After she had been scolded by her employer in front of Shafiq, Kathmiya engaged in one tiny act of protest: she stole a moment of rest and a glimpse at a different life by putting down her dank rag and picking up a fresh magazine.
Its lurid photos of belly dancers and actresses captured her impressionable imagination, even if the letters were just a jumbled blur. But halfway through, her sweet escape was marred by one glance at a full-page photo.
In the movie ad, the bride wore a flowing dress that sparkled with a thousand hand-sewn beads. Her groom was tall and striking in a brocade suit, his moustache stylishly thin. It all would have been pleasant enough except for the girl in the background: bedraggled and poor, she had only a broom to lean on for support. Kathmiya just knew she was the bride’s poor cousin.
Or maybe her sister.
A burning guilt told Kathmiya she never should have taken a break from scraping the bitter remnants of Turkish coffee from the depths of her employer’s cups.
Work was her only absolution, and the entire place sparkled when she left that weekend for home.
They got a very good bride-price for me,” Fatimah bragged, pivoting toward her sister with a merry aggressiveness.
“Will Abuyah buy a buffalo?” Kathmiya asked spitefully. It was already obvious from the crate of arak bottles in back of the hut that Ali hadn’t invested the bride-price wisely.
“We don’t need an animal,” Fatimah replied smartly, “now that I am getting married and you’re not a burden on the rest of us anymore.”
Kathmiya sought refuge from the hurt in an old memory. Very faded, but cherished like a favorite blanket, she called up the time that Uncle Haider had said Ali should be feeding her more meat. Such a nothing little comment but it had sustained her over the years. Except that as always, her uncle played the role her father should have.
That evening, Kathmiya watched Fatimah grandly march into their home for her last night on that precious bed she had sworn Kathmiya would never inherit.
Taking in the waist of the turquoise dress she’d be wearing the next day, Kathmiya tried to tell herself that life in Basra wasn’t so bad. But each silent attempt at encouragement just reminded her how badly she needed cheering. Don’t be sad, she thought, but that only made her feel worse. Soon she couldn’t see the needle because her eyes were too wet.
Basra was a strange prison of brick walls and artificial light. People either stared or ignored her, except for Shafiq, but her fleeting moment of fun with him taught her never to be caught like that again, up where her employer could knock her down. The only safe position was flat on the ground, where she couldn’t be pushed any further.
She could escape the fortress in Basra if only she could marry in the marshes.
Preparing to face the ceremony the next day, she felt her breath turn to sobs as confusion about her father metastasized into resentment. Ali loved Fatimah with a natural affection that manifested itself in ways large, like finding her a husband, and small, like holding her hand as she waded through the marshes to refill their water pitcher.
Ali never held Kathmiya’s hand. The walls in the marshes might be soft reeds where Basra had hard bricks, but the barrier between her and her father was more impenetrable than either.
The day of the wedding, Fatimah’s fine hair was combed neatly and then twisted into two spirals that crossed in front of her neck and draped back over her shoulders. Although she had spent most of her young life patting buffalo dung into flat discs, she easily rose to the role of bride, stepping regally into an elegant stretch canoe surrounded by the trappings of marriage: new cushions, woven bedding and clay pots.
Following in a plain canoe wearing someone else’s cast-off dress, Kathmiya still attracted more looks than the bride-to-be. The banks of the river were lined with her relatives and other tribespeople, probably just watching out of curiosity, but Kathmiya felt like they were staring at the odd younger sister who had been banished to Basra.
Entering the home of the local sheikh who was hosting the feast, Kathmiya was astounded by its magnificence. Standing over fifteen feet high at the apex, with stout poles down the spine and a carpet of woven reed mats on the floor, the building was as magnificent as any she had ever seen, including those in Basra. Square and diamond shapes cut out of the walls acted like stained-glass windows, reflecting nature’s colors instead of painted ones.
A sheep had been slaughtered in honor of the bride and groom. Meat dishes, along with a great spread of fish, rice breads and even juices, were laid out on clean mats. The women crowded inside while the men, who had already raided the food, danced on the dry ground outside as drummers pounded out rhythms to keep the party going.
Kathmiya had promised herself not to think about her own wedding until it was closer at hand; she didn’t want to scare away her good fortune. But she couldn’t help but hope that she would be next.
“Will my ceremony be as nice?” she whispered to her mother.
