If Shafiq were the king or the regent or the ruler or the president or the colonial power or whoever was in charge, his first decree would be that teenaged boys should marry before girls, not the other way around.
Because there they were again, thanks to the marriage broker, sending another one of his sisters out of the house and into a matrimonial bed, when he was the one with all the curiosity.
The groom-to-be was one Moshe Khabazza, a very fancy individual, to hear the parents brag. At their house, Shafiq was subjected to an unending monologue about the Great Virtues of Moshe.
“He graduated top in his class,” Moshe’s mother repeated for the third time.
“Electrical engineering, from one of the best schools in India,” the father echoed. Shafiq practically expected Moshe’s parents to promise their son would end the Second World War, cure malaria and dump all the jinn into the Mediterranean Sea without even hurting the fish.
He picked up a magazine and stared at a picture of Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill surrounded by men in uniform at a place called Yalta.
After his family left, Roobain sounded as put off about Moshe as Shafiq felt. “They talked too much. And did you hear what they said about earning a living?”
“‘The only way to make real money is through gambling or inheritance,’” Naji repeated. “Bad sign.”
After his next encounter with his potential son-in-law, Roobain decided to cancel the match. “Came to the warehouse and here is the first thing he said: ‘All this and the dowry is still so small?’”
Wow. It was like bringing dung to a party instead of pastry. Nothing could be more offensive to Shafiq’s father, who always taught his children that a dinar earned honestly went a long way.
“But the electrical engineering…” Shafiq’s mother tried.
“I don’t care if he’s the king of Persia,” Roobain spat. “Naji’s right: the family has no values.”
After hearing about the cancellation, the marriage broker insisted they go over for one last visit with the Khabazzas. Approaching the house in the warm evening, Shafiq was grabbed by a manic energy in the air. And when the door opened, there was the source: dozens of guests, swarming around a buffet, forks full of herbed rice, succulent meats, salty lettuce leaves.
Before Shafiq’s family could back out, Moshe’s father threw one arm around Roobain and the other over Marcelle’s slender shoulders and pressed them toward the living room filled with couches and chairs and all those guests who had been raiding the spread of food.
“Please, please,” the father quieted the room. “I present to you my beautiful future daughter-in-law!”
The men cheered. The women ululated. Marcelle looked fascinated. And Shafiq’s parents stared in ashen shock.
“In honor of my new family, I present this gold necklace my son has bought for his lovely bride!”
Moshe, who had stringy fair hair and a sniveling manner, stepped up to drape a chain over Marcelle’s neck. Something like a yoke.
“What do we do?” Shafiq’s mother whispered.
“We stop this,” his father said.
But she was adamant. “A broken engagement would ruin her.”
So there it was. The frightened teenaged girl would marry some lout who was soaking the family for a bigger dowry, while Shafiq could barely spend time alone with Kathmiya, let alone dream of touching her.
It would be good to be king, or president, or colonial power, or whoever took charge once the war ended. But even that might not be enough.
“Marcelle’s getting married,” Shafiq told Omar later that week. They were riding along the Corniche river walk, the smell of kerosene from the lanterns on each of their bicycles following them everywhere.
“What?” Omar stopped with a jerk.
Shafiq stared. “What?”
“Marcelle?” Omar repeated, looking pained, then embarrassed, then away.
It hit Shafiq like a punch in the gut: Omar had an unnatural interest in his sister.
“Come on,” he said, pedaling ahead so that they wouldn’t have to be near each other in that stupid, awkward moment.
Shafiq pictured Marcelle, just his sister with soft black hair and playful eyes. He remembered her as a young girl running under the legs of camels when caravans stopped to drink from among the many man-made canals, used to water date palms, that fed off of the estuary running in front of the house.
“This way.” Shafiq led Omar to the wide road headed toward the governor’s mansion where they could speed up. Maybe they could even go fast enough to shake off the awful desire that consumed their young bodies. They both pedaled hard.
Shafiq could picture the camels, who always looked proud even though they were loaded with giant date palm fronds, dried and dead and destined to be burned as firewood, while the little girl skipped underneath.
As the boys sped toward the official residence, its guards now coming into view, Shafiq thought of the camel handlers, who smiled when they saw Marcelle playing. She was just a kid, then and now.
Shafiq sped faster, revolted by the thought that anyone, even—maybe especially—Omar, would have forbidden thoughts about Marcelle.
“Watch it!” Omar shouted, and Shafiq swerved to miss a Model T Ford that had jumped out of nowhere into his path.
“Thanks!” But even as he was offended, Shafiq was also relieved not to be the only one who grappled with this dreadful desire. He wanted to turn around and tell Omar everything about Kathmiya, even if that meant he would have to hear some version about Marcelle.
Omar caught up with Shafiq, his smile as wide as ever. “I’m happy for your parents—they must be so glad, right?” he said. It was a great effort at covering his unintended confession.
Shafiq figured Omar was right to pretend nothing was going on. Instead of admitting to any crush, he told Omar about the trick engagement as they jumped off the bikes and started walking through the café-lined streets.
“We should get revenge!” Omar was a man on a mission, and if it had anything to do with selling pigeons or taming desire, Shafiq was in.
“Sure, but how?” There would be no way to convince his parents to call off the engagement, and if he ever did, Marcelle would be unmarriageable, miserable, as ruined as a glass smashed at a wedding.
“I don’t know, but let’s figure it out.”
It sounded like trouble to Shafiq, but trouble plus Omar usually equaled success. “Let’s,” he said.
And he pretty much forgave Omar for thinking about Marcelle. No difference between that and his own impossible, obsessive dreams for Kathmiya.
They were in Salim’s front yard soaking up the yellow light of day when Kathmiya announced her news. “I’m getting married,” she told Shafiq.
“Well, you know,” he stammered, trying to calm his speeding pulse. “Mabruk. Congratulations.”
He wished hard it would rain. If his life were a movie, there’d be dark clouds and pelting storms. Basra’s clear, inspiring skies just showed how little his own moods mattered.
Instead of going home, he went to Omar’s, but no one was there except the father. “Should I read to you?” Shafiq asked. Poetry was the only medium that had a shot at untangling this mess.
Hajji Abdullah asked to hear “A Song of Death.” As Shafiq read the verse, the old man dropped off to sleep.
Shafiq turned to “A Life of Love,” but Omar came in before he could read it. And even though they both needed whatever answers Khalil Gibran’s verse held, Shafiq just closed the book.
“Carefully,” Omar cautioned.
“I know,” Shafiq answered, wrapping it up gently.
“What do you say we get this guy who’s trying to infiltrate your family?”
“Sure.” Better to ruin someone else’s chances than brood on the death of his own.