The Dancer's Revenge
By: Habeeb Salloum/Arab America Contributing Writer
The cool sea breezes gently caressed the customers enjoying their succulent Margat al-Hout – a Tunisian version of a tasty Mediterranean fish dish – at Dar Zarrouk Restaurant in beautiful Sidi Bou Said, the jewel of Tunisia’s coastal towns. Rashid had invited his friend Ian for a North African meal in this former pasha’s palace whose Moorish arches and filigree gave it an enchanting atmosphere. The subdued conversations by the two friends seemed to fit well into the sublime architectural majesty of this Tunisian eating place.
Ian who had been fascinated by the dazzling white and deep blue colors of the town’s homes and shops, and now enthralled by the Thousand and One Night aura of the historic palace, turned to his friend, “This is truly a never-to-be-forgotten evening. I find it true, what you told me in Canada during our student days about your country’s beauty and its savory food. But what about the dark-eyed houris you raved about?” Rashid smiled, “Let us leave the fair sex for another day”.
Turning around to make himself more comfortable, Ian knocked a spoon on the floor. As he bent down to pick it up, he beheld her, walking toward their table. From perfect well-formed black stockinged legs, his gaze climbed upward to a shapely form, bursting out of a tight-fitting black dress which barely held in her well-developed breasts. Straightening up, his body shivered
as he gazed at her fiery green eyes which seemed to pierce his very soul.
“Rashid! Where did you come from? I have not seen you since we played children’s games”, the woman’s soft Arabic voice had a seductive tone. Blushing, Rashid stood up, “Selwa! I cannot believe it’s you! When we were playmates, I never dreamed that you would grow up to be such a beautiful woman. This is Ian, my friend from Canada”. Rashid wanted to say more but he could not find the words. Her overpowering presence had captivated his very being.
“Sit down with us”, Ian spoke in French, a language which during his short stay he had found every educated Tunisian knew. Selwa smiled, “I would love to reminisce with Rashid and, of course, get to know you but I must be at work in an hour and Tunis is 20 kilometers away. Come to see me at the M’Rabet Nightclub. I am their star dancer”.
“Dancer! You are a dancer”? Rashid’s face turned red. For instance, his Arab/Islamic upbringing took a gripping hold of his emotions. He was confused – angry at the thought that his childhood playmate had become a nightclub dancer; yet, at the same time, ensnared by her irresistible feminine appeal.
Selwa noted his momentary anger but let it pass. Because of her profession, a good number of men had embarrassed her many times before. As usual, she was upset but did not show her emotions, “Tonight, after my performance at M’Rabet, we can talk. Bring along your friend. I am sure he will like the show.” She looked at Ian with a radiant bewitching smile, then hurried away.
The blood rushed to Ian’s face as a feeling of intense desire mesmerized his body. “Rashid! We must see her this evening. She is truly one of the houris of Paradise! I have never seen such overpowering beauty”. His eyes had a glazed look as if he had been hypnotized. Rashid, still appearing somewhat confused, turned to his friend, “Of course, we will be at the M’Rabet tonight. More than you, I must see her again”. As they walked toward the door, Ian heard Rashid mumble to himself, “Oh! If only she was not a dancer.”
The narrow ancient streets, crowded with masses of humanity during the day, were almost empty when Rashid parked his auto near Dar el Bey – once the home of Tunisian kings and now housing government offices. The palace’s dazzling white color trimmed with blue combined with its Moorish architecture made the back gateway to the old Medina, a picturesque entrance.
Ian was absorbed in thought as they walked through the deserted alleys. He had a feeling that Rashid was attracted to Selwa and he did not want to show that he also had been affected by the dancer’s seductive charm.
Past shops where, during the day, the traditional Tunisian fez is made in front of customers, Rashid and Ian entered a courtyard edging a narrow souk under a sign in both French and Arabic indicating that they were in the nightclub M’Rabet. Upstairs, they found themselves in an attractively decorated restaurant which was located in a large room of what must have been an affluent medieval home.
Rashid handed the waiter a dinar (dollar) and asked for a table near the entertainment area. They were no sooner seated, then the orchestra broke out into the haunting Malouf, a type of music and singing brought to Tunisia by the expelled Muslims from Moorish Spain.
“I loved her but she spurned my love,
That Cordovan beauty who smote my heart.”
The singer’s voice in a melancholic fashion seemed to entrance the audience composed mostly of rich Tunisians and diplomats from the Arab East. The eerie heart-rendering melodies, sung exactly as they had been 500 years before in Moorish Spain, captivated the customers. Even Ian who had not been exposed to this type of music and singing appeared to be affected by its sad yet uplifting melodies.
With a voice full of emotion, the handsome singer, majestic in the garb of the Moors in Spain, brought his song to an end. Amid thunderous applause, he made his way out of the room with his musicians as a half dozen maidens, impressive in their bulky traditional Tunisian costumes, twirled into the restaurant.
Without stopping, they swayed to the beat of three musicians: one playing the drum, another a flute and the third a type of primitive bagpipe. The dancers’ colorful clothing emphasized their olive-skinned faces, made alluring by kohled-smiling eyes. They were truly ideal subjects for the brushes of artists, searching for the exotic.
