Chapter 15

At midday, Margaret and Ahmed were in a borrowed car, driving toward Jabal Amman, the main hill of the city. The car had no air conditioning; the windows were down, creating a swirling wind tunnel. Still, Margaret was alone with Ahmed, and for that she was thankful. It was only their second day in Jordan, when normally they would be swept up in the throes of family reconnection.

She had hesitated to leave Leena behind at Fatma’s, where dangers lurked everywhere: hard surfaces, stairs with no railings, and a roof where the children played. Margaret told herself Leena was older now and Jenin would keep an eye on her. Margaret brought her attention back to Ahmed, who was listing hotels they might stay at.

“Honey,” she said. “You told me you made reservations.”

“I meant to.” Ahmed honked at a driver trying to squeeze in front of him.

She exhaled. It seemed each time they came to Jordan, Ahmed reverted back to some disorganized version of himself.

They entered the first traffic circle and his phone rang. He answered in Arabic and chattered away as he negotiated the curves with taxis and SUVs jostling for control, disregarding all concepts of lanes and turn-taking. When Ahmed put his phone down, Margaret remembered something she wanted to do. “While we’re here, I want to go to the ballad, that downtown souk area, I’d like to get a few things.” She began counting on her fingers. “Embroidery, pottery—”

“There’s been a change in plans.” Ahmed stuck his arm out the window to signal. “My mom is on her way to Aunt Anysa’s. I need to be there.”

Margaret groaned. “Oh, just take me back to Fatma’s then.”

“Sorry, honey. There’s no time. They’re heading there now.”

“Oh, God.” Margaret slunk down in her seat.

Ahmed made a U-turn at the next traffic circle. As he navigated the cars merging from both sides, he talked about Nadia and how determined she was to marry Mohammed.

“What caused this whole problem anyway?” Margaret asked.

Ahmed explained. It came down to Mohammed’s breach of agreement. There was no choice but to call it off. How could Nadia marry a man still married to his first wife?

All of this made sense. For once, Margaret agreed with the mother. “So why’s the family going to see Aunt Anysa?”

“So my mother can say she’s sorry.”

“I thought there was no choice but to end the engagement?”

“We have to finish this problem.”

“Your mother’s doing what’s best for her daughter.”

Ahmed didn’t reply; he simply drove on. At last, they entered a tidy street, far from the bustle and grime of Fatma’s neighborhood. Here, the villas were larger—no worn out gates or patched cement walls.

“This is it.” Ahmed parked.

Margaret stepped out and looked through the wrought iron gate at the classic stone villa. “Whose house is this exactly?”

“Mohammed’s uncle.” Ahmed pressed the bell.

Inside the formal salon, the mother, Abu Ra’id, and Khalid were already there with unease on their faces. Margaret and Ahmed took seats in the circle of armchairs pushed against the wall. She greeted the mother, who was pale and fidgeting.

A polished-looking Arab woman in a pastel suit and headscarf entered with a tray of juice glasses. Margaret glanced down at her own cotton blouse and jeans. Dressed wrong again.

Margaret reached for her glass and Ahmed touched her arm. “No,” he whispered. “We don’t drink anything until we reach an agreement.”

Margaret looked around. The juice glasses sat untouched. The oversized armchairs, which seemed inviting at first, now appeared garish—designed to impress, not for comfort. As beads of moisture formed on her juice glass, she waited for something to happen.

An older, heavyset man entered, his face stern. Everyone stood, and he shook hands with the men. His beard was long and thick and had to be for religious purposes. Passing through his plump fingers were a set of enormous prayer beads, their tassel dangling toward the floor. Then Margaret realized: he was the brother of Aunt Anysa’s late husband, Mohammed’s uncle.

Everyone sat, and the debate started. Even though Margaret could get by with Arabic small talk, she was lost in a group discussion—always two topics behind and unable to tell where one word ended and the next began. She restrained herself from asking Ahmed what was going on, as he, like everyone else, was gripped by the words of the bearded man.

On the walls were the standard Qur’anic passages, hung so high that any reader would strain his neck trying to read them. Crystal ashtrays were scattered about, but there wasn’t much else to look at. The juice glasses remained untouched, and the stress level rose. The mother didn’t speak but sat with her arms crossed, looking away, clearly pained by it all.

The woman in the suit reappeared, this time with Turkish coffee. Without asking who wanted any, she placed a cup in front of each person. Margaret’s coffee had a frothy swirl and a delicate cardamom aroma. Without thinking, she reached for the cup. Ahmed, who must have seen her from the corner of his eye, gently swatted her arm. She pulled back and glanced around the room. No one was drinking.

The bearded man got up to leave. As soon as he was gone, frantic whispering started between the mother, Khalid, and Ahmed.

Margaret turned to her husband. “What’s going on?”

He waved his hand impatiently. “Not now.”

He was a different person in Jordan, utterly fixated on everyone else’s troubles yet oblivious to his own wife. Being in Jordan was an instructive glimpse into who Ahmed really was—a man obsessed with taking care of his relatives. So insistent and tiresome.

Margaret retreated into thoughts of their life in Seattle and their home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Jordan was clearly not the place for her. She could barely tolerate the current visit, newly confirming that she wasn’t meant to live in an Arab country. How could she maintain her sanity amidst their traditional ways? She could no longer remember what she had loved about the culture. Besides, she felt no more need for exotic adventure, preferring just to stay home. She counted the days until they would fly back.

