Author : Gretchen McCullough
Title : Shahrazad’s Tooth
First Edition : 2013
Cover Design and Illustrations : Laurance Rudic
ISBN: 9781483505527
Copyright: © Gretchen McCullough
(All rights reserved)
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the author.
For my parents,
Anne and Graham McCullough,
who inspired a real love of books and travel
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author and the publisher gratefully acknowledge the magazines in which stories in this volume first appeared.
Storyglossia: “The Wedding Guest”; “The Empty Flat Upstairs”; “Taken Hostage by the Ugly Duck”
Storysouth: “A Little Honey and A Little Sunlight” Mediterranean Poetry: “The Charm”
I started working on this collection of stories in 2005—many of the final versions of these stories have been revised countless times.
I would like to thank the American University in Cairo for granting me a Professional Development Leave for the fall of 2006. This gave me the time to work uninterrupted on a series of the initial stories. The university has also supported funding to attend writers’ conferences and workshops in the summers. I received a great deal of helpful feedback on the stories from many writers I met at: Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Tin House Summer Writers’ Workshop and Dzanc Books Disquiet International Lisbon Literary Program.
I would like to thank the Vermont Studio Center for a scholarship in their residency program, December 2006. I would also like to thank the Valparaiso Foundation in Mojacar, Spain, which granted me a residency in January 2011 to work on the manuscript.
I am grateful to Laurance Rudic for his honest critiques on my stories and his tireless work on the illustrations. I would like to thank AFAQ Publishers for their support and friendship. Finally, thanks to Mohamed Metwalli for his encouragement, care and support.
About the author
Gretchen McCullough was raised in Harlingen, Texas, near the Mexican border. After her graduation from Brown University in 1984, she taught in Egypt, Turkey and Japan. She earned her M.F.A. from the University of Alabama in 1995, and was awarded a Teaching Fulbright to Syria 1997-1999. Her stories and essays have appeared in: The Texas Review, The Alaska Quarterly Review, The Barcelona Review, Archipelago, National Public Radio, Storyglossia, Storysouth and Guernica, among others. Translations with the Egyptian poet, Mohamed Metwalli, have been published in Banipal, Brooklyn Rail inTranslation, El-Mustaqbel and Nizwa. Her book of short stories, Three Stories from Cairo, the translations in Arabic with Mohamed Metwalli, was published by AFAQ Publishers in Cairo, July 2011. Her published work can be found on her website – www.gretchenmccullough.com. Currently, she is a Senior Instructor in the Department of Rhetoric and Composition at the American University in Cairo.
About the illustrator
Laurance Rudic is a Scots theatre actor, performance artist and autobiographical monologist, who washed up on the shores of Egypt some years ago. This is his second illustration project for the author.
Table of Contents
The Wedding Guest
The Empty Flat Upstairs
A Little Honey and A Little Sunlight
Taken Hostage By The Ugly Duck
The Charm
Shahrazad’s Tooth
Tiger
Pure Water
Pure Water Part II - “On The Run"
THE WEDDING GUEST
BATILDA RODE IN on a white stallion. Her legs dangled nicely over his flanks. I had used an Edwardian white sheer corset as a model for her costume, but the black laces zigzagged, like a spider web, across her chest. And yes, oh yes, we had pulled the laces tight to push up her big boobs. A black mask covered her eyes for this 19th century costume ball—as if she had a tantalizing rendezvous with the Marquis De Sade, himself. Her long straight black hair had been teased high and powdered white. All other accessories were a wicked black: garters; very short leather shorts; shiny stilettos.
Our well-heeled guests at this wedding party roared, as if they were at a sleazy strip joint on the west side of L.A. A gargantuan red tent had been erected on the grounds of the Marriott, at Sharm il-Sheikh, a swanky resort town on Egypt’s Red Sea coast. Egyptian waiters in starched white galabiyyas hovered with trays of drinks.
The noise from the clapping and the lights from the blinking cameras had made the stallion jumpy. “Easy does it, boy,” I said. God, that’s all I needed now: a runaway horse. When I glanced behind me at the tables facing the stage, I noticed the bobbing of scalloped gold hats.
“Waiter!” I called out. I needed a drink—red wine. Even Stella local beer would do just fine, although I doubted anyone in this crowd was drinking beer.
Our last crisis had been the lost suitcase at the Sharm il-Sheikh airport—the costumes for the show. Batilda was pissed. “Luv,” she said in her Manchester accent, “You’re fuckin’ dead, if you don’t find it.” I was used to her foul-mouthed temper tantrums. I had experienced much worse in Hollywood.
