Behind the Veils of Yemen Page 6

  “Hallelujah!” I yelled. “Blue jeans and my own pots and pans! Christian books! In English!”

  Then I chewed my lip, thinking. I did not want them to arrive the first week of September. That would be the week before Madison and Jaden started school. I did not want the children to see the Christmas presents we had packed in the crates.

  I thought about the problem as I waited for a taxi to Fatima’s house. I ducked into a secluded corner.

  Lord, I prayed, could You bring in our crates the week after school starts? With the kids back in school, it sure would make things easier. Then I climbed into the taxi and headed to Fatima’s house for the wedding.

  I waited thirty minutes for Fatima in her living room. I was wearing the dera I had made, with a gold satin sash tied around my waist. I had fixed my hair with mousse, as Fatima had instructed, and layered on more makeup than I had worn in a decade.

  Fatima finally appeared, breathlessly stuffing things into a plastic sack as she snapped her balto cloak down over her pregnant abdomen.

  “Sorry, Audra. The three days of the wedding are quite busy. We must go now, besurah [quickly]. We are late.”

  “Three days?” I asked.

  “Yes. You do not remember the three days of the wedding?” She wrapped her black hejab [head covering] tightly around her hair. “The blue day, the green day and the white day?”

  “No.” I tried to keep pace with her as we walked down the alley. Fatima motioned for a taxi and gave directions to the driver. We climbed into the backseat.

  “There are three days for a wedding,” Fatima explained quietly in English. “Sometimes four, two if the groom has little money. Each day there is a feast and the bride wears a dress in a special color like blue or green. She wears her gold jewelry from the marriage agreement. The last day she wears a white dress like you wear in America. It is the day she goes to her husband’s house.”

  We stopped at a beige, three-story building with tan curlicues around the windows. I paid the price Fatima negotiated with the driver, and we entered the iron gate. The courtyard was empty, spaced with plantless oval holes and a stairwell leading to each level of the multi-family dwelling. The bride and her family lived at the bottom. We made our way to their door.

  At the second doorbell ring, one of the bride’s sisters cautiously peered through the crack she opened. Reassured that we were women, she pulled us in with hugs and kisses, clutching her unbuttoned duster closely. Her copper-streaked black hair was crowned with fat pink curlers. I could hear a hair dryer buzzing in the background.

  Huda, the bride’s mother, hurried to gush a welcome as she led us to an open bedroom. She had fine graying hair, worried brown eyes and a plump bosom that overflowed her faded housedress. She appeared to be my age.

  Four girls were in the bedroom, all twenty years old and younger. They were clustered around a bed strewn with lipsticks, eyeliners, rouges and assorted kegs of eye shadow. In the center, with her knees folded on the bed, was the bride, a girl of seventeen or eighteen. Hovering over her was the coiffeura, wielding a round hairbrush and a hot hair dryer like they were weapons. I winced as the young beautician tugged each bridal lock into place. The bride did not seem to notice. She sat placidly as her curls were sprayed solidly into place with two bottles of hair spray.

  When the hair was finished, the beautician applied the bride’s makeup. Eye shadow in three shades of lavender was followed by black eyeliner and a heavy coating of mascara. Then the bride’s neck and face was sponged profusely with pale beige makeup and powder to lighten her olive skin. I smiled as I thought of American brides in tanning booths before their weddings.

  After the bride’s cheeks were shined with rouge and her lips lined and filled with maroon lipstick, she was presented to a mirror on the side of a double wardrobe, the only other furnishing in the large room. The girls praised her fine appearance. The bride studied her face from side to side but said nothing. She was wordlessly led to another room to be dressed by her mother and aunts in her full-length white gown.

  I watched her as she left. She seemed neither happy nor sad, neither excited nor bored. She was almost expressionless. I wondered what she was thinking as she was being adorned to meet her husband. I wondered how she felt about leaving her father’s dominion for her husband’s.

  After the bride left, the beautician turned to the other young women, who were eager for their turns. “Ta’allee [come],” she invited.

