Ameera, Unveiled (13 page)

Cheryl and I left our wares by the tent and went off to meet Polly at the gypsy wagon across the lawn where we could share Sybil’s final marching orders with her.

If I was reading the music right, the Greek dancers were finishing their final number. The audience didn’t seem eager to leave in spite of the heat. It wasn’t that I was craving a fan base, but I suspected the tribe wanted the chairs to remain full. I felt a new trickle of sweat down my back. It reminded me that I was wearing a bathing suit bottom. I patted myself mentally on the back for that decision.

“Hey, guys,” Polly greeted us. “I’d hug you, but it’s kinda hot and I don’t wanna mess anyone up.”

“Look at you,” Cheryl said. “What a pretty necklace. It’s so . . . Egyptian.” We all admired the multicolored banded collar. Thousands of seed beads, funny-looking shells, and fake turquoise stones were on the bottom layer.

“My mom sent it to me,” Polly said. “Look at both of you!”

I stood beside two of my newest friends, who looked stunning and knew how to accessorize. I tried to ignore the ballet mistress whispering to the mother in my head about my miserable solo progress and third-place performance in who-did-the-best-with-their-borrowed-costume test. My audition decision was pitching toward a “no” vote as I stood in my high-water harem pants.

“Let’s go to the tent near the stage so we can tell you what Sybil wants,” I said, trying to shut off the whining in my head. “I think there’re other students in this too.” We shuffled through the crowd.

As we paused in front of the stage to assess pillow placements, we noticed a couple of other underdressed girls placing a metal chair to the right of the concrete pad. We chose our pillow placements and headed back to the tent.

The photo session had ended. I saw a tall, slender, Jackie Kennedy lookalike with a nine-candle shamadan balanced on her head walking gracefully to lead the procession line. It brought to mind my newfound appreciation of not accommodating the prop. On her, the silver medusa-like crown remained steady and regal. My audition seesaw moved back to the middle . . . for now.

As we drew nearer, it was obvious the record-breaking temperature was taking a toll on makeup and costumes. Anything dry in the tent was being used to dab sweat from the dancers’ beautiful makeup jobs and costumes. Dancers were hooking Isis wings around their necks with Velcro neckbands. The colorful wings hung limply at their sides. Veils were being fine-tuned— behind the tent, safe from the crowd’s eyes—to avoid sweaty backs.

“Hurry, girls! We need to line up,” Sybil said. “The bride’s the beautiful woman with the paisley material draped over her head. See her?” She was pointing to another exotic performer decked out in glitter and chain mail. We nodded.

She followed this with another string of assignments. “I want you to drop petals after her, then stand behind the chair until the rest of the troupe arrives in the dance area. Cheryl, there’s a microphone on stage. You’re responsible for making sure Jennifer can reach it before you sit on the stage.”

“When . . . how do you want us to leave?” I asked.

Sybil looked down at the grass for a moment. I assumed she was playing the performance out in her head. Then she looked up and summarized, “Jennifer asks the veil girls to select groom candidates from the audience. Then she’ll ask the guests to nominate the groom with applause. We’ll dance three times for the bridal party. When the bridal couple stands up, you girls will come down and join us for departure,” she instructed.

None of it sounded like our weekly class lingo. I made a mental note to be at the back of the pack and just follow their lead.

Middle Eastern music played in the background as the troupe got into position. I didn’t recognize it, but the piece sounded exotic and crowd pleasing. I walked to the line and took a secondary position behind the bride, waiting for the unknown cue that we were ready to present to the audience. The hypnotic music summoned visions of glowing tents on golden sand and sinuous belly dancers freestyling while darkly tanned men drummed.

There was an obvious pause in the music. The troupe, bodies posed and postures elongated, stopped fiddling with costumes, props, and sweat beads. Veils stood at attention, sagging from the lack of a summer breeze. Five sets of Isis wings pointed erectly, looking like a butterfly rainbow. The shamadan crowned the elegant bridal attendant.

I scanned the procession from front to back, noting the various body types and personalities. The Forte sisters wore wings. I noticed how much they looked alike. We began moving through the crowd and toward the stage.

Polly was beside the bride and in character. Cheryl and I followed her lead.