Bunny Rasheed, the American queen who had commissioned us to do this gig, stood in front of me, like a statue. She whispered in a throaty Lauren Bacall imitation, “Darling, we’re excited you came all the way from Odessa.” She was smiling, but her blue eyes were vacant. No expression.
“Odessa?”
“West Texas, honey. Don’t call her a cowgirl, til you’ve seen her ride.”
The horse was about to bolt. I had told Batilda she shouldn’t get the cheapest horse at the Pyramid stables, but she had not listened—that broad could squeeze blood out of a stone. Unlike me, she was a shrewd businesswoman.
The stallion lurched toward the guests’ tables. This was not the way we had rehearsed it. Shit! The waiters dove out of the way.
My hands shook. I lit up a cigarette. “We hope your guests like the show, Bunny.”
I was fleeing creditors in L.A. Production companies didn’t pay their bills. This was my second stint in Egypt. The first time, I had moved to Cairo because of my Egyptian husband, Kamal, a doctor, a specialist in diabetes. We had met at tango dance lessons at the Stairway to the Starz Dance Studio in Hollywood—he was finishing up his residency at U.C.L.A. He had a beautiful dimple in his cheek when he smiled. Expressive brown eyes.
“You’re Dan’s new secretary? He said you were pleasant,” Bunny said, fingering her expensive pearl choker.
“Who?”
“You know, Dan. Chairman of Oil Rig Hand Jobs.”
I giggled. Bunny whispered in my ear, “Just between you and me, hon, he thinks the sun comes up to hear him crow.”
So here was a glimmer of the real Bunny. Had she given ole’ Dan a few hand jobs before she had snagged Rasheed? Or, was it the other way around?
“Remember, I work for Batilda,” I said. “The dancer.” I gestured toward the stage. “The Turkish bath was my idea?”
If I were honest with myself, it was my most grandiose set design. We had used chunks of pink Aswan marble to mimic a Turkish bath.
I craned my neck to see if Batilda had made it to the stage. She was waving to the crowd. Easy. Easy. Just get off that wild stallion!
“Why, of course!” Bunny exclaimed. “I thought your face looked vaguely familiar.”
Bunny had forgotten the temper tantrum that she had thrown at her villa at the Sakkara Pyramids only a few months ago when we met to discuss the show. People were flying in from all over the globe for this wedding on the Red Sea Coast in Egypt: Tashkent, Houston, Sofia, Detroit, West Texas. Millions of pounds were being spent. Bunny wanted spectacle. Fantasy. Something big. This was Bunny’s sister’s third marriage. I was dying to ask her if we could have a steel phallus on stage. Instead, I had spent days, trolling around on the internet on every kind of kinky web site in search of oriental spectacle. Did I really think we could hang Batilda by her nipples upside down? I was saved by the painter, Edward Delacroix—his Orientalist painting of a European woman being tended by a Nubian man at a Turkish bath, had been the inspiration for my design.
“Don’t you know who I am?” Bunny had said that day.
“Bunny Rasheed,” I said. It was odd—an upper class WASP pet name coupled with her Egyptian husband’s family name.
“Most people think I look like Audrey Hepburn,” Bunny said. “What do you think?”
I studied her. “Too tall. She was short and petite.”
Bunny frowned. Her lip protruded, as if she were going to sulk.
“Grace Kelly, luv. You look exactly like her. Give us a kiss,” Batilda said, giving me a wink.
This was a ludicrous lie.
“You don’t know the name of the family who founded Exxon Oil?”
“Well, no...”
Batilda shouted at me later, “Luv, just fuckin’ kiss her arse! We’re making thousands on this wedding.”
“Because I didn’t know. I’m from California. Not Texas! Do you think I know every damn person in the U.S.?”
After awhile, even Bunny got tired of asking, “You don’t know who I am?” Instead, she asked, “How old do you think I am?” I was about to say sixty-seven, but Batilda jumped in before I could speak.
“Not a day older than thirty-five, luv,” Batilda answered. She was a bold, confident liar. In the entertainment business, honesty was a real liability. I needed to practice being socially superficial. Unfortunately, it didn’t come naturally to me.
Bunny was close to fifty. Give or take two or three years. But she was lithe. Had beautiful clothes. Servants. A black Land Rover. Not that anyone needed a Land Rover in Cairo!
Before Bunny had thrown her tantrum, she had been charming. “Do you know the secret to a good marriage?” she had asked. “Marry an Egyptian playboy.”
