Forbidden Love (4 page)

There, my brothers’ true natures were revealed. While their friends might have difficulty picturing them reacting with violence if they found I was romantically interested in a man, it was easy for me to imagine. My brothers’ fierce natures would not surprise any Arab woman who knew from birth that what women call brutal, men define as necessary. These were the secrets hidden from the street. All Arab men are taught that it is their responsibility to discipline the women in their lives,

and that the best way to do so is through corporal punishment. My brothers were no exception. It was not uncommon to hear of women being physically abused not only by their husbands or fathers, but also by their sons and brothers for minor reasons -preparing the wrong food for dinner, or taking too long with the laundry. Though my father and brothers were lenient about such trivial things, I didn’t doubt for a second that they would react violently over more serious matters, such as relationships.

I dreaded the look of dismay and disdain I knew would come over my mother’s round and lovely face if I ever did something to truly anger them. She was nearing fifty-four and was short and pleasantly stocky. She had creamy white skin, high pink colour in her cheeks, and black eyes that twinkled like bright stars. Sometimes when I looked into her eyes, I sensed that the gleam reflected the tears hidden behind her cheerful spirit. There were days I would catch her sitting alone, when she thought no one could see her, with a distant look in her eyes, as if picturing herself in another life. I sensed I was glimpsing ghosts of lost opportunities tucked away in her heart. But she forced herself to live an illusion, rationalizing that if she pretended to be satisfied long enough she would one day wake up content.

My father, though more threatening in size, would probably be the least physically explosive of all my family members. In contrast to his formidable appearance, he was a very sedate man who, even if profoundly upset, would never show it. If I ever formed a romantic relationship with a Muslim man, he might not lift the fist or knife, but he would be the driving force behind my brothers’ violence.

I was brought out of these thoughts by the front door closing. Standing nervously in front of the door was a tall, slim young woman with an impressive mane of sable hair pulled into a thick, silky ponytail that hung to her hips. Dalia was nowhere to be seen. I assumed she had gone to the break room to rest. As I stepped towards the front counter to welcome Jehan, the door opened again and in walked Michael, not maimed or killed, but it suddenly occurred to me perhaps married. Since he was with Jehan, he could only be her husband or a relative; given the hour, it was more than likely that he was her husband. My mind started racing. Why hadn’t he told Dalia? How could he bring his wife in here? What if he wasn’t attracted to Dalia at all? Didn’t he realize that Dalia was attracted to him? I knew that Michael and Dalia would never be able to marry, not in Jordan anyway, but there had seemed to be some chemistry between them. I prayed it was not just Dalia’s fantasy. Finding out that Michael was married would send her into an even deeper depression.

Instinctively, I felt I had to protect my friend and find out what was going on before alerting her that Michael was here. At the counter, I tried not to betray my emotions.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m Jehan. I have an appointment with Norma,” she said, confident and friendly.

“I’m Norma, it’s nice to meet you. Are you two together?” I asked, looking directly at Michael.

“Yes, we are,” he said swiftly, leaving me searching for something to say.

“Come with me,” I finally muttered. Jehan followed me to my station while Michael remained in the reception area. An awful thought ran through my mind: what if he hadn’t told her he’d been here before? I had to tread very carefully. But for Dalia’s sake I also had to get some answers.

Once Jehan was seated, I hoped that she would be like most of my clients, who used the stylist’s chair as a psychiatrist’s couch, chatting and spilling the details of their personal lives until they stood up to leave.

“What would you like done?” I asked.

Well, he managed to convince me that I’d look better with

shoulder length hair, so here I am,” she said with a spectacular smile.

\020He who?” I asked, trying to pry a whisper of useful information from her.

“Michael, of course. He’s been recommending this place to me for weeks. He said that this is the best salon in Amman, and that Dalia is great.”

“Oh… well, I’m glad to hear that. You must be very close if you trust his advice about your hair,” I said, still fishing.

