MEETING HOUDA
by Melissa Seley
While Devorah and I waited for the Jardin Majorell to open, we walked lost through the shadows of orange trees, hanging vines and voices of birds down dusty roads between houses with arched windows in an old neighborhood in New Marrakesh. We didn't mind killing the time that way, we even liked it. After all, we were two tough girls alone in Morocco for a week, basking in our own boldness and the blanketing sunlight. I had the distinct feeling just then that luck was on my side for that year in Paris, and that once I went back to the U.S., to my mess of a family and finding a job and paying bills and figuring out insurance, it definitely wouldn't be. I felt I had to lap it up fast.
That same feeling had motivated me to get off my ass and take advantage of my sweet days in Paradise while they lasted plenty of times that year. At a film screening where the director was present I actually talked to him afterwards—to Sigfried! When I came across a scrap of paper on the wall behind the magazines at the Village Voice advertising help wanted—English tutoring for the mother of a film producer, I emailed and got the job in a snap. My pupil, Claudie, turned out to be an aristocratic skin doctor living next to the Hotel Matignon. At 73, she was still practicing and witty. She often invited me to stay for dinner letting me go crazy in The Grand Epicerie of the Bon Marche picking out expensive delicacies to eat. Her son, Alexis Loyd, was as an International Playboy she told me and she worried he might never get married. I set my sights on casting a love spell over him. Now all we had to do was meet. Julian, a waiter with big ears at a small Cuban restaurant had written pieces for The New Yorker on artists' squats in Berlin. He was going to a party of acrobats and actors in the suburbs after his shift. Would I like to come along? Sure, I said, even though I barely knew him and wasn't quite believing his having been published.
Leading up to that Morocco trip, I'd made come true the kind of dreamy dinner talk that might happen if it's January and you should be working on the papers that are due in French because it's the end of the term, but instead you're eating roasted chicken from the boucherie at the corner and drinking good cheap wine with four American friends at the green table in your small apartment at the top of six flights of stairs.
"We could go to Spain over that break we have in February," Kevin said, leaning back in his chair, full. "Eat paella and lay in the sun."
"The sun would feel good," I said. "I feel soaked through and soggy, like I'm mildewed."
"What about Morocco?" Andrew piped in.
Morocco! I'd heard stories about that place. About sheep heads on poles and girls getting kidnapped and prostitutes, and then, it was Africa, too. The next morning a cheap flight came up on the internet, cheaper than the train to Barcelona.
"Book it," Devorah said as soon as I called her.
The guys needed more time to think, to explore all the options.
We'd shrieked with happiness when they decided not to come. We were going to Morocco alone, like Thelma and Louise! With a happier ending! The old lady standing on her balcony across the street watched unblinkingly as we hugged each other jumping up and down in my apartment.
So there we were, in Morocco, wandering deeper into a mesh of tiled houses and empty lots when we turned a corner to see two teenage girls chatting at the edge of their lawns. One of them wore lavender pajamas. She was standing in front of a huge bush dotted with dark purple flowers, a long black braid pulled over one shoulder. The other girl wore sweats and glasses.
"We should talk to them," I said. "Say we're lost. Make friends."
"Oh yeah." Devorah crossed the street immediately. Her long curly hair bounced up and down as she walked. I followed behind, never good at first contact.
"Do you speak French?" Devorah asked.
They nodded.
"We're kind of lost," she said. "Could you tell us where the gardens are?"
The girl in lavender edged back.
"What are you doing here?" the other one asked curiously.
"We're American students in Paris for the year on vacation," Devorah said.
"I meant, in this neighborhood," the girl said smiling "There isn't much here."
We laughed.
"The gardens are over that way if you want to go, but, they're pretty boring," she said. "Do you like bowling? Well, you should go to Paradise Alley anyway. It's this new amusement park. There are ping-pong tables and pools, huge pools, and game rooms, too," she told us.
The girl in lavender excused herself, disappearing into a doorway where her mother stood waiting.
"The gardens won't be open until later this afternoon," the girl left standing explained. "If you'd like, you should eat lunch with my older sister and I. She'd love to meet you—she's really interested in the United States. Come on, now. Just come in," she said, taking my hand.
Her name was Houda. She led us into a tiled courtyard where a bright red Coca Cola umbrella shaded a white plastic table and chairs from the sun.
"Sit," she said, pressing my shoulders gently. "You're lucky. Today is when we eat the tajine so you'll have the real thing. And my parents won't be back until later, so we can talk about whatever we want."