I had almost spewed fresh lemon juice all over her pristine white sofa. Batilda elbowed me.
When it comes to spoiled bitches, Batilda beats them all, though. Marry me or I’ll cut your oxygen supply off! Batilda looks good—maybe not real, but she still looks good. Silicone boobs, tummy tuck, ass job, botoxed face. Bunny had also had some “adjustments.” Her face was pulled so tight every time she crossed her legs her mouth snapped shut.
But after a thousand hassles, complaints and changes, we had made it to performance. Bunny waved her hand toward the stage. “If you’ll excuse me, I hope you enjoy the show.”
“The costume designer made the costumes for the movie, “Cheech and Chong’s ‘Up in Smoke.’”
But Bunny still did not recognize me. Who the hell cared? As long as we got paid. She was off her head on something. She floated away. She murmured to herself, “Just because a chicken has wings doesn’t mean it can fly.”
After my second husband, Kamal, flew away for good with my favorite purple beach towel, I called up The Price is Right Production Company and said, “Remember me? Queenie? The gal who made the costumes you were so happy with? I need the cash. I’m so broke I can’t even afford a tube of generic toothpaste from Wal-Mart.”
To stay in groceries, I was teaching little old ladies how to belly dance at Stairway to the Starz Dance Studio at the Hibiscus Mall. Mostly, I told them embellished anecdotes about movie stars that I found in the National Enquirer: “Ladies, have you seen the size of Melanie Griffiths’ lips?”
The production agent at The Right Price said, “Who is this?”
“Queenie O’Connell,” I said.
“Who?”
“Queenie O’Connell.”
“Never heard the name,” she said, hanging up on me. Another one who claimed she didn’t remember who I was. Yet six months before, she had taken me to lunch at the most exclusive restaurant in Hollywood. “Chocolate mousse or raspberry cheesecake, dear? That’s a novel concept. Show how women can be empowered by their sexuality, not victimized by it...” I was making belly dancing costumes for the gals, who pointed to the washing machines on The Price is Right!
Of course, if Batilda hadn’t wired me the money for a plane ticket to Egypt, I might still be sleeping in my blue Mustang in the Hibiscus Mall. I am the only one who knows that her parents run a tiny inn in the wilds off the coast of Sweden. They keep insisting that she return home to change sheets. Batilda tells everyone who she meets that she trained in the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey’s Circus!
A tiny, gnome-like woman, was sitting next to me. From behind many folds of skin, she peered at me with intelligent, blue eyes. Her white, curly hair was wild. A tuft of hair stuck out from her head, like a feather.
“Golly, would you look at that. Bless Patsy!” the shrivelled woman said, blowing smoke out from her nose. She was probably around eighty.
I laughed.
“Don’t you wish you had a body like that?”
“It’s carefully constructed,” I said.
“Of course it is!” She pulled out a cigarette from her packet of Kent’s. “You belong to the bride or groom?”
“I made the costumes,” I said. “Designed the set.”
“You’re mighty talented.” The old lady guffawed. “Juicier than a Harlequin Romance! You sure don’t get your ideas from McCalls!”
“Underwear advertisements on the internet. Are you one of Bunny’s relatives?”
“No. I’m on a package tour. This looked more fun than the Pharaoh party. I sneaked away. Well, did you ever...? That horse is well-endowed.”
She was right. The horse had an enormous fat, red cock. Some of the men in the front row, were pointing at it, as if they were fourteen year old boys. “Yee, doggie!”
Batilda was sliding off the stallion. She wobbled slightly on one of the stilettos. She almost lost her balance.
I took a cigarette out of my pack. “Christ, why did I insist on the stilettos! Too risky!”
“It’s obvious,” the old lady said. “Sex appeal.”
But as soon as Batilda straightened up, she took off her stilettos, kissed each one and tossed them to the middle-aged men in the front row, as if she were a rock star. A howl rose from the audience. Two men were fighting over her shoes.
“That wasn’t in the script!” I said.
The old lady laughed. “She knows how to egg on the crowd. Some men have a foot fetish.”
More than twenty Nubian men with ostrich feathers, fanned around her in an arc on the stage. She turned around to face the audience and raised her arm, as if she were Cleopatra, hailing her army.
One of the Nubian men stood behind her and untied the mask. The drunken men in the front row whooped. She threw the black mask out into the crowd.
“She’s a pistol,” the old lady said. “I ran a high school drama club a hundred years ago. Some people are just natural hams. And some, are just like blocks of wood.”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s a drama queen, alright.”