As the bride was seated, the shamadan dancer stood behind her, radiating grace. We waited for the rest to arrive. Cheryl moved the microphone, and we discreetly positioned ourselves on stage at the pillow stations.

I watched the performance (to some degree) as an audience member. The troupe moved to the next phase, and Jessamyn reeled in the audience with a zaghareet demonstration hook. After this, the veil dancers sought a groom. Jessamyn cut them loose to rope in a candidate who’d sit beside the beautiful bride during the remainder of the show. Within two minutes, a ten-year-old groom was placed beside the bride, and the rest of the troupe was positioned for a new performance.

The chartreuse dancer led the troupe as it single-filed to center stage. Immediately behind her were Jessamyn and another dancer, assuming identical chorus poses. Supporting their moves, several dancers with veils over their heads exuded a mysterious air. The Isis wings stood at attention in the rear.

Cheryl sat with another student. As I glanced in her direction, she made a small clapping gesture. I responded with a wink and a subtle attempt to wipe salty drops from my forehead that were threatening to blur my vision. I hadn’t seen this dance before.

The lead dancer, Lara, nodded to the soundman. A percussion of drums created a ripple in the dance line. My (new) favorite dancer advanced, move by move, to the front of the audience, and her minions moved up on both sides of her, then they dismissed themselves to the back. Veils moved forward, undulating with faces covered for several counts before moving to the back of the line. Last but not least, wings presented their choreography. Sets merged into synchronized motions and then reverted to individual choruses.

Ninety seconds into the dance, Lara threw her head back and twirled. I saw a brown blur drop at her feet. In a split second, she’d stooped, picked up the brown mass, and tossed it to the side of the cement pad. It was a fake hairpiece. She stepped back into the next move as the audience chuckled and a few applauded. I put myself in her place and felt the freeze and brain fart that would’ve kept me from moving into the recovery process.

The finale was a beautiful swirl of arms, hips, and a chest pop. Audience applause rewarded the dancers as they froze for photographs.

On cue, the dancers strutted off. As Lara grabbed the microphone, she scooped up her tangled hairpiece in her left hand.

“Welcome to our Middle Eastern wedding. We even ordered the heat,” she said. “As you’ve seen, there’s a variety of costumes, body types, and props.” She held up her hand, displaying the hairpiece that resembled roadkill. “No matter what, the dance goes on.” The audience chuckled again. My chartreuse heroine went on to impart random dance trivia. I suspected it was to buy time for someone’s costume change.

We watched two more dances and another emcee moment. It became increasingly difficult to fight off calling attention to the trickles of sweat on our faces, backs, underarms, and bras.

The haunting song I heard, which had riveted my focus on the girl in pink yarns at Day of Dance, rippled over the audience. I watched as heads turned forward. Small children hovered at the edge of the concrete dance pad, anxious to see more bootylicious, colorful costumes. Little girls’ faces were full of admiration, fantasizing about growing up into belly dancers. Although I knew about seventy-five percent of the final dance referred to as Patty’s troupe dance, I was as captivated as the audience was.

As the final spins were executed, we descended to join the bridal party’s exit. I avoided eye contact with the audience in the event that someone might recognize me. We reversed the procession and headed back to the white tent.

Within minutes of arriving at the white tent, friends and family were taking photos with sweaty, but still glittery, belly dancers. I stared toward the swan lake and noted a man taking a picture of the statuesque shamadan dancer.

“Cheryl, look at her,” I said, pointing. “Isn’t that cool? Her husband wants a picture of her as a belly dancer. He looks so proud.”

As she nodded, her boyfriend, Trey, arrived with camera in hand. When Cheryl turned toward him, she got a gooey look in her eyes. “How’d we look?” she asked him.

“Very cool,” Trey said. “I mean hot! In all ways.” His T-shirt had a wet spot from leaning on the back of his chair. “I got a few pictures.”

“Do you want me to take a picture of y’all?” I asked.

“Please!” Cheryl said, and Trey handed me the camera. As they assumed a couple’s pose, Cheryl apologized for being sweaty. Trey moved in that much closer.

“Say, glitter!” I instructed before I clicked the camera. “One more . . . just in case.” Before I handed the camera back, I discreetly glanced to be sure I hadn’t left sweaty DNA on it.

“Let me get one of y’all,” Trey said.

