The doorbell rang like Birmingham’s tornado siren, long and foreboding.
Jane opened her eyes and stared at the plaster ceiling of her apartment. She strained to think who the early visitor was. As she reached for her face, her hand froze halfway. The wedding—her memory came back in a flash—and the markings on her palm, which at first sight resembled dried blood, were Aunt Ilma’s “good luck” drawings.
The night before, as the aunt had predicted, they had stayed up until the wee hours, waiting for the henna to dry. Later, insomnia destroyed Jane’s last hope of getting some rest. All night thoughts ricocheted inside her head while her brain screamed that she was crazy, crazy, just crazy and refused to think about anything else.
Jane sat up in her white oak Ikea bed and rubbed her forehead. For better or for worse, she was getting married today. Whatever the consequences, she would deal with them in due time. She threw aside her navy blue comforter and tip-toed past Nessa’s room into the common area.
The thick nylon carpet scratched her bare feet. A car honked outside, a precursor to the day’s traffic. The sun’s timid rays gleamed through the tall window, forming irregular shapes in the foyer.
She squinted and opened the entrance door.
Mom beamed at her from the passage. She wore a new shell-pink dress and an updo of tight blond curls. “Good God, Jane. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? All those bruises.” Mom narrowed her eyes, studying the bluish spots around Jane’s neck.
“We’ll put on some concealer.” Jane yawned. “When’s the makeup artist coming?”
“She was driving behind me.”
Anna’s high heels clattered on the building’s staircase as she hauled up a huge cosmetics case.
The living room turned into a beauty parlor, and the hours rushed by. Anna chirped while she covered the signs of yesterday’s practice on Jane’s face. The hairdresser hopped around with a crimping iron. Awakened by the noise, Nessa fumbled with her camera, clinking lenses and cracking flashes. Mom fussed with tea and coffee. The scent of powder and hot steel permeated the small space, and the hands of the magenta clock counted down minutes.
As the makeup brush tickled Jane’s nose, and the heat of the curler burnt the back of her neck, her knees trembled. Since yesterday, Mahsood’s pitch-black stare had haunted her. What hid in the depths of that abyss? A cool oasis or unyielding sabers? The few words that he had said to her revealed nothing of the man he was. Yet, his eyes had held the same crinkle as in the photo. He didn’t dislike her. She was almost sure of it.
At eleven, Aunt Ilma arrived with the scarlet gown. The sleeveless white one hung in the bedroom closet. Jane would wear it later when they went to see the magistrate in the evening. First came the Pakistani ceremony, on which the Khans had insisted. Mom had demanded a conventional, albeit small, reception for their Alabamian friends. Even with her outward support for Jane’s decision, Mom wouldn’t risk inviting her important people to an event she failed to understand. Still, she had to show something for her daughter’s nuptials.
With Aunt Ilma’s help, Jane changed into the velvet garment and attached a matching headcover that reached down to her heels. A thick layer of golden-thread embroidery covered the hem, bodice, and full sleeves. For all its luxury, the outfit felt heavy and suffocating. She was bound to either trip over the train or die from overheating.
Jane’s heart pounded, and goosebumps covered her body. Balancing the weight of necklaces, earrings, and headpieces, she perched on a stool next to the kitchen table. All around her, the ladies chattered. Anna laughed, and the hairdresser praised Mom’s muffins. Soft knocking plunged the room into silence.
“It is time,” Aunt Ilma said.
Nessa unlocked the deadbolt.
A bearded young Imam entered, glanced around, and proceeded toward Jane. He settled across from her and laid out a few typed pages along with a fountain pen.
She was familiar with the document’s contents—a prenuptial agreement provided her with substantial compensation in a case of divorce in addition to retaining all of her premarital property. Despite Uncle Gafar’s assurances that Mahsood intended to start a family and stick to it, the old man had insisted that the paperwork be signed. “It is Islamic law, Ms. Jane. A marriage contract must be done,” he said to her. In fact, as she had found out later, singing a piece of paper was the extent of the bridal ceremony. Islamic weddings did not require any vows, kisses, exchanges of rings, or other romantic pleasantries. Well, whatever the process, the outcome would be the same, and if their union ended in a fiasco, she would rather have an easy way out. Mahsood would probably too.
Jane sighed and flipped through the stack. Mahsood's calligraphic signature decorated the last sheet. Clenching the writing instrument with her numb fingers, she wrote her name underneath.
“The nikah is now complete.” The Imam rose, his long beige robe sweeping the floor. “Congratulations. Your husband will get you shortly.”
Jane’s hands shook, and her throat was dry. Unable to make a sound, she nodded.
Husband. How could such a sweet word taste so bitter? For many years, she had waited for her wedding day, met different men, shared her life with them, and formed attachments. Yet, tonight she would go to sleep with a stranger. How desperately ridiculous.
Footsteps, quiet but firm.
She looked up.
Mahsood stood in front of her dressed in a coat of the same rouge color as her ensemble. A turban covered his hair. He grinned and extended his hand. “Ready?”
Her heart fluttered as her palm slid into his. Mahsood’s grasp tightened, the touch of his skin warm, reassuring.
Jane glanced up at her husband’s profile. His prominent features expressed confidence if not arrogance—he was a strong, handsome man, and under other circumstances, she would have been flattered by his attention.
He led her out into the parking lot, where a limousine waited for them. A black suit clad chauffeur helped them inside. They drove the same route as the day before except now Mahsood sat next to her. Their hands didn’t touch anymore. Still, the proximity of his body filled the air with a hint of vanilla.
As she gazed at him, black eyes met hers and traveled down, lingering on her lips. “You are beautiful, houri.” His voice sounded hoarse.
