it must have been true. Samira closed her eyes to give herself a better picture.
As for Uncle Raduan, since he wasn’t a blood relative, there was nothing to stop his gossiping to bring on laughs and pass the time. The double entendres, the hints, the spicy tone, the inconsequential flirting were all fine. Necking and nooky, those were the pleasures of Samira, who had been destined for a storybook marriage. Exchanging glances and smiles, dubious words, feeling the surreptitious touch of a foot, a hand, a lip, by chance or by intent, could anything be better? There were those who called her shameless and said she had put horns on Esmeraldino the riddle maker; others swore that Samira wouldn’t go that far with her liberties. She’d play along, all right, but at H-hour she’d drop out, the little cheat, with her I-never-said-that.
As she bent over to pick up a spool of thread in front of Jamil, she let him take in the curve of her loose breasts. Wanting to or not, who can tell? Before leaving she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, as if they were dry. Dry or thirsty, whichever way you want to interpret it. A sister-in-law isn’t a relative, Jamil reflected. Going over the accounts again in his mind, he placed Samira in the column of the store’s assets.
12
Had it not been for the presence of Adma, the dinner would have been perfect. A most tasty Arab meal prepared by Samira with the help of Fárida the cherub, who had also picked some flowers to decorate the table, as if the two of them were not enough, exotic, dressed and coiffed in the latest style. They were sorry about the absence of Jamile, hidden away on the farm along with her husband. Speaking of husbands, Samira’s, the telegrapher, was in attendance and scintillating, cordial and good-natured, showing a gluttonous appreciation of the kibbe and the esfiha. Making for a refined sense of well-being were Raduan Murad, wise and witty, and Samira’s right knee, as she was seated to the left of Jamil. She didn’t know how to sit still.
Unfortunately there was also Adma, a baleful figure but an indispensable guest. In order for Jamil to get a look at her and chat with her, Ibrahim had invited him to dine with the family in their upstairs living quarters. Cautious, he’d said nothing to his daughters about the plan he was hatching. To do so before his countryman had met the intended would have been foolhardy.
No sooner did Jamil set eyes upon Adma than he realized the enormous challenge. It wasn’t any use to bedeck her in bows and ribbons, cute trinkets from the store. It was insufficient compensation for her complete lack of physical attributes. Adma would have to be a saint on an altar for any citizen in possession of his faculties to decide to take her in matrimony. May God bestow that sainthood! During thecourse of the evening Jamil had proof of the Lord’s indifference. He hadn’t bestowed one single shitty bit of it.
Jamil was given a knockout punch when he faced Adma upon their introduction. But being who he was, one hardened by ambushes, by the quid pro quos of life, he didn’t immediately drop right then and there his idea of transforming the Bargain Shop into the bazaar with the most goods and the most customers in Itabuna. He’d thought of finding an ugly old maid on whose uninviting face was reflected, however, enough natural goodness that almost reached the point of rendering her pretty. Ugly but pleasant, active at household chores, genteel in manner, a charming conversationalist, all in all an affable old maid whose only defect consisted in not being pretty. Thinking that, he came face-to-face with a hag, a toad-faced hag!
Sitting across from Jamil, Adma was governing the table from one end to the other, reproving with her look, her gestures, and her voice anything that might have meant merriment, laughter, and contentment. She was harsh in her condemnation of a new very funny riddle put forth by Esmeraldino to test the guests’
As for Uncle Raduan, since he wasn’t a blood relative, there was nothing to stop his gossiping to bring on laughs and pass the time. The double entendres, the hints, the spicy tone, the inconsequential flirting were all fine. Necking and nooky, those were the pleasures of Samira, who had been destined for a storybook marriage. Exchanging glances and smiles, dubious words, feeling the surreptitious touch of a foot, a hand, a lip, by chance or by intent, could anything be better? There were those who called her shameless and said she had put horns on Esmeraldino the riddle maker; others swore that Samira wouldn’t go that far with her liberties. She’d play along, all right, but at H-hour she’d drop out, the little cheat, with her I-never-said-that.
As she bent over to pick up a spool of thread in front of Jamil, she let him take in the curve of her loose breasts. Wanting to or not, who can tell? Before leaving she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, as if they were dry. Dry or thirsty, whichever way you want to interpret it. A sister-in-law isn’t a relative, Jamil reflected. Going over the accounts again in his mind, he placed Samira in the column of the store’s assets.
12
Had it not been for the presence of Adma, the dinner would have been perfect. A most tasty Arab meal prepared by Samira with the help of Fárida the cherub, who had also picked some flowers to decorate the table, as if the two of them were not enough, exotic, dressed and coiffed in the latest style. They were sorry about the absence of Jamile, hidden away on the farm along with her husband. Speaking of husbands, Samira’s, the telegrapher, was in attendance and scintillating, cordial and good-natured, showing a gluttonous appreciation of the kibbe and the esfiha. Making for a refined sense of well-being were Raduan Murad, wise and witty, and Samira’s right knee, as she was seated to the left of Jamil. She didn’t know how to sit still.
Unfortunately there was also Adma, a baleful figure but an indispensable guest. In order for Jamil to get a look at her and chat with her, Ibrahim had invited him to dine with the family in their upstairs living quarters. Cautious, he’d said nothing to his daughters about the plan he was hatching. To do so before his countryman had met the intended would have been foolhardy.
No sooner did Jamil set eyes upon Adma than he realized the enormous challenge. It wasn’t any use to bedeck her in bows and ribbons, cute trinkets from the store. It was insufficient compensation for her complete lack of physical attributes. Adma would have to be a saint on an altar for any citizen in possession of his faculties to decide to take her in matrimony. May God bestow that sainthood! During thecourse of the evening Jamil had proof of the Lord’s indifference. He hadn’t bestowed one single shitty bit of it.
Jamil was given a knockout punch when he faced Adma upon their introduction. But being who he was, one hardened by ambushes, by the quid pro quos of life, he didn’t immediately drop right then and there his idea of transforming the Bargain Shop into the bazaar with the most goods and the most customers in Itabuna. He’d thought of finding an ugly old maid on whose uninviting face was reflected, however, enough natural goodness that almost reached the point of rendering her pretty. Ugly but pleasant, active at household chores, genteel in manner, a charming conversationalist, all in all an affable old maid whose only defect consisted in not being pretty. Thinking that, he came face-to-face with a hag, a toad-faced hag!
Sitting across from Jamil, Adma was governing the table from one end to the other, reproving with her look, her gestures, and her voice anything that might have meant merriment, laughter, and contentment. She was harsh in her condemnation of a new very funny riddle put forth by Esmeraldino to test the guests’
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