The next morning Alia decided to visit her favorite dressmaker. She’d gone to Umm Omar’s store several times during the trip, Ajit driving her to the strip on Salamiyah Road littered with tailors, shoemakers, textile vendors from Bangladesh, Paris, even the Far East.
Umm Omar’s shop was on the corner, a nondescript storefront belying the décor inside. Her husband, a soldier, had been blown up in Algeria years earlier, and touches of Africa adorned the store—bundles of rosemary and sage tied with satin ribbons, the skulls of tiny, unlucky creatures on display, Moroccan carpets nailed to the walls. Bright ottomans were scattered throughout, the dressing area shielded by browning palm leaves. Algerian music crooned from the tape recorder near the cash register. Every week Umm Omar lined the racks with new dresses, pushing the others farther back. Unlikely taffeta peeped from beneath emerald silk; all the clothes smelled of Bedouin incense. It was, to Alia, the most wonderful, exotic place she’d ever been. In the monochrome of Kuwait, the store was a dash of vivacity.
Umm Omar herself was wizened, her hair covered in a headscarf though the shop received only women. Her Arabic was harsh, gruffness sanding the words.
“You’re too tall for that,” she’d bark whenever Alia’s fingers lingered over a particularly dainty frock. “You have long bones, ostrich bones; you must wear something that suits them.” Umm Omar always chose unfussy dresses with simple necklines, much to the disappointment of Alia, whose eyes snagged on the sequined pieces, the dresses with green and pink tassels.
That morning Alia made for a magenta dress, the fabric mouthwateringly shiny. Umm Omar clicked her tongue and pushed Alia out of the way, selected instead a long gray gown. The silk was unadorned, the only decoration a bow at the center of the neckline. Defiantly, Alia also took the magenta dress to the changing area. The magenta stuck to her hips, the color unflattering against her skin. The gray made her look like a starlet.
“You have a fine collarbone,” Umm Omar said when Alia emerged from the dressing room. It was the same remark she made every time. The older woman turned on the small television propped behind the cash register. Every few moments the screen would flatline into static, prompting Umm Omar to swear and swat it until the antennas quivered.
Alia admired herself in the mirror. It was ancient, the yellowed glass making her skin appear unearthly. The dress flared near the ankles, and, after a glance in Umm Omar’s direction, Alia did a twirl. She felt bold, like a foreigner in a film. She smiled at her reflection.
In that instant, Umm Omar let out a low, hissing sound.
“Those bastards. Those sons of dogs, they’ve done it.” In her distress, Umm Omar knocked her stool over as she jumped to her feet. She waved her arms around.
“What? What?” Alia rushed over, careful not to snag the dress on the counter. Explosions of light filled the screen, the camera shaking as it followed the arc of a swooping plane. The plane released something from its belly, something that ignited in the air. “What?” Alia stared dumbly at the images.
Umm Omar practically leaped, spittle flying as she spoke. “The Israelis! They’ve done it. They’ve done it. Tiptoeing like cowards, sneaking around at dawn. They’ve snuck up on our boys. They’re in Sinai.”
“Not Palestine.” The relief shook Alia’s voice.
“Not yet! But we’re prepared, you can bet on that! Palestine, Jordan, Iraq. We’ve been waiting for this. They don’t know what they’ve done, those motherless bastards. They don’t know what they’ve started!” Umm Omar’s eyes sparkled. She turned to Alia kindly. “Go on, dear. Let me wrap that up for you. Gray’s a good color on you.”
Alia meant to protest, the silk suddenly unpleasant against her skin. Instead she walked to the changing room, numbly removed the dress. Her stomach was slick with sweat. She hungered for her bedroom in Nablus, the breeze lifting curtains.
Umm Omar insisted on giving Alia the dress. She called it an early victory gift. Alia watched in a daze as Umm Omar wrapped the silk in brown paper. The older woman circled a ribbon around the package, looped it with a flourish.
When Alia stepped onto the pavement, she didn’t recognize the dark sedan, Ajit’s familiar figure behind the wheel. For several moments, she was stunned by heat, brightness, bewilderment. The sun blazed above her head. It was still early.
Alia walks naked to the closet. Her hair is heavy atop her head as she flips through dresses and skirts on cedar hangers in the armoire. They are nearly all new, bought in the past few months.
The party had been Alia’s idea. It would be good for them all to celebrate the new year.
“We’ll invite the Shafics and Mourads and Qiblawis,” she told Atef, referring to the families she’d met in the weeks before Atef’s arrival. “They were kind to me, during those days.”
“Whatever you like,” Atef said, and it was this very response, monotonous and listless, that spurred on her planning.
The true reason had nothing to do repaying the kindness of these dull people, most of whom worked with Ghazi, the wives friends with Widad. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending the new year as they did most of their nights, in front of the television as politicians roared their dissatisfaction. Or, worse, of trudging through feigned festivities at Widad’s house, the four of them forcing conversation and exclaiming over Widad’s pineapple cake, as they’d recently done for Alia’s birthday. After the birthday song was sung, the slices doled out, Alia fled to the bathroom, where she stuffed a towel against her mouth to muffle sobs. Their straggly, moping foursome; this awful country; pretending to be happy over saccharine cake—it was something to mourn over.
No, better to have people, lots and lots of people filling the rooms of their house, crowding the yard. Better to have voices and laughter, colorful dresses and flashy jewelry, a clatter to conceal the emptiness.
Alia enters the kitchen to find Widad seated at the table, shaggy bunches of mint in front of her.
A bowl brims with water at her side. She lifts a sprig of mint, plucks the leaves, and drops them into the bowl. Leaves skim the water, darkening to an emerald once submerged.
“Good morning,” Alia says. Widad has removed her veil, and sunlight from the kitchen windows falls around her, bringing out the amber in her hair.
“I came early. I hope you don’t mind. There’s so much to do.”
“No, it’s fine,” says Alia, joining her at the table. In the past few months, their companionship has softened, settled into familiarity.
“Want a cup?” Widad nods toward the stove, the new ibrik on a burner. The smell of coffee is thick in the air. Alia scorched the old one the first week here; even after the ibrik had been scrubbed and soaked in salt, the bottom remained charred.