The bearded man reappeared with a young man. It was Mohammed, tall and well-dressed, youthful and charismatic. It was no wonder Nadia wanted him. He sat, then spoke, and they all listened. His tone was confident and firm, his gestures insistent. Several times he stressed the word wallahi, which Margaret understood as I really mean it. The bearded man fingered his prayer beads and nodded in agreement.

Mohammed stood, said something further, and left the salon. When he reappeared, his mother Anysa was next to him. She assumed the same expression as her sister: face frowning and chin jutted upward.

Margaret looked over at Ahmed, who was comforting his mother. He talked to her like he was the parent and she the child. It appeared that a similar exchange was occurring between Mohammed and Anysa.

Finally, they spoke directly to each other, the two women, so clearly sisters with their identical expressions and gestures. After just a few words, they were yelling, fighting for the upper hand. Margaret was instantly roused. The mother stood and pointed her finger at her sister. Aunt Anysa, the larger and rounder of the two, also stood. She shouted back, her hands on her hips and beads of sweat popping out on her brow. The family listened with stunned expressions as remarks flew between the sisters, accusations and insults.

Then all at once, they stopped and stared at each other. Silence settled on the room, and Margaret held her breath.

At last, the mother started talking, her voice strained. Aunt Anysa replied, her tone softened. The next moment, the two women were embracing. Everyone smiled and looked relieved. “Alhamdulillah,” the room murmured.

“What happened?” Margaret asked Ahmed.

“You can drink your juice.” He smiled. “The engagement’s back on.”

“Thank God.” Margaret stood up to stretch her legs.

“Where are you going?” Ahmed asked.

“Aren’t we leaving now?”

“No, now we’re going to visit.”

They pulled away from the iron gate, and Ahmed told Margaret they would stop at a few hotels on the way back to Fatma’s. What a relief he hadn’t forgotten about this matter amidst the family drama. As he drove, he recounted the highlights of the scene in the salon: how his mother said she was sorry for kicking her sister out of the house, how Aunt Anysa apologized for saying her son was too good for Nadia, how Mohammed swore on the soul of his dead father that he would divorce his first wife.

Ahmed said, “Whatever makes my mother happy.”

“What about Nadia?”

“This is what she wanted.”

Ahmed reached the hotel, and they left the car with the valet. Inside, the lobby was large but modest, with a simple café. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll see if they have any rooms.”

The place was busy; guests were coming and going. Was it possible they could find two rooms during tourist season? As Margaret waited, she glanced over at Ahmed, who was handing his credit card to the clerk. He smiled at Margaret and gave her a thumbs-up.

She told herself to stop being so impatient with him. He really was trying. Granted, he wanted to make his mother and sister happy, but he wanted to please her, too.

He walked toward her. “We have two adjoining rooms, one for us and one for the kids.”

“How’d we get so lucky?”

“Someone canceled.” He clicked his tongue. “See, honey? Sometimes it pays to wait until the last minute.”

Margaret didn’t argue but followed him to the elevator. Their room was basic but more than adequate. She admired the real toilet and touched the fresh white towels.

“Let’s go to that lobby café,” Ahmed said. “It could be our last chance to be alone.”

The café was well-lit and filled with European families and Arab businessmen. Gigantic brass cooking spoons decorated the walls. The waiter, wearing a vest and a red fez, appeared with their drinks: tea for Ahmed and for Margaret, fresh mint lemonade.

“We’ll eat breakfast here every day,” Ahmed said.

She nodded just as the waiter delivered a large platter of mixed fatayer. They ate a few of the savory pastries filled with cheese and spinach.

Ahmed began arranging and rearranging the parsley garnish, then said finally, “I need to tell you something.”

Oh no. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Why else would he have brought her to a restaurant, just the two of them, when all the family was back at Fatma’s eating green mulukhiyya over rice?

“Do you remember that job in the UAE?”

Margaret covered her face with her hands, then let them drop in her lap and gazed sadly at her husband. Why had she been so foolish to think this problem would go away?

Ahmed looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to reply. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“What do you want me to say?” She was surprised by her own calm.

“I have an interview the day after Nadia’s party. I’ll be gone two days, three at the most.”

“When did you make these plans?” This was not the question she wanted to ask.

“I’d almost given up, but they called me today.”

Ah, yes, his phone call that morning. “What about me and the children?” Margaret asked.

“You and the kids will stay at the hotel.”

She looked away, her eyes restlessly roving the walls. The gigantic brass utensils looked absurd and gave the impression of a bogus Arab-themed décor. She turned back to Ahmed and brought his face into focus. She spoke softly. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Abu Ra’id can pick you up each morning and bring you to Fatma’s.”

“So everyone knows?”

“Only you. You’re the first to know.”

Then her question arrived, her tone flat. “Why are you determined to ruin our lives?”

Ahmed leaned across the table. “Just let me see what happens. This is my chance.”

“Yes. Your chance.”

“It’s a chance for all of us.”

“Don’t pretend like you know what you’re asking of me.” Her calm gave way to a breathlessness that filled her chest. She had more to say but could not find her voice.

Ahmed stared down and studied his empty tea glass as if it foretold their future. As they sat in silence, Margaret looked at their situation as though from far away, seeing their impasse from a great distance. She knew Ahmed wasn’t going to acknowledge any more of what she had said. He opted to ignore her words, just as he ignored the true issue at hand.

After twenty years of marriage, they were moving in opposite directions. And neither one cared to get back on the same path.