Free Close Your Eyes by Amanda Eyre Ward Page A

possible object was ornamented: the Kleenex box had a gold tasseled cover, the toilet seat glittered, and Izaan’s brother had suspended CDs on strings from the ceiling of his car, lending the interior of his Honda Accord a dizzying disco feel .
    Izaan’s family had been polite to my mother, though it was clear they weren’t thrilled about the upcoming wedding. Izaan had called off an arranged marriage to the daughter of a prominent Egyptian family at the last minute, after meeting my mother, who they thought was entirely unsuitable .
    My mother preferred the company of the men, who sprawled on cushions, smoked, and spoke raucously, laughing often. The women served fragrant dishes of ground beef and rice. In the kitchen, they gossiped in low tones. My mother didn’t know any of the people they talked about, even when they tried to translate, and she knew even less about the European designers Izaan’s sisters revered. The women were very physical with each other, and my mother tried not to shrink away when they hugged her impulsively or kissed her cheeks .
    She hadn’t known how wealthy Izaan’s family was, by Egyptian standards, until they’d arrived. It helped explain his arrogance. Izaan took my mother boating on the Nile with his friends. They motored past weary women washing clothes and naked children bathing near the muddy banks. My mother asked one of Izaan’s friends if he felt uncomfortable in the fancy boat, blaring music from the stereo, but the man shrugged, smiling under his sunglasses . “In shalla,” he said. He told my mother this meant it was God’s wish. She found out later that it actually meant if God wills it so.
    On their last day in Cairo, Izaan finally acquiesced to my mother’s pleas and took her to Khan el-Khalili, the giant market, which sold glassware, spices, mother-of-pearl backgammon boards, sandals, clothes, leather goods, and water pipes. Izaan’s brother dropped them off, snapping the photo that would end up in our house on Ocean Avenue, and then they walked into the teeming marketplace .
    My mother loved the dim stalls, the smell of incense. When she walked by other tourists, she felt superior, with gorgeous Izaan at her side. She bought a chess set for her father, Mort, and a leather bag for her mother, Merilee. Izaan wanted to barter, telling my mother the vendors didn’t respect someone who didn’t haggle, but she shook her head and paid the first price. Izaan told her she was a softie .
    At one stall, knives were laid out in a row, glinting. “These are beautiful,” said my mother, putting her hand near them but not daring to touch. The vendor came from shadows, speaking in Arabic to Izaan. Switching to English, he said, “These are the best knives in the world. Very special. A special price for you.”
    “How much?” said my mother. She looked at Izaan, who shook his head. The man named a price, and she reached for her wallet .
    “No,” said Izaan. “These knives do not belong in our kitchen.”
    “Our kitchen?” my mother said playfully. Though they were engaged, they did not yet share an apartment in New York. Grabbing her hand, Izaan tugged my mother out of the stall and down a passageway. It seemed they were going toward the center of the market; the stalls were less tidy, darker. Inexplicably, my mother felt scared. “Izaan,” she said, “I want to go back.”
    My mother’s face would change as she told the rest of the story. It would take on a faraway look, as if she had forgotten she was speaking to me. She seemed to be trying to make sense of the story herself.
    “Your father told me to follow him,” she’d say. “And so I did.”
    Izaan led her to a ruined building. Inside a crumbling doorway, my mother heard the chanting of prayer. “I have made mistakes, some very big mistakes, but that time is over,” he said. He kissed her—
    She would shake her head. “Anyway, that’s the story of the knives. He told me he would buy me the best knives