8

Nancy Ajram’s voice filled the hall: “Dearest, come close, feast your eyes on me.” The top Arab pop star warbled as a crowd of girls and women undulated in the middle of the dance floor.

This wasn’t merely belly dancing but entire bodies moving every which way, back and forth, whirling, bobbing, and weaving. The younger girls lifted up their hair with both hands. With languorous eyes they swung their hips with consummate skill. They shook their shoulders, thrusting forward the daring cleavage of their evening gowns. Their elders, thick of thigh and round of belly, tempered by age and many pregnancies, danced modestly, letting their hands follow the rhythm of the song.

As if on cue, a tight circle formed around Samia. The sequined dress that barely reached her knees looked as if it were painted on her body. She was small, svelte; round after round of dieting and long sessions at the slimming centre had kept her relatively fit, at least in the eyes of most of the ladies who knew her. She danced at the centre of the group, like a squirming earthworm surrounded by hungry beetles. Her limber body swayed from left to right as her eyes, caked with kohl and mascara, darted furtively in all directions.

The other women’s gazes dripped jealousy, but their forced smiles, their outbursts of laughter, their clapping, and their flattering banter created a joyous, animated atmosphere. Samia kept on spinning and thrusting her shoulders forward. It was as if she’d been transported back in time, to Kuwait twenty years ago.

SHE WAS STUDYING English then, and she would dance with her girlfriends and dream of a Prince Charming who would carry her away to a wonderful life, far beyond the surrounding desert and the social suffocation of everyday existence. Her choice of English was the first step in drawing closer to the West. She was determined to acquire the tools that would help her break free from this land that was killing her softly day by day. The only thing that gave her the illusion of freedom was the monthly get-togethers at the home of one or another of her girlfriends.

She and her friends would dance, put on extravagant makeup, smoke a few furtive cigarettes, and then sit down to watch an Egyptian tearjerker. For all her escapades, Samia considered herself a good Muslim. She wore a headscarf and prayed, though not always regularly (there were days when she felt too tired or felt her faith a bit weak). Deep down she knew those things were only extravagances, and that she was a good girl at heart.

When she finally found a husband, things would be different. Finding that husband had become her obsession. Her parents wanted her to marry a Palestinian, as her cousins had done. But Samia dreamed of a Lebanese man, an Arab Don Juan who would whisper in her ear with a cultivated accent, who would cover her with diamonds, who would make her laugh — in a word, someone who would bring her happiness. She wanted a well-mannered man, handsome, wealthy, and of a good family. Unfortunately, among all the sons of the Palestinian families they knew, there was no such person. They were ugly, too dark, too skinny, too fat, too serious, too religious, sons of families that weren’t as well off as she would like.

THE CIRCLE OF dancing women had expanded. Samia was the star of the evening. Her eyes gleamed, her breath came in gasps as she spun round and round. She hoped she’d succeeded in making all the other guests green with envy. She couldn’t be entirely certain, but in the days following this marriage ceremony she would know for sure. The morning get-togethers over steaming freshly brewed Turkish coffee would quickly give her an answer. Tongues would be loosened and the gossip would be flying thick and fast from house to house.

The ceremony was in honour of the wedding of her friend Suzie’s daughter to an Egyptian of Palestinian origin. Little Dina, the bride, was perched atop a broad armchair decorated with artificial flowers and pink and purple balloons. She’d had her hair cut in a pageboy and wore a gown specially imported from Dubai for the occasion. Malicious rumours had had Dina just about ready to move in with her boyfriend, John, a half-Irish Quebecer, but Suzie, in a last-ditch attempt to change her daughter’s mind, had introduced her to the son of a friend.

It was love at first sight, exactly who Dina was looking for: a Westernized young man who spoke perfect English, was slightly effeminate, appeared not to be excessively intelligent, and could tell funny stories that made people laugh until they cried.

“At least he’s a Muslim,” repeated Suzie with a contented air. Then she added, with a burst of laughter, “Poor John — and he’s not even circumcised!”

She was proud to have brought Dina back to the straight path, to marry her to a Muslim, not to mention a Palestinian. A divine gift if ever there was one. The first thing she did was call her sister, who was living in Jordan, and ask her to sacrifice a lamb and distribute the meat to the poor. It was a promise she’d made in her prayers, and they had been answered.

Dina never saw John again, and a few months later everything was ready for the marriage. Those weeks and months had been dreamlike. So much had happened in her life in such a short time. She was a new woman. Her fine words to her friends, warning them not to emulate their mothers, evaporated in the heady atmosphere of the approaching wedding. Her criticisms of tradition fell silent. Dina had surrendered to the invisible hand that with every passing day pulled her closer to her mother and to her roots. With a distant look on her face, an uncertain smile on her lips, she greeted the guests who filed past her with a nod. She had lost the battle against her mother and against her own principles, but tonight all she wanted to do was forget her defeat and turn the page. This was a time not for regret but for celebration. Dina stood up, and a handful of older ladies stared with disapproval as she too began to move to the music.

From across the room Lama watched the beautiful people. She knew most of the women would cover their hair and put on long garments that concealed their cleavage before leaving the reception hall. If a touch of makeup remained on their cheeks and eyelids, a hint of lipstick on their mouths, well, that was too bad. It was night, and no man would see them except for the husbands who came to pick them up.

Lama felt terrible about the way her mother was dancing. What a shameful way to behave! How she hated the hypocrisy. And to top it off, she was still in shock that Dina had decided overnight to drop John, her boyfriend, and fling herself into a new adventure. Did Dina really love her new husband? How could she turn her back on someone she loved one day and embrace a lifestyle she’d always despised the next? Dina, hair dyed blonde and dripping with flashy jewellery that the sister and mother of her new husband had draped around her wrists and neck, didn’t seem worried in the least by the astonishment, the bedazzlement of the guests.

“What a mess,” Lama sighed, over and over. Her mother and two sisters were still dancing. She picked up a morsel of baklava and popped it into her mouth. The aroma of rosewater and the strong taste of honey brought a grimace to her face. She could hardly wait for the party to end.