That Other Me (9 page)

It happens so quickly. I'm hardly aware of the professor as he assures me that the danger is over. A girl flaps the air in front of my face to cool me, and another dabs her handkerchief, which smells like an old kitchen, to my forehead. “We are exposed to violence,” Ghada says, who, having decided it's safe, jumps out from her corner.

“But there is security—two guards at the door. Where were they?” someone says.

“Two is not enough. We must send a petition to the dean demanding that he increase the number of guards in the waiting room
to prevent something like this from happening again,” Ghada goes on. Encouraged by the wave of heated agreement around her, she continues, “We need more security in this place!”

The professor has had enough. He barks at the students to get back to their patients and finish. Gazing at their reluctant retreat, I look for Adel. But he's disappeared.

It happened again. A dream from which I awoke shivering. This time there were no women, only my brother, Hareb. His
ghitra
was folded in the old style, a messy heap on his head. He wasn't wearing his kandora, just an undershirt that was stained with mud, and a wizar, gathered between his legs and looped into a knot at the waist. He looked exactly as he had all those years back when he worked in the palm grove, using the farming tools of an ancient age: a knife with a blunted blade for trimming the palm tree's fibrous trunk and a
yirz
, an ax with a small, sharp head, for breaking rocky bits in the soil. He looked as though he were about to loop a jute rope around a palm-tree trunk and strap it around his torso so it would hold his weight while he climbed up to prune the tree's crown. I can't remember anything he said in the dream, only the expression of deep disappointment in his eyes.

Why did I dream of Hareb in those days before we had money, when the extended family lived together in my father's house in Ras Al-Khaimah? Stuck in traffic, this is the question that occupies me. I tap on the steering wheel and mutter a curse at the long row of cars in
front of me. I'm convinced that the traffic lights at the intersection have been programmed to stay red three times longer than green. There is roadwork on the two other routes from my house in Al-Wuheida to the office. So, 9:45 a.m. and here I am, stuck on a road jammed with cars heading to too many busy destinations: Deira's souk on the right, Sharjah on the left, and, straight ahead, the other side of the creek, Bur Dubai. Even though it's past the morning rush hour, this junction remains packed.

“Move slowly.” That's what Hareb used to say. “Weigh everything from every angle before jumping in.” I'd always nodded out of respect toward my older brother, even though I did not agree. His advice would have been solid if this were a sluggish city, but Dubai has proven to be anything but that. It's 1995, and I wonder what he would have made of the new hotels, shopping malls, public gardens, and water parks, the mushrooming office complexes and apartment blocks, the influx of expatriates in an anxious rush to find wealth or security or both. It seems that it all happened after his death seven years ago, the explosion of world-class sporting events—tennis, golf, snooker, motorboat racing—as well as the exhibitions and back-to-back trade fairs that bring a steady flow of people from all corners of the world. Hareb caught a whiff of it, but he did not live long enough to witness this new and sudden escalation.

There is an overpass at one end of Al-Maktoum Bridge, and plans for more at various points in the city. Sometimes I get lost on the sprouting new routes. Ahmad told me the other day that there was talk of an ambitious plan for six-lane highways to ease the flow of cars as the city expands. When he noticed my vexed expression, he added, “But it's good, Father. It means there will be more people coming here, bringing more opportunity.”

“What do you need opportunity for?” I said in a voice curt with annoyance. “I've done all the work; you're all set.” As I think about it now, it seems like something that an old man, reluctant to embrace
change, would say. I slide my sunglasses down to the tip of my nose and scrutinize my reflection in the rearview mirror. It's a hard face, one that looks much firmer than its sixty-three years. Three deep lines appear on my forehead when I lift my eyebrows, but otherwise the skin is thick and full-blooded, with none of the scratches of old age. My eyes are brooding, that darkest shade of brown rimmed with a couple of barely visible rings of blue, which I inspect to see if they have eaten up more of my irises. I can't remember them in Hareb's eyes. But then his were much lighter, the color of the thick mountain honey of the
sidr
tree. His daughter, Mariam, has those same eyes, clear and spirited. When she was a girl, they sparkled with a million expressions. Then she grew up, and whenever she sets them on me they are heavy with blame.

