Cairo in White, page 6
Sometimes Zahra fantasized about those women who smelled of vanilla or lilac—American woman with long blonde hair who sprayed their pale wrists with body mist and wore lace underwear, or perhaps other Arabs with scented oils and thick black hair covered in daylight by their hijabs. Did they consummate their relationships in the back of the restaurant in the off-hours when just a cook and waitress were enough to handle the small crowds or in his car in the back seat where one day Zahra’s child might sit? Or did these young women take him to their homes, sneak him in back doors and up to their bedrooms where their younger selves watched them kiss a married man from behind a photograph’s glossy surface? Did they ask about his wife, or whether he had children, or whether he loved them? Zahra thanked God for these women. Better them than her.
Ali ate his meal in silence, but his gaze wandered up and down Zahra’s body as she picked at every grain of rice. His gaze felt like a slow burn, like dozing by a pool as the sun rose. Her neck and chest grew warm at his stare. Her shirt did not have a top button, but she held the two sides closed at the neck with her left hand while she ate with her right. Ali finally looked away.
“Why don’t you wear the nice clothes I bought you?” he asked her, returning to his chicken.
“The dresses? Where would I wear them? You don’t let me leave the house.” She usually held back the insolence in her voice, but something had changed.
As though he could read her mind, he said without looking up, “Mrs. Mubarak told me you were outside talking to our new neighbor. What did I tell you about getting friendly with Americans?”
“You seem to be pretty friendly with a few.”
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Ali slowly pulled his gaze up to meet hers. Excitement and anger dueled over his face. No matter how many women he had, he would always come home to conquer her.
She pushed her chair back and took her plate to the kitchen, dumped the leftovers in a plastic container, and began to hand wash the pans and serving dishes in the cramped basement sink. The warm, soapy water comforted her in a way it never had in Cairo, where Miriam would discuss Zahra’s future wedding as she inspected every dish for spots. Zahra washed the glossy plates as she wanted to wash the last three months from her memory. As she began to relax, five fingers dug into her shoulder. She dropped the sponge and plate and spun like a dervish to face Ali’s raised hand.
“What did I tell you about leaving the table while I’m speaking?” His jaw clenched in anger and his hand gripped tightly above her clavicle.
Normally she would have apologized, muttering an excuse about the basement heat, but something stayed her tongue. Instead, she raised her chin and arched her shoulders like a warrior about to nock a bow. She drew strength from the memory of Jamila’s fingers on her upturned face, and then in an instant saw his hand rise off her shoulder and draw up like a cobra. There was no time to duck or even react. The back of his hand came towards her quickly and connected with her cheek, bat to ball, and the crack of flesh on flesh was a sound she would never forget. Her head swung backwards from impact. As white spots flashed, she reached again for her lover’s caress, pulled Jamila’s hands to her cheek, let their coolness ease the sting of her jaw bone. Like a woman who could not be harmed, she raised her shoulders again.
Finally, Ali hung his head and sulked to the bedroom to pass out in a bed probably less familiar than those of his American beauties. Zahra sunk to the concrete floor and held her shoulders gently the way she longed to be held. He had stopped that night, but she had seen the snake behind the man and knew it was only a matter of time before he shed his skin completely.
The next morning, she waited for the slam of the front door and then ran to get an ice pack. Though the wound had stung all night, she did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain.
Suddenly, while making toast for breakfast, she vomited into the sink. Even the scent of strawberry jam made her gag, yet her arms shook from the nausea and hunger. Instead of her normal grocery store run, Zahra headed to the drug store on the left side and mimed a baby in front of the pharmacy counter so they understood her. A woman with light blue eyes and a spotless white lab coat stepped out and showed Zahra to the aisle where pregnancy tests sat next to condoms—plastic sheaths that Zahra had never touched but had heard stories about from her less religious friends. The picture that stared up at her from the pregnancy test as she handed over the money looked as medical and nonthreatening as possible, yet every time she glanced in the bag on the way home, she shuddered.