“What?” Jamila had not heard the soft appeal over the sounds of the party. Or maybe she just didn’t have an answer.
Her mother’s blank response punctured Kathmiya’s hopes, and she was immediately sorry she’d asked. So she concentrated hard. Maybe if she could just be happy for Fatimah, could really celebrate her sister, she would be able to enjoy the same fortune.
Kathmiya’s attempt to be cheerful didn’t hold for long, though. The more she took in the sight of the lavish wedding, the more obvious it was that Ali didn’t care about her. We get Kathmiya’s salary, and we don’t have to feed her because she works as a sleep-in maid. As if they could barely afford a meal for her, when Fatimah was having the biggest wedding in memory.
The singing rang in Kathmiya’s ears, the stomping of the dancing men beat at her heart, and for the first time ever she missed her lonely life in the city, where at least she was accepted, if only as the maid.
She watched the rowdy men waving daggers and sticks over their heads as they shuffled and jumped on the dusty ground of the sheikh’s luxuriously dry compound. Kathmiya wanted to like her father, but confronted with the sight of Ali weaving through the crowd, she felt only an empty contempt.
Then she saw Uncle Haider through the gaps in the woven reeds that made the walls. He was leaning down to speak to someone, looking both earnest and commanding. Fun even. She wished—not with rebellious anger or even guilt, but only with longing because she needed someone kind—that her father had been more like his brother.
A chant rose up from the crowd. “Now, NOW!”
The bridegroom was ready for his wife. Jamila grabbed a flushed Fatimah by the arm.
“Can I come?” Kathmiya asked.
“No!” Jamila refused.
“Why not?” Fatimah said generously, or maybe just imperiously, strutting ahead.
Kathmiya whispered to her mother, “It may be my only chance to see…”
It had been a bluff, the terrible statement. Of course Kathmiya expected to marry someday. But Jamila just looked horrified, as though to ask, How do you know?
Her black eyes at once accusing and scared, Kathmiya responded with a penetrating stare: What do you mean, how do I know?
Jamila broke the silent exchange. “Of course you’ll be married someday.” They were hurrying toward the shelter where the bride and groom would spend the next week sequestered from the rest of the tribe.
“Come along and see.” Jamila was suddenly, even contritely, gentle. Kathmiya tried to believe she’d been invited so she could be prepared for her own wedding night, and not because it might be her only opportunity to witness one.
In the bedroom of the new couple, she watched as the groom’s mother helped Jamila remove Fatimah’s fresh underpants and hold her down while her husband wrapped his index finger in a white cloth. She was not the only witness; there were six other female relatives in the room, including a woman with a blunt knife in one hand and a live chicken in the other.
“What are they for?” Kathmiya asked, fascinated. The squawking bird, the chaos of all those people, none of it seemed to suit the solemnity of the moment.
“You’ll see,” Jamila said.
“But…a chicken?” Kathmiya persisted. Nothing was ever explained. Not this time either. Jamila stayed quiet.
Fatimah was relishing her reign as queen of the moment, and didn’t flinch when her husband poked his finger between her legs and then pulled it back to show blood on the small rag.
“Fine,” said his mother, examining the pink spots.
“But just to be sure,” Jamila added, with a nod to the knife-wielding woman.
Kathmiya had killed her share of chickens by snapping their necks, but she recoiled when the woman took a razor to the bird’s flesh.
When the husband dipped his finger in the warm blood, Kathmiya understood. Of course. Fatimah was a perfect virgin but this would underscore the proof. The cloth was good and drenched in poultry blood when her husband ran outside to show the crowd.
The sound of cheers rose up. Fatimah glowed. Kathmiya tried to feel happy for her sister, not sorry for herself.
“A woman’s purity is her most cherished possession,” Jamila said quietly, nodding at the dead bird. “We care so much, we gladly kill for it.”
“Kill chickens, or girls too?” Kathmiya asked saucily. She already knew they gladly killed both.
Jamila didn’t tolerate the insolence. She picked up the bloodstained knife and wiped it on Kathmiya’s wrist, grazing her flesh with the sharp end. “If you lose your virginity, you will never marry, because you will be dead.”
Kathmiya was impudent enough to shrug off the dramatic gesture. But she would never be so stupid as to give up her virtue only to be slaughtered like a helpless bird.