Devorah and I synopsized ourselves as always—she the artist/photographer and me, the writer studying film, both from Northern California. Not roommates but practically inseparable. Paris was incredible because there was always so much to do—museums, free concerts, film screenings, cafes, school, dance clubs—so much it made our heads feel crowded.
"Do you have boyfriends?" Houda asked.
No we didn't, we told her.
She did. His name was Aziz, "Ahhhzees," she said letting the name fill up in her mouth like a sweet flavor.
"See?" She pulled a cell phone from the front pouch of her sweatshirt. "He bought this for me. My parents don't know I have it. He calls me all the time and leaves messages and whenever I can get away, I call him back. That's how we meet up."
"Don't your parents hear it ring?' I asked.
"No." She put the phone in my hand. "Feel that?" It was warm and purring like a little kitten.
"It's on vibrate," she said. "He just called a minute ago." Houda had this great devilish smile. It made her big almond eyes widen even bigger. She gave us that grin and put the phone back against her stomach.
A thin woman emerged from the house carrying a yellow dish covered with a yellow ceramic cone. There was a hole at the top. It looked like a yellow ceramic teepee.
"Don't worry. That's our cook, Fatima," Houda said. "She doesn't care what we do. It's the neighbors who like to tell on me."
"How do you say thank you in Arabic?" Devorah asked.
"Shokrun," we pronounced to Fatima as she set the hot dish on the table. Before she turned back to the house, stepping lightly, she blushed a little.
"We'll wait for my sister, Marina, to eat." Houda said. "It's a tajine of peas and beef. A specialty that takes all day to make. Smell. Didn't I tell you you were lucky?"
The steam rising from the dish's chimney was full with spices. Behind Devorah, a lemon bush was flowering white and dainty. She tucked her curls behind her ears as she leaned over to inhale. Houda watched us proudly and I could see Fatima peering out through the window.
"Wonderful," I said.
While we waited for Marina, Houda wrote out the Arabic words for hello, no thank you, goodbye, please, and excuse me.
"Tell us more about Aziz," I said. I like to listen to other people talk about their relationships. It's one of my favorite things.
Houda leaned in, whispering. "He plays on the national soccer team and never drinks and he always calls. It's only been nine weeks but already I think he knows me better than anyone."
"Is he a good kisser?" I asked too loudly.
She covered my mouth, nodding emphatically YES!
Marina rode up to the gate on a motorbike. She wore a black business suit, glasses, and a black scarf wrapped around her hair and face.
In English, Marina said, "Please girls, eat. The tajine is for sharing." She kicked off her black heels, pulled back the lid, and sat down. The sisters showed us how to use pieces of bread to pinch up the grains and meat soaked in a perfect broth from the dish. As soon as I slowed, Houda took my hand, urging, "Eat. Here you must have some of this. You're missing the best part," offering up the most tender morsels of meat. It felt so good to be eating with them—no plates, no silverware, no existence, it seemed, outside that little courtyard, bright and tiled, under the sun.
When we had finished the meal, Fatima brought out hot towels and poured mint tea from a silver pot. Marina said it was her dream to move to California one day. She liked American men best. That James Dean! And the one in Titanic! Moroccan men didn't stand a chance.
"What about the freedom women have in the U.S.? Do you feel like you're missing out, living here?" Devorah asked.
Marina shifted in her seat."Mising out? No," she said. "There are certain things we can't do if that's what you mean. I'd like to be able to go out dancing without a chaperone. Once I even had to go with our father. Remember Houda?" They laughed together. "But those are small things. And it's changing. I like the traditions of the religion and I have a really good job so I can't complain."
"So it's just the men you're after then?" I joked.
"Exactly. Oh, but have you seen our new king? He'd keep me here for good," she said.
Houda agreed. "And he's doing great things for the country," she told us. "He understands what the people need—because he's young. You see his photo in every restaurant, any public place."
Houda's mother arrived on foot, carrying a rolled-up rug under her arm. She was plump and decked out in yellow from head to toe. Like her daughters she wore glasses and like her daughters she was warm and bubbly. She didn't speak English or French but stood next to the table peeling bananas and oranges for us, clucking when we laughed, like a Moroccan mother hen. When the leather-sandaled foot of Houda's father stepped into the courtyard, it was a different story. He saw Devorah and me, shot his wife a look, and made a beeline for the front door. She excused herself to follow him inside the house.
"Is it okay that we're here?" Devorah asked.
"It's fine, girls. It's just that he isn't comfortable with new situations," Marina said.
But it seemed like a good time to go to the gardens anyway.
Marina had to get back to work, promising to meet up with us again before we left. Houda wanted to change first.
Following her up the stairs, I looked back and saw several rooms, large and tiled with low sofas, low tables and pillows on the floor.
