The only face of Eve

By Fayza Hassan
When I was about to be married, my mother and I had a "talk." It was not about the birds and the bees, but rather about the clever ways of keeping my husband "interested" (in those days it was assumed that boredom befell men alone). She recounted how, in the early days of their marriage, she and my father had shared a room -- against her better judgment. This arrangement forced her to wake up at 5am, tiptoe to the bathroom and, having showered, put on full make-up, perfume and a fresh set of nightclothes. She then went back to bed and pretended to open her eyes only when my father began to stir.
"Remember, there is no need to show your husband more that what you would show a stranger," she said. "Underwear, as its name indicates, is made to be worn under your clothes. Don't go believing that it is sexy to walk around in your panties and bra." There was more: about getting dressed in the morning as soon as I woke up, even if I intended to stay home, and leaving roaming the house in a dressing gown to women who did not know that, in a marriage, familiarity does indeed breed contempt. "You can mention casually that you are not feeling well, even if you think that you are dying, but don't do it too often; men hate sick women. Never elaborate on your symptoms, they are for your doctor's ears only. Better let your husband believe that you have been struck by some mysterious illness rather than reassure him -- and bore him -- with an unromantic description."
I pooh poohed my mother's advice, as every daughter worth her salt should, but her words remained present in my mind. I knew for a fact that if my father had accidentally complained about my mother, he had never showed signs of boredom and his gallantry towards her had never waned. It had been an object of envy among all their female acquaintances.
After the wedding, I found myself doing almost unconsciously as I had been told. Only once in our 27 years of marriage did I depart from my decorous behaviour. It was on the day when, waking up at dawn, I found my two-year-old daughter missing. I had intended to dress, of course, but as I thought it would take too long to collect my clothes, I simply removed my nightgown (the item of clothing intended to remain in the background of my marital life) and threw myself in the street as I was. Strangely, my husband was more impressed by my wanton action than by the momentary disappearance of the baby.
In the long run, I discovered that my husband was only marginally different from my father. Until his death, he opened doors for me, pulled and pushed my chairs and carried my packets. However, he never believed that I was ill, tired or had a splitting headache. How could he know? I never told him. So like my father, he ascribed my lack of joie de vivre at these moments to "bad nerves" caused by constant dieting and demanded that I fulfil my duties as usual. He never took the girls out "to give mummy a chance to rest," or called the doctor himself because he was worried about me. My indispositions were lonely affairs: I swallowed tablets and capsules in secret and went to visit the physician and dentist with the same precautions other women deployed on their romantic trysts. I even trained the children never to whine or complain in front of their father, sparing him the worries of childhood sicknesses usually shared by both parents.
My husband never complained of boredom. He could not wait to come home from wherever he was (except when he was having fun and forgot to inform me that he would be late. To ward off any nagging he probably believed I was entitled to, he would warn as he walked in that he would answer no questions about his tardiness). He was proud of his pretty, "contented," family, who behaved at home at all times as if they were in public. He alone had the right to be tired, upset, unwell, or simply in a bad mood. I was expected to find an immediate remedy or at least come up with the appropriate words to make it better.
During the times when my husband was on a down trend, professionally or health-wise, the girls were supposed to be seen and not heard, except to inquire in a concerned voice: "How are you today, Daddy?" It was hard work all along, but in a strange way, I felt the satisfaction of a job well done. So did my mother, at my father's death. Today, however, when I see younger women intent on fulfilling their own needs and pursuing their own successful careers, ready to throw in the towel when they decide that the marriage "is not working," I can't help but wonder: was it all worth it?
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