A Woman Is No Man(68)

“No,” Isra interrupted.

Sarah met her eyes. “No?”

“What I mean is . . .” She paused. “I want to read something else.”

“Like what?”

“I want to read something written by a woman.”

“Sure. We’ve already read lots of books written by women,” Sarah said. “Do you have a specific author in mind?”

“Not really.”

“A specific book, then?”

Isra shook her head. “I was hoping you’d help. I want to read a book about someone like me.”

Sarah blinked at her. “Like you how?”

“I don’t know. But I want to read a book about what it really means to be a woman.”





Fareeda


Summer 1995

Ever since Sarah turned sixteen, Fareeda had taken to parading her up and down Fifth Avenue as though she were a shank of lamb for sale. Her usual fears of leaving the house alone now paled in comparison to her fear of Sarah not finding a suitor. Earlier that day, after the mansaf stew simmered, they had gone to the pharmacy on Seventy-Fifth Street to pick up Fareeda’s diabetes medicine. Khaled normally picked up her medicine, but Fareeda wanted people to see Sarah. She had realized one evening, after hearing the engagement news of Umm Ramy’s daughter, Nadia, that perhaps she had been doing something wrong. Nadia, for goodness sake, who was always roaming Fifth Avenue alone, whose parents let her ride the subway to school. It didn’t make sense! But maybe it was because no one ever saw Sarah, who took the bus to school and never left the house alone. Perhaps people didn’t even know what Sarah looked like. So Fareeda began taking her places nearby, despite her fears of going out alone. The Alsalam meat market at Seventy-Second Street, the Bay Ridge Bakery at Seventy-Eighth, sometimes even all the way down Fifth Avenue. But most days they visited their neighbors. Sarah still needed to learn some culture, and there was no better place to learn culture, Fareeda knew, than in the company of women.

Now she squatted in front of the oven and pulled out a pan of baked knafa. The smell of rose syrup filled the house, and she remembered her father bringing her slices as a child, before they were forced into the camps. She had always loved the red-colored dough, the sweet and savory cheese melted inside. She took a deep breath, warmed by memory.

“Brew a kettle of chai,” Fareeda told Sarah when she entered the kitchen. “Umm Ahmed will be here any minute.”

Sarah groaned. The summer sun had darkened her olive complexion, and her black curls held a tint of red in them. Fareeda thought she looked beautiful, a spitting image of what she herself had once looked like. But Fareeda herself was withering away now, as much as she hated to admit it. Her hair, which had once been full and bouncy, lay flat behind her ears after years of dyeing it. All that henna had done her scalp no good, but she couldn’t bear the sight of gray hair. It reminded her of how fast life slipped by.

“Where’s Isra?” Sarah asked.

“Downstairs,” said Fareeda. She knew Sarah and Isra had grown close lately, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. It had been her idea, after all, to teach Sarah some compliance, but more than once Fareeda had found them huddled at the kitchen table, whispering to each other, sometimes even reading together—reading, of all things! She had to listen with half an ear as she watched her evening show to make sure they weren’t up to no good. Once she had overheard Sarah translating a novel about a man attracted to his twelve-year-old stepdaughter, pausing to explain that she had borrowed the book from a friend because the school library had banned it. Fareeda had snatched the book from her at once! The last thing she needed was for either of them to read that sort of Americanized smut. Who knew what ideas it was giving them? But otherwise, their friendship seemed harmless enough. She just needed to make sure Isra rubbed off on Sarah and not the other way around. She smiled to herself—as if anyone could shake some backbone into Isra. No, she didn’t have to worry too much about that.

Fareeda sliced the knafa into small rectangles and sprinkled them with crushed pistachios. She glanced at Sarah. “What are you wearing?”

“Clothes.”

Fareeda moved closer. “Are you smartmouthing me?”

“It’s jeans and a T-shirt, Mama. What’s the big deal?”

“Go upstairs and change,” Fareeda said. “Put your cream-colored dress on. It flatters your skin. Hurry.” As Sarah turned to leave, she couldn’t help but add, “And fix your hair, too.”

“But it’s just Umm Ahmed. She’s seen me a thousand times.”

“Well, you’re older now, and Umm Ahmed is looking for a wife for her son. It doesn’t hurt to take some care with your appearance.”

“I’m only sixteen, Mama.”

Fareeda sighed. “I’m not saying you need to get married right this second. There’s nothing wrong with a one-or two-year engagement.”

“But Hannah is my age.” Sarah’s voice was louder now. “And I don’t see Umm Ahmed trying to get her engaged.”

Fareeda laughed, reaching for a serving tray from the cabinet. “What do you know about Umm Ahmed? As a matter of fact, Hannah accepted a marriage proposal last night.”

“But—”

“Go change and let me worry about these things.”