Читать книгу A Woman is No Man - Etaf Rum - Страница 12

Spring 1990

Isra arrived in New York the day after her wedding ceremony, via a twelve-hour flight from Tel Aviv. Her first glimpse of the city was from the plane as they approached John F. Kennedy Airport. Her eyes widened and she pressed her nose against the window. She thought she had fallen in love. It was the city itself that captivated her first, immaculate buildings stories high—hundreds of them. From above, Manhattan looked so thin, like the buildings could just crack it in half, as though they were too heavy for that small sliver of land. As the plane neared the earth, Isra felt herself swell up. The Manhattan skyline turned from toylike to mountainous, its towers and citadels shooting upward like fireworks bursting into the sky, overwhelming in height and power, making Isra feel small, yet at the same time bewildered by their beauty, as if they were something out of a fairy tale. Even if she had read a thousand books, nothing could compare to the feeling she had now as she inhaled the view.

She could still see the skyline when the plane landed, though now it was a faint outline with a bluish hue on the far horizon. If Isra squinted, it almost seemed like she was looking at the mountains of Palestine, the buildings like dusty hills in the distance. She wondered what else she would see in the days to come.

“This is Queens,” Adam told her as they waited in line for a cab outside the airport. Once inside the minivan, Isra sat near a window in the back row, hoping Adam would sit beside her, but Sarah and Fareeda joined her instead. “It’s about a forty-five-minute ride to Brooklyn where we live,” Adam continued as he sat beside his brothers in the middle row. “If we’re not stuck in traffic, that is.”

Isra studied Queens through the taxicab window, eyes wide and watering in the March sunlight. She searched for the immaculate skyline she had seen from the plane, but it was nowhere in sight. All she could see were endless gray roads, curving and looping back in on themselves, with cars—hundreds of cars—zooming along them without stopping. Adam said they were two miles from the exit to Brooklyn, and Isra watched as the cabdriver merged to the left lane, following a sign that read BELT PARKWAY RAMP.

They sailed along a narrow highway so close to the water Isra thought the cab might slip and fall in. She didn’t know how to swim. “How are we driving so close to the water?” she managed to ask, eyeing a large ship in the distance, a cluster of birds soaring above it.

“Oh, this is nothing,” Adam said. “Wait until you see the bridge.”

And then it appeared, right in front of her, long and silver and elegant, like a bird spreading its wings over water. “That’s the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge,” Adam said, watching Isra’s eyes widen. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is,” she said, panicking. “Are we driving on it?”

“No,” Adam said. “That bridge connects Brooklyn to Staten Island.”

“Has it ever fallen?” she whispered, eyes glued to the bridge as they neared it.

She could hear his smile in his reply. “Not that I know of.”

“But it’s so skinny! It looks like it could snap at any minute.”

Adam laughed. “Relax,” he said. “We’re in the greatest city on earth. Everything here is built by the best architects and engineers. Enjoy the view.”

Isra tried to relax. She could hear Khaled chuckle in the passenger seat. “Reminds me of the first time Fareeda saw the bridge.” He turned back to look at his wife. “I swear she almost cried in fear.”

“Sure I did,” Fareeda said, though Isra noticed that she still seemed nervous as they drove under the bridge. When they came out the other side, Isra exhaled hard, relieved it hadn’t collapsed on them.

It was only after they exited the parkway that Isra had her first glimpse of Brooklyn. It wasn’t what she had expected. Magnificent was a word you could put to Manhattan, but Brooklyn seemed plain in comparison, as though it didn’t belong alongside. All she saw were dull brick buildings covered in murals and graffiti, many of them dilapidated, and people pushing their way through the crowded streets with solemn looks on their faces. It puzzled her. Growing up, she had often wondered about the world outside Palestine, if it were as beautiful as the places she read about in books. She had been certain it would be, studying the Manhattan skyline, had been excited to call that world home. But now, eyeing Brooklyn through the window, seeing the graffiti scrawled on the walls and across the buildings, she wondered if her books had gotten it wrong, whether Mama had been right all along when she’d said the world would be disappointing regardless of where she stood.

“We live in Bay Ridge,” Adam said as the cabdriver stopped beside a row of old brick houses. Isra, Fareeda, and Sarah stood on the sidewalk while the men unloaded the suitcases. Adam held Isra’s suitcase in one hand and gestured around the block with the other. “Many of the Arabs in New York live in this neighborhood,” he said. “You’ll feel right at home.”