  These girls were unmarried and not permitted to wear makeup, perfume or fancy curls. But weddings were exceptions. I looked at Fatima. She was as eager for the makeover as the others.

  One by one the coiffeura fashioned the girls into the beauties of Arab folklore. I was awed by the transformation. Where they had been shy and giggling and nudging each other, they emerged confident and independent, even disdainful. Their painted appearance seemed to change their personalities. I was surprised by the difference.

  The beautician motioned for me to sit, inviting my turn with her raised hairbrush and makeup applicators. I smiled.

  “Lah, shukran [No, thank you],” I said, keeping my eyes off the thick wads of greased hair and dirt that filled her unwashed brushes. I went to the wardrobe mirror and applied my own red lipstick, straightening my sash and fluffing out my hair. Fatima preened beside me.

  “Gamila [Beautiful]!” I told her. The other girls agreed.

  We admired each other, and after several minutes we moved to the long mufraj room that would house the celebration.

  “Where are the groom and his guests?” I asked Fatima as we settled down on plump black cushions.

  “At his father’s house several miles from here. Many men will gather there. They will chew qat and listen to music.”

  I nodded. I had heard weddings in my neighborhood. Boys sang responses as an entertainer crooned Islamic choruses to the sounds of a strumming oud and the banging of a large tin pan.

  “Where will the wedding ceremony be?” I asked.

  “The groom, his father and the bride’s father will go to the mosque and make the marriage. Then they will come for the bride and take her to her husband’s home.”

  Fatima chuckled. “There will be much noise. They will sound the horns the whole way to the bride and also when they take her home. They will come in cars covered with ribbons.”

  “You mean the bride doesn’t attend her own wedding ceremony?” I was astonished.

  “At the mosque with men?” Fatima laughed. “Mush momken [not possible]. Her father is there. That is enough.” She shrugged. “They will come for the bride when it is over.”

  I leaned back against my cushions, thinking about the bride’s expressionless face. Would it be enough? I wondered.

  The carpet had been removed, leaving bare a skinny strip of tiled floor for dancing. I watched Fatima as she talked with her friends. She had become an exotic beauty, her black hair billowing around her kohl-lined eyes and pale powdered cheeks. She wore a flowing pink gown, heavily embroidered in silver and gold across her bulging middle. She held her head high, like a princess holding court. I felt proud of her, grateful for her opportunity to look and feel beautiful.

  Women began to arrive in the entry hall, peeling away their black outer coverings. I watched in amazement as shimmering bodies emerged from the black shrouds. One woman sparkled in a purple silk caftan, her arms gleaming with gold jewelry. Two girls in their twenties removed sirwal pants to tug sequined miniskirts into place on their thighs. They ignored the disapproving frowns of two older women in rose and yellow silk deras, as did a girl in a red spaghetti-strapped dress who constantly tugged at her bodice.

  One by one they emerged from their heavy black drapes. I smiled to myself. If people only knew what was under those veils. I realized that a woman could wear what she wanted under a covering as long as her appearance to the public was devout and pious.

  I looked at their faces, artfully painted with makeup. I wished Kevin could see how beautiful they were. He kn
ew them only as they appeared in public: dark eyes in narrow black slits.

  I noticed Fatima and two friends whispering together on the mufraj. They were all looking at me.

  “She is a mussihiya [Christian]?” The girl’s surprise had raised her voice.

  Fatima nodded, arching her eyebrows at me and folding her arms across her chest. All three girls stared at me with equally lofty eyebrows. They straightened their backs and lifted their heads. They seemed higher as they looked down on me.

  One girl’s smile turned to a sneer. “Mussihiya,” she repeated.

  The other girl seemed perplexed and agitated. “But she is friendly and nice. She is habooba [lovely]!” Her bewildered whisper was loud in the room. I smiled appreciation at her, but my smile faded at the other girl’s haughty eyes.

  That girl leaned closer. “Islam is hallee [sweet],” she said loudly.

