Mid 80s - Starting A Solo Life
Memoir Excerpt - most names are changed.
A dynamic yellow and black soft puffy jacket with matching yellow and black checkered pants caught my eye. Now, this was a statement combo. It was impractical and expensive, but my money was my own now. I was earning quite a bit performing two shows on weeknights and as many as six on Saturday nights. It was 1986, and there was a skip in my step, two years after gaining my freedom. ‘However, If not the slave of my abusive ex-husband or the jet-setting gangster’s girlfriend, who was I?’ Perhaps this super-fly checkered “leisure” ensemble would fit my new persona.
I had already bought a sleek, black, fully loaded, limited edition Cutlass Sierra (sunroof and electric windows were a big deal then) and a glorious black fur coat. It had flared sleeves, fitted from the waist up, double-breasted with two rows of gold buttons, falling to the ground in large folds like the coat of a Russian princess. With my fluffy white Senghe cradled in my arms, long blonde hair cascading out of my Russian-style black fur hat onto the black fur coat, and large snowflakes landing everywhere, a man stopped abruptly in front of me on busy Yonge Street one day close to Christmas. He seemed exasperated as he shook his head and yelled, “Oh…my…God!”. I gave the coat away when PETA waked my conscience.
The last act was the singer, so the nightclub was still full. Abou Nabil, his new wife, and nine daughters from a previous marriage were on the balcony as they were every Saturday, laughing and dancing. I knew the family well because I danced for his and many of his daughters' weddings. On the main floor but close to the bar was the Egyptian bachelors’ table, all looking suave with Italian tailored suits and Rothmans’ cigarettes. Up against the stage in the middle was round Najy with his new, much younger, taller, and ever-so-beautiful fiance. He always threw lots of money on all the artists so he expected us to love him. He was kinda lovable. I did get the feeling if I ever needed anything, he would come to the rescue. Along with Miriam, who never stopped dancing at stage left, Saturday night was full of the regular characters.
I had returned back to home base at Cleopatra nightclub to perform my final show after two weddings. My personal dressing room upstairs was built just for me outfitted with a brown corduroy couch and a make-up table with a lit mirror. Shelves and shelves of my glass beaded bras and belts and a full wall of hanging skirts, veils and gallabeyas gave the room a cozy feel.
I took my time changing into my new yellow and black checkered fly outfit, pretending I had somewhere special to go with someone special. On the way out I slipped into the washroom. “Wow, I love your clothes. You are so lucky. You have such a glamorous life. You are beautiful, a famous dancer with gorgeous clothes. I wish I could be you.“ While washing my hands, I heard this excited exclamation from one of Abu Nabil’s unmarried daughters. I tried to smile and thanked her but all I could think about was what I would give to be in her place in the audience with a family or a group of friends like everyone else. I would trade places with her any day, to be the one watching the show, not being the show. A year later she asked me to explain sex to her before she got married.
With full stage makeup still on, I continued my nightly ritual of stopping at Country Style Donuts to order a strawberry jelly-filled doughnut and a hot chocolate. I would enjoy my treat in the car before driving the rest of the way home. As usual, I would take the scenic route and explore a different area of Toronto for an hour or so, even by highway sometimes, before resigning to the fact that all the shops were closed, people asleep, and nothing new would happen.
The later I arrived home, the more I felt like I had a life. Making friends was a mystery to me. There was Afrah in Jordan, whom I could no longer find. My friends from age 14 had been alienated from me since I had not been allowed to talk to them. I was used to not having friends. It had not been a consideration while in constant survival mode for the last 10 years. Life was calm now but I was not sure how to live. I did not know what to do if there was no one to run from.
Wagdi and Lily owned Cleopatra nightclub. They had adopted me, building my dressing room as an addendum to their apartment upstairs. Lily would make me watch Egyptian movies with Sohair Zaki and Nagwa Fouad to learn dance steps and how to interpret the music. Wagdi would bring me costumes or a shamadan (candelabra fitted as a crown on the head for dancing in) and an assaya (dancing stick) from Egypt.
When Wagdi was away in Egypt, I would sleep over, and Lily and I would get up to mischief. After everyone had left, we were on a mission to construct the perfect B52 cocktail in the nightclub bar downstairs. After drinking all of our attempts, we would inevitably become wobbly. Wagdi would phone Lily 9am Cairo time and discover a very giggly wife at 3am Toronto time. He still jokes today about the bad influence I am on his wife.