There was no mirror in which to check makeup or sweaty bangs, but at least I’d have a photo of me with my girls. Polly and I stood on each side of Cheryl. In the spirit of belly dancer wannabes, as Trey raised the camera to his eye, we elongated and tried to project our best goddess glare.

“Send me a copy?” I asked. I wanted to show it to Steve. I’d pleaded for him to let me participate solo. His presence might have alerted locals he was there for some other reason than a Piccolo Spoleto finale. Most business locals recognized me at his side, but few knew me without him.

“I’ll send it, Kat,” Cheryl promised as she reviewed the pictures. Trey stood behind her smiling at each shot. “Oh, you got one of me on stage!” She looked back and gave him a peck on his sweaty cheek.

Sybil was busy gathering things inside the white tent. There was a student instinct that said, “Don’t go there.” Throughout childhood, I’d understood chain of command. Now it kept me from approaching the doorway. Then Ameera remembered that there were props to be retrieved and stored in the car.

“Cheryl, can you help me get this stuff back to my car?” I asked. “I wanna go to the gypsy wagon and check out some of the girls.”

Some of the troupe had mingled at the white tent, and some were headed toward home base.

“No problem. I’ll be right back, Trey,” Cheryl said. “Was that awesome or what?” she asked me as we headed to the car. “I can’t wait to post pictures.”

“What would you’ve done if your fake hair flew off?” I asked.

“My hair’s so long, I’m not sure I would’ve had to go there,” Cheryl answered. “I think she handled it just like Sybil said we should in class.”

I popped the trunk and discarded pillows and cover-ups in it. We headed back to the event. In spite of the record heat, we passed through a large crowd. The gypsy wagon was a silhouette on the horizon of the dance pad’s perimeter.

As we approached the gypsy wagon, we saw a line of henna-seeking clients. Humidity intensified the musty smell hovering around the wagon. Young girls stood in line accompanied by their mothers. The heat didn’t damper their determination to sit at the feet of Jessamyn. Each would leave with a temporary henna stain of exotic origin.

As I approached the short, wooden step stool to Jessamyn’s henna den, I observed her engagement with a client. She was intent on her small client’s hand while the girl’s mom sat dutifully on another window seat. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was obvious she was fulfilling the little girl’s fantasy to be marked by this amazing experience.

She looked up at me and smiled. “Hey, are you one of the students?” she asked.

“I am, but I don’t wanna distract you,” I said. “I just wanted to say . . . I think you’re an amazing member of Palmetto. You were at the nursing home in December, but I never got to speak to you. You look and perform like . . . a belly dancer,” I sputtered like a crazy fan.

“Awwww, thanks,” she answered and refocused on the swirling brown liquid pen designing a star on her ten-year-old client’s wrist.

This was the most interaction I’d had with a troupe member other than Sybil. I didn’t like to push my luck.

“This gypsy wagon’s amazing. I hope to see y’all more,” I said. “We love Sybil,” I added.

“Oh, you’re one of Sybil’s students?” she asked without looking up. I’d married the name Jessamyn with Jennifer. “She talks about you guys,” Jennifer said. “Learning a lot?”

“Trying,” I said unconvincingly. “Sybil pointed out your sister today. I love her chartreuse costume. I couldn’t believe how well she recovered with the flying hairpiece.”

Jennifer’s chuckle was as smooth as her hand drawing with henna. There was more to her than a giggle and a warm smile. She emanated a sensual but friendly feminine confidence. Her white harem pants and top were adorned with more coins than Sybil’s. Chain mail dripped from her hair, and dozens of bangles were piled on her brown arms. The troupe made it look normal to sit in a gypsy wagon in costume and do henna in the middle of a city park.

“Lara’s always game,” she answered, focusing on the young client. Earlier, I’d married the name Lara with Nashwa.

“I just wanna tell y’all how much I appreciated being part of your event,” I said. I backed down the steps and tried to disappear.

“Your name?” she asked as she squeezed the collapsing henna tube. Thin brown paste began flowing again.

“Kat . . . or Ameera,” I said. I stalled for a moment in case there were any other requests.

“Hope to see you soon,” Jennifer said before she advised her client to brush off the dried henna lines in no less than an hour.

As I left, I spied Cheryl and Trey walking away from a food cart, eating something Greek. It looked as though they were headed to shade.