There's a photograph of my brother and me, taken at my father's farm. We stood posed the best way we knew how, stiff as the palm-tree trunks surrounding us, in front of the gushing water pump that was emptying groundwater into the cement reservoir. There's a date on the back, and as I try to remember it, my gaze drifts to the other drivers sealed behind their rolled-up windows, jaded and staring ahead with the air-conditioning blasting at high on their faces. If honking were not against the law, they would certainly make noise.

Why can't I remember the date? I was the one who jotted it down, after all, since Hareb learned to write much later. Was it 1959, or later, once Hareb had created his company in Dubai? The light turns green and a taxi driver tries to squeeze in front of me. I don't let him, and when he keeps trying to nose in I honk, keeping my palm pressed on the horn. The blare jolts the other drivers. They must suppose there's a medical emergency, because they steer their cars to the side to make way for me. The light switches to red. I pass through anyway.

I circle the Clocktower roundabout, still puzzling over the date. Was it just before the water pump broke? I know that was in 1963, because that's the year my father sent Hareb all the way to Dubai to fix it.

My brother had paid a fee of two rupees to join fifteen other passengers in the back of an outmoded Ford Model T truck, miraculously kept in service through the innovation of its owner. Hareb settled in between the passengers' goats and sacks of green limes. They had to wait until the tide was low before they set off along the shore for a journey that would take six hours. The sand was thick and slushy. Whenever the truck got stuck, Hareb and the other passengers would dismount to help free it. They shook the vehicle and wedged chinko, the indispensible perforated steel sheets, under the trapped tires before pushing with their full weight until the truck rumbled forth like a beast out of a swamp.

Hareb returned three weeks later. As soon as he arrived, he unloaded my father's repaired water pump, along with six brand-new pumps. An Indian businessman he had met had asked whether he would be interested in making a sale in Ras Al-Khaimah. A week later Hareb had sold all six water pumps and was planning his next trip to Dubai to bring back more.

I'm heading east on Airport Road, my head filled with Hareb's tales about Dubai and its enterprising creek back then, which brimmed with gliding dhows delivering goods and rowboats transporting people from one side to the other. Neighboring farmers and friends joined us to hear about the traders who arrived in Dubai with wares from India, Pakistan, Iran, and even distant Zanzibar. With the rat-a-tat noise of the newly fixed water pump in the background, they'd settle on palm-frond mats in a well-shaded part of the grove and snack on the dates piled in a bushel in the middle. I served them
gahwa
, Arabic coffee, in the usual custom—no more than three mouthfuls, poured into tiny bowl-shaped cups—as we listened to Hareb speak of the town's maze of sandy alleys, hardened through the constant shuffling of buyers and visitors, and of porters pulling heavy loads on wooden carts that rumbled ahead on two wheels. The shops were open-fronted and packed with merchandise ranging from canes, daggers, and brass coffeepots to
sacks of rice and fabric bolts. There were spices smoothed into pyramids and shimmering gold displayed in glass showcases, and rows and rows of food in tins.

Since I had never been to Dubai, I longed to join my brother on one of his trips. But I had a job: collecting customs duties from the few ships and small boats that docked at Ras Al-Khaimah's sleepy port. The English company in charge of the customhouse employed me. They paid me well and installed me in a small office at the back of the company's bungalow headquarters, which I shared with my boss, David Dudley from Sussex, a place of green hills and lots of rain in the south of England. Working under David, I learned to speak, read, and write in English. He taught me how to calculate gains and losses, and I kept them listed neatly in a ledger.

When I asked him if I could take a trip with my brother, he said, “Dubai? Do you know how unpredictable such a trip could be?” Under his feathery eyebrows, his eyes narrowed until they turned into sharp green dots. “If you went with the intention to stay a week, you might end up getting stuck for a month—the truck that travels there might simply break down completely. Happens all the time, you know.” He clicked his tongue and sucked in air through his teeth, as if in pain. “You do agree, I think, that it wouldn't be wise to undertake such a journey, in view of all your responsibilities here.” And I had nodded, eager to accommodate his common sense.

