A Girl Like That(74)

He walked to the revolving chair next to the computer and took the books and magazines lying there. I twirled it on its casters. Round and round. “Since when did you become the savior of the poor, illiterate children of the world?”

“Stop that,” he said about the chair. After a few more turns, I held it steady once more. He crouched on the floor and rested his wrists against the edges of the box. “I’m getting engaged next month.” He looked up at me. “I’ve been skyping with this girl for a couple of months. Even met her in person last week. Father was the one who showed me her photo.”

I moistened my lips, but they were still dry. “Who is she?”

Abdullah’s lashes—as long as our mother’s—lowered. “One of Jawahir’s younger cousins.”

“Nice,” I said. “Does she look like the witch too?”

Abdullah let out an impatient sigh. “I should have known you would behave like this. Grow up, Mishal. You are not a child anymore. Soon it will be your turn too, you know.”

I began turning the chair once more. Round and round.

“I am going to be a psychologist.” I did not even know where the words came from; before now, I had barely given my life after high school any thought. Or maybe I was revealing a long-forgotten dream.

“Who says you can’t do that after marriage?”

“I don’t want to get married.”

“Stop being ridiculous. You’re not a boy, Mishal. The older you get, the lower your chances will be. Father was lucky enough to get this proposal for you as is.”

I held the chair still. Blood rushed to the tips of my fingers. “What do you mean? What proposal?”

Abdullah tossed the last magazine in the box and slapped down the cardboard lid. I stared at my nails, at the tiny white spots that marred their shell-pink smoothness. Abdullah had the same spots on his nails in exactly the same places. On his right thumbnail and the index finger of his left hand.

“His mother saw you at one of Jawahir’s parties last year and asked Father for your picture. As far as proposals go, he’s a good one. Real estate in Jeddah and Madinah, investments in Goldman Sachs. He’s fairly young too, only thirty. He has a son from a previous marriage, of course, but it will be all right. His first wife died in childbirth.” Abdullah stood up again. He moved closer and brushed his fingers against my cheek. “It will not be like what we had to face with Mother and Jawahir. You will have no other woman to contend with, little Mishal. I’ve made sure.”

His breath smelled of mint gum. Underneath that, cigarettes. I inched away, step by step, my pink sequined slippers sliding over the floor. I wondered if my feet had fallen asleep or if it simply was the shock of hearing my father’s words from Abdullah’s mouth. My father who had assured my mother that she would not be abandoned in the days after he’d married Jawahir—You will keep getting your monthly allowance. I’ve made sure.

“You are right,” I told Abdullah before I left the room. “I am no longer a child.”

*

“Hello.” This time it was a man.

“Hello.” My voice came out rusty, the way Mother’s did when she hadn’t spoken to us for many days. “I’m calling regarding your sale. My friend was there earlier this week and she said there was a lamp. A little one with a lampshade made of green leaves. Do you still have it?”

There was a long moment of silence, a sigh before he replied again. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

*

The smell of dal—thick, meaty, and fragrant—emerged from the kitchen when I entered the apartment, Layla by my side.

Zarin’s uncle, tall, thin, and bald, gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat, girls. Would you like anything? Water, orange juice, Coke?”

“No, Mr. Wadia,” I said. “Thank you for offering though.”

He nodded. “I will go and get that lamp. It may take some time to find it … The house is … It hasn’t been easy.” His shoulders sagged and for a brief, terrible moment I froze, wondering if I was supposed to offer my condolences again.

Utensils clattered in the kitchen. The sound brought him out of his stupor and he straightened once more. “I’ll be right back.”

“This is so creepy,” Layla muttered once he was out of the room. “I don’t know why I came here with you.”

I took in the pale rectangles left behind on the cream-colored wall—outlines of old photo frames—and the empty space in front of us where a television must have been mounted, grooves in the carpet where there must have been a coffee table next to the navy-blue sofa, which might have been comfortable if it wasn’t covered with clear plastic. I brushed a hand over the smooth surface, finding a tiny tear in the cover.

You came because you’re a gossip, I wanted to tell Layla. You came because you wanted to know more about Zarin, like me. Like everyone else.

I slid my pinkie under the tear to feel the fabric underneath, contemplating if I ought to speak my mind. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’d done it to shut Layla up.

But today I bit my tongue. Zarin’s apartment building was at least ten kilometers away from our house, and there was no way I could have asked Abdullah to bring me here. In Abdullah’s absence Layla’s brother, or more realistically Layla, who I’d asked for the favor, was my ride to and from Zarin’s house. Layla’s brother had offered to wait outside the building while we went in to get the lamp. “Don’t think it would be a good idea if so many of us went in,” he’d said. “We’re strangers, not family.”