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8.
“AISHA QUÉ TE PASA?You are not paying attention. Your sister needs our help for this most important time in her life, and your head is in the clouds.”
Mama clapped her hands in front of Aisha’s face, tugging her from her daydream. the one where the woman was stood outside the bar with another woman, holding her hip and whispering into her ear. She’d stolen a glance at the two of them, nothing more because Nicolás had been with her, but that glimpse had been enough to stir the fire that filled her with want. It was the same woman who had been at the square on Saturday, and she was intrigued by her.
The last thing she wanted was to be here, tending to her sister’s wedding dress plans. She looked at Conchita and smiled.
“Which one do you think, Aisha?” Conchita grinned.
She held the length of white satin material at one side of her body and the white lacy cotton material at the other side. The satin would be soft against her skin and show the curves of her breasts and hips. The heavy lace had more of a traditional feel and reminded Aisha of the veils worn by the women in mourning. It wasn’t a look that enhanced Conchita’s youthful and joyful demeanour.
“Definitely the lace, Conchita,” Mama said.
The woman selling the material nodded and expressed her agreement with a high-pitched squeal and fervent clapping of hands. Aisha’s aunt, and abuela, and the other two elders of their village, who had to be involved in important decisions like wedding dress design, joined in the exultation. Aisha shook her head as they continued to fuss over Conchita.
One of the elders picked up a finely knitted veil from the shelf and ran it through her fingers. “Perhaps with this?” she said.
When an elder spoke, what they said might be presented as a question, but it wasn’t, and any challenge would be perceived as a demonstration of insolence. Aisha would hate this kind of attention for her wedding and being told what to wear, and as she caught her sister’s eye and received a thin-lipped smile in response, it was clear Conchita wasn’t overly enamoured either. It was much easier for men, much less of a commotion for them to choose a suit. If Aisha married, she would wear trousers. She danced in skirts every day. She would choose a white tuxedo with a blood-red bowtie to represent the heart. She would pick a freshly cut rose to match, one with a delicious perfume, for a buttonhole. She would never allow herself to be subjected to this display.
The dress making would take weeks and involve several fittings. Aisha would be expected to attend them all to give her sister support. She didn’t agree with the elders or her mama. Aisha widened her eyes and stared as her mama took the lace material, unfolded it, and wrapped it around her sister. Conchita looked like a fractured meringue. She also wore a deep frown as she looked down at herself and touched the material as if it was going to bite her.
“Are you sure, Mama?” Conchita asked.
“No,” Aisha said and immediately felt the heat of the women’s glares. They all edged taller and pinched their lips in one synchronised expression of disgust and shock.
“Ah, it speaks,” Mama said and threw her arm in the air. “You wait until we have decided what is best for Conchita before you join us.”
“The lace is old-fashioned.” She paused. “Conchita, García will appreciate you in the satin far more. You are young, and the material is soft and inviting. The lace is stuffy and too heavy.” She ignored the open mouths and the gasps and took the satin from the shop woman. She put the lace to one side and held up the material to her sister’s bosom. “I think a low cut, to show him what will soon be his mozuela. Tight to the waist.” She lifted the material at Conchita’s side. “And open up the side of your leg.”
Conchita blushed and giggled. She looked at where the material was being held high up her thigh and gasped softly. “Do you really think—"
“My daughter is not going to dress like a puta, especially not on her wedding day,” Mama said, throwing her arms in the air. She ripped the material from Conchita and handed it to the shop woman. “What are you thinking, Aisha? Cállate. Ya has dicho suficiente. I really do not know what to make of you these days, but this attitude must stop.”
Aisha watched one of the elders fanning herself. Her abuela and aunt stood with an arm around each other, each covering their mouths with their hands. Cloaked in their home-sewn black widow’s uniform, they were as depressing as their regressive attitude. There was a weight to Aisha’s sigh as she stepped back from her sister, shaking her head. She wanted for Conchita what she wanted for herself: the freedom to break from the traditions that would have them reliving the lives of their ancestors. The feeling in her chest became leaden as she saw her sister’s eyes glaze over.