“Is she a polecat off-stage?” the old lady said. Beneath her droopy eyelids, two blue eyes shone with mischief.
“Well...” I said. Why was I confiding in this cute little old lady? She was on vacation and wanted to have fun.
“One would expect so,” she said. “I’m sure she’s no angel.”
Of course, I was grateful not to be still sleeping in my car, who wouldn’t be? Those rescued by Batilda should understand they were the tiny garnish on a plate of Swedish meatballs. Besides her cats from the street, (Swink, Pout Face and Julia Childs,) there were the wounded, the crippled and the crazy: me, Jimmy Doyle, the lush; Gary, the American professor; and Gabriella, the penniless Italian painter.
Suddenly, two turbaned men in Arabian Nights-style costumes appeared on the stage. Batilda beckoned to the one with the bigger muscles. The other feigned displeasure and drew his sword.
The audience yelled, “Kill him. Kill him.”
“A tale of woe and perfidy. That’ll make a good story,” the old lady said. “Yes sir.”
“If you’re not the one being had,” I said.
I had heard about Batilda poaching men from wives and girlfriends. And really, why should I have been surprised when she did it to Gabriella?
Late that evening, after Batilda had danced in front of a crowd of fifty at her own apartment, she said to Fathy, Gabriella’s lover, “Luv, would you mind filling this tub up with water. My feet are so tired,” she said, leaning forward in her black lace-up camisole so he could see her nipples, large as sand dollars.
“Wallahi. Begedd,” he said. Seriously?
“Fathy,” Gabriella said, pulling at his hand. “No.” But Fathy’s eyes were mesmerized by Batilda’s outrageous boobs.
Batilda sighed and said, “Gabriella, luv, when he’s finished massaging my feet, he’ll come to your bed. I need his services more than you.”
“Massaging feet?” Gabriella asked, puzzled. She was a talented painter who drew charcoal sketches of haunted faces of Pharaohs from the Egyptian Museum, but her English was broken.
“I’ll make it worth your while, luv,” Batilda said, to the young man, who was an impoverished painter.
He smiled. “Mish fahim.”
But it was clear, the handsome young man understood.
“For crying out loud, Batilda. Can’t you control yourself?” I said. Did she have to prove to us that she could seduce every man?
“Why should I?”
When Gabriella realized at last what was happening, she stamped her feet and said, “Putana!”
“Gabriella, luv, of course we’re still friends,” Batilda said, smiling. “I’m just borrowing him for a short time. You can have him back soon. Kiss. Kiss.”
“Porca! Fill your belly. Stuff your mother! Putana! You cheat me! Eat caca!”
“Let’s be rational, pet. European-minded. This is called multiple partners,” Batilda said. “There’s no need to be uncivilized about this. It’s a fair exchange for all the meals you’ve eaten here, isn’t it?”
“Porca! Putana!” Gabriella screamed. “Aaaay. Aaaay.” She wailed. She had enjoyed the attention of Fathy; her first lover since her divorce. I felt sorry for her. On the other hand, why wasn’t Fathy more loyal?
“Gabriella...” I said, extending my hand to her. What could I say?
Gabriella brushed away my hand. “Porca! Putana! Everyone of you a cheater. Liars! I stay in this garbage country for my son, Marcelo.”
I heard glass shattering. Gabriella had overturned Batilda’s goldfish tank on her way out.
“Queenie, pet. Save my darlings! Ringo Starr! Benny Hill! John Cleese! There’s a bucket in the kitchen. Underneath the sink,” Batilda said. “Don’t forget to sweep up the glass.”
I was on my hands and knees, picking up those helpless goldfish who flopped between shards of glass, as if I were Batilda’s maid. Only John Cleese, the angel fish, didn’t make it. Aquamarine pebbles crusted under my fingernails. My fingernails were chipped and jagged; I badly needed a manicure. Batilda had spent a fortune on coral for her tank—I set the coral away from the broken glass. “I want the place to be comfortable for my wee babies,” she’d said.
Why had I obeyed? Because I was under her spell, like everyone else in her life? When I went to report that John Cleese had died, she was no longer sitting in front of the tub, soaking her feet. Her bedroom door was shut. I put my ear to the door: ecstatic moans of pleasure. A few drunken guests lingered in the living room. They were interested in mooching the last of the Scotch and couldn’t care less about the coupling in Batilda’s bedroom.
