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She scowled and leaned forward, elbow to table, rounded chin in palm – the picture of attentiveness. ‘Well, what happened?’
I was too tired to rehash it all, but I knew she wouldn’t let up, and it was better to get it out before Mona joined us and spun it into a whole thing. I never knew where to start with such stories, so I just said the first thing that came to mind. ‘We talked about … scuba diving.’
Her brows rose against her pale forehead. ‘Why?’
I shrugged helplessly.
‘I mean, what got you there?’
I shrugged again. ‘We were talking about that Gutentag Red Bull thing—’
‘Flugtag,’ she corrected with a laugh.
‘Whatever, and that led us to talking about extreme sports in general, and that took us to scuba diving.’
She frowned thoughtfully, her fingers playing with the gold hoops in her ears. ‘Is scuba diving an extreme sport?’
‘In my book, it is.’
‘And did you tell him you’re scared of open water?’
I shook my head. ‘Mama was giving me her agree-with-everything-he-says-or-I’ll-kill-you look.’
‘Ah,’ she said, nodding along with the sympathy of someone who’d been on the receiving end of such a look. ‘So, not a love match, then?’
I let out a mirthless laugh, my eyes straying over the water. ‘That’s not really the point, is it?’
She leaned back in her seat, pulling her olive-green scarf tighter around her. ‘I guess not.’
The water rolled in and out. Our eyes met, and I could tell she was about to force this cloud away. It was a familiar routine. ‘Well,’ she finally said, ‘maybe he’ll want to see you again, and it’ll go better.’
I pulled a slice of bread from the basket and started tearing it into small squares I had no intention of eating. ‘You do realize we were talking about this same shit when we were in college? Ten years, Zaina.’ She nodded along, eyes glazing over, and I knew she was thinking back to those hours in the cafeteria where all we could talk about was which of our classmates we’d consider marrying. ‘I was so naive. I just assumed that by the time I was thirty I’d have those things we went on and on about, like it was a given. But look … it’s a decade later and nothing is different.’
‘I know.’
But she didn’t know. Her gold wedding band, tucked under the five-year-old engagement ring, bore silent witness to the fact that she might have understood what I was talking about intellectually, but she didn’t really know. How could she? I shook my head again and turned back to the water. She was preparing a more elaborate reassurance, I could tell, but Mona showed up before I had to hear it.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Traffic was a nightmare,’ she said, bustling around the table to drop kisses on our cheeks before taking a seat.
Mona was all flashing lights. If I found solace in blending in, Mona was my opposite. She lived for the flash, loved the spotlight, craved all those appraising eyes, confident they always found her worthy. Everything about her was designed to attract attention, from her Mia Farrow circa Rosemary’s Baby hair to the outfits and the statement jewels. I often wondered if we’d have been friends had we met later in life, or if she’d known at six how little I’d end up caring about fashion, how utterly drab I’d be capable of looking. Though perhaps that was a positive in her eyes, a contrast designed to highlight her fabulousness, like a matte frame on a glossy photo.
The waiter bustled over as soon as she was settled. Luckily Mona was never one to ponder menus and asked for her standard chicken salad. Zaina opted for a salad as well. I’d planned to console myself with a plate of pasta, but I crumbled under pressure and seconded Mona’s order.
‘How are the plans coming along?’ Zaina asked when he’d noted everything down and left.
‘Not bad,’ Mona said, running a hand heavy with cocktail and knuckle rings over her smooth, brown hair, and I thought, if I were as small as her I’d cut off all my hair as well.
‘Rulla’s gone a bit crazy on us,’ she continued, ‘which is weird timing since all the plans have been finalized.’
Zaina gave her a sympathetic look. ‘It’s probably just because it’s getting so close.’
‘Yeah, but she needs to calm down. I was never like that for my wedding. She completely lost it at Mom when we were at the tailor the other day. The florist called to say her bouquet would have ten white roses instead of fifteen, and she lost her mind.’
‘Why can’t she have fifteen?’ I asked.
‘The bouquet would be way too big, proportion-wise,’ she replied, looking at me like it was obvious. ‘Rulla thinks bigger is better, but she doesn’t need that many.’
Zaina nodded in agreement. ‘So what happened?’
‘Nothing,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Rulla and Mom started yelling at each other, Mom stormed off, and I gave Rulla a lecture on proportions all the way home,’ she finished with a chuckle. ‘Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.’ She put a hand on my arm to get my attention. ‘You’re going to be in the Yelwa, right?’
I was saved from an immediate answer by the arrival of our food and the resultant shuffling of things on the table to make space, the offers of extra cheese, more bread, fresh pepper and the like.