That's how it was with the English. Instead of refusing your request outright, they made you feel as though you were making the decision. Even with this realization I still felt privileged to be around them, so clever and educated they were, so unemotional and organized. David often invited me to join him at the small bar that was part of the compound where he and the other British expatriates lived. The bar smelled of dog because there was always a pair of salivating bitches sprawled beneath the wooden tables. Hareb once asked what I did with all those English people, and I explained the game of darts
to him. Naturally, I didn't mention the lager we drank that made the game all the more entertaining.

An airplane rumbles overhead and I realize I have missed my turn. I have passed the airport. The city is behind me and the desert stretches on either side of the two-lane road: clean humps of pale dunes. Another thirty minutes and I'd reach my farm in Al-Khawaneej, with its nine hundred palm trees that produce five of the finest varieties of dates: khenaizi, barhi, lulu, sukkari, and khalas.

I would have liked to continue, skip the office altogether. I could easily miss work for a day, but Saeed will be coming in later to tell me what he found out in his meeting with Diab Al-Mutawa, the man who rejected my son Khaled. Mustafa will have news from Cairo about Dalal and her mother. And I have to look for that photo. I know it's in the office, but I can't remember where I put it. I keep my eyes focused on the road, looking for the next U-turn. What year was it taken?

For more than a week I searched for Adel. I scanned the lecture halls and clinic, and trailed around the government-style buildings on the university grounds. I made sure to linger longer than I needed to in the library in case he was looking for me, too. Here I am again, poised behind a desk with open books and plenty of diagrams of all shapes of teeth spread in front of me. I sigh and pack up. The driver will be arriving soon to take me back to the sakan.

Outside, the sky is a cerulean expanse with the odd cotton ball of cloud. There is a grassy patch in front of the library, its edges fringed with stunted trees whose leaves are trimmed into neat squares. I cross it, keeping an eye out for Adel, and move onto the main path, which is broad, with crouching sphinxes on either side. In my mind I have played out various scenarios of how I'll approach him. I shall walk up to him and say hello. Then I will thank him for his heroic intervention and congratulate him for reacting so quickly. If I am able to keep my voice from shaking, I might even praise his sharp instinct in grabbing the source of the farmer's pain. And then we can be friends.

As always, there are groups of students socializing or going over their notes on the lawn, drawn together through nationality and shared interests. A cluster of Sudanese girls, their heads wrapped loosely in colorful hijabs, giggle together. Farther down, a group of rich Egyptians and the fashionable set from the Levant—girls and boys—slouch in a loose circle, projecting a world-weary demeanor. They set themselves apart by the conviction that they're a notch above the rest simply because they've embraced a Western style of living. In between their light flirtations, they look up with nonchalant glances. Their deadpan faces reflect boredom with a dollop of scorn. They smoke, too. And it's not just cigarettes. I catch a whiff of weed as I hurry past them.

Ahead sits a large group of boys from the Khaleej, mainly Saudis, Kuwaitis, and Qataris, with a sprinkling of Bahrainis and Emiratis. Then there's another mixed Khaleeji girl–boy group, bunched slightly to the side, where the conversation is carried out with alert formality and studied behavior. One too-familiar word or gesture could set tongues wagging so hard they'd whip the air into a mighty wind that would carry news of inappropriate behavior all the way back to the girl's home. So every act remains proper in this public place. The girls are huddled together, standing stiffly or sitting on benches; the boys try not to look too interested. There is a visible space between them that every now and then is filled by a courageous girl stepping into it to compare notes with a male student.

I join them briefly so that I'm not labeled a snob. Curiosity sits in their eyes. I can tell that they are waiting for the right moment to ask me about the attack at the dental clinic, but just in time I spot the driver pulling up to the university gate. Another girl from the sakan, whom he has picked up before me from a different university, is in the backseat. Just as I say my good-byes and turn, Adel pops up midway between the group and the car. My rehearsed lines abandon me and I let out a puzzled squeak. How could I have been looking so hard, only to miss him?

