Love Comes Later Read online

  “Hind,” Saoud says. He looks from one to the other and then, as the families have agreed, leaves them alone.

  Abdulla realizes she is sizing him up, looking at him directly, not like Fatima, who sat on the sofa and glanced up from under her lashes as he put the necklace around her neck while her mother and sister hovered. Despite her direct gaze, he notices Hind’s sleeves are fluttering slightly. She is trembling.

  He clears his throat and crosses to the boxes.

  “These are for you,” he says. He opens the first one, turning back to her, a square diamond flanked by two smaller ones set in a band of even smaller stones winking up from the red cushion. Of course his mother’s taste isn’t what he would have chosen. That other ring so long ago had been only of gold, now melted down into a lump he keeps in the drawer by his bedside.

  He hands over the ring box as she comes nearer. If they are fake lashes, they are very, very good. She takes the ring box as he opens the one with the necklace. He pulls out a multi-tier pearl choker, the row closest to the neck edged with diamonds. The ring box dangles from her hand, the ring still in it. They face each other. She is clenching her hands together.

  “It’s normal to be nervous,” he says.

  “Are you?”

  “Well,” he says.

  There’s nothing else to say that wouldn’t be a lie, so an awkward silence grows between them. He certainly can’t give voice to what he’s thinking: I’ve done this before. He turns to pick up the necklace, absorbed in the movement, missing the pained expression that flickers across her face. It is his turn for trembling hands now at the sight of her shoulder blades in the deep V of the dress, or maybe it’s the mounting sense of betrayal of Fatima’s memory, he can’t tell.

  “Dinner is served.” Noor bursts from behind the screen, a few of the Filipino catering staff behind her bearing an array of meal-related items.

  They spring apart. Abdulla tosses the necklace back into its box.

  “How’s it going in here?” Luluwa slides into the room on the heels of the last server, narrowing her eyes at him. Her hair is twisted up, the lids of her eyes ringed with deep black liner and there is glitter across her collarbone, drawing the eye to the strapless sweetheart neckline. The bell of her gown has fabric twisted in rows up towards her waist.

  He tries to hide his relief by feigning irritation.

  “Wow,” Noor is saying at the sight of the ring, which is still in Hind’s hand. “Put it on!”

  Her sister complies, and Noor admires it from several angles. Luluwa comes closer, giving it a good squint before wandering over to the box containing the necklace. Making sure neither of her cousins is looking, she pulls a face then shoots Abdulla a look, which he returns with a shrug. She picks up the necklace, an ornate roped piece of gold studded with semi-precious stones, smaller pieces hanging from the main clasp that would go around the wearer’s throat. It is unlike anything he would ever choose, and she lets it dangle in one hand, pointing in question.

  Busy, he mouths as uniformed servers go back and forth carrying several plates, a bowl, glasses and cutlery. Their table for two is filled with samples of what the ladies are eating in the other room.

  “Photographer, before eating,” Noor says. “You’re both wearing white.”

  “I’ll go,” Luluwa says. She returns with a short woman holding a camera in one hand and a detachable flash in the other.

  “Sit, sit.”

  Aunt Wadha is now in the room, as is his mother and even, incredibly, Aunt Hessa. It’s her presence that turns the blood in his veins cold. She is a shadow of herself, even in her finery, the metallic green of her dress casting a sallow light onto her face. Abdulla sits in the wingback armchair, his hands folded, as Hind is posed beside him on an identical chair, the necklace secured by his mother. The flash pops repeatedly as they are put in a variety of poses, on the sofa, standing, and then sitting again. They never touch, the smiles frozen on their faces.

  Now that they are legally married he can call, text, and go out with her, in the presence of another relative, until the reception, after which they will live together as man and wife. As Hessa hovers at the edge of the room while Wadha fusses over Hind, Abdulla remembers the scene as she surely does. Fatima in brown, a color he wouldn’t have thought could be pretty, but that somehow on her was transformed. The sash around her waist and trailing down the side in one of the poses the photographer had used, Abdulla’s hand entwined with hers, the gold band standing out against the smooth background.