Their daughter Tuti used to peek her head out of the kitchen and study my every dance move while I was on stage. A decade later, she taught at my school. I so wanted Tuti to be in my dance company, but Wagdi would not let her. One day I confronted him about the issue. “How can you love me but not want your daughter to be a dancer like me?” Wagdi used to be a musician in Egypt. He had shared dressing rooms and stages with Sohair Zaki and Mona el Said. His answer: “I would love nothing more than for Tuti to be a dancer, but in our community, it will cancel any chance for her to get married.” I am not sure the answer made me feel any better.
Five-year-old son Robi would leave me love notes and flowers strewn along the staircase to my dressing room for me to discover after my shows. We all still tease him now that he has a five-year-old son.
Dating Canadian men after Ziad, the gangster proved problematic. They were put off when I would choose an expensive restaurant and assumed they were paying. They bored me to death anyway. Sex was often expected. Once a guy drove me to his home after our only date and invited me upstairs. I had learned by now what that meant, so I declined. His answer was, “What do you mean? You are a bellydancer, aren’t you?”
Many of the men in the nightclub were quite friendly, but I assumed it was because they wanted to brag that they had slept with me. Apparently, they could do this by just being seen talking to me. I still pined for Ziad anyway. None of them could match up to him.
One night after work Wagdi sat me down for a talk. He asked why I did not have a boyfriend. He mentioned how many nice men were interested me, but I never talked to anyone. I reminded Wagdi of the recent young Lebanese guy who had asked me out and then became angry when I declined, asking me why, starting a rumour that I was a Lesbian. “Will you please go out with anyone or at least talk to a man?” He said he was worried that after almost three years of celibacy, one day, I would crack and sleep with everyone, and that would not be good for business. I promised him I would try.
After our conversation, I crossed the street and got a slice at Pizza Pizza. When I walked in I saw the upside down triangle shape of the back of a man with longish black hair. I blamed Wagdi for allowing me to admire the image I beheld. It got worse when he turned around and had the face of John Travolta. We were both startled for a minute. I was beginning to reassess my hankering for a pizza slice when he leaned towards me over the counter smiling and said, “You are the dancer at the night club… Yasameen”.
I was not sure if this was a good or bad thing that he knew who I was. I had never seen him before so he was not a regular. Before giving me my pizza slice, he asked for my phone number. I declined, but he would not let it go. He assured me it could come to no harm. His mannerisms were gentle, and his voice was musical with an Iranian accent. It was obvious he was trying to push past his shyness in order not to lose this opportunity.
Wagdi’s words were still ringing in my ears, and I knew he would be upset if I turned down this situation. The fact that this pizza maker was so good-looking made the situation even scarier but I relinquished my number. Then I explained that I had no time to go out with him because I worked every night. He reminded me that the nightclub was closed on Sundays. My rebuttal was that I visited my great aunt Marj in Brantford, a 75-minute drive away every Sunday. He asked what time I got home from my visit. I told him 8pm. Actually, it was 4pm, and it was only one Sunday a month. I left quickly and then turned around to ask his name. It was Arash.
He phoned every Sunday at 8pm for three months. I had an excuse for not going out every Sunday, but we would chat a little. I looked forward to our chats, but going out on a date was more than I could handle. One Sunday, he said, “Listen, I have some pride; this is the last time I am phoning, so will you please go out with me tonight?” I asked him to give me an hour to think about it. He phoned exactly one hour later and then after a half hour more he was picking me up at my apartment. My dog Senghe came with us.
He owned that Pizza Pizza store, so we went there, and he made a pizza piled high with all I could possibly want on it and made Senghe happy with ham slices. Then we drove to the beach and had a late-night picnic. The drive home was definitely the scenic route as we did not arrive outside my apartment until sunrise. He explained how the first time he saw me dance, his buddies had made sexual type comments, and he told them I was different and not like other dancers. He said he knew I would be a challenge, so that night, when I came in for a slice, he was ready for the challenge. I also learned that he would have called the following Sunday if I had not gone out with him the first Sunday night.
We had been in non-stop conversation all night, and neither wanted it to end, so we ate a hearty breakfast at a pancake house. Finally, he dropped me off at home, and we were together again that evening.