"Look D," I whispered. "What do you do in those?" I asked Houda.
"We have vistors—our family, our neighbors and their families—for drinking tea and socializing. It's really nice...part of what my sister likes best about our traditions." Houda explained. Posters of pop stars covered the walls of her room. Discarded clothes were scattered across the bed and floor. One wall was checkered with photos of friends. She slammed the door, turned on the radio, dialed her man, whispered a message, then flipped the little phone shut.
"Which one is he?" I asked, making guesses at the faces on the wall.
"He's not up there. My parents might see," Houda said, producing a photo from under the mattress.
As soon as I saw him, I, too, fell in love with Aziz. He wore a red soccer uniform, his head shaved, his shoulders straight. That smile! He had the kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and the kind of eyes that made your heart flutter. I looked up at Houda who was in her underwear searching for something to wear on the floor. "Oh, he's amazing," I said.
"Gorgeous," D agreed. "I'd love to paint him."
Houda looked up at the ceiling. "You don't even know," she said, dreamily. "When he lays his arm across me—the muscles!! And he says he wants me forever. That he thinks he loves me."
I was impressed.
After slipping on jeans, she showed us how Moroccan women dance, rolling her hips quickly, arms angled above the head. Devorah and I, slouched on the bed, watched mesmerized. As she dressed, brushing out her long hair, I had one of those moments of wonder that I, a girl who never comes up with the prize, whose future seemed riddled with bullet holes of bad luck, could, just for one year, occupy a seamless life. I had eaten lunch with a Moroccan girl I'd met on the street and now, gorgeous and glowing with all her youth, she was letting us into her life. I closed my eyes. Is this true? Have I fabricated it up in my mind? When I opened them, Houda was spritzing herself with perfume.
"Here girls, try some," she said, dousing the two of us.
The Jardin Majorelle, owned by Yves St. Laurent, called itself one of the most mysterious gardens of the twentieth Century. It is a place of mystic force and rare personal expression. Corridored with plants representing five continents, the park was a maze of cacti, bamboo, and palm trees. Curving pathways lead to ponds covered in water lilies and floating lotus. The blue used to paint the walls of the museun of Islamic Art, a blue jewel at the heart of the fenced park, was deeper and brighter than any blue I'd seen. Yves St. Laurent had reportedly mixed the color himself and patented it. Inside the small museum, Houda explained in excited detail the rituals that corresponded with the pottery from Fez and Tata and the stories that were told across lush tapestries. At a collection of glass cases displaying silver headdresses, beaded belts, cuffs, necklaces, golden slippers and rings, she turned into a little girl lit up.
"All of this is for mareeahj. The wedding! You see, first you are painted with Henna on your hands and feet and then you are dressed in pieces like these. You wear the crown and the belt and the shoes are very important, too, even though for most of the time you are walking barefoot and there are flower petals on the ground. Everyone dances all night like I showed you in my room. See, see these," she took our hands, and brought us to a case of silver headpieces embedded with stones "These are from my people, The Bearbears (Berbers), they are the oldest people of Morocco so my wedding will be very ancient like in fables or fairytales."
"Do you think it will be Aziz?" Devorah asked.
"I wish," Houda said. "No. My parents would never allow that. It has to be someone, you know, with lineage and a good job." Then she added, "Unless I escape to the United States."
"With Marina," I said. "We'll smuggle you in."
Houda diffused, gazing back into the case. "It's true," she said. "Marina needs that. Somehow, her time has passed. She couldn't, I don't know, she couldn't fit anyone right."
"How old is she?" D asked.
"32." Houda said. "Past the normal age for marrying. Of course, there's still a chance but it's hard now."
"That's ridiculous," D said. "She looks great. I mean, she's at the prime of her youth. If that's the way it is Marina has to come to the U.S.. We'll find a way."
Houda wasn't hearing. She was looking into the glass case.
Thirty-two? I'd probably still be in school. Would feel accomplished if I'd gone on a successful date by then. Could Marina really believe in the traditions that marked her unfit at such a young age? Her responses at lunch about the government and its rigid lifestyle rules had been so automatic. How had she sustained her hope and loyalty knowing that larger opportunities existed outside Morocco. And what about Houda? How was she going to make it through?
"How do you stand it? A girl like you?' I asked, surprised I'd said it out loud.
She looked back, linking her arm in mine. "Oh, I find the little doors out. Don't worry. I found Aziz didn't I?"
Outside, Devorah painted while Houda and I talked sitting back-to-back against each other on a walkway between the museum's blue walls and a pond layered with acid-orange fish swimming endlessly. I egged Houda on as she talked about Aziz.
