Andy and Mary

By Fayza Hassan
Andy was one of my brother's buddies. That meant that I never paid him any attention except maybe to make fun of his droll features, if I thought it would annoy my brother. Andy's face was set in such a way that he could never muster a serious expression. There was something around his eyes that made him look as if he was painfully containing his perpetual mirth. Since he was a happy-go-lucky sort of guy, his character matching his countenance, he was extremely popular with what I then disdainfully called the younger generation. That is why I was quite surprised to see him at the famous Louis Armstrong concert, one of the most momentous events of my youth, accompanied by Mary.
Mary was the daughter of someone at the American embassy. She belonged to the English-speaking group at the Gezira Club, and no one that I knew had ever spoken to her although I gathered that more than a few boys in our French- speaking crowd would have loved to know her better. She was pretty in a quiet sort of way, with big brown eyes and short auburn hair. She rarely smiled, and seemed to move sparingly. She was slightly older than Andy and my first reaction was "what does she want with that clown?" But then I took notice of Andy. He was wearing a suit and shiny black shoes and was acting the perfect gentleman. Mary had a corsage pinned to her simple dress, an indication that Andy had gone out of his way for her. Following the throng of Armstrong worshippers, we reached our places and I found myself almost directly behind the couple, at a perfect angle to observe them.
I couldn't help finding them charming. Andy had his arm wrapped around Mary's shoulders and leaned towards her to hear what she had to say. I noticed with interest that Mary barely opened her mouth to speak. She murmured a few words and then let Andy respond at length. How sexy, I thought to myself. No wonder I don't attract boys: I speak too much, move my hands about like a windmill and interrupt abundantly whenever spoken to. I'll have to watch myself.
The concert began and I forgot Andy and Mary for a while, but I met them again backstage. Armstrong had not arrived yet from the changing rooms but his wife was sitting on a stool, knitting socks as if she had been in the comfort of her home. Mary sat at her feet, speaking softly to her. Although I could not hear a word she said, Mrs Armstrong seemed to have no trouble, despite the din generated by several youngsters waiting in the hope of getting an autograph from the great musician. They seemed locked in a very personal conversation. "Your girlfriend is lovely," she finally told Andy, who smiled proudly and refrained from making his usual funny faces.
By this time I was feeling quite envious, although I could not tell to whom or what this feeling was directed. Andy's unwavering attention? I did not think so. He would never have qualified as one of my choices. Was it Mrs Armstrong's interest in Mary? I absolutely adored her husband's music, but was certainly not star-struck enough to include her in my awe of his talent. Then I realised that I was jealous of Mary. I wanted to be like her; she knew how young women should behave, she would be my role model.
At home, I practiced speaking like her with the dismal result that my brother and sister claimed the men in white coats would soon come to take me away. "This is what happens to people who speak to themselves," they guffawed. I ignored them and kept forcing myself to form sentences with my teeth clenched and my lips barely moving. Around this time, a boy invited me to the movies for our first date. Now was the time to do my Mary act, I thought. As the curtain came up on the cartoon, I whispered that I was cold. "What?" he almost shouted, instead of leaning closer to catch the words on my breath. I tried again. "Are you coming down with tetanus?" he asked impatiently (he was a medical student). "Is something wrong with your jaw?" I shrugged and we watched the movie in silence. I was sulking, of course, but he did not pay me any attention. On our way out, he noisily expressed his appreciation of the action. I breathed demurely that it had been too violent. I wanted him to notice that I was delicate. "I can't get what you are saying," he said, rather flustered. "Are you playing a game or something? "No," I said and raising my voice, clearly informed that I did not want to see him ever again. He dumped me there and then and I took a taxi home, the picture of Andy opening the door of his car for Mary dancing before my eyes.
To my utter dismay, I was never able to speak like Mary or adopt her poised demeanour, although in all honesty I kept trying for a while, hoping against hope that it would work. It is a good thing, however, that I was wise enough not to make it a pre-condition for falling in love, because today I would not have known that in fact it can work perfectly for a chosen few. My granddaughter is the living proof and her different boyfriends (a new one every summer) are only too happy to lean over and catch the words like pearls falling sparingly from her mouth. I alone have the feeling that I am going deaf around her and ask her to repeat her sentences over and over. The right technique may have something to do with being American.
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