“Oh yes, we’re very close. He’s great and very sweet, unlike most men, if you know what I mean. And he’s so smart. His is the only opinion I value, not just about my hair, but every aspect of my life.”

I still didn’t know if they were married, so I determined to keep quiet and hoped that she would lead the conversation where I needed it to go. I glanced over at Michael still sitting in the reception area. He’d picked a seat where he could view the entire salon. He held a magazine, partly hiding his face, but I could see he was spending much more time looking around than reading it. He was unsettled, appeared anxious and uncomfortable, which mystified me more. If Jehan was his wife and he was worried about bumping into Dalia, why bring her here?

I tried a gentle probe to get Jehan to open up. “Where do you usually get your hair done?”

“I normally go to Mary’s in the second circle. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes. It’s across the street from Abu Ali’s Bakery, right? Do you live near Mary’s?”

“Actually we live an equal distance between here and there. We live in Abdoun, next to the fourth circle.”

“I know where that is,” I said, disheartened at the ‘we’. There was no mistaking that when she said ‘we’, she meant herself and Michael. I didn’t want to show my disappointment, but I knew I had an answer I was looking for. She clearly lived with Michael. She must be his wife. All I wanted to do was

finish her hair and get them both out of the salon before Dalia

saw them. \020I thought of Dalia, who was just a wall away in the break room. How was I supposed to tell her that he was here? That he was married? That Jehan was a sweet, attractive, pleasant girl, someone we might have been friends with under different circumstances. As I suppressed my desire to mangle Jehan’s mane (it wasn’t her fault, after all), I wished I could get my hands on what little was left of Michael’s hair.

I heard Mohammed’s pick-up thundering up the street just as I steered Jehan to the front of the salon. “Well, Michael, what do you think?” she asked as she twirled her head and ran her fingers through her hair.

“It looks great,” he replied, then stopped cold as he saw Dalia walk slowly up to the front counter. Jehan turned to see what he was staring at. Dalia looked confused, but before I could speak, Mohammed burst through the front door.

He found the four of us standing motionless and staring silently at one another. The tension was so sharp and the room so silent that all I could hear was the sound of my heart beating. Mohammed sliced through the stillness. “Are you ready to close up?”

Michael and Jehan took that as their cue to escape. As they walked out, Dalia looked at me with a mixture of anguish, ecstasy, and sheer bewilderment. I dreaded our lunch tomorrow, the first opportunity we’d have to talk.

Two weeks later, we still hadn’t found a moment to be alone. To our dismay, Mohammed’s social calendar had been blank for the last three weeks, and he’d spent all of his time with us, taking up residence in our break room. So I set out for Dalia’s at five thirty one morning, praying that we would find some time to talk before heading to the salon. I had to tell Dalia that I thought Michael was married.

My father and brothers had left the night before to visit my grandfather, my mother’s father, who lived in the farmhouse near Irbid. So, that morning I was free from my regular chores. I raced to Dalia’s house, planning to get there after her morning prayers but before she had to begin her chores.

I arrived at the house and stood for a moment, catching my breath, before knocking. The door opened and her mother appeared with a pail of grimy water. Obviously not expecting anyone to be standing there, she jumped back, startled, when she saw me.

“Bism il la (Oh my God),” she exclaimed. “Sabah al khair

(good morning). What are you doing here so early?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Sabah al floor, Urn Suhal, I

came to see Dalia.” \020”Of course you did. Where’s my mind? Go on in, if she’s not in the kitchen she should be in her room.”

“Thank you, Um Suhal. But can I help with that first?”

“No, no, you go on in.”

For as long as I could remember, Dalia’s mum had been called Um Suhal, which means ‘mother of Suhal’. With the birth of a woman’s first son she loses her own identity and is referred to as ‘mother of…” Fathers, however, are valued both before and after their child’s arrival. They are recognized for having created such a worthwhile child-a son by being give the title “Abu’, and they continue to use their own name.

