The Girl from Baghdad by Michelle Nouri

the arm, but he wriggled away and ran towards the villa where he immediately told Kasside everything. She dragged me to my father to have him deal with me.
    â€˜Thank goodness, Alì was there! Mohamed, you have to pay more attention to your daughters. It isn’t right that they behave this way!’ she said, irritated.
    â€˜Why? What happened?’ Dad asked.
    â€˜She wandered off alone with Omar.’
    â€˜But nothing bad happened, right, Michelle?’ he asked me gravely.
    â€˜No, Baba, I promise. We were just talking.’
    â€˜Well, Mohamed,’ Kasside interrupted, ‘I would never let my daughters wander around on their own, even in the company of a cousin. Good girls don’t act this way.’ She looked at me disapprovingly.
    My father’s stern face mirrored Kasside’s, although he said nothing. Kasside continued goading, ‘Of course, you’re free to raise your daughters as you see fit.’
    Dad lowered his gaze, then turned back to face me. Angrily, he said, ‘Go and call your sisters and your mother. It’s late. Let’s go.’
    â€˜But, Baba, the party will go on for a long time. You promised we would stay all night! I wanted to dance.’
    â€˜You’ve already had enough fun. Now it’s time to go.’ I could tell by his voice that he wouldn’t tolerate objection.
    There was a deathly silence in the car on the way home. Mum rocked Linda, who had fallen asleep in her arms, and Klara dozed in the back seat next to me. I scanned my father’s profile as he drove in silence. His mute expression made me feel uncomfortable, even if I couldn’t understand what was so bad about taking a walk with my cousin. Moreover, what waswrong with being alone with the boy I might marry one day?
    At home I put away my nice clothes in the closet. I heard Mum and Dad talking about the situation again. Mum defended me; if I had behaved this way it was only because of all the talk about marriages between cousins that went on at Bibi’s house. Dad responded by saying it had always been like this in his family and Kasside had acted fairly. Child-rearing was a serious and rigid affair, and there was little to discuss.
    The incident was forgotten after two days. Everything returned to normal and I was again immersed in my usual day-to-day activities, including those that my aunts deemed ‘unbecoming’. I went to ballet classes with my sisters once a week. We couldn’t wait to put on our pink shoes and tie the satin ribbons around our ankles. The exercises were repetitive and tiring, but I felt like a real ballerina in my white tutu. The melody of the piano music was so romantic that I sometimes daydreamed I was on stage in a grand theatre. In my dreams, I danced on one of Baghdad’s most elegant stages. The orchestra played Ravel’s Bolèro and I moved gracefully, illuminated by ethereal lights reflecting onto the stage.
    Soon after the wedding, Dad took us to a real ballet at a beautiful theatre. Maroon velvet armchairs and gold decorations accented the stalls. We waited excitedly for the show to start. Then the lights dimmed,the curtain opened slowly, and a male dancer started moving gracefully to the tunes of Ravel, as played by the orchestra. His muscles strained a thousand ripples; every gesture was animated with the overwhelming sensuality and strength of the performance. I was swept away in the moment and I found myself at home in the melody.
    To me, Ravel’s music evoked Iraq, even if it came from Europe. It was Baghdad, with its gardens, minarets and red sky at dusk, the slow-running River Tigris, the perfume of the jasmine and orange blossoms, the opulence of the magnificent palaces, and people of all languages who mixed in the streets. It was East and West together. More than twenty years have passed, but when I think about that music, I’m there again: back in the theatre, at the first sound of that melody.