Isra surveyed the block. Adam’s family lived on a long, tree-lined street with row houses stacked against one another like books on a shelf. Most of the homes were made of red brick and curved in the front. They had two stories and a basement, with a short, narrow staircase leading to the front door on the first floor. Iron gates separated the houses from the sidewalk. It was a well-kept neighborhood—there were no open gutters or garbage littering the street, and the roads were paved, not dirt. But there was hardly any greenery—only a row of London planes lining the walk. No fruit to pick, no balcony, no front yard. She hoped there was at least a backyard.

“This is it,” Adam said when they reached the front gate of a house numbered 545.

Adam opened the front door and led her inside. “The houses here are quite cramped,” he said as they walked down the hall. Isra silently agreed. She could see the entire first floor from the hall. There was a sala to her left, and farther down, a kitchen. To her right was a stairway leading to the second floor, and behind it, almost hidden, a bedroom.

Isra looked around the living room. Though it was much smaller than her parents’ sala back home, it was decorated as though it were a mansion. The floor was covered with a Turkish rug, crimson with a gold pattern in the center. The same pattern was on the burgundy couches, the red throw pillows, and the long, thick curtains lining the windows. A worn leather sofa sat in the corner of the room, as though forgotten, with a shiny gold vase nestled beside it.

“Do you like it?” Adam asked.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I know it’s not bright and airy like the houses back home.” His eyes settled on the windows, which were hidden behind the curtains. “But this is how things are here, what can we do?”

There was something in his voice, and Isra found herself thinking of the day on the balcony, the way his eyes had chased the grapevines, taking in the open scenery. She wondered whether he longed to return to Palestine, whether he wanted to move back home one day.

“Do you miss home?” The sound of her voice startled her, and she dropped her eyes to the floor.

“Yes,” Adam said. “I do.”

Isra looked up to see that he was still staring at the curtains. “Would you ever move back?” she asked.

“Maybe one day,” he said. “If things got better.” He turned away and walked down the hall. Isra followed.

“My parents stay here on the first floor,” Adam said, pointing to the bedroom. “Sarah and my brothers sleep upstairs.”

“Where will we stay?” she asked, hoping her bedroom had a window.

He pointed to a closed door down the hallway. “Downstairs.”

Adam opened the door and signaled her to go down. She did, all the while wondering how they could live in a basement. If there was barely enough light upstairs, what would the basement be like? She peered down the shallow steps. At once, she was overwhelmed with darkness. She put both hands in front of her and descended, the light cast from the doorway fading with each step. She reached the bottom of the stairs and fumbled against the wall in search of a light switch. Cold crept through her fingertips until she found it and flicked it on.

A large, gold mirror hung on the wall directly in front of her. It seemed odd that anyone should place a mirror in such a dreary, uninhabited place. What good was a mirror in the middle of the dark with no light to reflect?

She entered the first room of the basement, surveying the dim space. The room was narrow and empty—four gray walls, bare with the exception of a window to her left and, in the center of the wall ahead, a closed door. Isra opened it to find another room, slightly larger than the first and furnished with a queen-size bed, a small dresser, and a large mirror. Beside the mirror was a small closet, and beside that, a doorway that led to a bathroom. This would be their bedroom, Isra knew. It didn’t have any windows.

She studied her reflection in the mirror. Her face looked dull and gray in the fluorescent light, and she stared at her small, weak frame. She saw a girl who should’ve kicked and screamed as her mother tightened her wedding gown, should’ve begged and hollered as her father secured her in the taxicab to the airport. But she was a coward. She turned away. This is the only familiar face I’ll ever see again, Isra thought. And she couldn’t stand the sight of it.

Upstairs, the earthy smell of sage filled the kitchen. Fareeda was brewing a kettle of chai. She stood over the stove, back hunched, staring absently at the steam. Watching her, Isra found herself thinking of the maramiya plant in her mother’s garden, how Mama would cut off a few leaves every morning to brew in their chai because it helped with Yacob’s indigestion. Isra wondered if Fareeda grew a maramiya plant, too, or if she used dried sage from the market instead.

“Can I help you with something, hamati?” Isra asked as she walked over to the stove. It was the first time she had called Fareeda mother-in-law.

“No, no, no,” Fareeda said, shaking her head. “Don’t call me hamati. Call me Fareeda.”

Growing up, Isra had never heard a married woman called by her first name. Her mother was always referred to as Umm Waleed, mother of her eldest son Waleed, and never Sawsan. Even her aunt Widad, who had never borne a son, was not called by her first name. People called her Mart Jamal, Jamal’s wife.