The nice pharmacist had explained how to use it, but even so, Zahra took an hour to read the directions to buy time, skipping any words longer than two syllables. Using the pictures, she figured out where to pee and placed the pregnancy test on the shower’s low ledge. She perched on the bathroom counter with her knees against her chest and watched it, counting every second in English until she forgot a number and switched into Arabic. Her heart pounded against her knees, and her fingers tapped the time against her legs in drum lines of fear. Finally, she unfolded, picked up the pregnancy test, and looked.
“Oh, no,” she said to the blue plus sign. “Please, God, no. Anything but that.” She dropped the test and used both hands to shield whatever child was inside of her, already a witness to Ali’s cruelty. If he was a boy, perhaps his father’s actions had already begun to corrupt him in the womb, and as he grew, he would learn to be like his father. And if she was a girl… Zahra pictured small hands and head of long black hair, the vulnerability of a tiny child with even less defense against an angry word or a strike at her face. No.
She did not let herself think. Quickly, she found the little black suitcase she had arrived with. She began to roll all of her shirts and pants hanging in the closet and stacked them inside; she threw her toiletries in a plastic bag and tossed it in, then emptied her drawers. Unlike her preparations in Cairo, lasting hours as she had lovingly decided between keepsakes and essentials, she packed all of her American belongings in less than ten minutes. The last item to come was her can full of bills, not even enough to buy a bus ticket out of the city and certainly not enough for a night in a hotel. She stuffed the money in the top pocket of her bag, dumped the change in-between the paper cracks, and ran. About five steps.
As she took in the crisp fall air with only a thick sweatshirt to hide her from the cold, she began to think rationally again. She turned and headed back towards the house, but then the image of new furniture stacked near the sliding glass door next to hers made her pause. Quietly, so as not to draw attention from Mrs. Mubarak, Zahra quickly walked to the door and knocked. And knocked, and knocked. Finally, Julia came to the door in just a towel around her chest and one around her head like a toga and turban. Zahra could not help staring at her pale, unfamiliar skin.
“Zahra, what the hell are you doing?” Julia slid the door open and gestured for her to come inside.
Zahra tried to find the words to explain her situation, but none of her school lessons or grocery runs had prepared her for this moment.
“Breathe, honey, breathe!”
She had no words. Instead, Zahra held up the pregnancy test, which she had stashed in her pocket before she left in case Ali caught her, mimed Ali’s slap, and held up her bag. Her breathing slowed and she prayed to God that this strong woman would help her—she had no one else.
“That little…” Julia started, and Zahra saw her own anger, always covered by fear, alive in that woman’s face. “He hit you? You are never going back there. In fact, I just might burn the whole building down with me, him, and that little woman in the scarf still in it. How dare he! I need a drink, quickly.” Julia took Zahra’s arm and led her upstairs to a bright pink armchair, deposited her there with her bag, and left to make them drinks.
Zahra looked around. She and Ali’s basement only had a mattress and a small, scratched up table, so compared to that, Julia’s stuffed living room looked like the royal palace. Boxes lined the walls, and in the center of the room were at least four separate sets of furniture—from the ornate gold and pink set that Zahra sat on to a minimalistic blue chaise shaped like a bean. Julia returned with hot water and a tea bag for Zahra and some kind of yellow liquid in a squat, round glass for herself with a strange ring of salt around the rim. She lay back on the chaise, crossed her legs, and began to tap the glass with the tip of her nail as she thought. Zahra tried not to stare at the bare legs beneath the white terrycloth, or the shadow between them that was aimed directly towards her. Apparently Julia felt no need to change despite her knowledge of Zahra’s preferences.
“You have so many chairs,” Zahra said to distract herself.
