Months later, a friend came by to pay the boy a visit. They sat on the stoop of his apartment building, bathing in the sunshine and talking about school and work and vacations and people they both knew. The friend’s sister had grown up with Aicha and he asked if the boy had heard anything about her. The mere mention of her name caused a knot to grow in his stomach. He had not heard one word from her since learning of the engagement, despite several attempts at contact. The friend smiled knowingly and told him that this was to be expected; no self respecting married woman would keep in contact with former male friends. He went on to retell the story as he had learned it from his sister.
The marriage was arranged by the girl’s parents over the course of a few weeks. A French suitor, the friend of some distant relatives, had inquired about the girl after having seen her picture during a short stay at someone’s house. A dialogue was begun, offers were made, and the girl was informed only after the negotiations had been finalized. There was a small ceremony in the south for extended family and a larger, more elaborate ceremony in France thereafter.
And so it was that Aicha, the girl with the acorn eyes and wild hair, now lived in France, a country she had never visited, married to a man she had never known.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The Engagement - The Message
Summer arrived and he became busy with work. Gone for weeks and months at a time, he seldom saw the girl of whom he had grown so fond. As each project finished, he would return to the city with a light heart, exhilarated by the thought of being with her again, only to find that she had just left on vacation with her family. They seemed always to miss each other by just a day. They still kept in contact, sending the occasional phone or internet message, but the ‘hello’s and ‘I miss you’s couldn’t fill the growing holes they felt inside their hearts.
As summer wound down, so too did his work. He found himself more and more in the city until his days away numbered no more than two or three per month. He sent message after message to the girl he so desperately missed, asking to see her, inviting her on walks, but he received no response. Time moved forward. Weeks went by. A holiday came and went. But the holiday was not a cheerful one, for he had still heard no word from the girl with acorn eyes and wild hair.
Then one day he found a message in his inbox. It was from her. Immediately, everything was righted and all doubt floated away. He realized then that she must have been traveling somewhere without quality phone coverage, or had no money on her phone, or had lost his number, or had lost her phone, or had even just been too busy. Whatever the problem had been, it didn’t matter now, for she had responded and soon enough they would be together, strolling through the crowded streets, side by side, smiling and laughing once again. Elated, he opened the message and read it eagerly. There was only one line of writing; four short sentences. “Hi Tariq. How are you? I am engaged. Take care.”
The message made sense only once. He read through it quickly and understood completely. But when his brain compared this new information with what it already knew to be true, the two were so violently opposed that he immediately doubted that he had read or interpreted the message correctly. So he went back and tried to read it again, but this time he could find no meaning in the words. He recognized the letters. He saw how they combined to create the words and how the words, individually, were all perfectly clear. These were, in fact, words with significance, words that expressed some thought or idea. The problem lay in the way in which the words were combined. Arranged as they were, the words lost all meaning. He stared at the four sentences, trying to pinpoint the idea they had been intended to convey. But the longer he stared, the less sense it all made. The words became hazy; the letters, scrambled and foreign. The whole line of text morphed and melted together, swirling and dancing on the page until his head hurt.
Somewhere at the other end of time, he blinked. Immediately, the screen raced back towards him, bringing with it an idea that nearly knocked him from his seat. Engaged. The bottom of his stomach gave way and fell into a murky hole of infinity. He felt sick. His head swam. Questions circled around his brain like out of control satellites, orbiting wildly, spinning faster and faster until finally losing balance, falling of their axes, and crashing into one another in tiny explosions. How could she be engaged? It had been barely two months since they had last seen each other. And only a couple weeks since they last spoke; she had mentioned nothing. He read the words over and over, convinced he had missed something, convinced he had misread something. But the words did not change when he read the message again. The meaning was still the same. The girl with acorn eyes and wild hair was engaged.
As summer wound down, so too did his work. He found himself more and more in the city until his days away numbered no more than two or three per month. He sent message after message to the girl he so desperately missed, asking to see her, inviting her on walks, but he received no response. Time moved forward. Weeks went by. A holiday came and went. But the holiday was not a cheerful one, for he had still heard no word from the girl with acorn eyes and wild hair.