  Conversations between the women around us grew silent. They nodded their heads vigorously in agreement and focused on me, waiting collectively for my response. I looked to Fatima, but she was waiting with them. I grappled for words and wrestled with pride. I had never before been treated as inferior because of my faith and nationality, especially by the people of an impoverished country.

  Lord, help! I prayed inwardly.

  Out loud I slowly responded, “The way of Jesus is sweet. It is enough for me. Jesus is all that I need to walk with God.”

  “Ma’a sha’allah [What God wills],” one woman whispered.

  The girl protested. “But we have Isa [Islamic name for Jesus] in our Quran. He is one of our prophets.”

  She was interrupted as two of the bride’s sisters entered the room carrying trays of perfume. The women turned from me to the perfumes, eager to spray their necks, arms and dress fronts. The room had grown crowded, and the smell of perspiration had risen with the heat. Now heavy perfume saturated the air, intended to cover unpleasant odors.

  I squelched my urge to cough and sneeze as my eyes watered. When the tray reached me, I declined the heavy dousing. I had spritzed myself earlier with a quiet, feminine scent. I did not see it among the ornate bottles on the tray.

  Fatima touched my arm, her eyes full of concern. “You must wear perfume for your husband, Audra. It will please him, and he will love you.”

  “I am already wearing perfume,” I answered.

  Fatima leaned closer to sniff. “It is not enough. Here, you must wear these.” She handed me a little red bottle and a large purple one. “Yours is not strong enough.”

  I did not want more perfume. I knew what Kevin’s reaction would be. It would not be amore. He would wrinkle his nose, hold me at arm’s length and push me toward the shower. But I sighed and turned my neck to let Fatima spray one scent after the other.

  A woman I had met at Fatima’s house came over to greet me. She kissed my hand in a tradition I quickly learned to repeat. Holding my right hand in hers, she kissed it and with her hand thrust it back to me. I kissed her hand and she pulled it back to kiss mine again. When she had both given and received adequate kisses, she smoothed her pink dera to sit beside me. Her neck was heavily laced with gold chains. A circle of jasmine buds was pinned around her curly black hair.

  “Intee Amrekia? Kaif al Yemen? [You are an American? How (do you like) Yemen?]” A gold crown flashed on a front tooth.

  “Hallo gidan [Very nice],” I answered.

  She asked me how many children I had, and I answered, but then her next question confused me. I thought I had misunderstood, and I turned to Fatima for help.

  Fatima quickly translated, “What kind of birth control do you use?” and turned back to her own conversation.

  I sat silent, staring at the woman’s kohl-lined eyes. I tried to smile. I leaned back to Fatima and whispered in English, “Do you really talk about such things with strangers?”

  Irritated by my repeated interruption, Fatima responded sharply, “Of course, why not?” She turned her back to me and resumed her conversation.

  I thought over the rules of conversation Fatima had taught me. I was not to discuss politics, wars or any unpleasant subject while visiting women. Those were considered men’s issues and bad manners for women. I chewed on the inside of my lip, struggling with my own definition of bad manners.

  Tired of waiting, the woman moved to a new line of questions. “Where does your husband work? What is his salary? What do you pay for your house?”

  I straightened my dress and adjusted my legs to mask my discomfort. I feigned a lack of comprehension, stumbling around in Arabic to avoid answering. I was spared when two girls entered the room with a large CD player. The women began to clap, and I sighed with relief as rhythmic male crooning poured into the room.

  Two teenage girls stepped into the narrow strip of floor as the rest of the crowd clapped and yelled. One of the girls tied her long black hejab [head scarf] around her hips as a sash and faced the other girl from the opposite end of the floor. Both began to shimmy and step toward each other with the music, their hips shaking and their arms and hands moving in rhythm.

  I was amazed. I had never seen such a beautiful harmony of hips, hands and feet. I could not keep from gawking. Girls as young as ten began to dance and swivel their hips with amazing skill, shaking things I did not know could be shaken. In pairs, girl after girl, woman after woman sashayed across the floor as others clapped and yelled a high-pitched, curdling trill.

