Banipal Books

On this night, the Cinderellas open doors to . . .

On this night, the Cinderellas open doors to secret rooms to tell the stories of everything that passes through the relatively sensitive filters of their lives. For secrets are the women’s café, their passion, and the mystery of their glow. No Cinderella can hold back her story tonight. “It would be bad luck!” Rayya declares, even though she’s the oldest and most secretive Cinderella of all. However, even she realized fairly recently she could no longer tolerate keeping her secret to herself, and so on an exceptional night like this, telling it can provoke a little joy.

Tahani raises a glass of apple juice to which she herself added blackberry and grape juices, along with slices of orange and green apple. She raises it high like a celebratory toast, and is about to say something to Fathiyya, who can’t resist primping herself now and again, while the fragrance grabs people’s attention and brings passing customers to a halt around the Cinderellas. Sara is in in her most splendid outfit and smiles as if she were on the red carpet of movie stars. As for Nawf, she maintains a neutral expression and doesn’t leave enough of an impression for anyone to stare at her. Rayya is the calmest and most serious Cinderella though her facial features betray her kind, sympathetic nature, while Rabi’a and Alya are standing beside each other, exchanging the occasional whisper. Rabi’a’s mouth is glued to Alya’s ear, and in no time at all, Alya’s mouth ends up glued to Rabi’a’s ear.

The head chef often felt disappointed, because in spite of all his hard work and his careful observation of what the Cinderellas get up to in the restaurant kitchen, he never prepared a dish exactly like the ones they did, with that same special aroma. Even though the customers devour his dishes with gusto and ask for more, he knew for certain in the depths of his soul that he couldn’t make anything as good as theirs, and couldn’t make anything out of the ordinary, as they do, nimbly and quickly.

In his moments of despair, the head chef wanted to leave his little kitchen looking out over Mangrove Beach and go back to his noisy city, but he learned something new every time, not the least of which was what Sara did with the chicken broth, that had bread steeped in it. He had carefully written down the steps, and recorded how long to fry the onion and just when to toss in the garlic, coriander, and other spices. Sara wasn’t exact, and would throw things in one after another. She gave no indication of expertise, it was as if she were doing it only out of instinct or habit, but the aroma always said otherwise. The head chef thoroughly enjoyed her broth, but there was pain in his soul. “The secret isn’t in the measurements, darling,” Sara told him with a laugh.

The head chef had been chasing their secret for months and months, ever since the Cinderellas became regulars at his restaurant, but he gave up hope of ever acquiring it. Alya upset him even more when she told him, “A little of you goes into your dish; that’s why your dish won’t be exactly like ours. Simply put: it’s because we are not the same as you.”

Despite the customers’ zeal in ordering his dishes, he was certain every time that his dishes were missing something, but he couldn’t believe it was because they needed another ingredient, whose constituents he had wasted his entire life trying to pin down, while learning recipes from books in different languages of the world. His methodical brain couldn’t believe what was happening before his eyes.

Fathiyya pays no attention to quantities either. Here she is, pouring in salt and black pepper like it’s no problem. She chops onions into uneven pieces and, in fact, puts the ingredients in the pot in no particular order. He shudders as her carefree actions throw him into confusion. He is puzzled by her inattention when she cooks pasta. Pasta can’t be cooked that way, but Fathiyya does it with remarkable speed.

The smell that comes from the pot sometimes drives the head chef to tears. In his inner depths, he understands clearly that his cooking pots will never be able to produce that same aroma which reels in passersby as well as people several metres away. He starts crying, and at that moment wishes he could be a young apprentice again, but the Cinderellas don’t have a position for him. His lessons happen only by chance, which upsets him even further. More than once, when he begged them for a short cooking lesson, they told him: “This is our only good chance to tell stories, and we’re not going to waste it on anything else.” They had come to tell stories that were long overdue. And the hands of the clock on that long and rare winter night would spin quickly.

No one can find any justification for the existence of these amazing Cinderellas, of different ages and from different villages – Cinderellas, dizzy with stories that are equally strange and unsettling. But on a night like this they are all alike, for as soon as you look them in the face, you will understand that they have no worries, no troubles.

In a state of delight, they descend to earth amid strains of laughter. They wink at each other, having a good deal of fun as they do so. It would be impossible for these eyes of theirs to have a memory: brand new in every respect, it’s as if they’re seeing things for the first time. These eyes retain an enormous passion for absorbing everything that crosses their path. Eyes that yearn and hearts that beat. At this very moment their hearts are beating faster than usual, even though this gathering takes place every month. But tonight, there’s a clear agreement, made earlier between the Cinderellas: they will not waste their time merely cooking, dancing, and singing when there is fun to be had, fun that’s thrilling but overdue, fun they have enjoyed before, but this time they want to devote all their time to it.

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