Mama apologised to the shop owner and the other women present and expressed her deep concern for Aisha. Aisha allowed the words to brush over her. She’d heard them all before. She had no reason to feel embarrassed, or guilty, or sorry for speaking up. The shop sold the satin material because it would make a fine wedding dress. She wasn’t wrong in her judgement. But her thoughts and ideas had come from her interactions with too many tourists and “others,” her mama explained to the women. They stared at Aisha, shaking their heads, offering words of condolence to Mama, and making the sign of the cross as they muttered, “Dios mío” and “por Dios.” Conchita looked down, and the shop woman picked up the heavy lace and held it against her.
Aisha huffed. She took a seat in the wicker chair in the corner of the room and crossed her arms. She watched the women fussing around her sister with the lace material. By the time they finished, they would have her dressed like the virgin she was, tightly bound and unreachable. It was a metaphor for the strangled life she would live with her husband. He would struggle for hours to get near her on their wedding night but when he did, the prize would be his, for he was the winner in their relationship. He always would be.
Dancing flamenco was more romantic than anything a man could ever offer. Flamencowasa woman. The first note, the instant awakening to a shared passion of such intensity. The peaks, and falls, and the rapture of the crescendo, and there were always many, and they were explosive, and she wanted more. She could slip the clothes from her body with ease and snuggle against her soft, warm skin. She could lose herself in the tenderness of her touch and die for a moment as the warmth of her breath brushed her skin, and she could discover unparalleled ecstasy in their final ascent together. That was what love felt like, in her dreams.
She closed her eyes and thought about the time she and Esme had gone to the field to collect oranges. She placed her hand on her chest above her heart and took a deep breath. It was a fond memory, but it had also changed everything for Aisha. She’d closed off her heart…
It had been a mild autumn that year, and the fruit were juicy and sweet. Esme had thrown her cardigan on the ground before she’d started to climb the ladder Aisha held against the trunk for her to get to the higher branches. Aisha had been so tempted to look up as Esme climbed above her, but she had looked away. She’d kept her head down until an orange had landed on it. Esme had laughed, but all she could see was Esme’s legs and the skirt opening as she descended, and the point between her legs at which it became dark, though she knew what she would find there. That had been the moment just before Esme had screamed, and Aisha hit the ground with a thud. She’d breathed through the sharp pain in her back and the winding, and then opened her eyes and laughed at Esme sitting on top of her. Esme had helped her to her feet. When she’d groaned in agony, Esme had frantically but gently touched Aisha’s arms and shoulders and ribs. She’d cupped her face and stared into her eyes, saying she was just checking her pupils. Aisha’s pain had transformed into a sensation of deep longing.
She hadn’t intended to brush her lips against Esme’s but after it happened, Esme froze and stared at her for a very long time. “That must never happen again,” she’d said. “It is wrong, and you will die for it.” Esme hadn’t changed towards Aisha after that, but Aisha had buried her feelings and hadn’t let them surface since. They never spoke about the incident again. When Esme got engaged to Nicolás she changed, and Aisha became more distant with everyone.
“What do you think of this, Aisha?”
Aisha blinked until her focus sharpened. Still a meringue, only now with a hideous mask covering her beautiful face. “The satin would be better,” she said. “And no veil. They’re old-fashioned.”
Mama raised her arm. “Why do you have to be so obstructive? Nos quemaremos en el infierno.”
You will burn in hell for insisting on dressing my baby sister as if she’s already in mourning?She took a deep breath and tuned out their fretting. She thought about the woman who had come and watched them dancing. With the colour of her skin, she couldn’t place her in the world, but her appearance made it most likely that she was a tourist. What did it matter? Tourists came and went. Aisha could only dream.