  Then one young woman danced up to me and pulled my arms to join her. I pulled back, shaking my head with an emphatic no. I wanted to learn each fascinating step, but I wanted to learn them in front of the mirror on my closed bedroom door. The girl would not accept my refusal. She continued to pull me up to dance.

  When I reluctantly stood, a sea of clapping erupted. The women called out encouragement, trilling me forward. I moved my gold sash from my waist to my hips, wondering if I could make it sway at all. I swallowed and took my place on the floor, closing my eyes as the music played.

  I stepped to the music, feeling like my hands had become my feet and my hips had become immobile. I curled my wrists in and out as I tried to sashay, wondering if everything was moving at the same time but not daring to look. Painfully I made it across the floor, grateful when I reached my partner and the dance ended.

  Applause thundered from the crowd of women around me. I was startled by it but smiled my appreciation as I sat down, my cheeks flaming. I mopped my sweaty forehead and neck with the handfuls of tissues that had been instantly offered. I looked around at the women. They were beaming at me. I realized they were pleased more by my willingness to dance with them than they were by my skills in dancing. I smiled back at the faces smiling at me. I felt like I had danced over the threshold and into their lives.

  We continued to wait for the bride. I fanned myself with a flimsy square of pink tissue. More women had squeezed into the room. Younger girls were shuffled off the mufraj to the floor. I guessed there to be seventy bodies in a room built for thirty. Kirkadey, a dark red drink made from hibiscus leaves, was served around the room by the bride’s mother. I downed my small glass and set it back on the tray to be refilled for others.

  Sweat trickled down my chest. The heavy scent of perfume no longer lingered. It had failed to mask the odor of hot, sweaty bodies. I looked longingly at the four tall windows behind me. They were latched tightly closed to shut out the danger of peeping males. Water beaded on the glass, dripping down in rivulets. I fanned myself faster and tried not to think about the fresh breeze that had also been shut out. I turned my eyes away.

  For the first time I noticed the dancers were all girls and women under thirty. Women my age and older were seated on cots in the outer reception hall. They seemed disinterested in the dancing. They shared apple-spiced tobacco in a water pipe and chewed skimpy leaves of qat while talking about the eight or nine children they had birthed and the years of hard work they had survived. I looked around at the young women dancing and chatting in the crowded room. I wondered if they wou
ld one day sit with water pipes and chew leftover qat in outer halls.

  The room had grown hotter. Boxes of tissues were passed around again, and each woman took several to dab her face and neck. I was honored as a foreign guest and offered a lone bottle of water, which I promptly shared with Fatima. I looked at my watch. It was after eight o’clock. We had been waiting three hours for the bride.

  “Fatima,” I touched her arm. “You must not get too hot. It is not good for the baby.” I patted her bulging abdomen. “You should get some cool air.”

  Fatima’s cheeks were flushed, her forehead shiny and beaded with perspiration. Her handsome makeup had become splotchy and dull. The black that had outlined her eyes had become crescent smudges beneath them. “Momken [Maybe],” Fatima agreed.

  We passed through the reception hall and greeted the elder women politely before entering a large room on the other side sparsely furnished with two thin pads on the floor. A single fluorescent bulb pretended to light the room from its perch on the wall. Pink curtains fluttered in open double windows where a group of young women hovered on the sill.

  Fatima introduced me to one. Mona was curvy, dimpled and dressed in heavy makeup that had not yet smeared. Her hair was a crown of soft black ringlets. She wore a cobalt miniskirt with black fishnet stockings trimmed in crocheted roses.

  “Helwa [Pretty]!” I complimented her stockings as we pulled a pad to sit near the window. “Did you find them in Sana’a?”

  Mona stretched her legs for me to see her stockings, careful to cover her feet with her scarf to keep from offending with their bottoms. I smiled at the polite Arab protocol, which prohibits showing the bottoms of one’s feet to another. Fatima whispered something to Mona. I was surprised by Fatima’s stern look to her and Mona’s rebellious one back. I was about to ask why when a little girl rushed into the room.

  “The bride is coming! The bride is coming!” she cried.