Money's Victim

Chapter 4

4

The Maleek is waiting in the guest room. Waiting for my acceptance before carrying on the Milka in the Mosque. 

I wear my white and blue dress and white scarf. The best colours to show my searing happiness.

‘Let me take you to him,’ my father says.

I smile at him. ‘You already gave your consent?’

He nods and offers his hands. ‘I am sorry.’

I take it, ‘don't feel sorry. It is my marriage, be happy.’

He looks down at me for a while and sighs. ‘How can I? Another daughter will go away, I’ll be handing you to another man.’

I want to leap and hug him with delight at his display of fatherly feelings. As rare as Alenxandrite. ‘Oh, pa!’

He leads me to the room. ‘Go on.’

I stand in front of the door, diffident for a moment. But then, squaring my shoulders and gritting my teeth, I knock at the door. I have to lie now, I have to act joyful. I pin a grand smile on my face.

‘Al-salaam alaikum,’ the Maleek says gently, ‘the bride?’

I nod and sit on the sofa opposite his. He peers intently into my eyes, ‘I'll ask you a few questions. Answer truthfully and fear no one but God.'

I gulp. Darn. Please God forgive me. 'Of course.'

'Do you approve of this? They are not forcing you?’ 

I try to look firm. ‘Yes,  no one is forcing me. I want to do this.’

‘So you, Nora, the daughter of Nasser Al-Zahr, give your complete agreement to marrying Faris Jihad Al-Adel? To be faithful and to be a helpful wife to him?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I can go and marry you to him? You give him your unyielding word?’

I dig my nails into the flesh of my palms to stop the truth. ‘I do.’

He smiles. ‘Surely?’

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. ‘I absolutely consent to this.’

The nod he gives me is final.

‘Then allow me to carry your word to your husband. I wish you happiness. May it be a blessed marriage and may God grant it a long age.’

I keep the smile steady. He is merely doing his job. What use would throttling him, demanding he take back that prayer and pray for father's prosperity instead do? ‘Thank you.’

                                                                                                                                                                                        

     My mother bought me new dresses for me to wear in my new house. She is packing my things, refusing my help.

Sitting in the sala- the living room, I bite my nails to the quick with worry. It is nine o'clock. I am to sleep early, yet I know I will not be able to close my lids; the wedding is tomorrow. I’ll have to see my husband. I will finally set eyes on the person I am to spend my life with. How pitiful.

I am sick with anxiety. Sick and lonely. 

The atmosphere in the room is stifling. Father is hunched on the sofa, reading a book, his expression inscrutable. I tried coversing with him, but his rigid silence finally shut me up. I sigh and get up. I am better off flailing around the bed.