First Comes Marriage Page 8

  “I know what I'd like to be to you.”

  “You do?” I asked.

  “I do, and in order for me to become that person, we're going to have to get our parents involved.”

  I sat up straighter in my desk chair. This would happen, and I felt a sudden thrill—not of love but of control. My life would follow the script I'd always imagined—engaged and married and with kids before the ripe, old age of twenty-five.

  Hadi waited for Mrs. Ridha to leave on a trip to Iran to visit an important Shia shrine with Mama and Lina, and then he talked to his father. Hadi knew that his father was far too religious to resist an appeal to his Islamic duty to get married. Nearly all Muslim scholars encourage parents to help their children marry. This, they teach, is the best way to keep them on a straight path.

  After a weekend with his father, Hadi called me in my dorm room and told me that his father planned to ask my father for my hand when they came to visit for the Thanksgiving holiday coinciding with Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha's return. As much as I wanted to share this news with Mama, I couldn't imagine shouting that kind of information into a crackly overseas telephone line, and so I spent the next few weeks holding onto this information with the pride of newfound adulthood instead. I walked around campus thinking how very grown-up of me it was to be getting engaged, how very mature of me it was to be so ready for marriage five months after graduating from high school.

  On the day of Mama, Lina, and Mrs. Ridha's arrival, Baba picked me up from school on his way to the airport. My weekend visits had felt haunted by Mama and Lina's absence, and I couldn't wait to see them. But during the car ride home, I found myself regarding them all, with the exception of Lina, warily and with a pounding sense of guilt. I was not accustomed to knowing more about future events than the adults in the room, and this knowledge felt like some sort of betrayal.

  Dr. Ridha, Hadi, and his brother, Amjad, drove through the night and arrived at my parents’ house before dawn on Thanksgiving morning. When I woke up, Dr. Ridha was leaning against the upstairs banister, waiting for his wife to finish up in the bathroom. He perked up when he saw me leaving my bedroom, as if I was what he had been waiting for all this time. With his head, he motioned for me to join him in Lina's bedroom, where he and Mrs. Ridha were staying.

  Even though Dr. Ridha was of slightly less than average height and build, he was an imposing man. When he spoke, it was as if he were a judge issuing a verdict. He cleared his throat, paused to think, and then gave his ruling on the matter at hand. Now the thought of being alone to receive one of his declarations made me nervous.

  Closing the door behind him, Dr. Ridha said, “You know why we are here today.” His voice still rumbled with sleep, and his tone was too serious for his tousled hair and plaid pajamas.

  I nodded.

  “Do you have any objections?”

  A volcano of nerves erupted within me. Whenever I pictured how I'd become engaged, I imagined two steps: one, when the parents talked to each other, and two, when the boy asked me. I didn't expect Dr. Ridha to speak to me directly. I'd known Dr. Ridha my entire life, but as Hadi's sometimes stern, sometimes playful father. I had no idea how to act like an adult around him when the only person I'd ever been in his presence was a child.

  “No,” I answered.

  “You know we love you,” he said and kissed me on both of my cheeks, his bristly mustache brushing against my face. This token of affection reassured me. See, I thought to myself, the Ridhas are happy. I'm happy. It's good to marry family friends.

  Shortly after Dr. Ridha and I spoke, I sought out my mother in the kitchen. I found her measuring rice into a bowl. A bubbling pot of lamb and eggplant stew simmered on the stove, and a pallid turkey thawed in the sink. I hovered close by, telling her about my conversation with Dr. Ridha. She didn't even have a chance to comment before Baba burst into the kitchen and hurried over to where we stood.

  “Come with me. I want to talk to both of you,” he said, his face flushed.

  Mama and I exchanged a knowing glance. On the inside, I shook like a hit piñata.

  On the ground floor, the only unoccupied room was the master bedroom. As soon as Mama and I entered, Baba closed the door so forcefully it sounded as if he'd slammed it.

