A Woman Is No Man(74)

“Maybe you can lie to yourself, but you don’t fool me.”

Though her books had shown her otherwise, the old words spilled out. “This is the life of a woman, you know.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“I don’t see any other way,” Isra whispered.

“How can you say that? There’s more to life than marriage. I thought you believed that. I know you do.”

“I do, but that doesn’t mean we have the power to change our circumstances.”

Sarah blinked at her. “So you want me to just accept my life for what they tell me it should be? What kind of life is that?”

“I never said it was right, but I don’t see anything we can do about it.”

“I’ll stand up for myself! I’ll refuse!”

“It won’t matter. Fareeda won’t listen.”

“Then I’ll tell the man myself! I’ll look him straight in the eyes and say, ‘I don’t want to marry you. I’ll make your life a living hell.’”

Isra shook her head. “She’ll marry you off eventually. If not to this man, then the next.”

“No,” Sarah said, standing up. “I won’t let that happen. Even if I have to scare every last man away.”

“But don’t you see, Sarah?”

“See what?”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Is that what you think? That I don’t have a choice?” Despite the defiance in Sarah’s voice, Isra sensed her anxiety. “We’ll see about that.”

Later, Sarah appeared in the kitchen wearing an ivory kaftan. Outside, the trees moved slowly, their branches still bare, a residue of ice visible from the kitchen window. “You look beautiful,” Isra told her.

“Whatever,” Sarah said, walking past her. She grabbed a serving bowl from the cabinet and began filling it with fruit. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“What are you doing?” Isra asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to serve our guests.”

Isra took the bowl from her. “You’re not supposed to serve the fruit first.”

“Then I’ll make coffee,” Sarah said, grabbing a small beaker from the drawer.

“Coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Sarah, you never serve coffee first.”

She shrugged. “I’ve never paid attention to these stupid things.”

Isra wondered if Sarah was serving the Turkish coffee first on purpose, the way she had done years ago, or if she really didn’t know better. “Just arrange the teacups on a serving tray,” Isra said. “I’ll brew the chai.”

Sarah leaned against the counter, arranging glass cups on a serving tray. Isra counted them in her head: Fareeda. Khaled. The suitor. His mother. His father. Five in total.

“Here,” she said, handing Sarah a tray of sesame cookies. “Go serve these while I pour the tea.”

Sarah stood frozen in the kitchen doorway. Isra wished she could do something to help her. But this was the way of life, she told herself. There was nothing she could do about it. Her powerlessness even comforted her somehow. Knowing that she couldn’t change things—that she didn’t have a choice—made living it more bearable. She realized she was a coward, but she also knew a person could only do so much. She couldn’t change centuries of culture on her own, and neither could Sarah. “Come on,” she whispered, nudging Sarah down the hall. “They’re waiting for you.”

That night, Isra couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Sarah would be gone soon. She wondered if they would still be friends after she left, if Sarah would be able to visit still, if she would miss her. She wondered if she would ever read again. Isra had grown enough now to know that the world hurt less when you weren’t hoping. She had even started to think that perhaps her books had done more harm than good, waking her up to the reality of her life and its imperfections. Maybe she would have been better without them. All they had done was stir up false hope. Still, the possibility of a life without books was far worse.

In the sala the next day, Fareeda waited for the suitor’s mother to call and announce her son’s decision. Isra flinched every time the phone rang—at least half a dozen times in the course of the afternoon. She studied Fareeda’s expression as she answered each call, a rush of panic rising in her. Sarah alone seemed undisturbed. She sat cross-legged on the sofa, her face in a book, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

The phone rang again, and Fareeda rushed to answer it. Isra watched as she muttered a lively salaam into the phone, noticed how quickly she fell quiet. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth hung open as she listened, but she didn’t say a word. Isra bit her fingers.

“They said no,” Fareeda said when she’d hung up the phone. “No. Just like that.”

Sarah looked up from a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. “Oh,” she said, before flipping the page. Isra felt her heart thumping wildly against her nightgown.

“But why would she say no?” Fareeda looked hard into Sarah’s eyes. “You said your conversation with the boy went well.”

“I don’t know, Mama. Maybe he didn’t like me. Just because you have a decent conversation with someone, that doesn’t mean you should necessarily marry them.”