EIGHT
Later that week, after a few days of exploring the local markets, and evenings spent playing chess and watching old movies, the time finally came to attend the festival. Amie wore a long dress and a stylish hijab to be polite.
She wasn’t sure why, but she was genuinely excited about meeting Malik’s mother. She felt tingles in her stomach and desperately wanted to come across as likable; to have this woman think she was good enough for her charming son. It was all ridiculous, she knew, considering their entire arrangement was a farce, but some part of her ego desperately wanted his mother to find her charming; to believe in her performance.
On the way to Rabayat City, Malik told an enraptured Amie about the customs that accompanied the festival: there would be dances, local music, camel races, and a huge parade. As they stepped out of the limo, they were hit by a wall of heat, but there was no shortage of locals selling water and refreshments.
The festival was a bustle of colors, tourists, bustling market stalls, and an amazing array of foods. Amie and Malik passed the time watching the festival goers, laughing as people took colored powder and threw it into the air. The powder would catch on to sweat and moisture, caking participants in a rainbow of colors.
A few hours later, Amie, too, was baked in a rainbow of colors; her brown hair now a mess of purple, yellow, and red, and her carefully painted on makeup all done for nothing. The air smelled like heat, sand and smoke and just when she was ready to sit down and rest, Malik told her the time had come to introduce her to his mother.
The woman walked up with her husband, somehow incredibly clean from the festivities, and looked her son over with no small level of suspicion. Zafina was there, as well, and whispered something to her mother as the three of them approached.
“This is her, then?” his mother asked Malik, giving him a pointed look. So much for her not being judgmental!
Amie looked the woman over. She had a round face and high cheekbones that gave her an air of grace. She had beautiful skin, though not without its fair share of wrinkles. She looked tired and wore no makeup, but revealed a beautiful smile that reminded Amie of Malik’s. She wore a cream-colored hijab and a yellow dress with arabesque patterns of foliage and tendrils. It was a beautiful piece that Amie could only imagine had cost an arm and a leg.
“Mother,” Malik said with a smile, kissing her on both cheeks before gesturing towards Amie. “This is my fiancée, Amie Shaw. Amie, this is my mother, Sadira.”
“Such a beautiful name,” Amie said, taking on her professional woman tone and smiling warmly at Sadira. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
They walked for a few blocks before anyone properly spoke to Amie; the family too busy catching up on Malik’s life in America to begin asking her questions about herself. Every so often, his mother would look Amie up and down and nod slowly.
During their walk together, Amie was surprised at how many locals came up and asked Malik if she was his new American bride-to-be. Clearly the royal family were well-liked and respected, as all of the passers-by would give over-enthusiastic congratulations to the couple and fire all manner of questions at them: when was the wedding date, would they be getting married in Rabayat?
In truth, Amie hadn’t thought about any of those details. She was great on her feet, though, and managed to give answers that only seemed to further excite those asking. While not everyone who approached Malik spoke English, they were all kind and congratulatory and made her feel truly welcome in their country.
They spent the afternoon with Malik’s family, enjoying the festivities, before Sadira finally asked Amie if she would go for a walk with her. Amie looked to Malik with wide eyes, seeking help, but he merely laughed and waved an over-exaggerated goodbye with his hand.
They wandered between stalls selling spices and pastries, taking in the sights and sounds of the festival around them, until Sadira stopped in front of a jewelry vendor and turned to face her, addressing her solemnly. “You love my son?”
“Very much, yes,” Amie said with a polite nod.
“What do you love about him?” Sadira asked briskly.
Amie took a breath and pretended to look over the handmade jewelry laid out before them. “He has a good heart,” she said. “I know he’s very proud of his business, and he should be; he’s smart, he’s kind, and he makes me laugh.”
“A happy marriage is important. You can’t be happy if you can’t laugh. Laugh at your faults, your mistakes, whenever you can,” she said slowly, finally relenting to a small smile. “You know he has a reputation in the United States?”
Amie nodded slowly. “Yes, I know.”
“Sometimes, men…” Sadira slowed her sentence; choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes they don’t possess the same virtues that we do, but when they repent it is our duty to forgive them. Do you believe in God?”
