Black Book of Arabia (14 page)

The excitement of meeting Najwa waned over time, as one would expect. Not that she became less beautiful. On the contrary, Saad thought she was more beautiful than ever. She knew what to feed him, which scent he preferred, which movies he enjoyed, and which colors of flowers and dresses he found alluring. Perhaps because of their active weekends, she lost a couple of kilograms, making her figure even better. She did not stop wearing makeup or fixing her hair, either. In fact, Saad snapped photos of her makeup bottles and then bought her high-end versions of the same tones and colors, along with lipstick shades she liked. Slowly, Najwa replaced even the barista in Bahrain as his feminine ideal. She was his queen, and he, her king.

Their lovemaking was satisfying, but the youthful excitement had faded away. It was replaced by something else, an
emotional bond that Saad had not expected to develop. As time passed, he grew more enamored of Najwa. He looked forward to their days as much as to their nights. One weekend they went to dinner at a nice restaurant and watched a movie on her couch. She fell asleep in his arms. The way she clung to his arm as she slept, with her head bowed and her neck exposed, left an image in his mind that recurred to him again and again.
My God,
he thought to himself,
I have fallen in love
.

She was a good woman who never spoke of her late husband, and he was too nervous to even bring him up. He was jealous of the memory that his now dear, dear rose held of her late husband. He had died in his sleep a few years earlier. She had no immediate family, and after he passed away, she became an introvert, only leaving the house when necessary. Her late husband could not have children, and, after he died, she had drifted into a depression which caused her to have lengthy periods. Doctors advised her to have her uterus removed, because this was a sign of early stage cancer of the endometrial lining, uterus, and cervix. She loved children, but was never blessed with them.

Saad was proud of his
mesyar
wife, but was content with the relationship staying secret. There was no need to ruin a perfect understanding. Maybe in the future he would bring her to Riyadh and rent an apartment for her closer to his home.

Whenever possible, he would make an excuse to leave home on Wednesday instead of on Thursday. Sometimes he
returned late on Saturday night. As his friends had predicted, he discovered new ways of spending time with his beautiful new love. He spent one weekend in his friend's chalet by the beach, and another in the desert in his friend's tent. He even once took her with him to one of his friend's family gatherings, and she was just as reserved as he was.

One day he did not have to think of a new excuse; one fell into his lap, almost literally. A leaking air conditioner had weakened the roof of his office and, one Monday afternoon, it crashed through the ceiling. With the extreme summer heat, the entire office was given the week off with pay while repairs were made. It was a Godsend, and Saad seized upon his good fortune. He went home early and told Huda what had happened. “I can take a few days to go to Jordan to look for a new racer,” he said. “Also, my friend has an uncle there who is thinking about selling his Land Rover. I might be able to get a great deal on it.”

As usual, Huda put up no resistance; as long as the bills were paid and he was home eventually, all would be fine. In fact, she packed him a lunch to take with him. She was a good wife and mother, and Saad realized that he loved her even if he was not as attracted to her as he once had been.

Saad showered, shaved, and packed a few things for his week with Najwa. He left right after the children returned from school. “Have fun, Daddy,” they said as he left.

Najwa never texted him unless he texted her first. He decided not to let her know he was coming. He felt a
surprise visit would be a delightful treat for the growing love that was still in its blooming spring. He sent her one short message:
I cannot wait to see you
. A minute later, she texted him back.
I cannot wait to see you, either.

It was dark when he reached Jeddah. Once inside Najwa's compound, he dimmed his lights so she would not see him coming. He parked in his usual parking place and tiptoed to the door. He slipped his key into the lock and quietly turned the handle before knocking his usual knock: “Honey, I'm home.” He then flung the door open and shouted, “Surprise!”

A dark, bearded man sitting in front of the television in his pajamas and slippers looked up. “Who the hell are you?” he shouted.

“Who am I?” Saad shouted back. “Who are you?”

