Let's have a party

By Fayza Hassan
My friend Amira is giving her monthly dinner party tonight. As usual, she has been working non-stop for the past two days. The silverware has been counted and found to be in need of a polish. It has been entrusted to her faithful servant Nour, together with the china and glasses chosen for the occasion. The extras will be here soon. One will help the cook in the kitchen; the other will pass the appetisers.
Aromas of garlic and stewed meat are wafting from the kitchen where Idris has been hard at work since early morning. Umm Sayed, the maid, has checked the table linen, and made sure that there are enough matching napkins. Amira always hopes that the guests will notice the paper napkins she places conspicuously on the table as a hint to spare the fragile linen. Not all of them understand the message, however, and last month someone spilled tomato sauce on the hand-embroidered tablecloth. It took her hours to clean it, but she was grateful that the damage was restricted to a few spots.
During her parties she is always tense, trying not to notice her husband's best friend Essam who, invariably ignoring the pile of coasters, seems to have a knack for selecting the top of the most precious antique chest to park his sweating glass. Tante Esmat, on the other hand, can rest her hundred kilos only on the frailest settee, superbly ignoring its warning creaks. "If it wasn't such an expensive piece, I would pray for it to collapse under her," Amira once whispered in my ear.
Amira would like to be more like her friend Salwa. Once Salwa bought a splendid antique crystal carafe and invited Amira and her husband Gamil over to admire her latest acquisition. Balled over by the sheer beauty of the object, Gamil lifted it carefully from the table, where equally precious knickknacks were on display. A mighty crash followed and Gamil looked in disbelief at the neck of the carafe still in his hand. The body had fallen in the middle of the table, sending crystal chalices and candleholders flying. "Cheers," said Salwa and burst out laughing. "Poor Gamil wanted the earth to swallow him," recounted Amira. "He really did not know what to do. There was no way we could make it up to her -- the carafe was priceless -- but Salwa remained unruffled. She was not hiding any feelings of resentment; I know her too well, I would have noticed. She simply did not care. I wish I could be a little more like her."
The recollection of the incident boosts Amira's spirits, and she proceeds with renewed energy. Flowers are waiting in the bathtub to be placed in vases, a task she has always enjoys. "It is probably the best part of the evening," she remarks wryly.
Finally everything is ready. The apartment is shining, the nuts and crackers are have been distributed in crystal bowls and placed on the tables, and there are ashtrays everywhere. Nour has set up the bar and is arranging the bottles. It is almost 9.00pm and Amira has hardly any time left for herself. When she comes out of her bedroom the first guests are waiting for her, glasses in hand. Trays of hot appetizers are brought in periodically from the kitchen.
The doorbell never stops ringing and very quickly groups are formed, women in the first salon, men in the second, near the bar. The men tell loud jokes, probably the same ones they told yesterday at a similar dinner party, while the women pick up where they left off a few hours earlier, at a women's luncheon or on the phone. This is a close-knit group. They have known each other for years and are usually privy to each other's most intimate secrets. Dinner parties, however, are not the place to talk about one's problems. The conversations have to remain superficial and cheerful. It is bad form to stare at the old friend who has just had a face lift or seem to notice that Aisha's diet has done nothing but make her look like death warmed over. The politically correct formula is "darling, you look divine! That colour is maddeningly beautiful on you." The naked truth will only be voiced tomorrow, on the phone, to the others.
For their part, the men studiously ignore the rumours heard this morning at the office. No one will let on that he knows Ahmed is up the creek without a paddle, or that Shukri is on the verge of bankruptcy. Only golf and poker games are kosher topics, which must be discussed with noisy bursts of laughter and hearty claps on the back.
Suddenly Nour opens the doors of the dining room, provoking a stampede among the guests. For a while only the sound of forks and knives can be heard, accompanied once in a while by an exclamation: "delicious," "exquisite," "truly unbelievable," "I can't resist, I'll have another little morsel." Finally satiated, the visitors all head towards the door at once: "It was lovely, darling, thank you a million times, I do enjoy your parties so much" -- the speaker of these parting words is still munching on the last mouthful. Amira, who has spent the evening attending to her friends' every need and desire, is exhausted. Her day is not over, though. Having bid her guests goodbye, she surveys the battlefield.
It is midnight, and she knows for the next few hours she and the incomparable Nour will be busy picking up dirty plates and half-empty glasses, washing dishes and generally returning the apartment to its former pristine condition. At 4.00am, Nour leaves and Amira can finally put her feet up. "It was a lovely party," she tells Gamil, who is half asleep in front of the television. "Umm," he mutters. "Next month we will serve a lamb yakhni and stuffed aubergines for a change."
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