A Nomad's Dance

The gypsies played their hip-throbbing tunes on this fine evening, hired by the groom out of respect for his elders. No wedding is complete without Romani music, they thought, as the fast-paced rhythms mixed with raki cajoled the younglings into shaking their bodies with an exuberant lack of coordination—a dance best described as pulsing mini-seizures. Of course, some of the kids and men were crafty with it, synced with the notes, dancing on beat to make quite a show, drawing claps and roars from the onlookers.

This idea of grandeur originated from times of solitude and stigmas when one man couldn’t inquire a woman for her name, except at events such as these, where slipping away into the crowd proved easy and useful. This is how Sharani and Mustafa had met, the groom’s parents. Dancing teens, musicians blowing on clarinets, confetti-spreading kids, and a large man holding a camera fit for his size—all overlooked by the couple’s innocent-white table. Hazan and Nazli had known each other since high school; he was senior to her by three grades, although older by two years. They started dating when Nazli graduated, and the wedding came not long after.

Seated next to them were Filiz, the groom’s sister, and Halim, her betrothed. They flirted in a parading fashion. Halim flaunted his bourgeois roots by consuming expensive red wine together with Filiz, the only ones to do so, and laughed vociferously at her remarks.

“He can’t tune down for even a second!” rebuked Hazan into Nazli’s ear.

“Someone should have reminded her to dress more appropriately! This is my wedding, after all!” she hissed back, sneaking a peek at Filiz’s velvet gray gown with pleats that formed a flower, a flourished rose.

Hazan's brow furrowed at his wife-to-be's rude comments. He grabbed a cup, his hand shaking slightly, and downed the drink in one gulp. A grimace flickered across his face as the liquid burned its way down his throat.

The singer of the brass band halted the music and approached the couples.

“Time for a dance, applause for the celebrants!” he cried, rallying the spectators.

Hazan stumbled, leaned on the table, and kissed Nazli’s hand before leading her into the center of the now-empty dance floor. He sported a cream-toned three-piece suit, with a black stowed handkerchief. Complementing him, she wore a simple snow-white gown, stretched over her décolletage, adorned with golden jewelry. Hazan pressed her to himself, holding her by the waistline with one hand, and locking palms with the other, they danced, semi-rhythmically to the song.

Filiz's eyes narrowed as she watched Hazan stumble on Nazli's dress.

“He is stepping on her dress, the drunk fool,” she muttered under her breath, tapping her foot. Halim placed a hand on her knee, attempting to still her restless leg.

“Let them be, love,” he said, his voice soothing her irritation. “This is their day.”

The attending crowd gradually fell into silence; roars muffled, and chit-chat whispers disappeared in a gust. To an outsider’s eye, they would seem miserable: a drunk speeding up and pausing mid-dance, and a woman whose bitter smile soured. But this was tradition, with only one rule forbidding one to not be blackout drunk, so that one can still perform his manly duties.

As the song ended, a new one began, a less formal one but still composed for couples. Mustafa led Sharani to accompany the celebrants first, followed by Kalim and Afize, the bride’s parents. Halim, confident in his timing, ready to interject themselves now, darted up, pushing the table aside and spilling the wine, dotting red on the innocent-white tablecloth. Filiz frowned deeper. He kissed her hand and led her to the dance floor.

They weaved their bodies into one, moving tenderly like waves on the sea. Unlike them, Hazan and Nazli resembled ripples, clashing with another dancing couple every two minutes.

“You are as drunk as my brother, spilling wine on their table!” Filiz taunted.

“Drunk on love and lost in your beauty!” He laughed cheekily.

She looked away, and he took the opportunity to land a sly kiss on her cheek.

“The boys will fix it, don’t worry!” he added, nodding towards the waiters.

The boys began toiling away, throwing everything they could to remove the stain, but it persisted. Lucky for them, the tablecloth stretched longer than the table and gently rested on top of the pavement. They moved it a bit, and voila! The spillage was hidden successfully!

Filiz watched the servants clean up the spilled wine, a small smile playing on her lips as they worked. Glancing over Halim's shoulder, she noticed Hazan's sweat-soaked face and vacant eyes, while Nazli's gaze seemed to linger too long on Halim, her eyes gleaming with a strange intensity.

“Halim, she is watching you,” she whispered.

“Had I known then the circumstances that I would be cursed with, my love, I would not have done it.” His eyes locked on Filiz’s tender face.

“I know, I don’t blame you…” Their movements slowed, yet still languid.

“My mind is troubled, love. What if tonight, there is a problem?” She stared at Halim, her eyes shining, reflecting the full moon on their damp surface.

“Don’t worry, love, as long as he is drunk, no one will know!” He reassured her, landing another soft kiss on her clavicle.

“She seems a bit…Full? Nazli was always a thin girl.” Filiz narrowed her eyes and observed Halim in suspicion.

In silence, they danced, swaying from one side to the other and spinning flawlessly. The men couldn’t see them, but the signs spoke to Filiz.

“Please… Filiz, you know it has been a long while!” He reassured her.

The enlarged breasts, constantly leaning her head on Hazan, the mess she left yesterday, and the way she avoided alcohol… Filiz suspected Nazli. The signs were there, but she relieved herself, calling it stress, the weight of the wedding.

“Your parents are a nice bunch, love! I am glad to have finally met them,” Halim pulled away Filiz from her worries.

“They are, mostly. Although, I am afraid for my father, his sudden hair loss and how thin he became in such a short time!”

“It comes with age, love. Do not worry yourself,” he whispered, gently patting her back as he hugged her.

“His eyes have changed…”

“They seemed fine to me. A happy bunch, him and your mother. I hoped mine would attend, but alas…”

“Have you inquired about me?” She frowned. “Are they still against our marriage?”

He pulled himself back to meet her eyes.

“They are not against you, love. They are against this! Anything but traditional, they hate this music and the aura it radiates.”

“They deny their roots then. We shall speak of this later.”

“I do hope Hazan finds the happiness he seeks in Nazli.”

“Oh, please. His love is for the bottle, and she still clings to yesterday’s events. Misery clouds trail them,” she hissed.

“You are always skeptical of him. Give it some time, he will change…” The music swiftly adjusted into the rhythmic traditional type, and the couple went back to take their seats.

“He has to…” Halim muttered.