Soon the dancers are old women who sing almost forgotten songs—this is cut into briefly by men singing different almost forgotten songs and dancing the dabka; their dance is separate but simultaneous.

Latifa is dancing gracelessly in a blue sequined dress. “My dress cost three hundred and fifty dollars,” she shouts, as though we were not sitting next to each other. When I say nothing, she tries another topic. “Look at Soraya. Can you believe she dances like that with no shame?”

I watch Soraya some more. My mother knew Soraya when she was very young, and even then she said it was as though Soraya had been touched by something magical—in both a good and a bad sense. Her own mother, Maysoun, stopped trying to fight it, just showed her disappointment to everyone, even though it seemed as though it came from within, and was not something that could be controlled.

All eyes are on Soraya.

“She is a beautiful dancer,” I say, though I know this will irritate Latifa even more.

“She is shameful.”

I look back at Jawahir, who is once again sitting on her throne, staring off into space. Surely this is not what my father has in mind for me. Marriage, marriage, marriage. This is not what I want from my life. I’ve seen what happens when very young girls marry men they don’t know.

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to” were Aunt Fay’s so American last words at the airport, also aware that marriage was probably what my father was thinking when he called me to come home.

I used to try to imagine Latifa married, wondering if it perhaps would have spared her some misery. She would make the perfect traditional bride: ready to follow orders, ready to serve. There is something so distant about her, though. Is there any man who could be happy with that?

And who could my father want me to marry? When I was home the last time, he had Hossam, Aunt Suha’s son, in mind. I would not, and will not, marry my first cousin.

I am not ready to marry at all. I know this. And if I stay here, I might come to feel differently. And then I will be like my mother, The Woman Of Unfulfilled Dreams. Better to be like Uncle Hamdi, The Voice Of Reason And Capitalism. If I stay I will be one of my father’s jokes too. A joke that makes nobody laugh.