“I don’t like that word,” Fareeda said, reading the confusion on her face. “It makes me feel old.”

Isra smiled, resting her eyes on the boiling tea.

“Why don’t you set the sufra?” Fareeda said. “I’m making us something to eat.”

“Where’s Adam?”

“He left for work.”

“Oh.” Isra had expected him to stay home today, to take her for a walk around the neighborhood perhaps, introduce her to Brooklyn. Who went to work the day after his wedding?

“He had to run an errand for his father,” Fareeda said. “He’ll be home soon.”

Why couldn’t his brothers run the errand instead? Isra wanted to ask, but she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. She cleared her throat and said, “Did Omar and Ali go with him?”

“I have no idea where they went,” Fareeda said. “Boys are a handful, going and coming as they please. They’re not like girls. You can’t control them.” She handed Isra a stack of plates. “I’m sure you know—you have brothers.”

Isra smiled weakly. “I do.”

“Sarah!” Fareeda called out.

Sarah was upstairs in her bedroom. “Yes, Mama?” she called back.

“Come down here and help Isra set the sufra!” Fareeda said. She turned to Isra. “I don’t want her thinking she’s excused from her chores now that you’re here. That’s how trouble starts.”

“Does she have a lot of chores?” Isra asked.

“Of course,” Fareeda said, looking up to find Sarah at the doorway. “She’s eleven years old, practically a woman. Why, when I was her age, my mother didn’t even have to lift a finger. I was rolling pots of stuffed grape leaves and kneading dough for the entire family.”

“That’s because you didn’t go to school, Mama,” Sarah said. “You had time to do those things. I have homework to catch up on.”

“Your homework can wait,” Fareeda said, handing her the ibrik of chai. “Pour some tea and hurry.”

Sarah poured tea into four glass cups. Isra noticed that she didn’t hurry like Fareeda had asked.

“Is the chai ready?” A man’s voice.

Isra turned to find Khaled in the doorway. She took a good look at him. His hair was thick and silver, his yellow skin wrinkled. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she wondered if he was uncomfortable because she wasn’t wearing her hijab. But she didn’t have to wear it in front of him. He was her father-in-law, which, according to Islamic law, made him mahram, like her own father.

“How do you like the neighborhood, Isra?” Khaled said, scanning the sufra. Despite his faded features and the iron-colored hair across his jaw, it was easy to see he had been handsome as a young man.

“It’s beautiful, ami,” Isra said, wondering if perhaps calling him father-in-law would irritate him the way it had Fareeda.

Fareeda looked at her husband and grinned. “You’re ‘ami’ now, you old man!”

“You’re no young damsel yourself,” he said with a smile. “Come on.” He signaled them to sit down. “Let’s eat.”

Isra had never seen so much food on one sufra. Hummus topped with ground beef and pine nuts. Fried halloumi cheese. Scrambled eggs. Falafel. Green and black olives. Labne and za’atar. Fresh pita bread. Even during Ramadan, when Mama made all their favorite meals and Yacob splurged and bought them meat, the food was never this plentiful. The steam of each dish intertwined with the next until the room smelled like home.

Fareeda turned to Khaled, fixing her eyes on his face. “What are your plans today?”

“I don’t know.” He dipped his bread in olive oil and za’atar. “Why?”

“I need you to take me to town.”

“What do you need?”

“Meat and groceries.”

Isra tried to keep from staring at Fareeda. Even though she was not much older than Mama, they were nothing alike. There were no undertones of fear in Fareeda’s voice, nor did she lower her gaze in Khaled’s presence. Isra wondered if Khaled beat her.

“Do I have to go too, Baba?” Sarah asked from across the table. “I’m tired.”

“You can stay home with Isra,” he said without looking up.

Sarah exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I hate grocery shopping.”

Isra watched as Khaled sipped his chai, unfazed by Sarah’s boldness. If Isra had spoken to Yacob like that, he would’ve slapped her. But perhaps parents didn’t hit their children in America. She pictured herself raised in America by Khaled and Fareeda, wondered what her life might have been like.

After a moment, Khaled excused himself to get ready. Isra and Sarah got up as well, carrying the empty plates and cups to the sink. Fareeda remained seated, sipping her tea.

“Fareeda!” Khaled called from the hall.

“Shu? What do you want?”

“Pour me another cup of chai.”