The man, a few years older than Saad, but feisty, sprang out of the chair like a wild animal. “Get out of my house!” the man roared.

For a moment, Saad thought he might have gone into the wrong apartment.
But why did the key fit?
he wondered. It was the last thought he had before the stranger hit him on the side of the head with a blunt object. Stunned, Saad collapsed to one knee. The man had a half-full water bottle in his hand and was raising it to strike another blow.

“Stop!” screamed Najwa, running in from the kitchen. “Stop! He's a friend!”

“A friend?” shouted the man.

A friend?
thought Saad.

“Why does he have a key?” the fuming man demanded.

Saad struggled to his feet. “Because I am her husband, you idiot.”

The man swung the water bottle again, but this time Saad blocked the man's wrist, and the bottle flew out of his hand.

“Get the hell out of my house,” shouted the man.

His voice boomed out the open door and echoed off the apartment building on the other side of the parking lot. Najwa's neighbors already were calling the police.

“You get out,” shouted Saad. “Tell him, Najwa.”

The man looked at Najwa. “What is he saying?”

“Has this man hurt you?” Saad asked Najwa. “Did you hurt her?” he yelled at the man.

“Not like I'm going to hurt you,” said the man, grabbing a candlestick from the sideboard behind the couch. “I'll make you bleed.”

“Ahmed, stop,” screamed Najwa, grabbing the man's arm.

“Do you know this man?” demanded Saad. “Well, do you?”

He looked at the two of them. Najwa was clinging to the man's arm the way she had clung to his on the couch when she was asleep. Saad's head was throbbing, but he hardly felt it. He prayed the man was her brother, but he was not sure of how to react. He just felt the adrenaline rush, his jealousy reaching a dangerous point, and his arms burning him where she held this strange man. The pain in his heart was too great. He wanted an explanation.

The police sorted out the details. Najwa was married to the other man, Ahmed. An aircraft technician, Ahmed
made a good living by working weekends and holidays when airline travel was busiest. That is when Saad would visit. Ahmed was off Mondays and Tuesdays, when Saad was never around. He was her husband of many years and he could not have children. After she had her hysterectomy, her mother-in-law, whom she never liked, convinced Ahmed to take his spinster cousin as a second wife. Najwa never recovered from the insult. She demanded a divorce, but one was never granted, and Ahmed continued to live with her, although he would hardly ever see her. She considered herself divorced because according to Islam, if a husband chooses not to consummate a marriage for more than six months and does not provide for his wife and home, then she is technically a divorcee. But she must apply for the divorce and prove it before going ahead with such an audacious act.

Najwa had mischievously arranged a
mesyar
marriage with a new man to profit from and enjoy, as the man had likewise enjoyed her. Since she had married Ahmed first, she was legally bound to him, but because she had made a joke of the institution of marriage, she was arrested and taken to prison.

Najwa had her day in court. She defended herself by claiming that she had merely played the men's game of cheating on their wives and of fooling themselves into thinking that any woman would be honored to be made into a glorified prostitute. The court found her guilty of polygamy, which was punishable by imprisonment of up to two years, but her life was spared because both marriages
were full of holes. Saad appeared at her trial and begged for the court's mercy on the woman who had betrayed him.

“Why are you defending her?” asked the judge.

“Because I am the injured party,” said Saad. “And because . . .” His throat tightened, and he paused to take a deep breath. “And,” he said at last, “because I love her.”

I Sold My Kidney for Love

I like men who make me laugh. Adnan was hilarious and quick-witted when we met our junior year in university in Yemen. He expressed a keen interest in me, which I reciprocated. I just wanted him to know that I was looking for a serious relationship, one that would end in marriage.

Born into a working-class family, I was of average build, with shoulder-length, curly brown hair, almond eyes, and an aquiline nose. I always dressed in pastel colors because I felt that even if I were to have a bad day, the colors would subdue any negativity and bring out the peace within me. I excelled in university and would assist students in help session classes where my feelings toward Adnan, my fellow student, blossomed. His magnetism and kindness were visible and unforgettable. I enjoyed sitting next to him as much as I enjoyed his discussions in class amongst his peers. We both created reasons to speak or work together, and, surely enough, a love was kindled.

