Nine Women, One Dress(41)
As we exit the Métro station into Paris’s eighteenth arrondissement it’s as if we have entered a different world. Though it’s well before the start of Friday’s jumu’ah (noon prayer), the police stand guard on closed-off streets, which will soon be filled with hundreds of faithful Muslims kneeling on their mats. There is no longer enough room inside the mosque to accommodate the worshippers. Shireen’s shoulders tense at the sight of it. I don’t fully understand her. If she hates being stared at as much as she always says, then I would think she would be happy to be among her own. Plus, let me explain a bit about this marriage: even though my parents arranged it, Shireen had the right to reject it. In Islam, a marriage must have consent from both the bride and the groom. The real truth is, while Shireen shares all her wild ideas and dreams with me, she would never be bold enough to go against our father. Most wouldn’t. I definitely wouldn’t. When my time comes, it will be easier. Shireen concerns herself with love, while I am more pragmatic about marriage. She is obsessed with never having kissed a man. Obsessed. I could care less. I never think about such things.
She turned to me and barked, “Let’s get Jeddah and go straight home.” She meant that she didn’t want to linger in the area and risk running into anyone from her fiancé Fareed’s family. However, it was impossible they wouldn’t be there to see us, as my jeddah has quite a big mouth and all of Goutte d’Or probably knew that we had been on holiday in New York and that we were coming to pick her up today.
As we entered our cousin’s flat I could hear from the chatter that I was right. Fareed’s whole family was there. Meaning just the women, of course. After what seemed like a hundred questions about New York they turned the inquisition to Shireen and the wedding plans. As Shireen’s shoulders tensed again I cut them off with the excuse of having to get home to help our mother with the laundry and tonight’s meal. Shireen was very happy with me. She squeezed my hand under the table. I felt for her—I did. I had thought she would come home from this trip settled in her head about what her life would be, but she is no different from before. Maybe worse. It was close to the start of noon prayers now, and if Shireen had not wanted to run into Fareed’s family, I knew she definitely did not want to run into Fareed himself on his way to the mosque. I helped my grandmother with her things and we quickly left.
When we arrived home, the house was empty and our suitcase was leaning against the door of the room we shared. I helped Jeddah, and Shireen said she would begin unpacking. After I told Jeddah nearly every detail about New York, she admitted to being tired and I suggested she nap. I looked at my watch; it had been nearly an hour since we had arrived home. I was happy to be with Jeddah, though. Last year she was never tired or out of breath. Now it seemed that she was quite often. I hated to think of the day when she would not be with us.
When I got to our bedroom door, it was locked. I banged on it, shouting through the door for Shireen to open it. She was probably annoyed that I wasn’t helping her unpack and was probably eating all the chocolates we had brought back as my punishment. Finally she opened the door just a crack and peered out. Then she pulled me in quickly, slammed the door, and locked it behind me. She was dressed in what I recognized as a Chanel suit. It was ivory wool, and the skirt fell just above her knee. It had four black-and-gold buttons on the jacket with the iconic trademark C’s. It was stunning. She was stunning. I had no idea what was going on. I tried to ask her, but no words came out of my mouth. She pulled out one of her fashion magazines and shoved the picture in my face. With a glee I had never seen in her, she shouted, “Look—it’s this season! This season’s Chanel!” I still had no idea what was going on. She flipped open the black suitcase to reveal a treasure trove of couture. Someone else’s treasure trove, for sure. She’d gone mad. I searched the outside of the suitcase, which did look a lot like ours and was shockingly shoddy compared to its couture contents, looking for a luggage tag. I opened it up. It had just a phone number on a tag that read Pro-Travel, Beverly Hills, CA.
“This is not ours. We have to tell someone!” I protested.
Shireen protested right back. “No way. You will not ruin this for me,” she said. “It’s a sign.”
I was about to list every single reason that she should do what I said—and believe me, the list was long—when she pulled out of the suitcase the most perfect little black dress I had ever seen.
“Try it on!” She threw it at me.
One touch and I was gone. As I whipped off my burqa and slipped into this exquisite dress, I ran through all the things that were wrong about this scenario. Shireen turned and opened the bathroom door so the mirror faced me. I looked up self-consciously. When I saw myself, something shifted inside me. I looked beautiful. I did. It was hard to even look at myself. I tried to take control of the situation, tried to be the rational sister, as I always had been, but all that came out of my mouth were four words that I had never uttered before, words that were entirely foreign to me: “Are there matching shoes?”
“Of course there are shoes!” she answered, digging through the suitcase to find a good pair. “And bags too!”
She tossed me a pair of black heels and a matching bag. I slipped them on and we smiled and giggled and took turns looking in the mirror. She spoke nonsense about us sneaking out to a club on the Champs-élysées and her getting her first kiss, but I was barely listening. I was too busy looking at the girl in the mirror. I felt giddy, I felt so glamorous and attractive. And then, as if a tidal wave had hit me, I felt horrible. I sat down on the bed and began to cry. Shireen held me.