Then one day he found a message in his inbox. It was from her. Immediately, everything was righted and all doubt floated away. He realized then that she must have been traveling somewhere without quality phone coverage, or had no money on her phone, or had lost his number, or had lost her phone, or had even just been too busy. Whatever the problem had been, it didn’t matter now, for she had responded and soon enough they would be together, strolling through the crowded streets, side by side, smiling and laughing once again. Elated, he opened the message and read it eagerly. There was only one line of writing; four short sentences. “Hi Tariq. How are you? I am engaged. Take care.”
The message made sense only once. He read through it quickly and understood completely. But when his brain compared this new information with what it already knew to be true, the two were so violently opposed that he immediately doubted that he had read or interpreted the message correctly. So he went back and tried to read it again, but this time he could find no meaning in the words. He recognized the letters. He saw how they combined to create the words and how the words, individually, were all perfectly clear. These were, in fact, words with significance, words that expressed some thought or idea. The problem lay in the way in which the words were combined. Arranged as they were, the words lost all meaning. He stared at the four sentences, trying to pinpoint the idea they had been intended to convey. But the longer he stared, the less sense it all made. The words became hazy; the letters, scrambled and foreign. The whole line of text morphed and melted together, swirling and dancing on the page until his head hurt.
Somewhere at the other end of time, he blinked. Immediately, the screen raced back towards him, bringing with it an idea that nearly knocked him from his seat. Engaged. The bottom of his stomach gave way and fell into a murky hole of infinity. He felt sick. His head swam. Questions circled around his brain like out of control satellites, orbiting wildly, spinning faster and faster until finally losing balance, falling of their axes, and crashing into one another in tiny explosions. How could she be engaged? It had been barely two months since they had last seen each other. And only a couple weeks since they last spoke; she had mentioned nothing. He read the words over and over, convinced he had missed something, convinced he had misread something. But the words did not change when he read the message again. The meaning was still the same. The girl with acorn eyes and wild hair was engaged.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
The Engagement - Aicha
She would walk with him every few nights. Often accompanied by her younger sister, they would stroll through the town, talking and laughing and translating and smiling. More often than not they had no specific place to go; just walking together was enough.
They met when the sun was low in the sky at an old, green and white mosque near her house. He always arrived first. Standing under a beaten light pole they shared, he would search for her among the passersby. Time dragged on during those few minutes of waiting. He was constantly coming up with reasons why she would not come: her parents objected, she had work, she was ill, she was with another. The longer he stood alone under the light pole, the more preposterous his reasons became until finally, after forever, he would see her. Heartbeats were skipped and smiles were spread when their eyes locked. Once united, they would head off towards the north, walking along the main roads, waving hellos to friends and acquaintances. These first minutes were devoted to recounting recent events, catching up on the other’s news, and asking about upcoming plans. They walked slowly, dodging potholes and piles of trash, nodding and laughing and throwing sly smiles at each other. Occasionally their hands would brush past each other, each begging to be held by the other, but neither could make the first move.
They would carry on farther and find themselves in the crowded part of town. Sellers stood behind blankets covered with various trinkets, yelling at the throng of people as it flooded by. Men with carts of fruit snaked through the crowd, rolling slowly and asking for space to be made. The pair made their way through the maze as though strolling through a wax museum, noticing occasionally a particularly interesting individual, but concerning themselves, for the most part, only with each other. At every narrow passage he would hold back, allowing her to move through first, gently guiding her along with his hand on the small of her back.
Coming out of the seller’s street they would arrive upon a large, open square where the town collected after the sun had set. Here they would sit together and watch the crowd; little boys playing soccer in the open spaces, little girls chasing each other, old women catching up with one another. The men sat at the cafés in the peripheries. They smoked their cigarettes and drank their espresso, eyes fixed on the giant, flat TVs hung in the corners. Their wild cheers rolled through the square in waves, momentarily displacing the calm. The couple didn’t notice.