  I sat on my parents’ pushed-together, adjustable twin beds and drew my knees up to my chest. What had I done? Baba was going to be sick. The color in his face had given way to a cloudy gray.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mama asked. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  “Huh?” he said, momentarily disoriented, and then, snapping back into the moment, he added, “No, I don't want to sit down. You see, Dr. Ridha asked us for Hudie, and I don't know what to tell him.”

  Still holding my knees, I began to rock. I dreamt of rocking myself straight through the mattress and into the ground. I knew! I knew all along that this was going to happen, and I did not warn the poor man. But what could I have said? As much as our religion extolled marriage, in my father's presence, I felt as if saying you wanted to get married was equal to saying you wanted to live with a man and have sex. The very prospect chilled me with shame. I would never say those words to him. Never.

  “So how did you answer?” Mama asked Baba, a hand on her hip.

  “I said I would have to ask Huda. Let me ask you something, Hudie, do you want to marry this boy?”

  I squirmed. With so much shame suddenly called up to the surface of my skin, I could only lament that I was being asked directly for my opinion, again. Why weren't our fathers behaving like the trope of an Arab dad, making arrangements for my future without consulting me? My mother never told me that in order to get married, I'd have to give my consent to my father and future father-in-law. Dear God, I prayed, spare me this awkwardness. Let me close my eyes and wake up with a diamond the size of a grape on my finger.

  “I don't know,” I said.

  “You see, she's too young. She doesn't want to get married now. You don't want to get married, do you, Hudie?”

  But I did want to get married. I wanted the satisfaction of having been plucked out of the marriage market before I'd even arrived. I wanted to tell my MSA friends that I was engaged and discuss weddings with them in the library. I wanted the love story I had been waiting for all these years to finally start—to have the flowers and plush toys I had watched girls get from their boyfriends all through high school, to have my first date, maybe my first kiss. I just didn't want to say any of those things to Baba.

  Mama shot me a look as if to say, “You're not helping,” but with my eyes, I pleaded, “You do something.”

  “Okay, dear, let's think about this. I already had Ibrahim by the time I was her age, and it isn't like they'd be getting married tomorrow. He's a nice boy, and we know his family. I don't think we'll ever know another family this well.”

  “Huh? But what about her cousin—”

  “No, Baba,” I said, suddenly finding my voice. In the Arab world, marriage among cousins was common if not expected, but this was a custom I had no intention of honoring. It was enough to deal with being the non-dating Muslim girl whose parents were distant cousins. I didn't want to spend the rest of my married life embarrassed by my relationship.

  “Why not?” Baba asked, surprised.

  “No, Baba,” I repeated.

  “How about if I tell him to give us more time?” he asked.

  “For what?” Mama said. “People ask for more time when they want to get to know more about the family. There is nothing more to know about these people. We've slept in their home. They've slept in ours.”

  “So what do you want me to tell them?”

  “Why don't you say, ‘Inshallah bihal khair,’” Mama said.

  God willing, it will be blessed. There was an ambiguity to this reply that eased Baba's tense shoulders, his furrowed brow.

  “Really, Hudie? Do you want me to tell them that?”

  Baba's eyes begged me for a definitive no, but I nodded. As much as I wa
nted to be Baba's little girl forever, I wanted to grow up, to finally be a woman with a man in my life, more.

  Before Baba could start carving the turkey, Dr. Ridha stood at the head of a dining table full of steaming dishes: eggplant stew; basmati rice topped with saffron; sweaty, stuffed grape leaves; hummus; baba ghanoush; glistening kibbeh; golden turkey; and mashed potatoes. He cleared his throat and said, “We've been friends with the Al-Marashi family for many years now, and we are so happy to announce the engagement of our children, Huda and Hadi.”

  Over our guests’ communal gasp of surprise, Dr. Ridha called Hadi and me up to the front of the room. There were pictures taken and a chorus of Mabrook all around. All this, just as Baba's head was replaced by a tomato bearing his exact features. Even the bald spot on top of his head turned red. His jaw dropped open, and his face twisted as if he was in enough pain to cry. One by one, our guests tried to congratulate him, but his only response was, “Okay, all right. Do you want this turkey?”

