Dubai
_______________________________________________________________________________
“I will put you in the program for April. But, you will need
a tan, a small injection of silicon in your lips, and you should gain four
kilograms. Then you will have just the right look for a bellydancer!” Salim
exclaimed from the driver’s seat.
“Okay, Salim. Just for you, I’ll get a spray tan. But I
don’t think I should gain four kilos!” I didn’t bother explaining that
injecting silicon into the lips was a terrible idea. Hyaluronic acid, however,
could be arranged. A temporary tint was no problem, either, but it would have
to be a spray tan. I knew from experience that self-tanners from a bottle made
your hands bright orange and your skin smell like rotisserie chicken. Going on
a heavy diet to gain weight was a ludicrous gamble, though. Club-goers in Dubai
were all too quick to call a bellydancer fat.
Hours earlier, I had arrived in Salim’s restaurant with zero
expectations, at the insistence of my agent Panos. I loathed going to clubs to hustle
for contracts. Nineteen times out of twenty, it was a waste of time and makeup
- and made me look desperate - but there was no saying no to Panos. He knew
full well Salim had met me several times already and remained equally
unimpressed each time. Why would it be any different now? My Brazilian
colleagues, who were highly sought-after in Dubai’s competitive bellydance
market, came with just the right golden tan and dance style. Salim’s clientele
set another beauty standard: Beirut chicks didn’t shy away from the needle. I
for one was a pale, lipless Scandinavian, who had to constantly prove her
non-Russianness to the world. Nothing lowered your market value in Dubai like
being branded an Eastern European.
I had asked Malika, an Iraqi American dancer, to join me for
moral support. She hung around Dubai with her beautician mother and made
periodical efforts to get into Panos’ roster. Bellydance contracts meant
working every single night, which was a hindrance to a girl’s social life. From
Malika’s eagerness to come along for this mission, I gathered she wasn’t
currently dating anyone worthwhile. Having some female company helped diffuse
the awkwardness of sitting opposite the elderly Salim and his current Lebanese
songbird, a girl who spoke with a high-pitched voice and made pouty, baby-like
expressions. Instead of joining her in batting my eyelashes at Salim, I
immersed myself in a conversation with Malika. Coming here would have been for
nothing, though, if we didn’t hit the dancefloor to go through the motions at
some point.
The strategic moment for a round of ‘So You Think You Can
Bellydance’ came during the male singer’s set. When the crooner settled into a
classic Egyptian song, I nudged Malika and we headed towards the stage in our
tight jeans and skimpy tops. At least I had learned how to dress for these
occasions. The first times Panos took me out with him to meet club managers and
to decorate his table, I had looked like a kidnapped nun in ankle-length skirts
and long-sleeved tops. I was a recent arrival in the UAE by way of Egypt and
Yemen, and therefore conditioned to cover my skin in public. I felt intimidated
by the men in these clubs, and the breast implants on the stage. Now I knew my
way around restless hands under the table and was friends with many of the
implants. What a difference a year made.
The only women to get up and dance, besides the bellydancer,
were Moroccan hookers in dramatic makeup and extremely short dresses, trying to
catch a trick. The Lebanese housewives wore their eyeliner just as thick and their
heels as high, but stayed glued to their seats under their husband’s protective
arm, a hookah pipe embedded between their full lips. Here were Malika and I now,
the unemployed bellydancers. Our impromptu appearance energized the five-piece
band. The singer moved over to the side and spoke gracious words of welcome
into the microphone. This was always a nerve-racking moment, trying to show my
best moves from the best angle to the man in charge watching me, in front of a
crowd who had seen a thousand bellydancers and their mothers. This time around,
I simply didn’t care. Panos wasn’t here. Salim was a lost cause. Without some
divine intervention, I would never work in this establishment – but right now,
I was dancing here.
I sank inside the music and forgot about my surroundings. This
feeling was what had kept me going since my first bellydance class at age
thirteen. It had taken me a decade to become a fully-fledged professional, making
my living as a bellydancer in New York City. Over there, it was a much more
relaxed, let-all-breasts-bloom type of scene. Only recently, while working with
Panos, had dance become a laundry list of physical attributes. I’d absorbed
this mindset in order to survive in the business - but it didn’t mean I was
buying into it. I let go and danced from a deep, rebellious place in my heart,
one which no longer worried about some old Lebanese man rating me. I danced for
myself. Even if no one in this city thought I looked the job or had the right
dance style, I would soldier on.
Somehow, Salim saw me with new eyes. His face was glowing as
Malika and I returned to the table. When it was time to leave, he offered me a
ride with a meaningful glance: He wanted to talk business.
It wasn’t the first time I was sitting in his passenger seat
at one in the morning.
"Salim will drive you home," Panos had told me the
first time he introduced me to Salim.
I didn’t know what to think.
"Thank you, but that's not necessary! I'll just take a
taxi!"
"No. He will drive you."
I tried excusing myself into the
taxi line twice more, but Panos wouldn’t hear it. Salim was already getting his
car, and he was driving me, there was nothing more to it. I had two options:
defy and insult my agent who held my life in his hands - or go with Salim.
I made a quick judgment call. I
didn't see Salim as the backseat rapist type, so I doubted I was in any danger.
Salim was about as old as Panos, whom I’d classified as a centenarian, and
short of putting a gun in my head there was little he could do to get me into
his apartment. Maybe he just wanted to be
seen leaving with someone. In the
car, I tried to diffuse the awkwardness with incessant chit-chat, a trick from my
teenage hitch-hiking days. I learned Salim had moved here from Lebanon when
Dubai was just a mid-sized desert town, and Beirut a war zone.
I later heard from the Brazilian
girls that Salim liked to be friendly with the dancers. He had never directly
tried to get anyone to sleep with him, but he loved attention. To stay in good
terms, you had to periodically rub shoulders with him. I made a mental note of getting
in his care more often.
“I am very happy for you that Mr.
Salim decide to put you in his program,” Panos emailed me a few days later.
“For this he remove one Brazilian dancer.”
Whether the last remark was supposed
to make me feel guilty, or remind me of how replaceable we all were, was hard
to say.
April was still months away, and
Panos sent me for contract in Bahrain. This didn’t lend itself to an
opportunity to remind Salim of my existence, but I was fairly confident my spot
was secure. Why would he ditch me just
because I’m not there, I assured my restless mind.
Come March, I emailed Panos to ask
about the starting date of the contract with Salim, so I could get those
silicon lips and tan going.
“Right now I don’t have anything for
you after Bahrain,” he replied. “Mr. Salim put one Argentinian dancer in your
place, you know he’s always changing his mind.”
I sighed and put the syringe down.
No comments:
Post a Comment