“When we returned to Riyadh, my father had a meeting with his parents and brothers and sisters. He said to them straight out that little Meshaal was the son God had not wished to give him through Diane—my mother—and that they were all to respect his choice, and that they were not to reveal this secret in front of Meshaal, ever. Close relatives were the only ones who knew about my mother’s illness because no one had seen her here throughout her illness and treatment, and my father did not permit the news to get out.
“My father gave his family a choice: if they wanted him to stay, they could accept his decision and his family. If they didn’t accept, he would return to live in the States. After a week of family conferences, the family agreed to accept little Meshaal as one of their own. My father was sure that they would agree, not because they loved him but because the family business urgently needed my father’s expertise. We went back to America just to tie up everything there, and one year later, the four of us were back in Riyadh, beginning a new stage of our lives.”
She had gotten used to Faisal’s silences when she was speaking, especially if it was something moving and sad like this, but she was a little afraid of his silence this time. She started searching in his eyes for some reaction, some response that would hint at what he was thinking about after hearing her story. When she didn’t find anything to reassure her, she added sadly, “We’re not afraid of anyone. We didn’t hide where Meshaal came from out of embarrassment or anything. Believe me, my father was ready to broadcast the truth on the pages of national newspapers and magazines, if it were not for his sure sense that his society in Saudi would not accept his adopted son with the same welcome that his wife’s society in America would welcome him. Isn’t it sad to have to hide a truth like this from Meshaal and from my friends? I wish I could tell them, but they wouldn’t understand. They would call him painful names behind his back and treat him badly. And that is what I won’t accept! It is my father’s and mother’s life and they chose to live it in this way, so why did everyone try to interfere in their business? Why am I forced to act a part in front of others? Why doesn’t this society respect the difference between my family and other Saudi families? Everyone considers me a bad girl just because my mother is American! How can I live in such an unjust society? Tell me how, Faisal!”
She burst into tears, which she had found she even enjoyed when she was with him. He was the only one who knew how many tears exactly he had to let her spill before he could gently tease her to get her to stop crying. He was the only one who knew that she would laugh in spite of herself if he brought her the soft butter milk candy of her childhood or a can of her favorite strawberry soda from the nearest grocery shop.
Faisal, this time, was keeping his thoughts to himself. He comforted her gently as he imagined the conversation he would have with his mother as soon as he returned home. He had tried to postpone this conversation many times, but this time he was determined to open (or close) the subject with his mother once and for all.
God help us! he said to himself, and left.
15.
To: seerehwenfadha7et@yahoogroups.com
From: “seerehwenfadha7et”
Date: May 21, 2004
Subject: My Heart! My Heart!
I know that all of you are dying to know what happened between Faisal and his mother, and so we return today to the chapter of Faisal and Michelle. Dear Michelle, who is such a source of gossip because people are convinced that I am her (if I am not Sadeem)! It seems that I am Michelle whenever I use English expressions. But then, just the next week, when I type out a poem by Nizar Qabbani, I become Sadeem. What a schizophrenic life I lead!
The minute Um Faisal heard the English name Michelle, one hundred devils swarmed into her head. Faisal hastily tried to correct his mistake. People called her Michelle but her real name was purely Saudi, Mashael, he assured his mother.
“She is Mashael Al-Abdulrahman.”
A searing look from his mother’s eyes scared him and halted his tongue. He worried suddenly that some ancient quarrel existed between the two families. But it quickly became clear to him that the problem was that his mother had never before heard the name of this family.
“Who do you mean, Al-Abdulrahman? Abdul is the servant and Rahman is the Merciful, one of Allah’s several names. So she comes from the family of the servant of God, just like any Abdullah or Abdullatif or Abdulaziz. All are names of God. But do you know how many servants of God there are? We all are! So what makes this Abdul Rahman special?”
Michelle’s family name—“Servant of the Merciful”—was as common as the epithet suggested it could be. Apparently, the name had never ascended to the ranks of families who formed alliances with—or even mixed with—the family of Al-Batran. Faisal tried to explain to his mother that Michelle’s father had only been settled in the country for a few years, and maybe that was why his name was not yet known to many in Riyadh society.
His mother didn’t get it. “Who are his brothers?” she demanded to know. Faisal answered energetically that Michelle’s father was the most successful of the Al-Abdulrahmans. It was just that, since returning from America, where he had lived for many years, this Al-Abdulrahman had customarily mixed only with people who had the same cultural outlook and ideas.
That just made his mother angrier.
The family of that girl was not of their sort. They must ask Faisal’s father, since he knew infinitely more about genealogies and families. But from the start, his mother suggested, this line of conversation did not augur well. The girl had tricked him! Aah, the girls of this generation! How awful they were! And aah, for her young, green son—she never would have expected him to fall into the trap of a girl such as this! She asked him who the girl’s maternal uncles were and as soon as she heard that the girl’s mother was American, she decided to bang the door shut for good on this fruitless dialogue around this utterly ridiculous topic. So, like countless mothers before her, she resorted to the oldest trick in the book:
“Quick, son! Get up, hurry, get me my blood pressure medicine! My heart, oh, my heart! I think I’m dying…”
Faisal tried hard. It must be said that he really tried hard to convince her, to get her to see Michelle’s many exceptional qualities, or, in the horse-trading language of mothers looking to make a match, her “fine attributes.” He went on and on about things that meant nothing to her. Mashael was a cultured, educated girl; she was a university student whose potpourri of Eastern and Western thinking he really liked and admired. The girl understood him; the girl was sophisticated and not straight out of the village like all of the other girls he had met or those his mother had hinted strongly about marrying him off to. The simple truth of it was the one thing that he could not say plainly to his mother: the girl loved him and he loved her. He loved her even more than she loved him, he was sure.
Faisal’s mother gulped down her pills. (If they didn’t help, at least they didn’t hurt.) She wept hot tears and she stroked his hair gently as she talked about her great hopes to marry her youngest son to the best of girls, to give him the best home there ever was, and the best automobile, plus all-expense-paid tickets to spend the best honeymoon ever.