Black Book of Arabia (12 page)

Jassim flew in to the Doha airport, and I went to collect him with my sister. He looked almost the same as he had on our wedding day, with just a few odd white hairs above his ears. He was a little heavier, and I was shy to even hug him until I recognized his smell, his voice, and the energy he gave me when we were together. I was a bundle of mixed feelings: Accepting the new, older face of the man I had been intimate with for years was a huge emotional challenge.

The children. Oh, the children were perfect, just as I had imagined them to be, although I did not recognize them until my fingers scanning them told me who they were. I familiarized myself with how they looked, but I was in the habit of feeling their faces and they connected to that. Even to this day, years later, they take my hands gently and allow my fingers to trail their features. It was a habit they had grown to love. When they would hug me, they would notice me breathing deeper to take in their smell. I would hear them first, the pitter patter of small feet, the rushed steps of my son, the dragging swagger of my other son, the gentle and quiet steps of my daughter, and the flippity flap of the maids' fast steps. I recognized the way their arms brushed against their bodies and the way that they would sit down: some quietly, some collapsing into
the chair, and some in their own fidgety way. I felt each one's energy, and they used to make jokes at how Mummy could
see
from their energy. The way they breathed and the way they spoke was my polygraph of their emotional and physical state.

The overwhelming feelings left me restless and fearful that I would lose my sight again. The doctors did not have an answer the second time around either. This was worse. I needed to have an answer, and I went to several specialists. I wanted science to justify my unjust imprisonment in darkness, and I wanted reassurance that it would not return.

At my mother's funeral, I stood silent. I did not announce that my sight had returned because I wanted the funeral to be my mother's final goodbye, not a celebration of the return of my sight.

I was ignored because everyone thought I still was blind. I tried to control my alert eyes, which were darting back and forth, measuring, calculating, drinking up the faces and how they had aged; the colors and artistry of the objects that surrounded us; the designs of furniture; and even the presentation of the food. I could see, and I wanted to see every single detail of everything.

Afterwards, my grandmother told me that sometimes when a mother loves her child too much and gloats about it, she actually gives it the evil eye. My mother loved me very much and was very critical of anything lacking in me. I was the apple of her eye, and it was out of her love that an arrow had hit me, blinding me.

The way the evil eye is treated depends on the strength of that negative energy. No wonder my many trips to doctors and religious folk never yielded any result. The only cure for my blindness was the death of the person who had given me the look of envious admiration: my poor, unknowing mother.

The Grass on the Other Side

At forty-two years old, Saad was an average-looking government employee in Riyadh. His life was a drab routine of work, sleep, watching television with his wife and five children, and going to occasional gatherings with his friends in the evenings. He and his wife of seventeen years, Huda, had settled into a comfortable life and understood each other well—perhaps too well, to the point where theirs had become a mundane, sparkleless marriage. For many years, Huda had been proud of her husband's success in finding a stable position with the government; it meant that the threats of unemployment and spinsterhood had been handled. However, she was becoming increasingly dissatisfied that his career was going nowhere. The family wanted more of life's luxuries, and those came at a price.

Once a slender beauty, Huda had let herself go. As her looks faded, so did her interest in making herself look good. With the children's never-ending wants and the lack of time to do all the things they had to do, she had to prioritize. She stopped wearing makeup, fixing her hair, dressing up, and wearing alluring fragrances.

Saad would often think about the early days of marriage and how exciting and beautiful his wife had been. The children had become too much work and too much trouble—for her and for him. Life at home demanded a constant attention that was unappreciated and thankless. The stress was unwelcome, but withstood, because it was a responsibility that had to be handled, and Saad was a responsible man. He knew the rules and he abided by them religiously.

During coffee breaks at work, Saad and his coworkers sat in the coffee shop and discussed stocks, cars, Iran and its nuclear ambitions, travel, shopping in the United States, food, and women. Often the talk would turn to taking a second wife, especially the practice of doing it the
mesyar
way.
Mesyar
means “to visit” in Arabic. This kind of marriage was promoted in the old days as a way of helping women who needed support—usually widows who needed a man for financial assistance, or as a presence for her children, or to act as a face for her business, or to meet her needs away from sin.

Nowadays,
mesyar
marriages were nothing more than legal flings with no strings attached, like a brief stay at a hotel. Such marriages did not involve children and payments were at the discretion of the husband. There was no public scandal and no unhappy first wife, because she would be oblivious to what was happening. Furthermore, there would be no community judging the selected fruit of the man's passion or rejecting his “lower status” wife. Nothing but a happy man getting the best of both worlds.
Dr Jekyll during the day and Mr Hyde at night. These men usually kept the other woman a secret, preferring not to publicize the
mesyar
marriage.

“What wife number one does not know will not hurt her,” joked one of Saad's friends.

“That's right,” said another friend. “The second is for pleasure only. With no children involved, no one is left feeling hurt or cheated. It's a win-win situation. Even your first wife will be secretly delighted that you have let go of your tightness and stress. You both will be more satisfied.”

“But it must remain a secret,” added a third.

Everyone at some point thinks of the grass on the other side of the fence, whether it is just a one-night stand, a short affair, or a secret marriage. Saad and his friends all feared God, but they also feared rocking their stable domestic ship. To be married would guarantee that the woman was only yours, because you married her. To have an affair could be a curse, because the mistress could be promiscuous, and that made the men nervous. They did not have time to waste investing in and supporting someone who was not their own. She would be simply for his pleasure, just as he would be for hers—nothing more. Sordid, maybe, but the woman needed it as much as the man did, and they would have an understanding.

