That Other Me by Maha Gargash Read Free Book Online

on the stool and watch her pull butter and cheese out of the fridge—three wedges in paper wrappings. There is a mechanical efficiency in her movements. She reaches for three small plates, two cups, and a bunch of mismatched knives, forks, and spoons from the cupboard and drawer, arranging them in no particular order on the plastic covering of the table.
    My mouth is a pout of disappointment as I peel the paper wrapping off the butter. “I mean, I really thought this would be easier, and the whole process is getting me down.” My voice rises over the tumble of fava beans she pours into the first pot as the water starts to boil. She is making ful , the humble first choice of Egypt’s masses, popular because it’s cheap and filling. “How many people have we talked to in the studios? How many phone calls have we made?” I hold a hand to my ear and deepen my voice. “ ‘Yes, we are interested. Yes, we want to meet. No, don’t come yet. Wait for our call. We’ll call you tomorrow, in a couple of days, in a week at the most. Yes, yes, for sure. Wallah al-azeem , by God!’ They sound so excited and get us excited along with them. And then, poof !” I snap my fingers. “Zero! No one calls, not a soul follows up, nothing happens.”
    Mama lifts the heated milk off the flame and turns to look at me. She says, “Well, and a good morning to your complaining.”
    â€œThen, finally, we think the great Sherif Nasr will see us. But that cow of a secretary won’t let us in. Really, Mama, how does anyone get famous here?”
    â€œWell, what did you expect? Did you think people would take you straightaway?”
    â€œYes,” I say, like a child denied someone else’s slice of cake.
    â€œJust because you managed to come in second on Nights of Dubai .”
    I flinch. More than a year has passed since I appeared on that show and still the humiliation of failing stings, like a spattering of lemon juice on grazed skin. If I’d come in first, I wouldn’t be here, struggling to get a break. The station pays for the composing, recording, publicity, and distribution of the winner’s very first song, but I’d had to settle for second prize: a generous seventy-five thousand dirhams, the money we’re using to live here. “Second is not so bad,” I mumble, unconvinced.
    Mama doesn’t answer, only takes four eggs out of the fridge. I lay my head on folded arms on the table and let my mind fill with images of the multicolored lights that had raced over my face and the billowing smoke that had curled around my feet as I stepped into the silver bubble of a spotlight. I was wide-eyed with excitement. The stage was egg-shaped, with an orchestra on one side and three judges on the other. It felt natural being there. It felt right. Cameramen whirled around me. The audience never tired of cheering and clapping every time they were signaled to do so by a man wearing headphones.
    Nights of Dubai was the first program of its kind on Dubai television: a battle of talents directed by legendary star maker Simon Asmar. The Lebanese man had launched the careers of the great singers Majida Al-Roumi, Ragheb Alama, and Nawal Al-Zoghbi, to name just a few. Why couldn’t he do it for me?
    From the moment I saw the television promotion inviting all Arab talent “from the Gulf to the Ocean,” I knew I had to join. I was accepted right away and decided it was better not to delay telling Mama. As expected, she showed no interest and remained on the periphery as I rushed to the rehearsals. But that changed after the first two live episodes aired. And it was all because of a phone call.
    His words were harsh and his threats daunting. “A Naseemy girl on television? The shame!” My father had demanded that I drop out immediately. Strangely, his reprimands filled me with a sense of importance. He was finally taking notice after having neglected me