I insisted to this fellow Yemeni who understood our traditions that the marriage would have to be formally arranged if he insisted on controlling my life, my friends, my attire, and my lifestyle. He was as attentive as he was
funny. His uncle came to our house to propose and formally take permission to get us engaged. It was agreed that we were to be married after university, hopefully. Money is always everyone's problem when considering tying the knot. Circumstances are always complicated, especially for two young adults who are each trying to create their own destiny. Yet I believed in Adnan, and a future with him was my ultimate dream. He would be my happy ending, and I would do my utmost to make it work.

One day, I was out shopping with my cousin for her engagement and we bumped into a relative of her fiancé. Surprisingly, it was Adnan's uncle—the same one I had met! I was shocked and asked to understand the relation. Since Adnan was of a Southern tribe and I was of a Northern tribe, I was astonished that both my and my friend's fiancés were related, and both from this Southern tribe. The uncle's first name was the same as it had been introduced to me, but his second name was not. Questions were raised, and I demanded answers. The air was tense, and I was confused. I did not want to wait, and I was getting angry. Feeling cheated is a rage that escalates like an erupting volcano. The stories of staged proposals and men who get away with breaking girls' hearts raced through my mind. I was drowning in doubt as I recalled long conversations where Adnan would complain bitterly of how poor he was and how difficult it would be to afford the wedding, let alone the marriage and children that, God willing, would follow.

I confronted Adnan on the university campus and demanded a formal explanation. Why did he bring in
a stranger to pretend to be his uncle and trick me into thinking that he was serious about our relationship? Why did he lie to me? I needed to understand the situation or end it. I set off a firework of inquiries as this appeared to be dishonesty in its plainest form and function—a ruse to lure me into a relationship with someone who seemed to be looking for a fling, not a marriage. Was he just looking to legitimize our relationship because he knew very well that I would refuse a short-term dating scheme? I was in it for marriage, as was the norm for respectable girls in our tribes and country. Men and women are not allowed or approved of to be friends and dating without a proper proposal.

Adnan was apologetic and tried to fix the broken trust. He explained how his family was not educated and would never agree to him marrying a liberal woman; this is why he had asked a friend to pose as his uncle. By liberal, he was referring to my modest self, because I do not wear a hijab, I went to a mixed university, and conversed, albeit conservatively, with my fellow colleagues or coworkers regardless of their gender. I would not be comfortable in his culture, traditions, and accepted norms. All of this being said, Adnan said he was different from the rest of his family and did not care what they thought. His long-term plan was to earn a high enough salary to afford independent housing from his family, pay for a decent wedding and dowry, and to support us both.

I did not speak to him and did not answer his calls for weeks. He told me he loved me and that he would go the distance. I do not know if I chose to believe his sincerity
and his desperate tears, or if I simply could not picture any other man besides him in my life. My grandmother used to say “we get who we dream of in heaven,” and to me, he was my prince in heaven. I knew that I loved him so very much, beyond common sense or reason. I would go to sleep picturing his face next to mine on my pillow and would sometimes wake, crying from a dream in which he would die, and that would leave me emotionally traumatized.

Eventually, we came back together, and Adnan promised me that he would propose properly after graduating. I forgave him and loved him more after that, and he was more attentive to me as well, stating that the time and punishment he had faced was enough to kill a grown man. A few months later, I graduated as an accountant and began taking CPA courses to improve my chances of getting a job.

Adnan graduated with me, but his calls and visits soon began to dwindle. I began to wonder why and faced him with my fears. He broke down when I saw him, telling me that he could not afford to get married and that he was ashamed to speak to me. Additionally, he faced trouble with his family as they had recently lost their car to torching during one of the recent strikes in Yemen.