Come with me!
The message in his taut face is clear. Why does it have to be now, in front of this bunch, their eyes twitching to snatch a hint of improper behavior? I'd wanted to find him so desperately, and now I wish he would just vanish.
Poof!

I teeter from one foot to the other, trying to decide what to do. I finally decide to make a break for the car. If Adel gets in my way, I'll knock him down.

“Mariam, I need to see you.”

He says this just as I glide past him, quickly approaching the sakan car. The girl in the backseat is leaning forward, about to spot me, but suddenly I change direction, cutting across the lawn. Every step takes me farther away from the car. Adel follows me. I don't hear his footsteps, but I know he is behind me.

He takes me to one of the open-air cafés in Giza, along the banks of the Nile. Its splendid name, Casino La Brincessa, is on a faded board that hangs askew from a hedged trellis. A discreet entry down a narrow path carpeted with artificial green turf leads to the river.

Adel was quiet in the car, eyes fixed ahead as he maneuvered the vehicle through Cairo's traffic. I had stared out the window, stroking my bangs, dumbfounded by my offbeat behavior yet, strangely, wallowing in the thrill of it. What was it that made me change course so abruptly without weighing the consequences? I did not turn back when Adel overtook me, just followed him to his car. How long would the sakan driver wait for me before heading back and reporting that I was missing? Yes, missing!

I did not think twice. Spontaneity led me, just as it used to when I was a girl, confident in the knowledge that no matter what mischief I got up to, my father would be there for me, the iron spine that held me up. That was before his first stroke.

There's an atmosphere of neglect at Casino La Brincessa, in the chairs pale with age, the lusterless peach plastic table covers, the stubby lampposts riveted into the earth at a slant, the gaze of ownership that sits in the eyes of lazing cats. I don't mind, because what is important is that it is a well-chosen place: far from the tourist track and little frequented by Khaleejis. There are no persistent little girls selling necklaces made from ambrosial
full
flowers, young men armed with cassettes of romantic songs for sale, or photographers insisting on snapping eternal memories.

I'm not sure why this is called a casino, since there's no gambling at the riverside cafés. There is, however, the notion of romance; they're places where a lover can gaze at the Nile and compare his amorous sentiments to its vastness. They are respites from the congested city. The norm is to take your time and not rush things, although there's always a maître d' hovering around the tables, weighing conversations' progress and making sure to cut in with a question or comment at every crucial moment of tender articulation, tormented declaration, or intimate profession of love.

I guess that this one has been pestering the six couples already sitting at tables, because there is relief on their faces when the maître d' diverts his attention toward us. He leads us to a table by the river, and the couples focus on each other again. I can tell that they are all in the spring of romance by the way they lean their shoulders forward with heads tilted to the side, their ears perked to catch every whispered word and every rustle of a gesture, their eyes bright and wide, registering every mood and expression.

The maître d' delivers our order of black tea in tulip glasses, along with a large bottle of cold water. Settled by the riverbank beneath a tree with a plastic tube of light snaked around it, we blow at the steaming tea. The air feels cold and damp. I loosen my shayla and air my bangs. I don't know what to say to break up the curdled silence that has settled between us since we left campus.

I have so many questions to ask Adel. I want to know whether they interrogated him as they did me. First it was the professors, then university security—two men who took down notes—and finally the cultural attaché, who arrived from our embassy to hear my statement and then made a formal complaint, demanding more security at the university. So much to talk about, and then there's the matter of thanking him, too. I must not forget to thank him.

We're halfway through our tea when the maître d' returns and leans over the table, as if about to divulge a deep secret. “We have cold lemonade, soft drinks, and the best Turkish coffee. Or anything else you might desire. Can I get you anything, bey?”

Adel shakes his head, and when the maître d' retreats I say, “It seems many of the students have been complaining about the lack of security at the college. Have you heard anything?”

Adel shakes his head just as the maître d' butts in again: “And shisha, too. I forgot to mention the water pipe. There's honey or any other flavor: apple, mango, licorice.”

This time Adel gets up and rests a brotherly arm over the maître d's shoulders, leading him a few steps away. I can't hear what he says, but I do spot the
baksheesh
that Adel slips into a handshake. One of the couples sees it, too, and the girl frowns with disapproval. She hisses a comment to her partner—she's probably saying that Khaleejis think they can buy the world! But what else could Adel do when privacy has turned into a luxury that can only be bought?