She sat with him and she laughed at his jokes and her dark, acorn eyes sparkled in the moon light when she threw her head back. Her hair was long and wild and always put up with bangs swept right to left over the eyebrows. She was just as comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt as in jalaba and scarf, and was just as stunning in either. A thin layer of pink lip gloss covered her full lips but no other paint touched her face: she didn’t need makeup and therefore didn’t wear it and was all the more beautiful for it.
They would sit like this for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes not, simply enjoying each other’s company. They liked each other. But they could only show it in the most subtle of ways, for nothing could come of it.
They met when the sun was low in the sky at an old, green and white mosque near her house. He always arrived first. Standing under a beaten light pole they shared, he would search for her among the passersby. Time dragged on during those few minutes of waiting. He was constantly coming up with reasons why she would not come: her parents objected, she had work, she was ill, she was with another. The longer he stood alone under the light pole, the more preposterous his reasons became until finally, after forever, he would see her. Heartbeats were skipped and smiles were spread when their eyes locked. Once united, they would head off towards the north, walking along the main roads, waving hellos to friends and acquaintances. These first minutes were devoted to recounting recent events, catching up on the other’s news, and asking about upcoming plans. They walked slowly, dodging potholes and piles of trash, nodding and laughing and throwing sly smiles at each other. Occasionally their hands would brush past each other, each begging to be held by the other, but neither could make the first move.
They would carry on farther and find themselves in the crowded part of town. Sellers stood behind blankets covered with various trinkets, yelling at the throng of people as it flooded by. Men with carts of fruit snaked through the crowd, rolling slowly and asking for space to be made. The pair made their way through the maze as though strolling through a wax museum, noticing occasionally a particularly interesting individual, but concerning themselves, for the most part, only with each other. At every narrow passage he would hold back, allowing her to move through first, gently guiding her along with his hand on the small of her back.
Coming out of the seller’s street they would arrive upon a large, open square where the town collected after the sun had set. Here they would sit together and watch the crowd; little boys playing soccer in the open spaces, little girls chasing each other, old women catching up with one another. The men sat at the cafés in the peripheries. They smoked their cigarettes and drank their espresso, eyes fixed on the giant, flat TVs hung in the corners. Their wild cheers rolled through the square in waves, momentarily displacing the calm. The couple didn’t notice.
She sat with him and she laughed at his jokes and her dark, acorn eyes sparkled in the moon light when she threw her head back. Her hair was long and wild and always put up with bangs swept right to left over the eyebrows. She was just as comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt as in jalaba and scarf, and was just as stunning in either. A thin layer of pink lip gloss covered her full lips but no other paint touched her face: she didn’t need makeup and therefore didn’t wear it and was all the more beautiful for it.
They would sit like this for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes not, simply enjoying each other’s company. They liked each other. But they could only show it in the most subtle of ways, for nothing could come of it.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Things You May Not Know
Donkeys have feelings too.
The desert sun races to its zenith. Then it just stays there.
I am the Forest Gump of Moroccan souk busses.
Riding a camel uphill is far more comfortable than riding a camel downhill.
Camel sweat reeks and is difficult to get off your hand.
Tourists screw pricing for the rest of us.
Roosters are not as clever as they appear: they crow all day. Only occasionally does their crowing coincide with dawn.
Going there is much better than coming back.
I bring rain to the desert.
I can go many, many days thinking I smell just fine when, in fact, I do not.
People are nice.
Doorbells are useless. Shouting names is the way to go.
The brain of a sheep tastes about how you think it will taste.
The desert sun races to its zenith. Then it just stays there.
I am the Forest Gump of Moroccan souk busses.
Riding a camel uphill is far more comfortable than riding a camel downhill.
Camel sweat reeks and is difficult to get off your hand.
Tourists screw pricing for the rest of us.
Roosters are not as clever as they appear: they crow all day. Only occasionally does their crowing coincide with dawn.
Going there is much better than coming back.
I bring rain to the desert.
I can go many, many days thinking I smell just fine when, in fact, I do not.
People are nice.
Doorbells are useless. Shouting names is the way to go.
The brain of a sheep tastes about how you think it will taste.
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