High Wire, oil on canvas, 120 x 90 cm by A. Reed Garner 43
The Melancholy Oud By Sahar Mustafah As I come through <strong>the</strong> garage door, I hear <strong>the</strong> melancholy str<strong>in</strong>gs of <strong>the</strong> oud <strong>and</strong> I guess it’s com<strong>in</strong>g <strong>from</strong> <strong>the</strong> soundtrack of an Arabian soap opera my mo<strong>the</strong>r’s watch<strong>in</strong>g on satellite. Quick, rhythmic clapp<strong>in</strong>g <strong>and</strong> ano<strong>the</strong>r <strong>in</strong>strument I don’t recognize lends its sound, <strong>and</strong> its melody seamlessly weaves <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> thrumm<strong>in</strong>g of <strong>the</strong> oud. “Allah, allah!” my mo<strong>the</strong>r croons, <strong>and</strong> I realize she’s <strong>the</strong> one clapp<strong>in</strong>g. “Ente a’yooni…” She’s s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g a ballad <strong>from</strong> Oum Kalthum—her favorite Egyptian artist. Every time my mo<strong>the</strong>r plays her CD she tells me that <strong>the</strong> entire world was present at Oum Kalthum’s funeral <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> 1970’s, that she even surpassed Gamal Abdul Nasser—Egypt’s most beloved president—<strong>in</strong> attendance by dignitaries <strong>from</strong> all over <strong>the</strong> Arab world. I guess she was like <strong>the</strong> Elvis of her times, or someth<strong>in</strong>g. To me, her songs all sound <strong>the</strong> same. The one my mo<strong>the</strong>r’s s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g now is about a woman confess<strong>in</strong>g her forbidden love. I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k I’ve ever heard an Arabic song that wasn’t about forbidden love, or unrequited love, or love that f<strong>in</strong>ally kills you. From <strong>the</strong> kitchen, I see <strong>the</strong> back of a man’s head I don’t recognize sitt<strong>in</strong>g on a loveseat <strong>in</strong> our family room. His hair is slightly reced<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> back so that <strong>the</strong> f<strong>in</strong>ely combed str<strong>and</strong>s are visible l<strong>in</strong>es like black thread aga<strong>in</strong>st his pale scalp. Khalo Ziyad is sitt<strong>in</strong>g opposite him on <strong>the</strong> big couch. His eyes are closed as he strums <strong>the</strong> oud. Seated beside him, my mo<strong>the</strong>r blissfully s<strong>in</strong>gs with her h<strong>and</strong> rest<strong>in</strong>g on her bro<strong>the</strong>r’s shoulder. She motions me over without halt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>and</strong> pats <strong>the</strong> cushion for me to sit down. She w<strong>in</strong>ks at me <strong>and</strong> I’m impressed that none of <strong>the</strong>m has missed a beat with my <strong>in</strong>trusion. I feel like I’ve stumbled onto a secret clan, chant<strong>in</strong>g someth<strong>in</strong>g mystical. They look hypnotized by <strong>the</strong> music <strong>the</strong>y’re creat<strong>in</strong>g that lets <strong>the</strong>m shut out <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> world. I suppose it’s like <strong>the</strong> way I feel when I listen to Black Veil Brides; everyth<strong>in</strong>g around me just fades <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> walls <strong>and</strong> seeps <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> floor <strong>and</strong> I’m just, like, float<strong>in</strong>g on a raft. The stranger has a weird-look<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>strument <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> shape of a trapezoid, propped across his thighs, <strong>and</strong> two metal cases over his f<strong>in</strong>gers that he uses to pluck <strong>the</strong> str<strong>in</strong>gs. It’s like a harp rest<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> his lap. Almost five m<strong>in</strong>utes pass, which feel like ten or more as I’m wait<strong>in</strong>g for <strong>the</strong>m to complete <strong>the</strong> ballad. After my mo<strong>the</strong>r belts out <strong>the</strong> f<strong>in</strong>al verse, <strong>the</strong>y laugh <strong>and</strong> clap. Suddenly, <strong>the</strong>y remember me <strong>and</strong> <strong>the</strong> stranger pounces with excitement. “Mashallah, mashallah! Who’s this?” <strong>the</strong> man asks me, sett<strong>in</strong>g his <strong>in</strong>strument on <strong>the</strong> loveseat before st<strong>and</strong><strong>in</strong>g up with h<strong>and</strong> extended. “Where did this lovely lady come <strong>from</strong>?” It’s that funny way of ask<strong>in</strong>g, like I’m five years old. I extend my h<strong>and</strong> <strong>and</strong> he grips it tight while talk<strong>in</strong>g to my mo<strong>the</strong>r <strong>and</strong> uncle. “She’s a pretty one, mashallah! You better keep your eye on her,” he says. This is worse than <strong>the</strong> condescend<strong>in</strong>g tone—referr<strong>in</strong>g to me <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> third person like I can’t hear. “She looks just like you, Am<strong>in</strong>a, thirty years ago, mish ah?” 44