Fareeda popped a ball of falafel into her mouth, clearly in no hurry to obey her husband’s command. Isra watched, confused and anxious, as Fareeda sipped her tea. When was she going to pour Khaled another cup of chai? Should Isra offer to do it instead? She looked at Sarah, but the girl seemed unconcerned. Isra forced herself to relax. Maybe this was how wives spoke to their husbands in America. Maybe things were different here after all.

Adam came home at sunset. “Get dressed,” he told her. “I’m taking you out.”

Isra tried to contain her excitement. She was standing in front of the living room window, where she had been for some time, studying the plane trees outside, wondering if they smelled woody or sweet or a scent she had never smelled before. She kept her eyes on the glass so Adam wouldn’t see her blushing.

“Should I tell Fareeda to get ready, too?” she asked.

“No, no.” Adam laughed. “She already knows what Brooklyn looks like.”

Downstairs, in front of a square mirror propped on her bedroom wall, Isra couldn’t decide what to wear. She paced around the room, trying one color of hijab after another. Back home she would’ve worn the lavender one, with the silver beads stitched across it. But she was in America now. Perhaps she should wear black or brown so she wouldn’t stick out. Or maybe not. Maybe a lighter color would work better, would make her seem bright and happy.

She was studying the color of her face against a mossy green headpiece when Adam entered the room. He eyed her hijab nervously, and through the mirror, she could see the straining in his jaw. He moved closer to her, not once looking away from her head, and the whole time he was walking, she felt her heart swelling inside her chest, inching toward her throat. He was looking at her hijab the way he had looked that day on the balcony, and it was only now that Isra understood why: he didn’t like it.

“You don’t have to wear that thing, you know,” Adam finally said. She blinked at him in shock. “It’s true.” He paused. “You see, people here don’t care if your hair is showing. There’s no need to cover it up.”

Isra didn’t know what to say. Growing up, she had been taught that the most important part of being a Muslim girl was wearing the hijab. That modesty was a woman’s greatest virtue. “But what about our religion?” she whispered. “What about God?”

Adam gave her a pitying look. “We have to live carefully here, Isra. People flee to America from war-torn countries every day. Some are Arabs. Some are Muslims. Some are both, like us. But we could live here for the rest of our lives and never be Americans. You think you’re doing the right thing by wearing this hijab, but that’s not what Americans will see when they look at you. They won’t see your modesty or your goodness. All they’ll see is an outcast, someone who doesn’t belong.” He sighed, looking up to meet her eyes. “It’s hard. But all we can do is try to fit in.”

Isra unwrapped her hijab and set it on the bed. She had never once considered not wearing it in public. But standing in front of the mirror, eyeing the long black strands of hair as they wilted off her shoulders, she found herself feeling hopeful again. Perhaps this would be her first taste of freedom. There was no reason to reject it before she had tried it.

They left the house soon after. Isra fingered a strand of hair nervously as she stepped out of the front door. Adam didn’t seem to notice. He told her that the best way to truly experience Brooklyn was not by car or train but by foot. So they walked. The moon shone above them in a starless sky, illuminating the budding trees that lined the street. They strolled down the long, narrow block labeled Seventy-Second Street until they reached the corner, and suddenly Isra felt as if she had been transported to a new world.

“This is Fifth Avenue,” Adam said. “The heart of Bay Ridge.”

Everywhere Isra looked, lights were flashing. The street was lined with an assortment of shops: bakeries, restaurants, pharmacies, law offices. “Bay Ridge is one of the most diverse neighborhoods in Brooklyn,” Adam said as they walked. “Immigrants from all over the world live here. You can see it in the food—meat dumplings, kofta, fish stews, challah bread. You see that block?” Adam pointed into the distance. “Every single shop on that block belongs to Arabs. There is a halal butcher shop on the corner, Alsalam, where my father goes every Sunday to get our meats, and then there is the Lebanese pastry shop, where they bake fresh saj bread every morning. During Ramadan, they stuff the loaves with melted cheese, syrup, and sesame seeds, just like back home.”

Isra scanned the shops, mesmerized. She recognized the smell of meat-stuffed kibbeh, lamb shawarma, the thick syrupy musk of baklava, even the faint hint of double-apple hookah. And other familiar smells lingered in the air, too. Fresh basil. Piping grease. Sewers, sweat. The scents merged into one another, became whole, and in an instant Isra felt as if she had fallen through the cracked cement and landed back home.

