Rajaa Alsanea - Girls of Riyadh

That’s where she found him. For the third time in a row, fate had arranged a suitable and respectable chance meeting for her with this stranger. That must mean something, thought Sadeem, and one of Um Nuwayyir’s favorite expressions popped into her head: The third time’s a charm.

Firas was absorbed in reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee in his right hand. Papers and a laptop lay in disarray on the table in front of him.

Should I go over and say hi to him? What if he decides to be rude and pretends he doesn’t know me? Yallah, whatever. I haven’t got anything to lose, so… She turned toward him and greeted him nicely. He got up and shook her hand respectfully, and his “How are you, Sadeem? How nice to see you” erased whatever ill thoughts she had had of him. They stood beside his table chatting. After a few minutes, he helped her move her coffee and cheese croissant from her table to his so that she would not have to eat alone.

Their conversation flowed easily and pleasantly. Somehow, over the course of the conversation, she forgot that this was the very guy, the very Saudi, whose tongue she had wanted to cut out before he could start spreading gossip about her. She asked him about his university and the topic of his dissertation, and he asked her about her studies and her summer job. When she asked what all the scattered papers in front of them were, he confessed that he had intended to read more than two hundred pages this morning, but, as usual for him, he had not been able to resist the temptation of a fresh, crackly newspaper. With childish naughtiness, he hid from her what was sitting on the chair next to his—another stack of newspapers. She laughed at him. He claimed that all he had bought this morning was Al-Hayat, Asharq Alawsat, and the Times, which he had read cover to cover instead of reading his mountain of academic papers.

As their conversation continued, Sadeem was stunned by his sophisticated appreciation of and familiarity with music and art. When he made her promise to listen to the soprano Louisa Kennedy’s rendition of the “Queen of the Night” aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, she thought that he was one of the most cultivated men she had ever met.

Their conversation shifted to the topic of the amount of Gulf tourists who flowed into London every year in that season. Sadeem let her biting, critical humor go unrestrained. Firas, it turned out, loved nothing more than a good joke. Together they filled the café air with their warm laughter.

The chemistry between them became so thick that it hovered and swooped around their heads like cartoon sparrows. Sadeem noticed that a hard rain had started to pelt the sidewalks, even though the sun had been shining brightly just before. Firas offered to drive her to her flat—or anywhere else she wanted—and she refused politely, thanking him for the nice offer. She told him she would finish her shopping nearby and then take a taxi or bus home. He did not insist, but he asked her to wait a few minutes while he went to get something from his car.

He came back carrying an umbrella and raincoat, and he handed them both to her. She tried to convince him to keep one of them, but he stood firm, so she accepted them with thanks and good wishes.

Before they parted, Sadeem hoped he would be bold enough to ask for her telephone number so that they wouldn’t have to leave the next meeting to chance, especially since she only had a few days left in London before she had to return to Riyadh to resume her studies. He disappointed her, though, putting out his hand to say good-bye and thanking her pleasantly for her company. She went back to her flat, every step carrying her farther away from the happy ending to a story that had not even had a chance to begin.

18.

To: seerehwenfadha7et@yahoogroups.com

From: “seerehwenfadha7et”

Date: June 11, 2004

Subject: A Society Riddled with Contradictions

The noble Prophet, God’s blessings and peace be upon him, married Arab women and non-Arab women; women of his tribe, Quraish, and women who were not of Quraish; Muslims and non-Muslims; Christians and Jews who converted to Islam before he consummated the marriages; women who had been married before and virgins. —Amr Khaled*

I’ve noticed that recently my e-mails have (finally!) begun to get approval from members of my own sex, although most of the encouraging letters I get are from males, bless them! I can just imagine the scenario: your average girl, week after week, sits hunched over her computer every Friday after prayers waiting for my e-mail to come up, and the minute it does she frantically scans it for any sign of resemblance to herself. When she doesn’t find any, she breathes a sigh of relief and then calls her friends to make sure they’re also in the clear, and they all congratulate each other for having safely avoided scandal for yet another week! But should she find anything that remotely resembles an incident she went through some years ago, or a street that one of my characters walked on sounded like the street near her uncle’s house in the suburbs, then all hell would break loose on me.

I get a lot of e-mails that are threatening and scolding: Wallah, we will reveal you the same way you revealed us! We know who you are! You’re that girl, the daughter of my sister-in-law’s uncle’s niece! You’re just jealous because your cousin proposed to me and not you! Or, you’re the big-mouth daughter of our old neighbors in Manfooha, so jealous because we moved to Olayya and you’re still stuck in that awful place.*

Faisal told Michelle half the truth. Sitting across from her in their favorite restaurant, he told her that his mother had not supported the idea of his marrying her, and he told her about the dramatic nature of the exchange, but he left it for Michelle to deduce the obvious reasons behind his mother’s anger. Michelle could not believe her ears. Was this the Faisal who had dazzled her with his open-mindedness? Was he seriously letting go of her as easily as this just because his mother wanted to marry him to a girl from their own social circles? A stupid naïve little girl who was no different from a million others? Was this how Faisal was going to end up? Was he really no different from the other trivial young men whom she despised?

It came as a severe shock to Michelle. Faisal didn’t even try to make any excuses for himself because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to change anything no matter what he said, so his position seemed weak and his reaction cold. All he said was that he hoped Michelle would consider what the consequences would be if he were to challenge his family; there was no power on earth, he said, that could block or lessen the awful things they would do to hurt both him and her, if he insisted on marrying Michelle. She would never be accepted by his family, and their children would suffer for it. He had not even made an attempt to object to his mother because of the utter futility of it. It was not because he didn’t love her, he said. But they didn’t believe in love! They believed only in their inherited beliefs and their traditions from across the generations, and so how could one possibly hope to convince them otherwise?

Michelle remained absolutely silent and still, staring across the table into the face which she seemed no longer to recognize. He held her hands to his face, moistening her palms with his tears before he said good-bye and stood up to leave. The last thing he said to her before he left was that she was lucky, because she was not from the kind of family he was from. Her life was simpler and clearer and her decisions were her own, not those of the “tribe.” She was better off without him and his family. Her wonderful free spirit would not be sullied by their rules; their poisonous thoughts and insidious ways would not destroy her goodness.