Hoda's Tears

Her father would phone her, his voice sounding as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. He would make every attempt to bring his daughter back home. Even offered to buy her a house by the sea, if she would only marry her cousin Walid and give up this idea that she was ever married to that "American bum," as he put it. As if the marriage didn't count. She didn't have ears for her father, or her mother. And when Rima, her eldest sister called, Hoda made it a point to boast about her new summer wardrobe, which included a black string bikini that allowed her to soak nearly naked in the sun, and about the freedom she had to speak her mind without reproach. Her sister pointed out it was better to have a husband and children then act like an Infidel.

One late afternoon, I came to visit and found ourselves reclining in her large comfortable olive green sofa, after a good meal of fried potatoes, roasted chicken, and cucumber yogurt salad. She suddenly stood up. "Let's go to the market. I'm out of cigarettes." The sun was waning. We left her apartment and went for a walk down the block to the Indian market.

"Evening, ladies." A little silver bell announced our arrival, as we entered. Dry- goods crammed every space available. There was no one but us two woman and Saleem, who moved his head from side to side from behind the counter. His eyes were unusually red.

Hoda looked past him to the cigarette rack and liquor selection. I shuffled down the narrow isles reading the labels as I went; lime chutney, mango chutney, Brinjal pickle, Tendi pickle, and Bengali chutney. The floor was yellow, the lights above were yellow. In fact, the whole place looked to be stained by turmeric powder. The variety of curried goods confused me, and I found myself back at the front, Saleem eyed me with restraint. The last time we had come to his market, his sari - wrapped wife sat in the corner behind him. He was not smiling nor greeting us then.

I touched one of the several orange mangos set in a small white box on the counter top. Fifty cents each, the sign read. A bargain, I thought. I broke the stem off and placed the mango to my nose. A sweet exotic perfume filled my nostrils. This indicated its ripeness. I placed it back, my fingers traveling from one to the other.

"Mango for you, lady?" Saleem's dark hand lightly brushed up against mine as he held out a larger one for me to consider. Instead, I pointed down to the Samosas in the case below. They looked like deep fried paper boats. I pretended not to notice the lazy horsefly caught behind the glass as Hoda pulled out her cash for a box of Camels, a bottle of Cuervo Gold and a bottle of Merlot.

"How much for those Samosas?" I asked.

"Two for three dollars madam. My wife made them." He said this proudly.

I stared at the two golden lumps. "They look good." I lied.

"The best." He smiled, moving his head side to side. Then he asked, "You have husband?"

I shook my head no, and smiled politely. Hoda was becoming aggravated with my little tete a tete with Mr. Headwrap, as she referred to them all. She had her cigarettes, her liquor. She was good to go. I slowly followed her out into the late afternoon, where the leaves of trees were now orange hued by the sun's laziness. Just as the market's door was about to close, he yelled something out to me. "I have brother looking for good wife. Beautiful lady like you should be married."

"Well then," my friend popped her head back into the store, "your brother should go back to India and find himself a nice fourteen year old bride, don't you think?"

*

Once home, Hoda lit up a cigarette, then offered me a glass of wine, while balancing the cigarette between her lips. She poured us each a glass, her left eye squinting. I took a sip and swirled the red wine over and under my tongue. She went to her stereo and tuned into some Euro-trance music. I wanted to point out her rudeness to Saleem, but I didn't want to get into the whole Hindu - Muslim thing.