Read Online The Ruins of Us by Keija Parssinen - Free Book Online
Authors: Keija Parssinen
Tags: Contemporary
Ads: Link
unfazed, Rosalie’s anger—its visceral power—had shocked him. And perhaps it was Abdullah’s authentic self-expression, so admired by Dan at the concert, which had made it possible for Abdullah to rationalize his choice to take a second wife. Wasn’t marriage the ultimate expression of that vaunted emotion, that truest love? And if one should be lucky enough to feel love twice in one lifetime, well, why not?
Dan couldn’t hear anything over the tinny feedback of the boom box. He glanced over at Abdullah, who waved. Dan waved back, although he was annoyed to see his friend acting jovial after what had taken place in the driveway of his home. Since learning about Abdullah’s marriage to Isra, Dan had attempted objectivity, tried to step back to see his friend’s triangulated domestic scene through the telescopic lens of cultural relativism. Professors clearing their throats in great halls with cathedral ceilings used that telescope to watch the constellation of Arab lives blink and shine hundreds of light years away. However, most of Dan’s Muslim friends agreed that polygamy was not Islam’s finest allowance, especially in modern times, so he didn’t feel too bad about coming down on Abdullah for it. Could it be that Abdullah actually believed that he’d done nothing wrong? It was pretty obvious that Rosalie would slice off Abdullah’s ears if she could, a tithe for his betrayal. This couldn’t be the life she had planned for herself when she left Texas for the Kingdom, hoping for adulation and homecoming. She’d grown up on the State Oil compound just outside of Al Dawoun and possessed that displaced expatriate child’s longing—more like an illness, really—for a home that no longer existed. She had probably passed a teenaged Abdullah while on shopping excursions to Prince Muhammad Street, so that when she’d met him in Austin, she’d believed him to be the cure for her plaguing ache. Dan went into the kitchen and poured himself a tumbler of Black Label. Bottles were stacked eight deep on the plastic countertops. The green and brown and white glass covered in peeling labels created an accidental beauty that pleased Dan. The mess lent the scene an air of community, as if the clubhouse were a tiny sacked city, and they, the remaining citizenry, tasked with rebuilding. Pressing the cool glass against his forehead, Dan listened to the sounds of the party—the music of ice cubes clinking in glasses, the laughter that pushed its way up and out of the conversation. He moved to the doorway, where he leaned against the frame and watched the room.
Usually, the Princeton Club was a mess of testosterone: pent-up bachelors and bored married execs who just wanted to find the peace that lay in the bottom of a tumbler of whiskey. Dan recognized a few faces, but the three women were strangers. Word was that they were Syrian cousins of one of the men and were trying to find work or love in the Gulf, whichever came first. Their presence electrified the low-ceilinged room. Dan watched the most attractive of the three as she worked the shisha. She looked like she was in her early twenties, but the way she moved her mouth suggested a lifetime of experience. She’d removed her abaya and her beaded black headscarf rested about her straight shoulders. When she leaned in to take the hose from the Saudi next to her, she extended a single arm, milky as the inside of a halved almond.
“Ya Valentino! Bahibak! Why don’t you come over here? We can be usdeeqa’a,” the Syrian said, addressing him by the nickname that Abdullah had given him. She walked over and stood next to him. “Salaam,” she said.
He could smell the scent of Coco Mademoiselle as she swung her hair to one side. In a place where women couldn’t show their faces, perfume was vital, and Coco Mademoiselle was the fragrance of the moment. Every woman in Al Dawoun doused herself in it, and on the hottest days Dan could swear that a cloud of bergamot was
Dan couldn’t hear anything over the tinny feedback of the boom box. He glanced over at Abdullah, who waved. Dan waved back, although he was annoyed to see his friend acting jovial after what had taken place in the driveway of his home. Since learning about Abdullah’s marriage to Isra, Dan had attempted objectivity, tried to step back to see his friend’s triangulated domestic scene through the telescopic lens of cultural relativism. Professors clearing their throats in great halls with cathedral ceilings used that telescope to watch the constellation of Arab lives blink and shine hundreds of light years away. However, most of Dan’s Muslim friends agreed that polygamy was not Islam’s finest allowance, especially in modern times, so he didn’t feel too bad about coming down on Abdullah for it. Could it be that Abdullah actually believed that he’d done nothing wrong? It was pretty obvious that Rosalie would slice off Abdullah’s ears if she could, a tithe for his betrayal. This couldn’t be the life she had planned for herself when she left Texas for the Kingdom, hoping for adulation and homecoming. She’d grown up on the State Oil compound just outside of Al Dawoun and possessed that displaced expatriate child’s longing—more like an illness, really—for a home that no longer existed. She had probably passed a teenaged Abdullah while on shopping excursions to Prince Muhammad Street, so that when she’d met him in Austin, she’d believed him to be the cure for her plaguing ache. Dan went into the kitchen and poured himself a tumbler of Black Label. Bottles were stacked eight deep on the plastic countertops. The green and brown and white glass covered in peeling labels created an accidental beauty that pleased Dan. The mess lent the scene an air of community, as if the clubhouse were a tiny sacked city, and they, the remaining citizenry, tasked with rebuilding. Pressing the cool glass against his forehead, Dan listened to the sounds of the party—the music of ice cubes clinking in glasses, the laughter that pushed its way up and out of the conversation. He moved to the doorway, where he leaned against the frame and watched the room.
Usually, the Princeton Club was a mess of testosterone: pent-up bachelors and bored married execs who just wanted to find the peace that lay in the bottom of a tumbler of whiskey. Dan recognized a few faces, but the three women were strangers. Word was that they were Syrian cousins of one of the men and were trying to find work or love in the Gulf, whichever came first. Their presence electrified the low-ceilinged room. Dan watched the most attractive of the three as she worked the shisha. She looked like she was in her early twenties, but the way she moved her mouth suggested a lifetime of experience. She’d removed her abaya and her beaded black headscarf rested about her straight shoulders. When she leaned in to take the hose from the Saudi next to her, she extended a single arm, milky as the inside of a halved almond.
“Ya Valentino! Bahibak! Why don’t you come over here? We can be usdeeqa’a,” the Syrian said, addressing him by the nickname that Abdullah had given him. She walked over and stood next to him. “Salaam,” she said.
He could smell the scent of Coco Mademoiselle as she swung her hair to one side. In a place where women couldn’t show their faces, perfume was vital, and Coco Mademoiselle was the fragrance of the moment. Every woman in Al Dawoun doused herself in it, and on the hottest days Dan could swear that a cloud of bergamot was
Similar Books