Again, Amie nodded; Malik had told her how important faith was in his culture and suggested that even if it wasn’t true, it would probably be safer to call herself a believer.
Sadira seemed satisfied with this, until her face twisted to a new thought. “You know my Malik is a wealthy man?”
“I do,” Amie said, giving a small, polite laugh. She looked into Sadira’s eyes but the woman would not return the gaze. “His home here is truly lovely.”
“You like the Middle East?”
Sadira’s words were harsh; pointed. She was clearly looking for something to pick fault with. Suddenly Amie realized she must be experiencing the kind of interrogation her father put her high school boyfriends through.
“I haven’t been here long,” Amie said coolly, “but already it feels like home.”
Sadira seemed to consider this and adjusted her hijab before fingering through the jewelry in front of her. “Your engagement ring is beautiful,” she said finally, her accent bearing over her words. “American in style, but no less beautiful for it.”
“Shukran,” Amie spoke her thanks in Arabic, hoping Sadira might appreciate her attempt—she’d asked Malik to teach her several words so she could wow the locals with her efforts.
Her attempt seemed to work, and suddenly Sadira gave an ear-to-ear smile and put her hand gently on Amie’s back. “Do you work?” she asked simply.
“Yes. I run a large theater; very successful.”
“Malik says you’re a woman who knows the value of hard work,” Sadira said slowly. “Do you make a lot of money?” She laughed. “I know I shouldn’t ask these things, but I want to know everything about you.”
“I make enough, yes,” Amie grinned. It felt nice to be able to brag, even though it couldn’t be further from the truth. “It’s nice knowing that I’m financially secure.”
“Oh, but Malik!” Sadira protested, “Malik will take care of you. Tell me, will you keep working if you have children? You do want children?” She beamed and her face flushed red. “To be a grandmother, I would be honored.” She began to giggle and make tickling gestures with her hands, gushing, “Those little feet!”
Amie grinned. “Of course. We want a big family!” she exclaimed, and suddenly all of Sadira’s walls seemed to crumble down.
“You will be a beautiful mother,” Sadira said happily, running her hands through Amie’s mess of thick, chocolate-colored hair. “Look at this hair! When Malik came out, I thought he was a camel!”
“He was that hairy?” Amie giggled, making eye-contact with her faux mother-in-law.
“Oh!” Sadira joked, gesturing with her hand, as though she couldn’t describe it even if she tried. “I’ll show you pictures, you’ll be terrified! But such a handsome man he turned into.”
Amie grinned. “That he did.”
The two continued talking as they strolled around the market; Sadira talking about growing up in the Middle East, meeting her husband, who she only later found out was to become the ruling monarch. She explained to Amie how she used to work at children’s hospitals, and how she was determined to use her position to further the progressive and econo
mic agenda. She told Amie she worked obsessively until childbearing stole her heart away. Her children were everything, and from the sounds of it, she was a fantastic mother.
To Amie’s surprise, Sadira also spoke of the rumors of Malik’s bachelor lifestyle in the USA and her disappointment in him, considering how she raised him to respect women.
By the time they’d been round all of the stalls, eventually ending up at the same jewelry vendor where they’d really started talking, there was no question as to whether Sadira enjoyed Amie’s company. The woman did nothing but laugh and share—overshare, actually—all the details of her life. She continually told Amie how beautiful she was and how she couldn’t wait to help plan their wedding. This sentiment made Amie feel a tinge of guilt, especially when Sadira insisted that since Amie’s mother wasn’t in the Middle East with her, she would take on the role as best she could.
Ouch.
Finally, with a signal to the vendor, who was eyeing them with interest, Sadira grabbed an oval-shaped, green stone ring from the stall and placed it in Amie’s hand. “Here,” she said, “I want you to have this.”
Amie nearly glowed as she stared down at the ring. It was a deep green stone with unique flecks and different shades of green and blue throughout. It was set in a silver casing with a band that looked like a twisted silver rope. It was a stunning.
“It’s gorgeous!” Amie exclaimed, as Sadira handed over several colorful bills as payment. “It’s so beautiful, Sadira. Shukran!”
Sadira laughed. “Well, now you have both American and Rabayati rings to remember your culture by. You’re one of us now, after all.”