Abed joined in, “The matter of beauty is a whole other subject, open to discussion. People get old, and you get younger and prettier, as if you were a girl of twenty. The girls have all gotten complexes, and poor me! Every time I like one, I make comparisons. Then you come and say, ‘Why aren’t you getting married, Abed?’ as if I were responsible! What do you think, Aunt Wisal?”
Wisal laughed, and spread her five fingers in his face. “Five and five again! I’ll put a spell on her to protect her from your jealous eyes.” She looked at me, “Ruqayya, as soon as we get back to the hotel I’ll put a spell on you. Sadiq, where can we get incense? Are there perfumers in this country?”
We laughed. I heard the children, even though I was distracted by Fatima, stealing glances at her. It was as if I wanted to make sure. In fact, she looked like him, calm like him, and petite. There was a sweetness in her green eyes, and like him she had a childlike face that made her seem younger than her years. I looked at her as they were coming toward us in the transit lounge, and it was as if they were a girl and boy of no more than twenty. That wasn’t what amazed me; what amazed me was that when Hasan was walking beside her he seemed even more mild-tempered than he always was, and more self-confident. It was as if he was finally able to show his sweetness without embarrassment, or as if he had found a secure place to hitch his reins and he could relax. Where did these ideas come from? My imagination? Later, during the seven days we spent together in Piraeus and during the coming years, I would discover that my intuition had been correct, and that sweet little Fatima was a woman of amazing strength. She was able to love Hasan without any fuss, to keep his feet on the ground and to protect him — as if she were a wolf, or a guard dog, or an angel.
Then came the night of the wedding.
It was a small restaurant on the seashore, and Sadiq wanted to rent it completely so that we would be the only guests. But the owner of the restaurant suggested that he accept other guests, as a full restaurant would add to the liveliness and cheer of the evening; everyone would join in the singing and dancing. Sadiq objected and spent half a day in discussion with the owner of the restaurant, and then he agreed to his suggestion.
He was right. As soon as the musicians began playing their instruments the Greeks began to sing. They inclined their heads and torsos right and left with the singing, and then the chairs couldn’t hold them and they began to leave them, individually and in couples, for the dance floor. They danced, and then the circle widened; they formed a big ring, linking their arms, and became absorbed in a collective dance to the rhythm of the music. One of them motioned to Maryam to join the ring; she looked at Sadiq, but before he gave her permission Abed drew her by the hand, and then drew Hasan and Fatima, and they joined the dancers. Abed came back and tried to convince the elderly ladies to join in; Wisal said to him, “Wait a little. We’ll dance and sing when the time comes. It’s coming, our turn is coming.” When it came, Wisal got up from her seat and advanced a few steps, and burst out singing a mhaha song:
Then she loosed a long trill that surprised the Greek guests in the restaurant. They had not yet understood why she was standing, or the meaning of what she was doing. Then:
She trilled again, more loudly than and stronger than the first time, and Maryam, Karima, and Randa joined her. Then:
The third trill was not limited to the bridal table, rather it rose from all over the restaurant. The other guests, who had been watching the old woman in a long embroidered dress with a cloth belt tied below her stomach, leaving space for her large chest, had understood the game and wanted to share in it. They trilled after their own fashion, and the expert trills mingled with cheerful gargles and laughing shouts that imitated the original. As she returned to her seat, Wisal said, “Where are you, Samir? What are you waiting for?”
Like a conjurer, Fatima’s cousin Samir brought out the tabla drum and the reed flute. He gave the flute to his brother and began to beat the drum and sing:
Then: “Where are you, men? Where’s the dabka line?” Sadiq, Hasan, Abed, Ezz, and the father of the bride got up and made a line near the flute player, who went on playing the flute. Samir accompanied them by beating the tabla and singing:
Abed said it from his place in the dabka line, then he jumped to where we sat and pulled Maryam after him. He announced in a loud voice, as if he were introducing a professional singer, that she was going to sing Fairuz’s song, Dabkat Lubnan. I thought, Abed is rash, and he’s embarrassed his sister. She’ll be overcome with fright, she won’t be able to get her voice out and she’ll sing off key.
She did not sing off key. The voice trembled a little at the beginning, and then it became firm and free:
They danced to the sound of the flute, and to Maryam’s singing. Their arms were linked, their shoulders leaning lightly; their torsos would lean and stand erect, and lean again. The knee would bend, a little or a lot, the feet prominent in the dance, leading it. They step, jump, advance, returning and moving forward and always striking the floor with resolution. Five men, no more, as if they were a clan of jinn. Maryam kept her eyes fixed on them as she sang. Had the dance dissipated her fear so that she forgot that she was afraid, or had the words and the melody of the song captivated her, so that it flew away with her as it did with the dancers?