The last time I participated in a Yelwa must have been at Zaina’s wedding. That particular tradition is the only one where the bride doesn’t really take center stage, despite being perched on her own little makeshift throne. No, the focus isn’t on her, but on the ones surrounding her – the unwed girls, family and close friends circled around her chair, holding a large, green and gold embroidered blanket over her head. I remember the feeling, standing there clutching my bit of fabric while all the women watched us flutter and flap the thing over the bride’s head. They ought to have been directing good wishes to the bride, and perhaps they were, but everyone knew the women took it as an opportunity to get a good look at the unmarried girls. ‘That one in pink might appeal to my son.’ ‘The one in yellow is too tall.’ ‘Yes, but prettier than the one in ruffles, don’t you think?’ We were presented for quite a long time: at least fifteen minutes, or three songs, whichever finished first. Standing there, flapping and fluttering the fabric, trying to keep in time with the music and the chants of blessing. Flapping and fluttering, until our elbows locked and our arms threatened to fall off.
‘Hey,’ Mona said, drawing my attention back to her. ‘You’ll do it, right?’
I puffed out a breath, pushing my fork through the salad. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ she said, frowning. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘I’ll be the oldest one doing it.’
She smiled, and though it was full of sympathy, it wasn’t lacking in resolve. ‘All the more reason not to say no.’
I looked from her to Zaina. She was holding her breath, forever fearful of confrontation. But it was such a little thing, and Mona and I had been friends for a long time. I nodded my assent.
‘Excellent,’ Mona said, attacking her salad with relish now that things had been sorted. ‘It’ll be fun.’ I scoffed at her attempt to console me. We’d been to a lot of weddings; she wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘Okay,’ she continued, black eyes drifting up to the sky in thought for a moment. ‘You, Heba, Eman, and Fatima makes four from our side. The groom’s family can get the rest from their end. Did I tell you how my aunt called to remind me about it?’ Zaina and I shook our heads. ‘She calls and goes, “Mona, how many virgins have you found for the Yelwa?”’
Zaina nearly choked on her chicken, and my laugh caught the attention of the guys at the neighboring table. Mona leaned forward, and we followed suit. ‘I said to her, “I can find unmarried girls, but beyond that I make no promises.”’
The boys shifted their torsos towards us, leaning forward and back around each other for a better view at what had us laughing so hard. We pulled in even closer to one another, Zaina’s hand covering her mouth as she giggled uncontrollably. I shook my head at the nonsense our aunties were capable of speaking. Finally, we composed ourselves, calm and quiet in a moment, reduced to a dome of decorum, and Zaina asked Mona about her job. I wasn’t listening though; I kept thinking about what Mona’s aunt had said. I wondered what it would be like if the Yelwa cloth could somehow detect non-virgins, like if the fabric started to smoke when I held it. I imagined the pointing, the gasping, the shaking of heads as the fabric burned my fingers. I wondered how many girls it would smoke for; would I really be the only one?
Later that night I lay panting in my bed. There was a vise around my lungs, squeezing tight. It burned. I sucked in air through my nose and mouth, great big gulps, but it didn’t help. My lungs continued to sting like acid. I flicked on the lights, turned on some music, needing as much stimulation as possible. Maybe it would distract me from the sensations, from the certainty that I was, at that moment, dying.
There’s this lore, or perhaps it’s superstition. It’s about a demon called a yathoom who comes to you in the night. He sits on your chest, feet splayed in a squat, growing heavier and heavier until you wake because you can no longer breathe. Even waking will not save you; he’ll cling while you gasp and scratch at your breasts. When you feel on the brink, like you can’t take it anymore, the yathoom rolls off and back down to hell. He’s only supposed to visit on Thursdays, which is both arbitrary and unexplained.
I’ve had one for years. He adheres to no schedule and cannot distinguish day from night. His splayed feet bear claws, sunk into my chest beneath my armpits. He is a compression on my lungs that I can’t shake. Some days he gives me respite, curling on my diaphragm so I’m hardly aware of his presence, but it’s never long before he’s back, slathering my lungs with his black cement tongue. I tip my head back every so often, mouth open in a silent scream, but nothing startles him. He just hugs me tighter.
Sometimes I think my yathoom is my loneliness in form and function. Something my subconscious has obsessed over so much, it’s been made real, like that mythological monster who only exists because you believe in him. Maybe that’s true of all monsters, I’m not sure.
