye on her.”

“What use is so much education?” Mama Al-Ouda says, adjusting the tip of her burka.

“Let me finish, mother!”

Mama Al-Ouda doesn't bat an eye. “Too much education for a girl does nothing but make her feel important, so important that she antagonizes her husband.”

I call on my patience with a long, drawn-out breath and look deep into my wife's eyes. “All I'm saying, Aisha, is that there's no sense in her being so far from the family. Don't you agree?”

Aisha's mouth gapes with surprise: I don't normally ask for her opinion. She answers wisely, “Whatever you think best.”

Wafa nibbles her fingernails. Soraya can't stop sniffing. Ashraf is on the floor with his notes spread around him. Ghada mumbles a passionate prayer that she is granted a bighearted examiner who will ask only the easiest questions.

The air outside the examination room is stifling. Smoke mixes with the smell of nervous perspiration and the agitated breath of the twenty students who are waiting to be called in to the first day of oral exams. The session could take an easy five minutes or a grueling hour. Students' fingers tremble; their faces twitch into frowns and they tap their feet nervously.

Craving fresh air, I head toward a window at the end of the corridor, where I watch a gust of air rustle the orange blooms of a flame tree. There's a crack in the window and, in one corner, a large jagged hole where bits of glass have splintered off. I stoop and stick my face out, taking in a long, gritty breath that burns my nostrils. Hot and dry, this is the unmistakable start of a
khamsin
desert wind.

Pulling back, I return to pacing the corridor. I check my watch as I shuffle past the janitor who is guarding the door and watching us with vigilant eyes: it's half past nine. The professors sitting in that room should have started calling in students, in groups of two or three, an hour and a half ago.

“This is unbelievable!” Ashraf flings his copybook at the wall. “How much longer do we have to wait? My nerves are stretched to the limit.”

“They'll call you when they call you,” the janitor says. His voice has the coarse accent of a peasant. He holds his arms at his sides and glues them to the doorframe, as if Ashraf might jump up and force his way through.

“They'll call you when they call you,” Ghada mocks, gnawing her plait. Like the rest of us, she is impatient with the wait.

My notes are hugged to my chest, but the smooth roll of words—dental procedures, definitions, and terms—that filled my head from the minute I woke up flickers into thoughts of Adel. He hasn't come to the Students' Club these past couple of weeks for the intense review sessions I'd planned. This surprises me, since it was our last chance to sift through our textbooks before the orals.

All over the college the corridors are filled with groups like this, waiting to be called in. I wonder where Adel is right now, whether he is as nervous as I am or blessed with his usual nonchalance. How prepared is he for today's subject? Will he pass? My lips slip into a smile. He failed his first year—“Homesickness,” he said—and again in his third year—“All these words you have to memorize in English, each as long as my arm and sounding like the one before it!”

I'll be traveling back to Dubai immediately after my exams. I did not even consider asking my uncle if I could stay a few days longer, and I regret my lack of pluck, which means I'll be away from Adel that little bit longer. I'll spend the whole summer thinking about him, missing him, and counting the days until my return in September.

I'm at the far end of the corridor when the janitor calls my name and Ghada's. She pleads for a little more time for review. “Why must I be first?” She shifts from one foot to the other as if her bladder might explode. “Tell them to call me in later.”

The janitor bobs his head in sympathy. “I don't make these decisions, ya sitt. They give me the names; I call them out.”

I hurry to her side and try to calm her down. “I don't want to be the first to go in,” she whispers to me. “I want to go later, when they get bored, when they get hungry and want to go home and have their lunch.”

The janitor assumes the stance of a soldier—head erect, chest out—and calls again, “Mariam Hareb Al-Naseemy! Ghada Abdel Azeem Ragab!”

“You don't have to shout, you know. We're right in front of you,” Ghada snaps at him. Fearing that an argument might cost us our slot in the examination room, I squeeze her shoulders and herd her in before she has a chance to make a bigger fuss.

The room is bare. I don't know either of the professors sitting behind the broad table in the center. The older man looks to be around sixty; he introduces himself as Dr. Wahid Al-Gamzawi. He has a compassionate face speckled with age spots. He indicates the two empty chairs on the other side of the table, and we take our seats. The other examiner, Dr. Sameh Wahab, must be thirty years younger, with a pointy chin and sharp features that give him the shifty air of a weasel. He wastes no time in starting the examination. “The subject today is Operative,” he says in English. There's a hard edge to his accent. “I hope you are prepared.” His tone is brittle, and when he points at me I straighten up. “How many types of fillings do we use generally?”

