Failure to Comply
The doorbell rang. They’d finally arrived.
We went out to receive him. He seemed tense, with clenched fists. A strange man was with him.
“Hello Faris. Please come in.”
Faris frowned. “Who are you?”
“This is Ahmad,” I interrupted. “My friend Hayat’s husband.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said with a frown. He crossed the threshold with rushed steps; I smiled at him and didn’t ask how he was. He looked like he was about to blow up in my face.
“You’re still smiling?”
“Are you okay?”
“Horrible. You?”
I was embarrassed to say “Fine,” so I kept quiet. He grabbed my blouse with his fingers. “Where’s your abaya?” he whispered, nearly hissing.
I laughed. He was clinging to his illusions of control to the last, this man.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Mr. Abu Riyad, attorney.”
“You brought a lawyer?”
“And you brought them . . .”
“They’re friends.”
“Bad influences.”
Ahmad invited everyone to come in. He opened the door and led the two men to the living room. Hayat had made some tea and sat close to me. She was giving me all of her strength.
Faris sat next to his lawyer and looked at me with his profound eyes.
“Won’t you serve me some tea?”
I smiled cheerfully. Everything this husband did to convince himself that he held absolute authority made me feel my strength. I got up from my place and gave him and Abu Riyad some tea. It was silent for a couple of minutes. Ahmad resumed the conversation.
“Thank you for accepting the invitation, Faris. I hope we can reach final a solution to the problem. Fatima here . . .”
“Don’t speak for my wife. You have no legal capacity in this matter. We should have met at my house or at her family’s house, but thanks to her stubbornness . . .”
“Meet you at your house so you can lock me inside and put an end to the problem?” My question spilled from my mouth, inflammatory and hot. “You can’t hurt me in Ahmad’s house.”
“Just so you know, I’m not Saqr. It seems you’re still confused about that. Maybe you’ve forgotten to take your medication.”
Hayat interrupted. “Fatima was taking alprazolam without a prescription and you encouraged her to continue?”
“First, Fatima is ill. Second, this is none of your business.”
I interrupted: “You’re insulting them in their home.”
“You’re the one who started with the insults. If it weren’t for you we wouldn’t be here. In their home.”
“Everyone!” Abu Riyad cut us off. “I suggest we stop quarreling over secondary matters and discuss the heart of the problem.”
Ahmad nodded.
Abu Riyad continued: “What I understand from my client is that his wife, Fatima, has been absent from the marital home for two weeks and refuses to return.”
“That’s correct,” I confirmed.
“I’m here today to tell Fatima that my client is prepared to file a case against her for failure to comply with her duty of obedience to her husband if she doesn’t return with him to the marital home today.”
Failure to comply. Very nice, that expression.
“According to my knowledge of the law,” Ahmad said, “which is of course very limited, sir, Faris can file this case and can establish his wife’s disobedience, but he can’t enforce the ruling. In short, no one has the right to force Fatima to return to the marital home against her will.”
“That’s correct, but this also means she will lose all her marital rights.”
“He can keep the money,” I commented, crossing one leg over the other. Then I looked at Faris and added, “I could have filed for a divorce for damages from the beginning. I didn’t. I was hoping we’d reach a mutual agreement to divorce.”
“I am not in agreement!” cried Faris. “I am not asking you for anything other than my rights as your husband. Far from it.”
“I don’t want to be your wife, so don’t talk to me about the rights tied up with that.”
“You became my wife and that’s that.”
“By a scratch-and-win card.”
He pointed at me and yelled, “By a trap! A trap planted by your brother’s wife. She told my family that you were the perfect girl for me. Doesn’t study, doesn’t work, doesn’t want much. After we got married, surprise! I find out she wants to study and work—turns out she’s a poet too! That’s just what I needed, I swear!”
“It was a mistake from the beginning, then. Correct it and divorce me.”
He went off like a gun. “This is a scandal! Everyone is asking about you and I don’t know what to say. ‘She’s busy, she traveled, she’s wandering around Dubai’s shopping malls, she’s visiting her family in Bahrain. . . .’ Every day I lie to cover up your recklessness in hopes that you’ll come back to your senses, come back to your home! The neighbors are asking about your missing car, my mother scolds me because I visit her alone! My sisters are inundating me with questions. Every day that goes by the scandal gets bigger. I don’t deserve all this. I’m a nice man and a good husband. I’ve been patient with you and your illnesses and pills and medications and infertility and frigidity. I’ve been patient and faithful to you, and you leave home like this, you run away like a coward. . . .”
“You’re right. I’m infertile and sick and crazy and frigid and disobedient. You have all the grounds required to divorce me without anyone blaming you for it.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you talking about divorce as if we’re talking about buying bread?”
“I want one.”
“I don’t.”
“You want a woman who doesn’t want you?”
“My wife doesn’t know what she wants. She’s crazy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her,” interjected Hayat, with her excessive motherliness. She couldn’t keep herself from saying something.
“Divorce me, Faris,” I continued. “I divorced you fourteen days ago.”
“Women cannot divorce,” Abu Riyad commented. “Women must petition a judge to grant a khula releasing the wife from the marriage for pecuniary compensation.”
The expression shone in my mind: khula! Like someone stumbling upon an emergency exit. Pull to release.
“How much?”
“For what?”
“A khula. How much?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“Where would you get the money anyway?”
“I’ll take out a loan. I have a salary and I can take out a loan. I’ll give you back all your dinars. Every dinar you paid to Saqr to acquire ownership of me, believing that it’s your right to dictate what my life should be like. If you don’t divorce me I will seek a khula.”
His features looked troubled and his face trembled. “Are you serious, Fatima?”
For a moment I felt sorry for him. I wanted to pat him on the shoulder and assuage his fear. I sighed deeply. “Could we have some time alone?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Ahmad, turning to the attorney. “Come along, sir, let’s take a walk in the garden.”
Hayat whispered that she’d be nearby.