Lie Girl

Chapter 9

There was no istikahara. No ijab-e-qubul. Within a week of my return to my home, a woman came to our house to measure me for my lehnga, my wedding dress. Two days later, the dress was brought to my house. The woman seemed pleased by how I looked in it, and then guided me with the application of the mehndi, designs on my hands made of a henna paste. I accepted as a bird accepts its wings being clipped. On the morning of my tenth day home, a black van came to our house. The woman who had measured me and brought the dress prepared me for the Nikah, while my mother packed my suitcase. Wearing my wedding dress, I sat in the backseat with my mother and father. If they said anything I didn't hear it. I was numb to the world. If I had given any thought to marriage, I looked at it as something I might do at twenty-five if at all. This could not be, I repeated to myself. If I screamed, would I wake up from this nightmare? I wanted to read a book, climb a tree, think about the stars, but the car took me to the underworld. Two hours later, we entered a remote and impoverished village and then parked near a mosque. By then I had departed my body. I was barely conscious of Sameer and his parents, my own parents, the imam. If there were a thousand people present I would not have noticed, but it was just the seven of us. If I said the vows, I don't remember. But we were married. My mother and father embraced me and cried. It was not my choice, my father whispered in my ear. They were escorted to the van, which soon disappeared down the dusty road. I was guided to Sameer's vehicle, and in a few hours we were back at Sameer's. I was married under anesthesia.

As we entered his house, I expected it to be as it was previously with his wives and children going about their daily lives. But either everyone had left the house or locked themselves in their rooms, and were staying quiet. Even Tooba and Farooq had not returned from the ceremony.

He did not take me to his bedroom immediately. He had brought my suitcase and satchel into the house, and he invited me to change out of my wedding dress, directing me to a small room. After I had changed, we sat in the kitchen where a pot of tea and a plate of sweets were waiting for us. I refused to partake, but Sameer didn't seem to mind. He would be gentle with me as he studied my face and form, uncovering me with his eyes as he soon would with his hands. When I asked him for permission to use the bathroom, he made a sad face, as if such a question were unnecessary. In the bathroom, I scrubbed at the henna designs, but the colors resisted my efforts. Further effort with a hard brush I found in the bathroom cabinet, only scratched and drew blood. When I returned to the kitchen, he didn't appear to notice my hands at all.

"You may not understand today," he said, "but time will pass and with it your resentment. You will come to love me as I love you."

My pounding heart moved my tongue. "I am thirteen."

"You are my wife."

"Your dog."

He laughed, but then grew solemn as he clasped my hand and pulled me up. This was not a strength I could resist, less overcome. He pulled me as on the end of a leash. We climbed the creaking staircase and entered his room.

In the room, he released my hand, locked the door, then gave me a tour of our future.

As he spoke, I tried to fix my interest on something in the room as if I were dull to his plans. As I looked about, I saw a gleaming green instrument that clung to the wall like a vine of death. Pretending the rifle was invisible, I shifted my gaze to a pedestal near the bed on which sat an object that looked like a model boat carved out of dark wood. I then recognized it as the board for a game.

"Do you play?" he asked, smiling at my interest.

"No," I lied.

"I'll show you."

His robe brushed the floor as he walked. His feet seemed to glide. Lifting the toy boat, he stood next to the bed and patted the mattress. I sat as if on a concrete bench encased in winter's ice. I kept my hands raised above the bedclothes.

"This is called a mancala," he said, pointing to the boat. "It's an ancient game. That is your side, this is mine. Count your holes."

"Count?"

He pointed to the wood.

There were sixteen, and I knew it as well as I knew the number of days in a week. But I smiled and used my finger for counting like a child of three. Draw out time. Wait for an opportunity. Lull him into confidence.

"Sixteen," I said as if I were the kind of girl who would find such an easy task an accomplishment.

From beneath his robe he pulled out a gold-colored bag, loosened its tie, and poured out seeds into the mancala's compartments. He instructed me in the game's rules. He tried to lose but I always lost better. I furrowed my forehead and claimed my innocence, but I accomplished nothing. For with an exasperated sigh, he picked at the seeds, his thick fingers dropping one for every two he returned to his little golden bag.

My dullness had no point. I rose from the bed as if I were to be released.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Thirsty?

"No."

"Lie down on the bed. Get comfortable. We must become familiar."

"No. I won't." My hands shook as if I'd just pulled them from a bucket of ice.

"You are my wife."

"I'm not."

"The knot has been tied."

He grabbed my arm, and though I struggled, he removed my clothes as if he were tearing tissues from a box. The room's air itself seemed to scrape and pick at my naked skin. His hand throttled the scream in my throat, and he twisted my arm until my body unfurled onto the bed like a little carpet. My legs were strong, but Sameer was three times my weight and his power was such I fell open to him. His eyes fixed on mine, I felt his weight against my thighs and then an angry force breaking into me, tearing through my softness. I closed my eyes and envisioned a shovel breaking the earth, the earth's resistance a given, as is its empty surrender.

I am not here. I am in my backyard under the mulberry tree. The light streams though its flowing leaves and finds a bright ripe berry. The branch shivers and the berry disappears into thick fingers that squeeze out the juice and toss the crushed fruit away. Now no tree, no light, only the relentless pounding. Something hammering on my body, loud fetid breaths wet on my face and neck. The breathing slows until it seems an hour between each exhalation. All sounds die.

My destruction complete, he rolled onto his stomach and ordered me to massage his back. "There are oils . . ."

The mancala is a heavy piece of wood, but not so heavy a strong thirteen-year-old girl can't lift the carved wood and bring it down on the head of a man whose eyes are turned from the bloody field of his victory.

I hit him. I hit him good.