  That night turned into an impromptu engagement party, and Baba turned into an impromptu madman. I was sitting at the breakfast nook table, catching up my friends on the details of the day, but my gaze was on Baba. Instead of sitting with the rest of the men in the living room, he repeatedly barged into the kitchen. He'd carry in a single plate filled with tangerine peels and set it in the sink, only to return moments later with a half-full, steaming teacup that looked as if it had been yanked from someone's hand.

  When I saw Baba pull Mama toward the laundry closet, I picked up a few abandoned glasses off the table and made my way into the kitchen. As I maneuvered the glasses into the overcrowded dishwasher, I listened to Baba's unintentionally loud whisper.

  “I don't know why Dr. Ridha had to make an announcement. I told him, ‘Inshallah bihal khair.’ That is not yes.”

  “Shh,” Mama said. “People can hear you. Inshallah bihal khair is the way people say yes.”

  “Then why did you tell me to say that? I could've told them something else.”

  “And what's the problem now that he told them? Eventually people were going to find out.”

  “I thought we would at least wait for some time.”

  “Dear, it's done. Your daughter just got engaged. Now go sit with the men.”

  With Baba finally out of the room, Mrs. Ridha closed the door and slipped an Arabic music CD into the stereo. The women seated about the room clapped along to the rhythmic sounds of drums and tambourines. Mama tied a scarf around my hips and pulled me to the center of the room where I followed her every movement. Mama's hip-drops were delightfully subtle while mine were painfully deliberate, but dancing at Mama's side had convinced me—even if I was not ready to be a wife, I was ready to be a bride.

  The next morning, Hadi and I, our two mothers, and Lina piled into the Ridhas’ minivan to go ring shopping. I'd been officially engaged for less than twenty-four hours, and there were already so few components of the storybook American proposal left. I still hoped that Hadi would get down on one knee and propose to me with a ring, but now he would not shout out a surprised and triumphant, “She said yes!” That answer was already known, first when he gave me the string and then again at last night's dinner. Soon we'd pick out a ring together, and my ring would not be a surprise either.

  Our one-day-old relationship was already looking so Arab, so Muslim, and as we drove to the jewelry shop, I couldn't help but sympathize with Baba's hesitation, that regret of having given up your one chance to have something done the way you want. The only way I knew to make those bitter feelings disappear was to believe that if I picked a ring today, then maybe Hadi would whisk me away before he left on Sunday and propose to me properly, the way I'd seen it done countless times on television and in movies, down on one knee, without any parents involved.

  When we arrived, Shireen Ahmadi, jeweler and family friend, was standing at the door of her boutique. She greeted us with a round of hugs and kisses, and another round of congratulatory ones when Mama told her my news. After ushering us into the store, Shireen led us to the display case of bridal sets. I took a quick scan of the gold and glitter enclosed and panicked. There was nothing there that I liked.

  The white gold and platinum craze had yet to take off, so I was hoping for something set in gold and tastefully gaudy. A huge diamond in the center and maybe two other slightly less huge diamonds at the side. But there was nothing similar to that in the case. If I was going to have a hand in picking my own ring, I wanted to buy it from Shireen. Years ago, I'd admired a ring in Shireen's shop, and she'd whispered into my ear, “When the time comes, we'll find you something even better.” That time was now, and I had to find something I liked. I slipped on a solitaire. Too boring. A tension mount. Too modern.

  Courtesy of De Beers's commercials, I understood how serious a problem this was. A diamond was forever.

  Shireen walked over to another case and came back with a ruby ring with two small trillion-cut diamonds on either side and slipped it on my finger. She offered to swap out the ruby with a diamond and brought out two rounds for me to pick from, a half carat of excellent clarity and a three-quarter carat that was not quite as good. It seemed almost a moral dilemma. Deep down, I wanted the biggest diamond I could possibly get—a hunk of sparkly light brilliant enough to blind and heavy enough to require wearing a sling. But choosing a diamond because of its size reeked of a grubbiness I did not want my new fiancé or his mother to smell.