"I bet he has great soccer calves."
"The calves! The ankles! Every part is perfect," she said. "He knows just how to cup my head against him in bed, and he says he wants me forever, is always bragging to his friends. They're so good to me because of him, because it's important to him. He's a real gentleman. Old fashioned. Not like the religious ones, he likes it that I'm independent. But he still opens doors."
"Those kinds of guys are unique—in any country," I said.
That pattern of talk continued until Houda stopped, taking my hand like she did. Over the tops of her purple sunglasses she looked down into the pond.
"Down there. Below. You see those fish? The white ones? They live without color. Like ghosts," she whispered. We watched them weave through the greenish murk. Devorah's paint brush pinged when she dipped it her water glass and swished across the pad of paper she carried everywhere. Contentment swelled in me. Each point of my life seemed to be aligned and crossing, like as if all those fish swimming on their secret paths merged into one. At the very height of this bliss though, the complicated network of feelings underneath it swam out again, in a frenzy, and I was aware of the falseness of any kind of lasting good luck or happiness. For the moment I was treading water, keeping my head above the surface, and grinning. That was all. Times that good didn't last.
Houda started singing, "The cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon—How does it go?" she asked.
Devorah and I filled in.
"My dad used to like that song," she said. "He never speaks English but I remember him singing it when I was a little girl." We spent the rest of the afternoon clumsily singing American songs. Aziz called to say he couldn't meet us but what about coffee the next day? He'd bring a friend, Mohammed, he said. Houda called Mohammed up for grabs but I felt she was secretly rooting for me. Because it closed at dusk, we left the park for Houda's house where D and I would catch a cab back to our hotel.
Once, walking down the sidewalk, a pack of teenage boys heckled us, even threw some oranges.
"Scoundrels," Houda growled and barked out some insults in Arabic. In her jeans and sunglasses, defending us like that, she looked like a tough New Yorker, not a teenage girl in suburban Marrakesh, making her way towards an arranged marriage.
"You see how lucky I am to have Aziz?" she said rolling her eyes.
"Too lucky. I don't know how you stand it," I said.
"Oh!" she stopped on the sidewalk. "It's terrible girls. I want to be with him. You know, in that way. I'm really thinking about it."
"Sex?" I asked.
"Yes!' she said. "Have you had it? Both of you?"
We nodded.
"Is it really that good?" she asked.
"I bet it would be with Ahhzees" I teased. "You're much wiser than I am. I would've thrown myself at his feet a long time ago."
Houda laughed, leaning on me.
"Does he pressure you?" D asked.
"No. I mean, he wants it, but the thing is, I do, too. Really," she said.
"What are you waiting for?" I asked. "It doesn't get much better than that."
"I know," Houda said, walking again. "I think it'll happen soon. And he can pay for it so I don't have to worry about that."
"Pay for it? What? Like you're a prostitute?' D asked.
I felt my cheeks sag.
"Nooo. It's 3000 dirham for the surgery and he's got plenty of money," Houda said.
"What surgery?" I asked.
"To sew you up again," she answered lightly.
It was me who'd wanted to get Houda going, to talk about sex for my own enjoyment, disregarding the hard facts of her life, that Houda was Moroccan and Muslim, that she was only 18, that this was a country where women weren't let outside past 8:30 p.m. without a male escort. I saw her on an operating table, legs spread open, stitches and blood, men in white masks with sharp tools.
"Forget it," I said. "That's not worth it. Not even close."
"But it's Aziz," Houda said. "Plenty of girls do it. To be a virgin again. To marry."
"It doesn't matter who it is," D said.
"I'd be doing it for myself," Houda demanded. "But I probably won't go through with it."
We walked along the street, at dusk, the air gritty, humming. Houda was smarter than me, I realized with relief. She was smarter than the silliness she'd adopted. She had her head on her shoulders, fundamentally, at the level where it counted, even though she could breeze along the streets giggling and swaying her hips, perfumed and lovely.
"You should just wait. Get creative," I said "There are plenty of ways to find pleasure."
Houda took a breath. "Oh yes. We know all about that," she said, looking over her glasses at me, conspiratorially.
We walked down the streets, passing stone houses lit up inside. Bees darted around the orange trees. The sky was fading black. A white moon cut crisp held it up at a point, like a tent. Bliss returned. The three of us, Houda, Devorah and I, we were tough. And young. And bold. We could slip out of all kinds of tightly knotted situations. Bad luck was no excuse. Houda stopped on the street.
"Are you watching girls?" she asked. "You have to remember all of this...So you can find your way back tomorrow. Do you remember my name?" she asked cheerfully.
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