Unable to stand it a minute longer, I had gone downtown to the bar, El-Horeyya, Freedom Café, which specialized in pickled Lupin beans and cheap beer. I had gotten plastered. The last thing I remember was Jimmy Doyle quoting poetry to me in a slur: “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”
Now, Nubian men swirled around Batilda, fanning her with large ostrich feathers. The man who won the sword dance had disappeared and another admirer appeared. Oh how wonderful to be like Batilda—to be admired, adored and desired!
“Are you married?” the old woman said.
“Divorced twice.”
I wanted to forget the past. Neal, a drummer for the Doors—a druggie. Heroin. And Kamal, the Egyptian doctor, who loved to dance. In the beginning of our marriage, he had led me across the kitchen floor in a tango. I was not a good judge of character—that was always my problem.
The old woman put her liver-spotted hand over mine—such a tender gesture for someone who didn’t know me. “You’ve just gotten some bad apples, my dear. Some day you’ll meet a nice man.”
I started to cry. My life had been full of bad apples—men and women. But why had I suddenly become maudlin?
“There, there,” the old lady said, patting my arm. “You’re probably just exhausted from the work on the show.”
“No kidding. I’m a basket case. Working for that broad. Did twenty designs before we came up with the corset. Then, the damned suitcase got lost. I spent six hours at the airport!”
Batilda was unlacing her corset. The men in the front row were almost jumping out of their chairs.
I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks. The old lady continued to pat my arm. “Anything underneath that skimpy corset?”
“Silicone,” I said.
The lady giggled. “That’s the fashion these days. I was horrified to hear that my granddaughter had implants when she was seventeen. She was just precious before that...”
“Travelling by yourself?” I asked.
“Yes, sweetheart,” she said. “Patrick’s been gone a year. Spinal cancer. Be a lamb and pour me some more wine, would you?”
“Happy to,” I said. I filled her glass to the brim.
“I’m so tiny that I can’t drink the way I used to,” she said. “I have osteoporosis. Terrible disease. Your bones crumble. Don’t forget to drink your milk, sweetheart!”
“Was your husband a nice man?” I asked.
“Oh, Lord, yes. He was a doll,” she said.
“How did you meet?”
“Patrick was good people. Originally from West Texas. He was doin’ graduate work at Chapel Hill—History. One day he was sitting under a tree with some other students, talking about the Trail of Tears—which was quite serious. I covered my mouth and started whooping like an Indian. He didn’t think I was very funny,” she said, giggling.
I giggled, too.
“My, he was handsome. He had a fine physique. Rudy Valentino except with red hair and green eyes. So proud. Stood tall. He wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.”
On stage, Batilda was arranging the wine glasses for her next act. She would balance on her bare feet on wine glasses.
“At first, we were going to get married in a year. And then six months. And then we just couldn’t wait any longer. Young people in the heat of passion.”
Neal and I had also ended up at the courthouse after a six-week romance, but our marriage had lasted only two years. And when he had left, he had taken all of my B.B. King tapes, my favorite hippy-dippy lamp and my ten-speed. A set of wine glasses from Tijuana. Really, why did I care now? It was cheap stuff.
“How long were you married?”
“Forty years,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “It wasn’t all roses. There are bound to be a few dead skunks in the middle of the road. How does your dancer keep from breaking the glass?”
“Balance. It’s a trick.”
“Yes, sir. Life can throw you off balance. Of course, when we moved to West Texas from North Carolina I cried for a year. His people were different. There were no trees and my hair went flat.”
“Your hair went flat?”
“It’s dry in West Texas.”
I felt emotionally dry.
“And it wasn’t easy being married to Patrick. He was a good man, but he never could say he was sorry. One day we had a fight. Instead of saying he was sorry, he bought me a refrigerator. I said, ‘You know, honey, money doesn’t grow in the bathtub. Wouldn’t it be easier to say you’re sorry?’ At that time, we were both teachin’ school in Lubbock. That was the Depression. And our salaries were in script!”
“One of Batilda’s lovers bought her a refrigerator,” I said. “Another one—an Italian arms dealer bought her a white Maserati...”
“An arms dealer!”
“Batilda has a lot of admirers,” I said.
“Expect so. She’s an attractive girl.” The old lady smiled, but seemed distracted. “You know, I don’t care about things anymore. Maybe that happens when you know you’re not long for this world.”
“Surely...” I was embarrassed. Did she know that she was going to die? “Are you okay?”
“For now,” she said. “I love tearing the house down. When I was in boarding school, I got punished for dancing all night.”
