Free Behind the Veils of Yemen by Audra Grace Shelby Page B

around at the young women dancing and chatting in the crowded room. I wondered if they would one day sit with water pipes and chew leftover qat in outer halls.
    The room had grown hotter. Boxes of tissues were passed around again, and each woman took several to dab her face and neck. I was honored as a foreign guest and offered a lone bottle of water, which I promptly shared with Fatima. I looked at my watch. It was after eight o’clock. We had been waiting three hours for the bride.
    “Fatima,” I touched her arm. “You must not get too hot. It is not good for the baby.” I patted her bulging abdomen. “You should get some cool air.”
    Fatima’s cheeks were flushed, her forehead shiny and beaded with perspiration. Her handsome makeup had become splotchy and dull. The black that had outlined her eyes had become crescent smudges beneath them. “ Momken [Maybe],” Fatima agreed.
    We passed through the reception hall and greeted the elder women politely before entering a large room on the other side sparsely furnished with two thin pads on the floor. A single fluorescent bulb pretended to light the room from its perch on the wall. Pink curtains fluttered in open double windows where a group of young women hovered on the sill.
    Fatima introduced me to one. Mona was curvy, dimpled and dressed in heavy makeup that had not yet smeared. Her hair was a crown of soft black ringlets. She wore a cobalt miniskirt with black fishnet stockings trimmed in crocheted roses.
    “ Helwa [Pretty]!” I complimented her stockings as we pulled a pad to sit near the window. “Did you find them in Sana’a?”
    Mona stretched her legs for me to see her stockings, careful to cover her feet with her scarf to keep from offending with their bottoms. I smiled at the polite Arab protocol, which prohibits showing the bottoms of one’s feet to another. Fatima whispered something to Mona. I was surprised by Fatima’s stern look to her and Mona’s rebellious one back. I was about to ask why when a little girl rushed into the room.
    “The bride is coming! The bride is coming!” she cried.
    Mona and I scrambled up from the pad, offering our hands to help Fatima. Fatima brushed away the pumpkin seeds she had been eating and hurried with us to squeeze into place in the mufraj room.
    A wicker chair with a high princess back had been placed at the front of the room. It was decorated with garlands of white and blue silk flowers. Shiny white ribbons curled down the sides. I craned my neck with the other women, my eyes glued to the entrance. The women began to yell shrilly, vibrating their tongues to make their yell loud and piercing. They clapped rhythmically as the bride entered the room. Two small girls in blue satin dresses walked behind her, carrying her train.
    The bride was a masterpiece. Her heavily sequined gown shimmered in the light. Her curled hair was beaded with satin roses, cascading to her puffed satin sleeves, and her makeup was flawless on her placid face. She lowered herself stiffly onto her wicker throne, her mother smoothing her train at her feet. She raised her eyes to gaze upon her audience.
    Women and girls called greetings to her, filled with Mohammed’s name. I did not recognize the words. “What are they saying?” I whispered to Fatima.
    “They are giving blessings for a good home and many children.”
    Suddenly and without warning, the bride rose abruptly from her chair. The women continued to call their blessings, but the bride ignored them, dabbing her face with a damp tissue and exiting the room almost as quickly as she had entered.
    I was stunned. “Is the bride supposed to leave that soon?” I whispered to Fatima. She shook her head and went to talk to Huda.
    Fatima tried to keep her answer quiet when she returned. She chuckled in my ear. “The bride felt hot. She did not want her hair and makeup to be ruined by the heat.”
    I was astounded. “Will she come back to her guests?”
    “No,” Fatima said, rising