Chicago, Alaa Aswany [first e reader .TXT] 📗

complexion became soft and radiant thanks to the yogurt and cucumber mask she used. She started penciling her eyebrows carefully and patiently put up with the sting of Egyptian kohl that burned her eyes and caused her tears to flow copiously before it settled on the eyelids, giving them that captivating look. Even her modest shar‘i clothes underwent a transformation: she embroidered the sleeves with sequins and crystal beads and took the dresses in a little, just enough to show the contours of her body (at least her ample bosom, which she consciously and appreciatively put forward). She no longer walked in a straight military-style line: she started to zig and zag and twist her gait ever so slightly, treading a fine line between coquettishness and modesty. Even her glasses, those marks of seriousness and studiousness, she let slide down her nose then suddenly adjusted them with her finger, creating a feeling of gaiety and a hint of naughtiness. All of that was for Tariq. Tariq. She pronounced the name so lovingly, as if kissing it. God be praised! She had waited for her kismet in Tanta and then given up, only to find him here, on the other side of the world. God, may he be praised, sent the scholarship her way and made her persist in trying to get it for her own good. Could she have dreamed of a bridegroom better than Tariq Haseeb? He was a medical school faculty member like her, who would not be jealous of her academic achievements and would not tell her to quit her job and stay home as others had done. He was the right age, and his looks were okay (despite being too thin, having a long nose and bulging eyes); all her life she had not liked excessively handsome men. A beautiful man to her was like too much sugar, which made her queasy.

To attract her, a man had to be rough around the edges, thorny. She loved Tariq, cared for him, and looked after him as if she were his mother. She knew his schedule by heart and lived with him moment by moment. She would look at her watch and smile thinking: now he is out of the lecture hall. She imagined him walking to the lab. She called him on his cell phone several times a day, and when longing got the best of her, she sent him messages to assure herself that he was okay. She cooked for him on Sundays and knew by heart all the dishes he loved: rice pilaf, okra, meat and potato casserole, and baked macaroni. For dessert he liked Umm Ali, mahalabiya, and rice pudding. Thank God she had learned to cook from her mother, winning his admiration. Several times as he was enjoying her cooking and devouring the food he told her: “May God bless your hands, Shaymaa.”

How this sentence made her happy! She gladly forgot the hours she had spent in the kitchen. She would thank him, blushing, looking at him at length as if saying, That’s a drop in the bucket of what I’ll do for you when we get married.

At night, when she went to bed, her fantasy would take her far away: she would see herself sitting on the dais in her white wedding gown. What would the wedding be like? A big affair with famous singers and dancers attended by dozens of guests? Or a quiet dinner with relatives only? Where would they spend the honeymoon? Sharm al-Sheikh or Marsa Matruh? People said Turkey was beautiful and inexpensive. Where would they live after the wedding: in Cairo or Tanta? How many children would they have, and would she be allowed to name them Aisha and Muhammadi after her mother and father?

Despite the joy she felt because of Tariq’s presence in her life, she couldn’t understand the way he behaved sometimes. He cared for her and insisted on seeing her and treated her gently; then suddenly, for no reason or preliminaries, he turned into a gruff person as if possessed by a devil, yelling at her and scolding her for the slightest reasons. When that happened, she would fall silent, never talking back, following her mother’s advice: a wise woman does not go into combat with a man like his peer, rather she contains him with her kindness and provides him with rest, as the noble Qur’an put it. That does not detract from her dignity. If she responds to an insult with an insult the argument turns into a fierce battle, but if she holds herself back, his conscience will make him sleepless at night and he will come back to her and apologize.

It was not his fits of anger, however, that worried her the most. She felt somehow that he was not resenting her, but rather his feelings toward her. It was as if he were resisting his love for her by quarreling with her. She also took some comfort in the quarrels, for after all, they were rehearsals for married life; since they were happening, then it was possible also for marriage to take place. What really worried her and kept her awake at night was something else: their relationship had lasted for a long time and they had been close in all respects, but to date he had not uttered a single word about love or marriage. And despite her total lack of experience in matters of love (with the exception of her silent, unrequited love for the next-door neighbors’ son when she was in her first year of secondary school), she was certain that Tariq’s attitude was unnatural. If he loved her, why didn’t he tell her? He was serious, brilliant, and religious and couldn’t be just after having a good time. He was also respectable and respectful; he hadn’t touched her body at all except twice (actually, three times) when they rubbed against each other, accidentally, in the crowded train. Why didn’t he say something then? Was he