That Other Me by Maha Gargash Read Free Book Online Page A

for so long. Mama did not bother with charm. She spoke to him in a mundane voice, as if she were talking about what she needed to buy from the fruit and vegetable market. She pointed out that we were not his responsibility anymore since he’d divorced her, that he had no say in our lives.
    Once she hung up I’d become aware of a chaotic flapping in my chest. All I could think of was what he would do to us. She didn’t answer when I asked her, just reached for her makeup bag. She would be joining me at the studio. I watched her line her eyes, the color of blue ice, with a steady hand. I watched them turn to steel.
    I hear the spattering of hot oil. “They wanted a winner from a different Gulf country,” I say, sitting up straight. “They had to choose someone who was not Emirati so people would not accuse them of favoritism. I came in second only because of politics. Everyone said so.”
    â€œThat’s not the point,” Mama says as the eggs pop and sizzle. “Even if you had come in first, it might not have made things easier now. You’ve got to understand that you’re not the only one trying to get famous. There are many like you out there.”
    â€œPolitics,” I repeat, nodding vigorously. “That’s what it was.”
    â€œMuch as you want it to, life doesn’t work that way,” Mama says, picking up a plate and sliding the eggs onto it. “There are other young ladies all over Cairo who feel just as you do and, let me tell you, have just as much talent.” Her voice has grown louder. She waves the spatula in the air while she scolds me. “And they’re probably sitting in the kitchen feeling sorry for themselves, useless as can be, moaning away while their mothers do all the work to put a morsel of food into their mouths.”
    There’s blame in her voice, as if I were the cause of our worries and sorry predicament. But who can blame her? She’s the one who’shad to deal with my vindictive father and his cruel control tactics. He forced us into that dilapidated shaabia house—subsidized government homes built in compounds and available to every Emirait citizen—and made sure we were always in need of money. An overflow of guilt at voicing my grievances turns my skin so hot I can almost smell the burn in my cheeks. I take a yawning breath, hoping to convince her that my grumbles were no more than small talk to pass the time, to while away the minutes as we get ready for our day. I don’t look at her, only pick up the cheeses and start to unwrap them: a hard yellow Roumy cheese and a soft white Baladi cheese. I place each on a separate plate and try to arrange the cutlery the way Clara used to. I wonder what happened to my Filipina maid. Does she remember me? Does she ever think of the apartment she lived in with Mama and me, which I called the snow palace?
    I lived there until I was eight years old. Mama called it modern, with its lacquered tables and cabinets, sliding aluminum balcony doors, and light curtains with pink swirls that reminded me of strawberry ice cream. But in my young mind, it was a snow palace. The couches were a stark white, which Mama kept protected from dust and stains with a see-through plastic covering. The whole apartment had wall-to-wall carpeting, plush and cream-colored, which I would often lie on. I would rub my cheeks on the furry softness and pretend I was cleaning my face with snow, which I had seen only in pictures.
    The apartment was in Deira, with a sprawling view of Dubai’s creek. We had a ritual, Baba and I, of leaning over the balcony to watch the men unloading crates off the dhows moored at the dock. He told me they came from Iran, Pakistan, India, and even from as far as Africa. There were abras , too, water taxis that chugged back and forth from one side of the creek to the other, always crowded with passengers. I can honestly describe those as happy days, even though, if