Nadiya
I am being pulled into a corset.
Loop, another loop – the knots are tightened one by one.
I haven’t eaten for over twelve hours, but even with that, it’s becoming more and more difficult to breathe.
I’m being dressed up in a wedding dress like a mascot, and I guess I just need to get over it, but…
I grew up in a different environment. I’ve never even been to a Caucasian wedding, and everything I know about them is gleaned from scattered movie stills, articles, and internet videos.
My brother and I lived in the city, mixed in a big anthill with other families. Muslim traditions and customs—all of it was very far from me.
Far back in time, when my mother and father were still alive.
After their deaths, I lived in a world where women had a voice and could manage their own lives. My uncle helped me get into medical school, but after that, I struggled on my own; while Tamerlan was battling his rivals, my brother, Nazar, and I were left to our own devices.
And unfortunately for me, I thought it would continue like this.
But alas, the noose of this marriage has been thrown around me and is being tightened, along with the loops on the corset of my wedding dress.
I am dressed by strange women. My fiancé’s aunts, his sisters.
No one introduced me to them, and they, apparently, have no intention of engaging me in conversation. To them, I’m an outsider. Without connections or money.
Surname…
What good is my father’s surname if even with it I found myself trapped in the shackles of an unwanted marriage.
If for these women I am a soulless shell, then what does my husband, whom I have never seen, think about marriage?
Four hands put the caftan on me.
The other women are sitting on sofas and armchairs. They speak a language foreign to me, but I know what they are discussing.
That I am nobody.
Forced wife.
An orphan from whom nothing can be taken.
I’m not even a black sheep, from which at least a tuft of wool can be taken, because there is nothing to take from me.
And only Allah knows what it cost Tamerlane to obtain consent for this marriage.
They put a cap on me, fasten it, and throw a veil on top.
I look from the mirror to the window. There, beyond the glass, like a portal to another dimension, mountains spread out.
Yesterday Tamerlan brought me here, almost two thousand kilometers from home.
The Yunusov family insisted on this, citing the fact that this was a tradition that had been preserved in their family for many years: no matter where the family members were, no matter what city or country, all weddings were celebrated here.
For me, this place also has a special meaning.
Only something completely different.
This is where my parents died. My father’s brakes failed on one of the mountain passes. An autopsy revealed a malfunction. But I don’t believe it. It was an attempt at assassination, which had the desired effect.
Somewhere there, behind that mountain, it all happened.
The light veil of the veil falls over my shoulders, and I turn my gaze back to the mirror.
A beautiful dress, atmospheric. I think this is exactly what I would want for my wedding.
If only my parents were alive. If only we lived here, according to the traditions and customs of our people.
But my life is different, and this dress is a farce.
Behind me, women laugh loudly. I turn sideways and look at them.
They almost point their fingers at me, something about me amuses them so much.
The girls who dressed me take a few steps back, also succumbing to the general merriment and at the same time leaving me alone, as if in an arena in front of spectators.
Are they waiting for me to start getting indignant?
Or maybe that’s what they’re trying to achieve by trying to irritate me? After all, they know I don’t understand anything.
Luckily for me, this doesn’t last long, because a man with a camera comes into the room to film me.
— Let’s stand here. Fold your hands like this. And lower your eyes.
They’re spinning me around and around. I’m like a puppet again.
“You look absolutely incredible in the frame,” says the photographer.
“We have a beautiful bride,” someone from this snake-like crowd says, and I turn around sharply, looking at the woman who had just spoken.
“She’s good, yes,” the other one starts laughing venomously, “but our boy is more handsome.”
I feel an uncontrollable wave of toxic anger rising up from within. I’m ready to endure this marriage and the unknown man I’m supposed to call my husband, but this—no.
I straighten my back and pull the hat and veil off my head, dropping it with a thud onto the glass table.
– So, take care of your boy yourself.
I turn around abruptly and walk towards the half-open door, realizing that I have just committed Armageddon with my own hands.
As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I fly into men’s arms, which tightly grip my forearms.
I slowly raise my gaze to the young man in the suit. The top two buttons are undone, as is the button on his jacket. His gaze is dark but mocking. His jaw is firm, his cheekbones sharp. A tattoo runs down his neck, which I can’t quite make out.
His whole appearance is somehow too arrogant, too insolent.
It seems to me that this man is one of those who do not value women at all, instead putting only his own needs first.
I wonder if this is the groom’s friend?
“So that’s what you’re like, bride,” she chuckles.
Not a friend…
And this is my future husband? A man whose face shows what an insolent, arrogant jerk he is?
“And yes, Nadiya, you will still have to court me,” his smile disappears, his voice hardens, giving the command: “Now go back to the room and put on the veil.”