Ian was intrigued, not so much by their clothing as with the sexual appeal of their gyrating bodies. It appeared that they could independently control every one of their stomach muscles as they danced their way back and forth across the floor. After their exciting performance, with broad smiles, they skipped out of the room to the loud beat of the drum.
Acrobats performing amazing feats followed one another as Rashid and Ian feasted on Tunisia’s top foods prepared by some of the country’s best cooks. They had finished their desserts and were sipping refreshing mint tea when a middle-aged Egyptian singer entered with her orchestra. She was somewhat heavily built but had an attractive face. However, as soon as she began to sing, her looks faded into the background. With a captivating voice that hushed the room, she sang melodic verses from the poetry of ancient Arabia. Her heart-rendering voice brought tears to the eyes of many listeners as she repeated again and again:
“They killed him in the very blossom of his youth,
The one who ensnared and tamed my throbbing heart.
O! Why should my body be torn by eternal strife?
Where are you death? Why do you keep us apart”?
On and on she sang. When she would reach an emotional point, many of the audience repeated her words. At other times, only her penetrating voice enhanced by the music echoed across the silent room. It was classical Arabic singing at its best.
In an hour her role was over. The customers gave her a standing ovation as waving her hand and smiling she made her way out the room. Nevertheless, it seemed that she was quickly forgotten.
No sooner had she left, then the lights were dimmed and the musicians broke into a rapid beat. “There she is! Look at her! Can any woman be more beautiful”? Ian was excited when he saw Selwa swiftly spin into the room. Her sheer black dancer’s costume, ornamented with silver specks emphasized her every curve as she glided across the entertainment area. Her long thick black hair, decorated with a red rose, flowed with every sway – now covering her face; now streaming behind her back. With every twirl, her voluptuous breasts appeared to almost leaping out into the open, but the flimsy costume kept them in place. For a few moments, at every table edging the empty space, she would whirl and flash her large piercing eyes ringed by a seductive smile. There was no doubt that too many of the men, momentarily, she was the most desirable woman on earth – the ideal nymph of their dreams.
Even though her dance was elegant and refined, Rashid was emotionally upset. As it was with most of the other men, she inflamed his secret yearning. He wanted to hold her close; to escape with her into a dream world. He wanted her totally for himself. Yet, he loathed the fact that she was a dancer – one which endless men had seen and pined for. His mind was in turmoil.
“O! If only I can embrace her. No woman can be more enticing. I am willing to be her slave”, Ian seemed to be in another world – a land of make-believe.
“You want her? So do countless others”, Rashid felt an inner rage intertwined with jealousy. “She will never be satisfied with one man. A dancer is not one to love. She is public property.”
Ian’s blood began to boil, “What do you mean? She is the epitome of a feminine lure. Dancer or not, she … ,” his voice was drowned out by the music which had reached an ear-splitting crescendo as Selwa threw kisses to the madly applauding audience and flowed gently out of the door.
Rashid and Ian’s tempers had cooled when Selwa came back into the restaurant, now dressed in a chic suit – one of Paris’s latest creations. With a refreshing smile, she made her way between the tables amid comments, “You are fantastic.” “You are a beautiful symbol of womankind.” “Sit down with us.” “You are so attractive!”, and much more. She acknowledged each remark with a limpid glance as she moved in a haughty fashion.
“How did you like the dance”?, Selwa was expecting that the young men would be proud of her performance. Her subtle perfume filled the air as she sat down between them. “You were heavenly”, Ian had a dream-like look as he moved his chair a few inches closer.
Rashid was raging inside even though Selwa’s nearness sent surges of desire through his body. “Selwa! No woman before you have so stirred my emotions. I want to take you away from this life of entertainment and make you mine. I am a very successful businessman and you will be able to live a life of ease. No longer will you be the object of men’s sexual hunger. Leave this life of shame. Come back to your religion – to the ways of our ancestors”.
“Life of shame! What do you mean? I chose this way of life. Who are you to tell me what to do? When I choose a man, he must take me as I am”, Selwa was agitated and angry. She turned to Ian, “Do you think like your friend that dancing is an unhonorable profession”?
“An unhonourable profession! Not in my books. Just say so and I will go with you to any place on this globe. To me, you represent the essence of the female sex.” Ian wanted to go on, but Selwa arose and took him by the hand. Come! The night is young and we have many things to talk about. As they walked away, she turned to Rashid, “I wish you luck in your search for a woman who will be at your beck and call”.
Rashid watched them leave with a feeling of burning rage. His whole idea of life had come tumbling down. He knew that he was right. Women were created for the home, not to arouse other men. Nevertheless, he had misgivings that he could he be wrong. His childhood playmate had, this night, shattered his preconceived concept of womanhood.
From M’Rabet Nightclub he walked in deep thought through the empty streets. Selwa had been the only woman who had ever affected him in such a fashion. Could he be living in a make-believe world? Why had she been so angry? She knew how Tunisian men looked at life. He was sure that she wanted to humble him for his intolerant views. Yet, he knew he could not change. Since early childhood society had engraved women’s place in life on his very soul. For this, Selwa had taken his friend in sweet revenge. “It is God’s will”, he repeated again and again as he made his way home.