  Using tweezers, Shireen took turns holding each diamond over the ring's ruby center stone. I nodded as if I was carefully considering each option, but there was no question in my mind as to which I would choose. This was no longer an issue of aesthetics but of whether I was a quantity or a quality kind of girl.

  Hadi took my hand in his as if to examine the ring. Shireen followed my hand's movements with the tweezer-held diamond.

  “Which one do you like better?” he asked.

  “I think I like the half.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he answered. “It is a really nice diamond.”

  Our mothers stood on either side of us, wordlessly waiting for us to come to a decision on our own.

  “So is this the one you want?”

  “I think so.”

  I had wanted something with a center stone and two smaller diamonds on the side, and this was close enough. If I wanted something custom-made, I would have to give up the hope of a special proposal before Hadi left and I'd have to show up to school on Monday engaged but ringless.

  Mrs. Ridha wanted to be sure I was happy with my decision. Speaking in Arabic so our Persian jeweler would not understand, she said, “Are you sure, habibti? Don't feel like you have to buy something because this is your friend. The most important thing is that you choose something you like. We can look at other places. You don't have to pick something today.”

  “No, I'm sure,” I said. And it was true. I was sure I wanted to buy a ring that day, sure I wanted it from Shireen, and sure I wanted something I could start wearing right away.

  Shireen started preparing the invoice and said the ring would be ready in a few weeks. A few weeks! What good was buying a ring from a family friend if she couldn't get the guy with the rectangular binoculars and the flaming torch, working in the back, to pop in the stinking diamond right now?

  “You can't do it any sooner?” Mama asked. I wanted to kiss her for asking the question for me.

  “No, these prongs are for an oval-shaped stone. We have to make new prongs to hold a round.”

  A wave of remorse washed over me. What was the point of rushing if I couldn't have the ring on Monday? But how could I change my mind after all this? But how ridiculous was it to buy a ring you didn't want because you didn't want to say that you didn't want it anymore? I had to say something. I had to tell Shireen I wanted to think about it. I had to do something besides nodding when Mama asked me, “Do you still want it?”

  While Shireen and our mothers discussed the details of the purchase, I convinced myself I
had made the right choice. It would have been rude to tell her I didn't want the ring now, and the ring was going to look like a blur of sparkles anyway. Its style wasn't that important.

  We moved on to picking out a ring for Hadi. As customary, we'd both wear rings on our right hand and then switch it to the left when we got married. Since Muslim men do not wear gold, Hadi's ring would have to be custom-made in platinum. All we had to do was pick the style from the tray Shireen placed in front of us.

  I wanted Hadi to choose a classic band, but he kept looking at the rings that had small diamonds in the center. This bothered me. Diamonds were for girls. Hadi was supposed to want something bold and manly and cheap. My family would buy his ring, and he was supposed to want the most inexpensive thing to prove his humility.

  “You know I like these classic rings here. Maybe the one with a beveled edge?” I said.

  “That's nice, but I wanted something different. Something that nobody else would have.”

  I nodded as if I got it, but on the inside, I clucked. Different? Guys aren't supposed to care about having something different.

  With her head, Mama gestured me over to the chairs in the corner of the shop where she and Lina had taken a seat.

  “Let him get what he wants,” she said.

  “But he's looking at the more expensive rings.”

  “So what? They're spending a lot more on you. It's not fair that they buy you a three-thousand-dollar ring, and we buy him something for five hundred dollars.”

  “Why not? I'm the girl. He's the guy.”

  Men were supposed to want the short end of the stick on everything. As self-sacrificing heads of households, they were supposed to be like Baba, rummaging around in the refrigerator for leftovers even when there was a hot, fresh dinner on the table. They were supposed to shave mold off bread and fruit and insist, “There's nothing wrong with it. I'll eat it.”

  “Hudie, this has nothing to do with that. Go and help him pick something he likes.”