Her fingers caressed the smooth leather of the backseat. “Thank you.” She swallowed and turned away as a fervid wave flushed her cheeks.
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***
Men and women filled the main hall of the Khans’ house. They cheered and cried upon the arrival of the newlywed couple. Jane walked by Mahsood’s side, his figure towering over her. They passed under a red canopy and nestled into a high-back sofa, surrounded by gold pillows. Rose garlands bedecked the wall behind them, and the sky bestowed its blessings through the glass dome.
The guests ate and drank, chanted and danced to the drums and the deep, iridescent tone of a Pakistani soloist. A zither sang, and rainbow-like dresses, dupattas, and turbans flashed before Jane’s eyes. Low tables carried unfamiliar dishes, and people sat on the floor, leaning on colorful pillows and mats. Six men in long white shirts and crimson belts performed a dance with swords. They stomped their feet on the hardwood floor, waving blades above their heads.
What an intoxicating euphoria. How could she remain indifferent to this overwhelming celebration? This day belonged to her, and she better not ruin it with anxieties and fears. She would be a joyful bride and store this memory deep in her heart, so later, in the moments of hardship, she could retrieve it and bask in its warmth.
Male attendees took turns coming up to Mahsood. He chatted with them, laughed, and gesticulated. Mischievous sparkles flickered in his irises.
Jane didn’t understand a word. She munched on lamb with seasoned rice and sipped a cold, milk-based beverage. She caught her groom’s gaze and looked down.
Mahsood chuckled.
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When an antique rococo clock to her left struck six, Jane scanned the room. Mom sat at one of the low tables and gaped at the festivities along with Nessa and Rachel. Jane met her mother’s eyes and gestured at the time.
After a few minutes, Aunt Ilma approached the newlyweds. “We will soon leave to see the magistrate. Your mother is waiting for you.”
Jane got to her feet and glimpsed at Mahsood.
He smiled and nodded.
Aunt Ilma led her upstairs. In the hallway on the second floor, she pointed to a door on the right and hastened back to the party.
In the room, Mom waited with a wedding gown in hand. On the floor, Jane’s gym bag neighbored the Louis Vuitton suitcase. An oyster white mirror overlooked a matching dresser, and a king-size bed sprawled in the middle.
Jane’s cheeks heated up. She grabbed the dress and rushed to the bathroom. Inside, she hesitated, surveying two identical sinks. An electric toothbrush, a bottle of Dolce Gabbana perfume, and a pack of razors occupied one side of the double vanity.
She pulled off the headcover and the heavy garment and slipped into a simple silk one, with straps and a straight silhouette. “Can you tie me up?” Jane called.
Mom’s soft hands touched her back. “How long are you staying here?” she asked.
“Just one night.”
“Is Mahsood moving to your apartment after that?”
“Uh-huh.” Jane exhaled as the lace tightened. “Uncle Gafar wanted us to live with them, but I need my space.”
“And Nessa?”
“She’s looking for a place.”
Mom patted her forearm. “Good to go, dear. Be careful walking down.”
“Thanks.” Jane hugged her mother’s petite frame, keeping her arms around her for a few seconds.
“Hurry, or you’ll be late. Judge Jefferson is slammed on Saturdays.” Mom pecked her cheek and wriggled free. She left the room first.
Jane stepped out after her and glided onto the marble staircase. The evening sun poured in through countless glass panes and reflected in the gilded railing. People crowded below. At the bottom of the stairs, her new husband talked to an elderly gentleman in a tan-colored beret.
Mahsood raised his head, and his gaze slipped through Jane’s hair onto her neck, bare shoulders, and chest. He pressed his lips, and his face flushed.
She froze. His cold stare pricked her skin, dissolving the illusion of a fairy tale. The exotic music no longer mesmerized—the magical sound of strings turned into shrill noise. Tasteless wreaths coiled like pink snakes, and the strong peppery smell irritated Jane’s nostrils.
Mahsood said something to the old man and ran up toward her. He removed his coat, threw it over Jane’s shoulders, and pulled her upstairs and into their bedroom. “Change your clothes.” He growled.
She clenched her fists. “What's wrong with my outfit?”
He grabbed the red costume out of the closet and tossed it to her. “Change your clothes.”
She caught the bulky ball of fabric. “No way.”
“You won't leave here until you change your clothes.” The door slammed behind him.
Unhealthy demands. If he thought he could order her around, he was mistaken. She didn’t care. She could stay in the room the entire evening if she had to.
Jane put the garment aside and rummaged in her gym bag. Pulling out her phone, she flumped on the bed. Half-past six. Judge Jefferson would arrive at the banquet hall at seven.
Six thirty-five. She listened for any sound from the hallway. The drive would take less than twenty minutes. They had time.
Six forty. Silence. An imaginary alarm tingled in her head. What if Mahsood didn't come? How long would the Judge wait?
Six forty-five. She cursed herself. She should have changed the damn dress. Mahsood wasn’t like any other man she knew—he came with a set of elaborate traditions and a nosy family. Marrying him meant altering some habits.
Yet, wasn’t he, like her other boyfriends, a temporary phenomenon? What if he planned to stay for a lifetime? Jane exhaled, picturing her future—the omnipresent slippery Uncle Gafar, the old-school Aunt Ilma along with other Urdu-speaking Khans, strange-tasting food, unknown milky drinks, gawking of passersby, and thick long-sleeve clothing. She would have to endure all that and more if she decided to give their relationship a fighting chance. A gulf lay between her and Mahsood, and one of them had to risk the crossing.79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtAddtgd6rI