  “You’re not going to stay all night, are you?” his mother whispers when everyone else is focused on the bride’s portraits. “She wants to have fun with her friends.”

  The photographer is zeroing in on the henna patterns snaking up Hind’s fingers and hands, disappearing into the sleeves of her gown. Noor is arranging Hind’s hair for a close-up.

  “I’ll let you ladies have your fun,” he says.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Hind is half off the sofa, as if she means to come after him. Her mother presses her back, making a tsking sound, indicating the photographer should continue.

  Abdulla pauses in the doorway, the tableau of his cousins, aunts and mother behind him.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” he says. He leaves, walking away in strides that press his thobe against his ankles.

  “She has a condition,” Luluwa says, coming out of the door after him, almost running to keep up.

  “How much will the divorce cost me?” he replies, without slowing down. “Fifty or a hundred thousand?”

  Luluwa grabs him by the sleeve, drawing him back underneath one of the lime trees planted by their grandfather.

  “You look like a cupcake,” he says. “Who picked this out?” In truth she is a vision, even if an overdressed one, dolled up by their aunts for the ladies’ dinner in case anyone is bride-shopping.

  “This isn’t a game,” she says. Her earnest eyes search him but he looks away, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. “She told the sheikh her condition is to be away for a year to finish her master’s. And when she comes back, she wants to work.”

  It’s his turn to clasp her hand, latching on to it, hoping she hasn’t suspected, unlike everyone else, that this fact alone had made him agree: a condition of temporary separation, one that no one else would want him to focus on. The news from the sheikh has become a beacon of hope, suddenly the most interesting angle about his wife-in-name-only: Hind will be away for a year.

  “I know Lulu,” he says. “He has to tell me first.”

  “In the UK,” Luluwa says, though he hasn’t asked a question. Luluwa squirms in his lingering grip and he releases her and takes a deep breath.

  “Stop snooping,” he says. “You shouldn’t be involved in these things for adults.”

  His mind whirrs as fast as it can go, as he turns away from Luluwa and back towards his room. Hind will live in the UK, alone, an unchaperoned Qatari girl. The last part is irrelevant to him. If he puts off the reception until after her return, it means at least thirteen or more months that they can continue as before.

  “She will eventually,” Luluwa calls after him. “Your wife will come back.”

  He pretends not to hear. Another year will buy more time, maybe a way out of this madness. He married once because it was the right thing to do and because the family wanted to see a grandchild. A mistake he will do everything in his power to prevent from happening again.

  Chapter Six

  Noor is on the loose, Hind can tell from the staccato sound of heels on the marble staircase. In the hours since the milcha everyone in the house has been preparing for the ladies’ celebration, and the only way her sister could be more excited is if she were the bride herself. Hind keeps zipping up the suitcase even as Noor, without knocking, throws open the closed door to her room. One more thing on a growing list of things she will not miss. A list she has been harboring in her mind, unwilling to write down in case it jinxes the freedom t
hat is so tantalizingly near. The last sunrise in Doha. For a quite a while.

  “Dinner,” Noor says. “The real dinner this time. When you actually eat.”

  A shadow of a smile from Hind to placate her, even as the zipper resists her best attempts. She puts one manicured hand on top and tries to squeeze the edges together.

  “A few more minutes,” she says. “I’m almost done.”

  “Some quick change,” Noor grumbles as she trails around the room, which is full of the wilted remnants of a day spent preparing for finery: the white gown from meeting the groom tossed in the corner; the backup option; shoes sprawled on either side of the bathroom door; rhinestone clasps, also discards, bright against the cream rug; the dresser top littered with an array of cosmetics and perfumes abandoned at various stages of use.

  “People are used to it,” Hind says. “They expect the bride to keep them waiting.”

  Everything around them says Hind is experiencing one of the biggest events of her life. Everything but the presence of any shred of glee in her heart. Hind reopens the suitcase and scans the contents, assessing what can be dumped.