Um Suhal, whose given name was Rania, was a very fragile-looking creature, the opposite of my more stocky mother. She was tall and slender, with a yellowish-white complexion that must have been like fresh rose petals once but had now lost its youthful lustre. Her small, emerald-green eyes were also marked by time. Whatever fires they had contained had burned out years ago, leaving them gloomy and dim. She was one of a small cluster of Arabs whose looks testify to their ancient Greco-Roman genes, a rare group whose women are highly sought after by Arab men. Women with fair skin, light hair and eyes that are neither black nor brown are deemed more than just attractive, they are believed to produce the most handsome offspring. Looking at Dalia and her four brothers, the theory clearly held a lot of truth.

I found Dalia in her room, sitting on her bed, reading the last few pages of Taher al Edward’s The Fact of Time.

“Sabah al khair, ya gazallae. What are you reading?” I said.

“Oh my God. How did you manage to escape so early

morning?” she asked as she stood up to embrace me. I got lucky, my father and brothers have gone to check on Cidi (my grandfather), and I ran over here so we could finally

talk.”

“I’m so glad you did, I feel as if I’m going to burst. First, let’s

make sure the coast is clear,” and she bolted out of her room.

I sat on her bed and looked around at her possessions, noting how many of them reflected our friendship. Some of the things dated back to our childhood the fossils we found at the age of seven while playing on my family’s farm, or the sweet dish that housed her collection of sea shells, bits of coral, and a starfish that we discovered on the coast of Aqaba. Others were more recent, including the Samar Hadaddin canvas we’d bought at Riwak Al Balkaa Art Gallery in Fuheis a few weeks before and now hung above her headboard. The artist, a woman, quickly became a favourite of ours and the painting’s mate hung in my room.

Dalia’s furnishings and curtains were clearly chosen by her mother, but everything else reflected her.

She came back holding two small fanageen (small Turkish coffee cups) brimming with coffee.

“Pull out the folding table from behind the dresser,” she said. After I positioned the little table near the bed, she set down the coffee and started rummaging through the bottom drawer of her dresser.

“Close and lock the door,” she instructed. Seconds later she pulled out a pack of Gauloise Blondes, matches, and a small, handmade earthenware ashtray. Then, before sitting on the bed, she grabbed the radio from her window ledge, switched 11 on, lowered the volume, and placed it on the floor behind the locked door so no one walking along the corridor could listen to our conversation.

“Now we can talk,” she said as she handed me a cigarette. I placed the cigarette on the table next to my coffee and turned to her.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say,” I started.

“What do you mean?” She was steeling herself, composing herself.

“Well, I think Michael may be married.”

A wild range of emotions played across her face as she tried to stay poised. “I don’t think so. I mean, he’s not the kind of person who would hide something like that.”

“You remember Jehan, the woman he brought to the salon. Well, they came together and left together and it was late in the day.”

“That doesn’t mean that she’s his wife.”

“No, but they live together, too.”

“That still doesn’t mean that she’s his wife. Did she say she was his wife?”

“No, but she did say that she loves and respects him.”

“Well, she can love and respect him if she’s his relative.”

“I know, but at that hour, Dalia, most single women aren’t allowed out. You know that. We’d only be allowed to go to a relative’s home at that time.”

“I know, but still, she could be a married relative, a cousin, or … She lives with him? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Well then, she’s probably one of his sisters. He has three, you know.”

“I didn’t remember that. I suppose she could have been his sister, but if she’s not his sister, promise me that you won’t talk to him again.”

“I can’t promise that. I mean, if she’s his wife, then I won’t want to talk to him again.”

“Good.”

“Did he say anything that night? Did you talk to him?” \020”I didn’t get a chance to, I was working on Jehan’s hair most

of the time. If we want to find out who she is, we’re going to

have to talk to them again. Maybe we could call her and say

hat we’re having a promotion at the salon and that she was

randomly chosen from a list of new clients to receive a free

facial or something. If she comes in again, we might be able to

figure out how she and Michael are related.”

“That just might work. Let’s call her today.”

“OK,” I said and I lit my cigarette.