2 (#ue98f83d2-4d2f-5b8d-a9f1-bfc4a78d2c4b)
Hush (#ue98f83d2-4d2f-5b8d-a9f1-bfc4a78d2c4b)
‘So I’m going to start a film club,’ Yousef said, plopping himself down on the corner of my desk and sending documents drifting to the floor.
I scowled and bent to retrieve them. ‘Like a movie club but pretentious?’
‘Ha ha,’ he replied. ‘No, seriously. I want to start a club and every month we’ll screen a film and discuss it. And it won’t be blockbusters or even festival darlings, it’ll be little-known movies and adaptations … like that Tempest film we watched. That was fun, right?’
I nodded. ‘Sure.’
It had been fun. He’d set up a projector in the apartment he had created for himself by converting the basement of his parents’ house. He had low, squishy sofas that swallowed you when you sat in them and a large blank wall onto which he projected movies. The copy had been of poor quality; he’d said it was from the 60s and had been meant for television.
Less fun had been the discussion, though it was more of a lecture, that had followed the film. We’d both read the play in our respective schools, but he maintained that sixteen-year-old me couldn’t have hoped to contemplate something so complex. I couldn’t say twenty-nine-year-old me fared any better, but I could see how into it he was. He spoke of how the sprite Ariel and the monster Caliban were facets of Prospero’s identity – how Prospero wanted to protect his daughter, Miranda, while also lusting after her in some subconscious beastly manner. Putting his psychology degree to some use, Yousef went on about ids and super-egos and the renunciation of power and dominance.
It was all well and good, but such concepts flew right over my head. All I’d gotten from the film was a strange crush on the actor playing Ariel, captivated by the shapes his body made as he flung himself around the rudimentary set. I was left with a desire to sketch him – the pointy ears and sharp features and wiry hairs sprouting from his blue-silver head.
‘So, yeah, I’m going to start one out of my house. Spread the word,’ Yousef said, twisting his torso so he could see his reflection in the window of my cubicle. He wore fancy shirts to work, with slim-fitted jackets and pocket squares and tapered pants, instead of the standard dishdasha. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen him in one, and I always suspected it was more to do with not wanting to wear the ghutra, which was notorious for causing premature baldness, in order to preserve the thick, black hair he kept gelled in a perfect wave rising up and away from his forehead.
We left my cubicle and headed for the staff room. Yousef busied himself making a pot of coffee while I dug around in the cabinets. As the coffee started brewing, Yousef lit a cigarette and started smoking out the open window, trying not to set off the smoke alarms.
‘You’re going to get in so much trouble one day,’ I said, shaking my head.
He shrugged like trouble was inevitable. ‘I forgot to ask,’ he said, tapping the cigarette against the window sill, ‘did your mom bring that guy over to see you?’
‘Yeah,’ I replied with a grimace.
‘And?’
‘Disaster.’
He chuckled. ‘As expected then?’
‘Yeah,’ I said with a little laugh.
He nodded and poured out half a cup of coffee. Taking several puffs from the cigarette, he put it out on the sill and tossed it in the trash. He held out the pot of coffee, but I shook my head. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it.’
‘Why would I worry?’ I asked with a frown.
‘Just because …’ We made our way back towards the office, and he paused at the elevator. I was going up two floors to a meeting. ‘You know …’ I did know. I adored Yousef, but I felt like stabbing him with a pen. Forcing a smile and a nod, I waved him away.
Yousef, like everyone else, it seemed, was tremendously worried about my next birthday. Still months away, and its significance had already grown to mythic proportions. If I remained prospectless at thirty, I may as well give up on life entirely; the pool of acceptable men, already quite small, would shrink further as they set their sights on younger and younger girls. My aunts would start calling with questions like, ‘Is it okay if he’s a divorcé?’ and ‘How do you feel about raising another woman’s children?’ As though these were questions with clear-cut answers.
With arranged marriages you’re asked to pass judgment on people you don’t know and on situations you don’t fully understand. Those initial queries of interest have nothing to do with personal compatibility. They’re as impersonal as questionnaires. I wondered what potential men were told about me … ‘Well, she doesn’t wear the hijab – is that okay?’ ‘She’s a bit tall for a Kuwaiti girl.’ ‘No, I don’t know how much she weighs, but I’ll ask.’
Bu Faisal was there when I arrived, sipping at a Turkish coffee and reading the front page of the paper. He rose to greet me with a smile and firm handshake, purple prose spilling from his lips like it always did. There were at least fifteen minutes of embarrassed laughter as he ran through his ‘There’s my favorite account manager’ and ‘They should put your picture up in reception: boost business!’ routine. He was of my father’s generation; they’d gone through the same bureaucratic training ground before heading off to their careers. Our families had been quite close once upon a time, spending weekends at each other’s beach houses and meeting up on summer trips to London or Paris. His dark eyes were kind, but practically disappeared beneath low lids when he smiled, the crow’s feet extending far and deep. He had a generous mouth and thin black hair that was salted at the temples.