“Yes, I suppose the collection is exponential at this point. You know how men are. Every time I start a relationship, the first thing they want me to do is throw out all the furniture I bought with the last guy and shower me with a new set they like better. I tell them I throw the old set out, but in reality I keep it all in my spare apartment.” As soon as the word escaped, Julia snapped her fingers. “That’s it—my spare apartment. I have a two-bedroom in the city, past Georgetown and up Wisconsin a bit, which I use when I’m out late on a Friday or Saturday night and can’t drive home. It’s not metro accessible, but that won’t matter once you get a steady job and a car, both of which you’ll need as soon as possible.”
“But what about…” Zahra pointed to her stomach.
“Yes, that does complicate things a bit. You’ll need to work, which is next to impossible even for Americans unless they can pay a nanny or have the mother stay home.” She returned to tapping, and Zahra felt like a pair of pants her owner couldn’t finagle into a drawer. Finally, she exclaimed. “I’ve got it! Charlotte and Malena. They’ve been looking for a roommate. I could pay your rent for a few months as you get on your feet.”
Zahra, overwhelmed with Julia’s generosity, crossed over to the chaise and enveloped her new friend in a hug. “Thank you, thank you,” she repeated, only letting go when she felt the dampness of the towel soak through her own shirt.
“Yes, you’re just their type. They’ll love you.”
“Are they Egyptians?”
Julia laughed. “No, definitely not. They’re lesbians.”
She waited for Zahra to react, but the word did not translate right away.
“They’re two women. Married—well, as close as it comes—to each other.”
Oh! Zahra asked shyly, “Is that okay here?”
“Times are changing, love, and more and more women and men are coming out. How do you think I got my job? If they were all still hiding, there wouldn’t be much to study. They will embrace you with open arms, but be careful…the gay community here will be very different from anything you’ve ever seen. Some of them may be—How do I say this?—a little too welcoming for you, compared to Egypt. No need to answer me, but I’m curious…have you ever actually been with a woman?”
“In what way?”
“I’ll take that as a no. Be careful, Zahra, and make sure you learn from someone who will be gentle with you.”
Zahra thought of her recent experiences with Ali and shuddered, the morning sickness awakening with every image of his body. Quickly, before she could second-guess her instincts, she sat down on the chaise again and put a hand on the knot of Julia’s towel.
“Then again, maybe you’ll be just fine.” Julia sipped at her drink. “How did you know?”
“You’re still wearing your towel.”
“A good observation. Yes, it’s true, I dabble. You are a very beautiful woman, but we will never be anything more than friends.”
“I’m counting on it.” Zahra untucked the edge of cloth. She would never give her heart to another woman, of that she was certain, but a man had already claimed and sullied her body, and she wanted it back.
Chapter 8
Cairo, May 2010
As children, Aisha had been her older brother’s number one fan and defender against all unpleasant things. Though a boy and a whole year older, Nor had a soft spirit. He spent his days reading before he even reached kindergarten, while Aisha jumped from couch to couch like a sugar glider or drew on the rented walls. One day while their mother had slept, Nor and Aisha plotted to steal Halloween candy from a large crystal bowl on the kitchen counter. When they realized they could not reach the rich caramel chocolates and peanut butter cups, Nor cried while Aisha dragged a chair from the living room and used it to grab two fists full of sugary snacks.
Nor was much more like Zahra than Aisha. Their mother called him Amari, my moon, which had been her nickname as a young girl in Cairo. Aisha was Shami, my sun, which usually meant she destroyed everything in her path, or at one point accidentally lit something on fire.
When he was six years old, Nor had gone missing. Aisha woke up in the morning and ate breakfast with her mother and brother—Cheerios she could chase with her spoon for Aisha and a bagel with boring cream cheese for Nor. Zahra always drove Aisha to preschool first, then took Nor to elementary school, and like usual, Aisha turned to give the parked car one last goodbye wave. Nor wore his favorite blue coat with brown patches on the elbows and brown corduroy pants—already a professor in his blazer and trademark black glasses. Aisha still dreamt about that outfit.