“Bunny says that the secret to a good marriage is a marrying an Egyptian playboy.”
The old lady snorted. “Who’s Bunny?”
“The sister of the bride. She hired us to do the show. You’re from Texas. Maybe you know of her. Bunny Tushman. Her family founded Exxon Oil.”
“Don’t know the name. We lived in a tiny town near Lubbock called Loop. After the war, we moved to South Texas. Way down next to the Mexican border.”
“What’s the secret to a good marriage?”
“Oh, pooh. There are no formulas,” the old lady said, sucking on her cigarette. “But there might be a few key ingredients, just like making good buttermilk biscuits. First, there should be chemistry—that’s your butter. That’s what holds you together. Being a straight shooter. Being kind. Being able to say you’re sorry.”
The Egyptian waiter swooped down and took away my plate. I had only taken a few bites of my Filet Mignon. “Excuse me. Excuse me. I’m not finished,” I called out. “Good meat shouldn’t be thrown away.”
Her mischievous blue eyes became sad.
The crowd was stomping their feet. While Batilda was standing on the wine glasses with her bare feet, she was balancing a flaming sword on her head.
To my surprise, the old lady’s blue eyes welled with tears. “To have to feed him with a spoon. We even had a pulley lift to get him into bed. When I couldn’t lift him anymore.”
“I can’t think of anything sadder,” I said.
When I looked up though, her tears had vanished. “I have to say, I didn’t have any tears left when he died,” she declared. “When I go, I want to go in my sleep. Like a lamp that suddenly blinks out.”
“Egyptians always thank God for good health.”
“Nothing truer! Here’s the little prayer I have in my bathroom. Right above the commode: ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference...’”
“That’s beautiful,” I said. I wasn’t hanging around much with people who recited prayers. “Sometimes the simplest things are the most profound.”
“My son wanted to give me the money for a face lift, but I said, ‘Son, if I’ve got a little time left on this earth, I would like to see Egypt.’” She leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. I’m on the loose. My son forbade me to leave the country. I ran away. No one knows where I am.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. She was so much fun.
“After Egypt, I’m headed for the Galapagos. I’m a birdwatcher. Want to get a few more birds for my life-list.”
At last, Batilda took her bow. The crowd was clapping. She waved her hand toward the band and bowed again.
“Of course, I miss Patrick, but life is for the living, my dear. The brave ones,” the old woman said, picking up her ebony cane. A lion peered at me from the handle. I glanced down at her swollen ankles.
Was I a brave person? I had always thought so, but now I was not so sure. On stage, the band was packing up their instruments.
A posse of middle-aged men surged toward a triumphant Batilda. She was most herself in an audience’s gaze. She hated silence. If she were alone in her apartment, she turned up Jerry Springer at full blast. Her favorite show was Secret Mistresses Confronted. She loved it when they threw chairs on stage.
“Batilda, just this one picture.” “I want mine with Batilda and the horse.” “Batilda.” “Please, Batilda.” She beamed into the camera. Each time, it was pure novelty.
“Queenie! The show was fabulous. Just fabulous,” Bunny called out. She embraced me as if we were long-lost friends and then kissed me on both cheeks.
“Thank you,” I said.
“The whole thing was so...so...fabulous! You know, one of my friend’s daughters is having a birthday party for her seven-year old. Do you think you could make the costumes for the clowns? The pony is going to ride into the lobby of the Sheraton.”
“Well, I...We’ll see. You know, I enjoyed talking with...” I said, gesturing to the old lady. I had never asked that wonderful lady her name.
She was being escorted out of the enormous tent by an Egyptian waiter. Her white hair bobbed in the crowd.
“You will think about making costumes for the pony party?”
Bunny drifted off to another guest. I heard her saying, “Wasn’t she fabulous?” And then I saw her pointing towards me. We had finished the show at last, but I was not happy. Just flat. Drained.
The next morning, I searched for the old lady everywhere. At last, I recognized the Egyptian waiter at the front desk, who had escorted her out of the tent the night before. “The old lady from the wedding? What was her name?”
“What?” he asked.
“You helped an old lady out of the wedding last night.”
He looked confused. “I’m sorry, madam. But I didn’t help an old lady. I was serving drinks. I never saw an old lady. I served you many times.”
Was I drunk? Had I lost my mind?
“There was an old lady sitting next to me. I swear to God, you escorted her out of the tent.”
“Wallahel-Azeem. I never saw any old lady,” he said, cupping his hands together. “Have a nice time.”