  “Because you’re changing,” Noor retorts. “Not because you’re packing.”

  Hind ignores her sister’s pout. There is a stack of sweaters, jeans and boots for the coming winter since she will be dealing with seasons now, not just the steady palette of boiling, hot or tepid sunny days; a mega-bottle of honey her grandmother has sent up; the prayer rug her mother has thrown in; a laptop; the charger; toiletries; books she has started and can’t wait to finish when she has more privacy. And a stack of gahwa coffee cups that are sure to break the second someone at Doha Airport tosses the bag onto a belt.

  “He’s kind of hot,” Noor says. “Right?”

  Hind had seen Abdulla’s profile as he walked across the compound to their grandfather’s house. The perch she and Noor used to toss water balloons from as children, and the safety of her tinted bathroom window, now allowed her to watch as men filed into the majlis. He was thinner than she remembered, with angular features, broad shoulders, a spotless white thobe, no doubt starched by Anita for the occasion. But nothing that said mine, nothing distinguishing him from the rest of the men in the compound, the rest of the men in the country, in the world for that matter. And that hadn’t changed when they were face to face. Though she can’t argue with Noor’s assessment. The years have whittled away any tendency towards the plumpness she sees in other guys his age; such bright, searching eyes, well-defined lips – it must be proximity, but she hadn’t remembered him being that interesting.

  But instead of giving any of this away she shrugs at Noor’s expectant look and pulls out the honey, encased in a glass bottle which is also a likely candidate for being pulverized en route to London. She sets the gahwa cups on the rumpled bedspread beside the nectar of the gods, discovering a profusion of plastic bags of coffee powder only her mother could have stashed in. Then box after box of condensed milk. She tosses them out, one after the other, a few of the bags and boxes sliding off the duvet and onto the floor.

  “What is Ummi thinking?” Hind says, all but shouting. “One of these bursts open and everything is ruined.”

  “Yeah, she could have got the cans, those hold up.”

  Hind halts her excavating to glare at her sister.

  “They have milk in London,” she says.

  “Who cares about milk?” Noor retorts. “You are about to go to your engagement dinner.”

  Hind sticks her hand back in the bag and fishes out an insulated dallah, used to pour Arabic coffee.

  “What do you think he’s thinking?”

  “Second time to the show,” Hind replies. “Doubt he’s thinking anything.”

  In the growing silence she looks up. Noor is pressed against the padded headboard, legs crossed at the ankle, texting, tweeting, or something that requires her face to be inches from the phone.

  “Luluwa says he is nervous.”

  “You’re not talking about this to her?”

  Hind abandons the suitcase for a second and snatches the phone out of her sister’s hand. Noor’s blank look might as well have been a question mark rising in a cartoon bubble over her head.

  “No one is going to get excited about second hand goods,” Hind says, tossing the phone just out of reach on the bed. “I’m the second wife.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Noor says. She smacks herself in the forehead. “Really?”

  “He was married to our cousin, but maybe because you were a pre-teen you don’t remember.”

  Noor comes across the bed towards Hind on her knees, pulling up the vermillion skirt of her gown. She picks up her phone, brandishing it like a baton.

  “Married to Fatima for three months! The first wife is dead,” she says. “Allah yerhamha,” she adds, calling a blessing on the deceased.

  “Second hand is second best,” Hind says. Divested of its stowaways, the suitcase zips up without a hitch. “There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

  “He’s not going to see you that way.” Noor’s eyes were filled with admiration. “You’re smart, and stylish ---”

  “Not me,” Hind said. “I’m the virgin after all. Him. He’s someone else’s man. Not mine.”

  “You’re crazy,” Noor says. “He’s older, lived abroad, will let you drive, see your friends.” She is ticking off each of his attributes on her fingers. “Probably only want three kids instead of five. Letting you study abroad… ”

  Here she pauses for a second and glances at Hind over her outstretched fingers. “And what’s with the sudden condition anyway? You never said anything about even applying.”

