Maisoon sat upright. Her father had kept his distance for over four months, ever since she announced that her ‘partner’ was from Ar’ara, the heart of the Muslim Triangle.
“He loves you … you know.”
“Oh, he does …? So you’re on his side now?” Maisoon’s voice was flat.
“I’m not on anybody’s side, Mais, min shan Allah. I just think his reaction was reasonable. That’s how things are. This is how it’s been for ages. You can’t expect him to change his beliefs—the values he grew up on—just because you decided you’re going to be with a Muslim man. It doesn’t work that way.”
“What do you mean that way? It works that way for me!”
“Ya Rab, Mais! We’ve been through this so many times, why can’t you just let it go?”
“Let go of what?” Maisoon’s voice was beginning to falter, trembling like the crystals of sugar stirred in her morning kahwa. She didn’t want to repeat the words said so many times in so many ways. So she let it go.
Getting up from her chair, she walked to the kitchen, feeling relieved at the sight of the dirty dishes piled up in the sink. It was one of her small triumphs. Defying the mould Ziyad wanted her to fit into. And her father. And Um Tawfiq. She opened the fridge, hesitating. Hummus and labani with some of the olive oil she’d brought from the checkpoint. “Ziyad, could you go down to Abu Adel and get some bread?”
While he was gone, Maisoon took her time washing the dishes. The simple, cyclical repetitions allowed her mind to drain. While she concentrated on the movements of her hands, thoughts of her activism, her father, Ziyad—were all forced into a corner of her brain.
When Ziyad came back, they ate in silence, her fingers cautiously avoiding his while dipping her bread in the labani. Ziyad stayed in the apartment for another hour, reading on the diwan. When he saw that her silence would last the day, he gathered his things, gave her a hug, and left. She didn’t resist—not when he hugged her, and not when he turned to leave. It was their way of staying together.
Not knowing anyone except the bride and her parents, Maisoon settled in a corner of the garden, smoking a cigarette and sipping her wine when a young woman approached her. She was tall and slender, her features blurred in the darkness.
“I wish I could smoke a cigarette like you do … you know … in front of everybody,” her voice was soft with a slight tremor.
“Ya salam,” Maisoon laughed “and why can’t you? Here, why don’t you have one?”
The girl shrank back. “Are you majnouny? What would they say about me?”
Maisoon shrugged her shoulders. “So how about some wine, then?”
“Hmmm …”
There was something unfamiliar about the way the words danced on the girl’s tongue—an accent Maisoon didn’t recognize. “Maisoon,” she said as the girl sat down on the stone next to her, brushing Maisoon’s sleeveless arm as she took the glass of wine from her.
“I’m Shahd,” and she giggled into the glass.
“And does Shahd go to school? What, tenth grade, eleventh?” Maisoon was losing interest in the girl.
“Actually, I’m twenty-three. I want to study medicine and become a daktora. Inshallah next year.”
Maisoon was looking intently at her now. The girl was defining herself according to the norms of society—by age and occupation or education. She didn’t look more than sixteen or seventeen with her slim body and virtually flat chest.
“Come, let’s dance!” In a sudden movement, Shahd grabbed Maisoon’s hand and dragged her to the middle of the garden, into the reflected lights. “It’s one of my favourites!” She took her scarf and wrapped it around Maisoon’s voluptuous hips. “Yalla ya amar, show us some of that hazz sharki.” Shahd was now laughing, swaying her arms and getting down on one knee the way men do.
Maisoon’s body froze, now what? Should she just do the elegant moves, dancing the way ‘good’ girls are supposed to? She looked down at the young woman whose name meant honey and allowed her body to decide. Closing her eyes, she let the music surge through her—dum-tak-tak dum-tak. Dum-tak-tak dum-tak. Deeper now and into her bones. Ach, to hell with all the women’s talk. She checked the scarf around her waist, making sure it was tied at the right height. When Maisoon opened her eyes, she no longer saw the women sprinkled around the garden, nor did she see the mother of the bride staring at her in horror. It was only her, Shahd, the music, and the wine spreading warmly inside her body. There were no men at the henna, so she felt at ease to let herself be led by the rhythm completely.
She was lost in her own world of the durbakki and didn’t see the way Shahd’s eyes were transfixed on her, hungrily devouring every movement of her hips. She wasn’t aware of Shahd’s slight shiver of the body.
By the end of the evening, Maisoon was spent. The women who at first had looked at her as if she were committing a sacrilege were all over her by the time the music faded.
“Ya salam! Mashallah, you dance like an Egyptian!”
“No, didn’t you see the way she moved her feet? That was Iraqi rakes. Where did you learn to dance this way?”
“Come to my daughter’s henna next month and dance for us!”
“My son is finishing his law degree this summer, he’s a very good boy. Come to our house for shai.”
It took Maisoon a while to wriggle out of the grip of the women. She found Shahd in that same unlit corner of the garden where they had first encountered each other. She was smoking one of Maisoon’s cigarettes, abandoned when dragged to dance. “Hey, you! This was all your fault! And anyway, you’re not supposed to be smoking in front of them.”
Shahd didn’t look at Maisoon—instead, she stared at her own bare feet. Her sandals were somewhere around. “I don’t know … I lost track of time and Mansour is already gone to the checkpoint.” Her eyes reflected a mix of uncertainty and fear, “Mama will worry about me, and Baba … and my permit was only for the day …”
The words checkpoint and permit hung in the air. That’s why I couldn’t place the accent. Maisoon dropped next to her, and reached for the burning cigarette. “Tayyeb, I live nearby, why don’t you come for some hot shai with na’ana and we’ll work something out.”
Shahd straightened her back and looked at Maisoon. “Thanks for the cigarette.” Then, very slowly, her face lightened. “Yalla, what are we waiting for? Shai sounds just like what I need right now.”
“Watch your step,” warns Maisoon, though she knows the words to be useless; the street is dimly lit. She hears Shahd recalling Allah in whispers as her sandals squash something decomposing, one of the less delightful parts about living in the middle of the souk. The night air smells of rotten vegetables mingling with the odour of fish. “It’s not far from here, come.”
Twenty minutes later, they are settled on Maisoon’s old diwan, sipping shai with na’ana. Shahd has managed to call her neighbours