Around her people strolled down the block, pushing strollers and carrying grocery bags, swirling in and out of shops like marbles. They looked nothing like the Americans she had imagined: women with bright red lipstick, men in polished black suits. Instead, many of the women looked no different than her, plain and modestly dressed, many even wearing a hijab. And the men looked like Adam, with olive skin and rough beards, clothes meant for tough labor.

Isra didn’t know what to think, eyeing the familiar faces floating down Fifth Avenue. These people were just like them, living in America and trying to fit in. Yet they still wore their hijabs; they didn’t change who they were. So why did Adam insist that she change who she was?

After a long time watching them, Isra was no longer thinking of her hijab. Instead, she thought of all the people drifting under the lamplights, people who lived in America but weren’t Americans at all, women who were just like her, displaced from their homes, torn between two cultures and struggling to start anew. She wondered what her new life would be like.

That night, Isra went to bed early. Adam was taking a shower, and she thought it best that he return to find her asleep. It was her first night alone with him, and she knew what would happen if she stayed awake. She knew he would put himself inside her. She knew it would hurt. She also knew—though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it—that she would come to enjoy it. Mama had told her this. Still, Isra wasn’t ready. In bed, she closed her eyes, tried to silence her thoughts. She felt as if she were running frantically, spinning in circles.

In the bathroom she could hear Adam turn off the running water, pulling the shower curtain open, then shut, fumbling for something inside the cabinet. She pulled the blanket over her body like a shield. Lying still beneath the cold sheets, she watched him through half-open eyes as he entered the room. He was wearing nothing but a bath towel, and she had a full view of his lean, golden body, the coarse black hair on his chest. For a moment he stood there, staring at her as though willing her to look at him, but she could not bring herself to open her eyes fully. He took off the bath towel and approached her. She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, trying to relax. But her body only stiffened as he neared.

He climbed onto the bed, pulled back the sheets, and reached out to touch her. She inched away until she thought she would fall off the other side. But he grabbed her, pushing her into the mattress. Then he was on top of her. She could smell his ashy breath as he exhaled in her face. Her hands shook furiously, and she dug her fingers into her ivory nightgown. He pulled her hands away, tugging off her gown and underwear—a bright white set Mama had given her specifically for this night, so Adam would know she was pure. Only Isra didn’t feel pure. She felt dirty and afraid.

Adam locked his hands around her hips, pinning down her struggling body. She kept her eyes shut tight as he shoved her legs open, gritted her teeth as he thrust himself inside her. Then she heard a scream. Was it hers? She was afraid to open her eyes. There was something about the darkness that felt safe, familiar. Lying there, eyes closed, memories of her home somehow overwhelmed her. She saw herself running in an open field, picking figs from the trees, saving the best ones for Mama, who waited for her at the top of the hill with an empty basket. She saw herself playing with marbles in the yard, chasing them as they rolled down the hill. She saw herself blowing dandelions in the cemetery, reciting a prayer on every gravestone.

Then she felt a gush down her thighs: she knew it must be blood. She tried to ignore the burning sensation between her legs, as if a fist were punching through her, tried to forget that she was in a strange room with a strange man, her insides being forced open. She wished Mama had warned her about the powerlessness a woman feels when a man puts himself inside her, about the shame that fills her when she is forced to give herself up, forced to be still. But this must be normal, Isra told herself. It must be.

So she lay there as Adam continued to thrust himself in and out of her until, in rapid succession, he let out a deep breath and collapsed on top of her. Then he lifted his body off hers and hobbled out of bed.

Isra rolled over and buried her face in the sheets. The room was dark and cold, and she pulled the blanket over her goose-pimpled flesh. Where had he gone? After a moment, she heard him pacing in the bathroom. He flicked the light on, and she heard him open a cabinet. Then he turned the light off and returned to the room.

Isra didn’t know why, but in that moment she thought she was going to die. She imagined Adam slicing her neck with a knife, shooting her in the chest, setting her on fire. What made her think these horrible things, she didn’t know. But sprawled across the mattress, all she could see was darkness and blood.

She felt him nearing, and her heart began to swell. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt him place his hands on her knees, and her legs twitched away instinctively. He leaned closer. Slowly, he spread her legs apart. Then he dabbed a rag against her split flesh.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have to.”

Lying there, trembling, Isra thought of Fareeda. She imagined her creeping down to the bathroom earlier that day, smiling slyly as she placed a bundle of fresh cloth in the cabinet for her son to use. It was clear to Isra what Adam was doing: he was collecting evidence.