For a moment my mind is a muddle. I look at Ghada, whose finger flickers and pokes the air, a silent announcement that should I fail, she would like this particularly easy question to be passed on to her. “Three types,” I say. “Amalgam, composite, and gold foil.”

“And what would you say is the main disadvantage of a composite filling?”

“Polymerization shrinkage.”

“Meaning?”

“The material becomes smaller inside.”

“And how do we overcome this?”

“We use a hybrid type of composite, which is part of the new generation of composites. Also, we can fill it in layer by layer.”

The answers stream through my mind, as clear as running water. I don't hesitate, and when Dr. Al-Gamzawi taps his fingers together in approval I can't resist smiling. “Yes,” he says, with a fleeting glance at his notes. “You are Mariam Al-Naseemy, correct?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“From the Khaleej?”

I nod.

“Where?”

“The United Arab Emirates.”

“Yes, wonderful country. And Mariam, I want to know: what is the composition of mercury after amalgam trituration?”

I open my mouth to answer and manage, “It is . . .” Frowning, I search for this much harder, less obvious answer. Dr. Al-Gamzawi's kindly eyes glow with some kind of bizarre satisfaction. It makes me wonder whether he's gloating over having successfully fooled me with a sympathetic facade. I exhale sharply. It's the only sound in the room.

“After the amalgam has set, what's the amount of mercury left in the amalgam?” He taps the desk with every utterance.

“It's . . .” I turn to Ghada. She looks back at me with a blank expression.

“Well?”

“I think, perhaps, maybe.” I pause. “Fifty percent.”

No expression.

“Forty-five percent?”

“This is not some bargaining shop in Khan El-Khalili!”

“Forty percent!”

He shakes his head and marks the paper in front of him with a big red
X
. After that the questions get progressively more difficult, and even though I had thought I was prepared, I fumble through the next twenty minutes or so before being released. Ghada does no better.

Outside, the next pair of students is called in. The rest crowd around us for some insight: how severe were the examiners? Can they be charmed? What did they ask? Ghada's frustration explodes into a hysterical description of what she says is the absolute worst day of her life. I deal with the disappointment more quietly. No one notices me as I drift back toward the cracked window.

The storm has picked up. Swirls of dust spray the flame tree. Its branches tap the glass, as if protesting the concealment of its flamboyant flowers.

There's a doum palm in the distance (the only palm that branches), swaying like a drunk, and a mimosa tree to its right (acacia family, does not bear spines), its yellow flowers shivering and flailing like a horde of hysterical tykes. Why did I not study botany? What made me choose dentistry, a field I am indifferent to? I suppose I saw it as a respectable occupation, one that would allow me to gain independence, to pull away from the family and sever the corroded cord that holds us together.

I'm squinting at the piercing glare of June's mustard sky when I hear someone call out my name. I turn around, and by the time my eyes have adjusted to the dim corridor, Adel is by my side and edging me toward the corner. “What is it?”

“All night I couldn't sleep. All night I thought about things, and I have come to a decision. I must tell you . . .”

“Did you finish your exams?”

“No.”

“Then . . .” I want to know why he couldn't sleep. What is it that agitates him so? I want to ask him why he is here when he should be
elsewhere, waiting for his exam. But I hold back when I notice that the corridor has abruptly gone silent.

The way Adel looks at me—with the intensity of a heartbroken lover—is enough to wake the imagination of even the dullest of minds. Wafa holds her hand to her mouth, and Soraya freezes. Ashraf's eyes glisten and Ghada stops her hysterics. They all stare at me.

Here is something with a whiff of the hush-hush in it: a possible boyfriend–girlfriend situation that could bounce from one tongue to the next until it bloats and explodes into scandal. Why does he have to act this way in front of all these people?

They wait. I laugh. It's the only way to shrug the nervousness away, to keep all that is tucked in my heart secure. “You are so funny.” Without further thought, I grab his wrist and march him down the corridor, improvising a tale to convince the others that he has a habit of misplacing his notes. “Perhaps you left them in the cafeteria. Why don't we check?” I lead him through the door of the stairway, which is out of view and thankfully empty of students. “What on earth are you trying to do, making a spectacle like that?”

“It's just that I know you'll be traveling soon.”

“Then why haven't you been coming to the club to study with me? I waited for you every single day.”

“I can't face the thought of not seeing you all summer. We must find a way to meet once we're back home.”

This is something I haven't even considered. In Dubai's tightly knit society—and living under Ammi Majed's roof—how would I manage it? “Impossible.”

“There is a way. There must be a way.” He grabs my hands, and my pulse quickens. Before I realize it, I find myself agreeing.