“Apparently he was a madman,” I say once Adel is back.

“Who was?”

“The farmer. I heard he was charged and sent to jail. No one knows for how long. Did they call you to ask questions?”

“Why would they?” The expression on his face is serious. “Are you sure you saw what you think you saw?” There's the hint of a roguish smile, which he suppresses with a sniff. “I'm sure you were mistaken. That wasn't me in there.”

“Well, thank you for not being there,” I say with a nod. I intended it to be light and jovial, but it comes out thick, like the air around me, which has completely stopped moving. I turn to the river and gaze at the fading line of sunset. Even though I feel the awkwardness returning, I mutter, “You must have gotten lost in the chaos.”

Adel lets out a hearty laugh, and with it comes a sudden breeze. It's as if the weather was waiting for a signal from him. Undulating gusts spin around us, triggering the leaves to rustle and inspiring the cats to prowl all at once, intent on some cat-and-cat games. Adel calls the waiter over and orders a shisha. Then he grows chatty, which suits me fine.

He is from mountainous Fujairah, the only emirate of the UAE whose coastline is solely on the Gulf of Oman. He is from a middle-class family; his father is employed as a government accountant. Out of his six siblings, he is the second eldest and the only boy. He leans back in his chair and, between drags from his shisha, tells me that he is the first in his family to study abroad. He tells me they're proud of him, and I'm overwhelmed with tenderness toward him when he expresses his fear of letting them down. I insist we resume our lessons to make sure that doesn't happen. But Adel has already moved on, describing his apartment in Mohandessin, which he shares with two other students. “Sometimes we get up to no good,” he says with a wink, and takes a sharp inhale that makes the shisha gurgle furiously.

I'm not sure what he means, and I don't ask. Instead I grunt softly, and my mind drifts; I consider how simple and straightforward it really is to establish a comfortable rapport between a man and a woman when there are no expectations. This is the way it ought to be.

Dusk sets in and the river slaps and sloshes, as if readying for a night of rest. The sun idles low in the sky, ready to pull back its light. I watch as its last vivid ray, a ruby streak wobbling on the Nile, disappears before turning back to the café to see the maître d' hassling
another couple. He takes pleasure in being too available. He calls the waiter to empty the ashtray and wipe their tablecloth; when they don't pay him to go away, the maître d' decides he must adjust the table's wobble. “Right away!” he insists with a flourish, ripping paper out of his notebook and folding it into a thick wad to insert under the table's leg. When the woman considers out loud whether she wants another lemonade, the maître d' snaps his fingers to confirm the order before she has a chance to change her mind. Then he strides victoriously over to another table to bother them.

“It's your turn now,” says Adel, leaning forward. “Tell me about yourself.”

He catches me off guard. “Me? What is there to tell?”

Adel tilts his head back and blows a long breath of honeyed tobacco. My vision follows the smoke as it eddies to the side and over the low wall that separates us from the river. By the bank, it's the color of dirty dishwater. I spot twigs and grasses delivered by the current; collected in a recess in the wall, they form a nest on which bobs a gray rag, an empty bottle of soda, a sodden piece of cardboard, and a bright-yellow plastic bag.

“I mean, why did you choose such a difficult subject? Why didn't you choose something easier, like art or history? True, you can make a lot of money as a dentist, but it's not as if you need it. You're rich already. You don't need to work. You can just sit back and do nothing.” His tone is gentle. There is no jealousy in it, only curiosity.

He doesn't know that my personal wealth is not in the millions, just enough to get by. My father intended to put some properties and land in my name, to secure my future. But by the time he got around to it, it was too late.

Some strange emotion catches me by the throat. My chest tightens and I start fiddling with my chair, picking at the damaged zipper of the cushion under me, pulling it this way and that, trying to force it to close over the nibbled sponge filling. Adel is conscious of having struck
a sensitive chord. He puffs at the shisha and watches me intently. I am touched by his solicitude when he says nothing more.