When Aisha walked off the preschool bus that afternoon, her mother was not by the parents clustered like a bushel of hydrangeas in their fitted dress pants and sleeveless pink dresses. One of the other mothers took Aisha’s hand and walked her home, but hesitated at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Aisha’s apartment building.
“It’s all going to be okay,” the mother had said to Aisha, squeezing one of her yellow raincoat protected shoulders with a crunch before she walked away. Her facial expression was unfamiliar. Pity, Aisha found out later, recognizable by the downturned mouth and focused eyes, the way the person always touched a shoulder or a hand or a stray lock of hair.
Zahra sat on the couch furthest from the door, her eyes vacant even when her little girl dropped her backpack and ran into the C curve of her side. Aisha remembered her mother trembling all over, her hands nervously fiddling with a stray thread of her shirt—slowly unraveling the hem and winding the string around and around her finger until the tip turned a burned red and then a bloodless purple. The shifting colors of the bruised flesh captivated both of their attention. Aisha’s eyes widened, and her own shoulders shook as minutes turned to hours. She had come home hungry, imagining the little packages of fruit snacks shaped like real fruits but ten times as sweet, but her stomach churned like the turning string until she thought she might be sick.
“Mama!”
At the sound of her daughter’s voice, Zahra’s gaze snapped away from the vacant space on the other side of the room, and her hand loosened to let blood back into her finger. She curled an arm around Aisha and held her close as Aisha cried before she even heard the news. Later, Zahra whispered the story in her ear like the prayer for the forgiveness of the dead, the one that was never said of the little boy in the blue coat and corduroys. Nor had run away while Aisha was at school, leaving nothing of his perfectly folded clothes or the one-person games he played while Aisha bounced around him or hung on his shoulders. His room was empty, save for his sticky fingerprints on the window that Aisha and Zahra never washed again.
The closest Aisha had ever come to her brother after his disappearance was the day she skipped eighth period and escaped to the National Gallery of Art for what she considered a more educational experience than Chemistry. She often went on such trips, scribbling notes in her mother’s half-Arabic handwriting about doctor’s appointments and dental procedures to get her out of class. Most of the time she bought a cup of coffee and walked to the Lincoln Memorial. She would sit at the top and watch the families take photographs of children with ice cream smeared on their shirts or follow couples who ran in unison around the reflecting pool and occasionally kissed against a backdrop of cherry blossoms.
This time she spent an hour in front of the painting “Wind from the Sea” by Andrew Wyeth, an accidental discovery on her way through the main floor of the West Building. Though the window lacked the two trademark prints of Nor’s pointer and middle finger, she could feel him standing by the open window, the translucent white curtains blowing lazily on his eager face. Or perhaps it was just her imagination, the tire tracks leading away from the empty room instead of towards it. Nor had already gone into Wyeth’s rural landscape, leaving not even fingerprints this time.
“Aisha?” Rose called again.
Aisha’s mouth could not form any words but Nor, Nor, Nor. She repeated his name as he came closer like the Christian story of Lazarus walking from his grave, one hand stretched out to touch those same fingers to the tips of her own. When she said the word brother, a word she had refused to say for seventeen years, she whispered it into the loud beating bass drum thunder. Nor grabbed her and they embraced, though she was taller than him and held his shoulders in her long arms.
“I thought you were dead,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Wait,” Rose said. “Nor is your brother?” Apparently the two had been acquainted, since Nor and Rose averted eye contact and looked at Aisha instead.
“Cousin,” Nor said quickly.
“What? Nor, why would you say that?” Then Aisha thought about the missing body, gravestone, and news coverage. Suddenly the pieces of her memory fit together to make the form of the missing boy at the window, now crystal clear against a sunny new day. Perhaps Zahra had not feared Aisha’s betrayal all of these years, but the knowledge of her own.
“It’s complicated—”
“Then uncomplicate it for me.” Aisha shook Nor off.
He shuffled his feet a few steps back.
“Does Mom know you’re here?”
“Aisha—”
She stepped closer so that her head towered over his—she needed to be a giant—and her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Does she know?”