Our ceremony done, he tugged at his pants’ legs and took a seat. Bu Faisal with his three-piece suits, always the same design, whether it was blue or black or gray or brown. He must have had a dozen of them made – all of them expertly stitched in heavy fabrics, twills and sharkskin wools, with Thomas Pink shirts peeking out at the collar and sleeves, and color-coordinated silk pocket squares. Like Yousef, I’d never seen him in a dishdasha.
‘How are you, my dear?’
‘I’m good,’ I replied, settling into my seat across from his at the small meeting table. ‘How was Tokyo?’
‘Oh, you know the Japanese,’ he said with a wave of his hand.
I shrugged and chuckled. ‘I don’t actually.’
‘Everything’s so small there. Makes me feel like a bear blundering through a museum gift shop. I did find this for you though.’ He reached under the table for a black gift bag.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ I said with a small frown. Bu Faisal had a habit, which I could not break, of bringing me little things from his business trips. Chocolates, perfume, scarves and trinkets. I tried to hint that it was inappropriate to accept gifts from clients, but he never got it, or more likely chose to ignore it.
‘It’s nothing at all,’ he said, waving his hands as I peered into the bag. ‘Just a little thing I saw that made me think of the flowers you draw everywhere.’
I pulled out the item nestled among the white and pale pink gift paper. A Japanese folding fan. It was made of light-colored bamboo, overlaid with scallop-edged ivory silk. The design on it looked hand-painted and very old: a winter landscape, all white fields, black trees, gray skies and crystal blue ice. Snowflakes fell from the sky, looking like cherry blossoms coming to earth. There were ladies walking through the scene, ducking beneath parasols, the reds and oranges of their kimonos like red-breasted robins streaking across the snow. The trees were black and bare and laden with powdery white; bent with hunchbacked heights, they made me think of this ukiyo-eart I saw in a book, floating worlds, like Hokusai’s The Great Wave off Kanagawa.
I turned it over, gently running my hand over the delicate silk. ‘Is this an antique?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I found it in a shop and thought you’d like it.’
I shook my head, trying to think how much it might have cost him. ‘I can’t accept this.’
He pulled back with a look of mock horror. ‘Don’t be silly! What will I do with it if you don’t take it? Keep it. It’s nothing, I promise you.’ I was of a mind to protest further, but he changed the subject. ‘My accountant still needs to send you some documents, but you should have them within the week. How’s work anyway?’
I shrugged, returning the gift to the bag and laying it on the table. ‘Hamdilla. Work is good.’
‘And our boy, Yousef?’
‘Really good. We can stop by and see him after the meeting if you like.’
‘Yes, yes, after the meeting,’ he repeated with an officious nod and a grin. ‘Let’s talk risk, shall we?’
And we did. We talked risk and premiums and protections. We went through all the accounts, for all the many holdings across all his many businesses, all of them insured by our little firm because our chairman was an old squash buddy of his. I didn’t know exactly how insurance schemes worked, and he had so much money that at times I felt like he must have been insuring himself as well as all our other clients in some roundabout manner. I was not qualified when I took over his accounts a couple of years ago. Bu Faisal and I had run into each other by chance when he came by to say hello to the chairman. After asking how the family was getting on, he’d asked Bu Mohammad if I could handle his accounts. I was given some of his smaller holdings to start with, but he preferred dealing with me rather than Old Haithum, who’d been with the company thirty years and always smelled like cardamom and paprika, so after a while I was given all of his accounts to manage. For the most part, the work took care of itself, and when it didn’t, he usually knew what I needed to do to fix it.
Bu Faisal was married to an old friend of my mother. Despite how close they used to be, I only saw his wife every once in a while, at a wedding or reception of some sort. She looked how most Kuwaiti women of her generation would like to look: hair long and thick, with highlights that looked natural; a face kept young with regular injections of Botox and collagen; a body that didn’t bear witness to the four children she’d had. She would get up and dance with the younger girls at weddings, tying a scarf around her hips when the belly-dancing numbers came on. She wore the outrageous jewels and big-name brands that she told you were from Paris or Milan, even though they all had branches at the local mall.