Listening to chitchat like this on a daily basis can shake even the sturdiest of ships.

“But how to get away from your family?” Saad wondered aloud one day.

“You can always find a reason,” said one of the older men, sagely.

Saad often wondered if this man had a
mesyar
marriage.

“Take up falconry or hunting—something that takes you to the desert on weekends. Women love breaks from their husbands. Just leave her extra money, and she will keep herself busy. Besides, you're the man in the relationship.”

Another friend chimed in: “Then there are holidays. You let the wife and children go ahead by a few days. You tell them something came up at the office, but you do not want to spoil their vacation.”

A Filipino waiter brought a coffee to the table, murmuring something about extra sugar for someone and other niceties. Quick thank-yous were exchanged, and the men went back to discussing the fine details of their master plans for a second heaven on earth.

“A beautiful woman will bring out your creativity,” said one of Saad's friends, eyeing a girl in a magazine. “I want one that looks like this Lebanese singer, only I want her fatter. Divorced women with kids have better bodies and fewer demands; they would do it because they need someone to pay the bills. They do not mind it being secret, either. Besides, women cannot live without men. God will favor you saving a poor, helpless widow or a starving divorcee from the painful life of being single. I once married a widow who did not have kids, which was perfect for a few years. She had fifteen cats, and her cats hated me because I was king.”

Everyone laughed.

“Then she wanted to ruin it by having kids, but I refused. I told her, ‘Your cats are your kids. Why add more siblings?!'”

This comment brought even more laughter.

“She left to Australia to study and at first she used to call, but now I guess she has moved on. At least she took her mangy cats with her!” He rolled his eyes, raised his eyebrows high, and laughed to make it look like a trivial affair.

“What are you worried about?” another friend teased Saad. “Do you really think Huda is going to suspect you of having another woman? As long as your household is taken care of money-wise and you come home at night, that is enough.”

Everyone laughed, even Saad. He secretly wondered if he was the only one without a
mesyar
wife. Had he been slow to hop on the bandwagon of happy husbands and secret wives?

“You do not want one of these girls,” said the sage, pointing at the girls in the magazine with too much makeup, colored hair piled too high, and lips like goldfish. “You go to sleep with Aisha and wake up next to Fatima, and you wonder what happened to her face while you were asleep.”

The group erupted in laughter, drawing the attention of the other patrons.

“Why have a fling when you can have something legal, something dependable, something entirely yours? And it is legal.
Halal
. God will not punish you. Your wife does not
have a right to get upset, because it was done under the eye and allowance of God. You will have no shortcomings.”

“But where would you find a good one?” Saad asked the older man.

His friend gave him a smile and mouthed the word “matchmaker.”

The younger, humorous one began singing, “Matchmaker, matchmaker, please find me a wife. I want her tall, with rosy cheeks and money bags, and her hands will cook me my tummy's delight.”

These conversations were enjoyable, and excitement was building up inside Saad. His friends promised to chip in with gifts for the
mesyar
wife and the dowry. They even offered to loan him their cars, holiday homes, and expensive items such as watches, cufflinks, and pens to impress the woman.

That afternoon, Saad received an email from his older office mate with the subject line,
MM
. It listed four women and gave their phone numbers. At the bottom of the list, his friend had typed,
Good luck, Groom
.

Saad entered the names and numbers into his phone. It was his right. One woman is simply not enough. A man has needs. He needs new blood every once in a while. It is his reward for working so hard.

When he got to his car after work, he called the first name on the list. An older woman answered.

“
Salam
, my sister, are you a matchmaker?” Saad asked, quieter than he normally spoke, the phone trembling in his hand. It was really happening. He was going to do it.

“Yes, brother, how can I help you?” said the woman. She waited for his response.

“I am looking for a
mesyar
marriage,” said Saad, trying to sound suave and confident. He forgot the sentences he had prepared, but managed to say how the marriage had to be absolutely secret, the bride had to be beautiful with a good figure, and preferably had to be from a faraway area and a family that did not mix with his family's circles.

“I see,” said the matchmaker. She did not sound friendly after he spoke the word
mesyar
. Saad realized that she probably was stereotyping him. He wanted to tell her that he was not ugly, fat, or poor. He could afford a new bride, but he had good reasons for wanting a secret arrangement.

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Do you want this to be arranged discreetly?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” said Saad. He almost laughed with relief.

“How much do you have for a dowry?”

That was unexpected. “Um. What is the average?”

“Average? Do you want someone who is average?”

“Well, no,” Saad stuttered. He wanted someone who looked like a beauty queen, only heavier and cheap, but he dared not say it aloud.

“I probably can find a good match for you for about 30,000. If you were young and handsome, I could find you
an older wife who could take care of you. But you are too old and poor.”

It was more than Saad was expecting, but he had more than enough money in a government retirement account to cover it.

“I'm a good-looking man. I'm tall, I play basketball, and I'm fair. People take me for a royal all the time because of my looks,” said Saad, defending himself.

“Perhaps so, but she will not be young for what you are willing to pay,” said the matchmaker. “If you want someone much younger than yourself, you're talking 50 to 60,000 minimum.”

“No, no, not young,” said Saad. “But is there anyone thirty-five to forty, at least?”

The matchmaker laughed. “Don't worry; I won't fix you up with anyone my age.” She sounded like she was in her late fifties and spoke with years of experience.

“I need to see her first,” Saad said.

“Of course,” said the matchmaker. She seemed to understand who he was and what he wanted. In fact, he was embarrassed at how well she understood him.

“I take fifty percent of the dowry,” said the matchmaker. “It is my gift.”