  “How noble of him,” Hind says. “I’ll be a professional baby maker. Do you think people list that on resumes?”

  “Something’s wrong with you.”

  “Me? I’m the one –”

  “A few more things from your mother.”

  Their father, lingering in the doorway as if a spell prevents him from crossing the threshold. Noor takes the ceramic midkhan and plastic containers of spreadable cheese he is holding.

  “You don’t need to bring these up, Yuba,” Noor says. “I’ll come get them.”

  “Or the maid could put them in my bag when I’m not looking,” Hind says.

  Her father’s gaze takes in the disheveled room, flicking over the pile of discarded items at the foot of the bed then back to rest on the two of them. “Your mother wants to make sure you’re comfortable,” he says. “And she wants you downstairs to greet your aunts.”

  Seeing the deep lines under his eyes, Hind resists the urge to shrug like a teenager.

  “Allow her this,” he says. He glances around again at the sunlit chaos, his empty hands dangling at his sides. Just when she thinks he’ll leave, he comes into the room and straight towards her. “I didn’t know you wanted to study,” he says, then puts an arm around her shoulders. “You did well to ask. It’s your right.”

  She holds still, tempted to relax in his touch, even if the praise is for something she detests.

  “The two of you will do well together,” he says to Hind, squeezing her arm.

  “This is what I’m saying,” Noor says.

  Their father clears his throat. He smiles at them both, eyes traveling the room once again, lingering on a sepia photo she has tucked in the corner of the mirror on her dresser. A photo of all the girl cousins when they were still young enough to play in the family pool. Then he leaves.

  “I’m telling you, this is a great deal,” Noor is saying.

  “Your opinion has been duly noted,” Hind mutters but only to herself. Noor is only saying what everyone else is thinking, the reasons her parents chose Abdulla.

  Hind tosses the newly-arrived items on the floor, where they sink into the other things in the discarded pile. The pale pink incense burner with lace pattern work matching the wallpaper in her room lands with a clunk. Broken, or at the very least chipped. Her mother probably searched all t
he shops in the city for it. But it’s not as if Hind is going to burn bukhoor in the UK.

  “Let’s gooooo,” Noor says, all but stamping her feet.

  Hind flicks a glance at the mirror. Her breath comes out in a whoosh, only now admitting the small shred of hope she’d had that maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to work something out together. Instead she still feels the sting of their failed attempt at a meal together. She considers her appearance. Ice blue, the dress she has chosen for the party to mark her becoming a married woman. The rhinestone-encrusted empire waist emphasizing her bust; the mermaid silhouette enhancing her legs, making them appear even longer by hiding her feet, only a cover-up for the growing hollowness inside; the pearl and diamond choker restricting her ability to breathe; the several-carat engagement ring burning a circle on her finger. What a waste, she thinks. But the suitcase behind her reflection reminds her that freedom is nearer than ever, even if it comes at the price of this farce.

  Chapter Seven

  Dev, the Sri Lankan worker, brings in a chocolate basket so wide his arms can barely fit across it. Abdulla waves him away but the man insists, a huge grin on his face.

  “Sir, Hamad had a baby.”

  Abdulla grunts in reply, a sound he knows is much like his father’s when hearing trivial information. Though his father would be delighted at the news that Hamad, a man he’d never met, was doing his duty by his family and procreating. And by society. Ergo his country.

  “The wife had the baby, Dev,” Abdulla says.

  Dev hoists the basket onto Abdulla’s desk as an office messenger wanders in to get Abdulla’s signature on a sheaf of papers. He indicates that the boy should leave them on the table and sees his covert looks at the chocolate basket. Abdulla twists off one square piece and tosses it at the messenger. He clasps the chocolate to his chest like it is worth the gold foil it came wrapped in. There is a flash between the two workers, and for a second Abdulla thinks he detects envy on Dev’s face. But it is replaced by that simpering smile worn by all the tea boys and messengers who work in the office.