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Автор Шамим Сариф
I Can’t Think Straight
by
Shamim Sarif
Copyright © 2008, Shamim Sarif. All rights reserved.
ISBN Number: 978-0-95606--7
First edition published in the United States by Enlightenment Productions, London, UK, 2008
Acknowledgements
I made a trip to Amman to do some background research for this book a few years back now and remain grateful for all the help and information given to me by so many people. Amongst those who gave generously of their time, energy and contacts were Rania Atallah and Abdullah Said who arranged meetings and a visit to a refugee camp. My sister-in-law Maha Kattan and Zina Haj Hasan filled in a lot of detail about the customs and viewpoints of the region. Zein Naber, the most supportive aunt I could wish for, and her daughter Nadine, were also so generous with introducing me to people and showing us around their world in Jordan.
Marwan Muasher, then Foreign Minister, took time from a busy schedule to meet with me and speak candidly and eloquently about his hopes and fears for the Middle East.
I worked on the screenplay of ‘I Can’t Think Straight’ with Kelly Moss, who has been more than a friend in her support and belief in my abilities over the past few years. While the novel differs from the film in many ways, I have managed to shamelessly appropriate some of the best lines that Kelly wrote for the film and use them in this book, and I know she gives these lines willingly and without any cost to me, except the occasional long, liquid lunch.
Lea Porter was foremost amongst those friends of ours who encouraged me to write this story in the first place, and the ‘no carbs’ line is from her, as I confess I had no idea that anyone would willingly give up such a delicious food group!
I thank my family for their continuing support, and a special mention to my sister Anouchka who has always had unfailing faith in me, which I hope I can live up to.
Francine Brody edited this book with great delicacy but also great incisiveness that lifted many aspects of the story and it was a pleasure to work with her. My thanks also to Kirsty Dunseath for introducing us.
And last on this page, but always first in my thoughts, I thank Hanan, my wife, my inspiration and my greatest support. This particular story would not exist without her, and on a more fundamental level, none of my stories or films would exist either. With love and gratitude for all that you have given me.
Chapter One
And then there was the question of getting dressed, and time was running dangerously short.
Reema could hardly spend this last hour before her daughter’s engagement party arguing with Halawani about the cake. It was evident from the bulging smear of gold icing that was still slipping down the fabric-draped wall of the vast entrance courtyard that it was her own idiotic staff who had damaged it, probably Rani, wanting to be in charge of the fragile tower of soft sponge and peaked icing, and instead staggering into the wall under its unexpected weight. What did Halawani bake his cakes with anyway, to get that heaviness? As though the more substance and solidity the thing had the better. It crossed her mind that perhaps she should have ordered it sent from London or, better yet, Paris. But if Reema was to be honest with herself (which she had spent a lifetime successfully avoiding, since honest appraisal of one’s motives only caused more trouble than she had energy or inclination to deal with) she had not felt her daughter deserved it. Not for the fourth engagement. Three previous French sponges had already been sent for, admired and eaten, and then she had been forced to taste the bitterness of their regurgitation in her mouth when the engagements had been called off. Although, this time, she was sure that the betrothal would stick. This time, she was hopeful that at the age of twenty-eight, and despite two expensive, American degrees behind her, Tala had finally learned the most important lesson of life – that love and ideals were not actually real. Everyone loved the thought of them. Reema herself loved to read about them in books and watch them on television. But there was a reason why romance and passion were so suited to fiction; and to learn this lesson was a function of maturity, Reema thought, a growth away from the hotheadedness of youth. Over the last week, she had been pleased to see in her daughter’s face a placid calm that was unfamiliar but most welcome. And yet a wriggling worm of tension curled inside her chest. The problem with Tala was that she always did what was least expected. And so if she did ruin this engagement, if it didn’t last, Reema’s one, poor consolation would be that she hadn’t wasted money on the cake.