When I was younger, when our families used to spend time together, Mama would bring up their marriage a lot. ‘Look at how Bu Faisal treats her,’ she would say, pointing at him serving his wife tea, so unlike my father and uncles, who expected their wives to do that sort of thing. Or when his wife would show off a ring or necklace he’d bought her, and Mama would turn to me and my sister and say, ‘That’s the sort of man we want for you,’ as though lavishing someone with gifts made for a perfect marriage. She painted him as the ideal man, and my sister gobbled it up, but I wasn’t so easily convinced. At an early age I’d learned about men and the masks they wore.
Evening fell and with it the temperature. There was a definite chill in the air: on the tip of your nose; in the soles of your feet; across your shoulders. I sat in the garden, giving in to my desire to sketch Ariel from the film I’d seen with Yousef. I was attempting to duplicate those delicate features and lithe form, but my sprite was looking nothing like the actor.
It was something I often did, try and replicate things I’d seen in films or famous paintings in galleries I visited on vacation. Usually I would alter the paintings in some way, twist them into something relevant to my own time and place; I’d add Bedouin tents to a background or turn an English nose into one more reminiscent of a Saluki. Less often an image would come to me, fresh and original, and I would rush to transfer it to a sketchbook, but I was, for the most part, powerless to execute these things my mind conjured. I found more success with paintings and illustrations that were already created. When I was younger, I’d dreamed of going to art school, of becoming an artist, but Baba maintained that art was a hobby and not a career and besides, copying work rather than creating it probably wasn’t what art schools looked for. I’d done business at university because I was ‘meant to’, and I subsequently took a job in the finance industry because I was ‘meant to’. It was expected of me, like it’s expected of most of us.
I abandoned Ariel and started doodling my namesake in a halo around his head, petals curling around his pointy ears. I’d been drawing dahlias since I found out my name was a flower. My father had come back from a business trip once and brought me a coloring book of different flowers. When I’d colored them all, I tried drawing them from scratch. He bought tracing paper and taught me how to secure it with paper clips, then, his hand over mine, he showed me how much pressure to put on the pencil as I followed the lines and curves. Over and over, until I could do it with my eyes closed.
My dahlias were everywhere: on old schoolbooks; on the knees of the faded jeans I ran around in; along the borders of other illustrations I attempted; on steamed-up car windows, notepads at work and paper place mats at restaurants.
Raju, the houseboy, startled me, wheeling out the duwa – the tea trolley with built-in charcoal pit. It was brass and silver with shiny black wheels. A tea set was loaded on the bottom shelf: little glass cups; sturdy metal teapot from the old souq; mini-cans of condensed, tooth-rotting milk. He set it before me like I’d asked for it and went about lighting the charcoal cubes. Baba stepped out the front door with a ‘Ha!’ when he saw me curled up in the wicker chair. He swung his arms to the front and side, an akimbo Macarena, a bastardized version of the routine we’d all done during morning assemblies at school.
He stepped off the porch and into the yard, surveying the grass for bald spots and inspecting the date trees. It’s a barren land, but you wouldn’t know it looking at our garden. The proper names of trees and vegetation aren’t common knowledge in Kuwait, at least not among the younger generations. If pressed I could possibly have identified an orange tree, but only if it were blossoming. Baba wandered over to his herb corner as Raju finally got a proper fire going and left the duwa in my care. My father squatted down on his chicken legs to check the nets protecting his rosemary and mint. He was happy, enormously happy, his only concern whether the street cats were messing with the herbs again. There was a particularly fierce tom, a wall-prowling howler with a personal vendetta against mint, who tore through the nets Baba set up and gnawed at the baby stems and leaflings. This infuriated him. I’d suggested, more than once, that he move his herbs inside, but he said they would taste different if they were grown through glass.
The front gate opened, and Nadia and her brood spilled into the yard. First came the twin boys, tearing across the grass to the trampoline Baba had set up for them in the corner. ‘Shoes off!’ I called as they hoisted themselves over the bar, a directive that was ignored until their grandfather sent over a quelling look.
Then came the little one, Sarah, tiny hand clutched by Nadia as she had a distressing tendency to sprint towards the street. She tugged and tugged, but only when the gate was firmly shut behind them was she released and allowed to fly through the yard and jump in my lap. Nadia couldn’t get so much as a greeting in until Sarah was done telling me about her day: there was the spring show rehearsal and the girl next to her who didn’t know any of the words; there was the PE class where she wasn’t chosen in Duck, Duck, Goose; there was the teacher who was having a baby, and why couldn’t Mommy have one too?
I laughed over at Nadia, who had a horrified expression on her face. ‘Maybe in a few years, baby,’ I consoled Sarah, running my hand over her curly hair, so much like mine when I was her age.
‘But I want one now,’ she whined into my neck.
