• ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Fiction, LiteratureSeptember 7, 2013

The Charivari

The limousine turned onto a busy thoroughfare, allowing his mother to try and shift the conversation.

“Well what do you think, Richard, do all men get cold feet?”

Richard’s mumble could neither be understood as agreement or contradiction. He went back to the radio dial and changed to a country station. Leon took a Pantera CD from his pocket, reached over Richard and stuck it in the player.

“It’s my wedding after all.”

When the church appeared, its gothic limestone arches gaped above the wide set of shallow steps, the big wooden doors carved with saints propped ajar. Familiar men with light-coloured suits and equally familiar women in bright summer dresses loitered before the doors in groups, clutching purses nervously, or slouching with hands in deep pockets.

“Everyone smile.”

3.

The reverend took several digressions from the agreed-upon sermon to offer anecdotes of failed and successful marriages, as if every Bible passage somehow reminded him of a particular union and its tragic or triumphant outcome. The air conditioning was broken, and people in the pews used the wedding program to fan their faces in the swelter.

Throughout the fugue, his eyes not focused on anything particular, Leon thought about the weekend a month ago.

Two sets of cutlery lay on red cloth napkins in his parents’ dining room. A bouquet of orange Gerber lilies, left by Mrs. Eggertsen, lilted in a tall vase on the table. Store-bought garlic bread was turning black in the oven. Cheese bubbled and browned along the edges of a lasagne, its noodles hardened and stale. The salad was in the bowl, ready for its dressing, the leaves shrivelling.

The next morning they were to drive to George’s diner for breakfast, park and meander on foot through the market to buy lunch at a food stand, a quiet weekend before the busy Big-Day preparations.

Francesca walked in from the rain. Her blond hair glistened in the hallway light.

“Coming down in buckets.” She struggled to pull off her knee-high boots while resting on the stairway.

Leon wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. “Finally.” He kissed her again.

“Yeah.” Francesca patted the side of his head and released herself from his arms, taking off her suede navy jacket. “Smells good.” She entered the kitchen, leaving Leon standing in the hallway, savouring the botanical smell of her hair.

In his mother’s cow oven mitts, Fran took out the garlic toast and placed it atop the stove.

“I’m cooking,” Leon protested.

“Whatever.” Francesca went for the tray of lasagne. Leon stopped her.

“No I’m serious. Let me do this for you.”

“Leon…” she said, expectantly. He let go and went to the cupboard to get the serving dishes.

“I just wanted to do something nice.”

“Sorry.”

“Why is it so hard…”

“Let’s not, okay?” She grabbed his forearm, softly, and pleaded.

Leon handed her the dishes. “Right.”

At the dinner table Francesca cut up the lasagne with a large knife and smothered the slices with parmesan cheese. Leon mentioned the heavy workload of his recent corporate cases. Francesca explained that a waiter didn’t show, forcing her to stay late.

“But why did it have to be you this time?”

“Because it’s always me, isn’t it? What movies did you get anyway?”

“A comedy, a romance, and a western. Take your pick.”

Francesca’s purse rested on the table next to the Caesar salad. When Leon went to grab more wine, it fell on the floor, spilling its contents across the rug.

“Sorry.” He bent and collected her things: her make-up kit, her cell phone, two tampons, a condom, lip gloss, lipsticks, a notebook, and her keys with the keychain from Puerto Vallarta. The trip had been a gift from his parents, for graduation. He stood up and held it in his hand, remembering the beach and Fran’s bikini, staring at all four keys – the one for her house, the one for her car, her locker key at the gym, and another one. He could not remember what it was for, but it was familiar, distinctive with its red plastic guard. He was about to ask when she snatched them away and dropped them back inside her purse.

“Which movies?” Fran asked, impatiently.

“Go look.”

As she went into the living room, Leon went to the cellar, taking another Chardonnay from his father’s collection. With two crystal wine glasses from the cabinet in the dining room, he started to pour. That was when he remembered the key, with a half-filled glass of Chardonnay before him on the table, its chill already forming condensation on the glass.

At a loft studio in the warehouse district, they posed in front of a crumbling plaster wall lit with four large lights, a mint green Victorian chaise-longue to sit on: the bride and groom, the groom and family, the bride and family, the best man and bridesmaid, the bride and mother, an endless variation of awkward poses and forced smiles.

4.

The Charivari evolved separately in several European communities. For some it was a form of coercion, a way to force unmarried, sexually active couples into socially recognized relations. For others it was a form of protest, against widowers who remarried younger men, or old men who married young women.

In some colonies it was simply tradition: The guests followed the wedding couple home and made consummation as awkward and difficult as possible. Sometimes windows got smashed or a barn burnt down. Deaths were rare.

The tradition mutated into more creative practices in some communities: filling the honeymoon cabin cupboards with puffed wheat and barley, putting honey between bed sheets, packing the groom’s vacation bag entirely with speedos, or bribing the hotelier into saying the reservation was lost for a few hours. Punishment for any union in matrimony, any public declaration of intimacy. Ritualized connubial sabotage. Leon still heard stories – distant cousins, friends of friends – where shenanigans went to far, leading to separations, divorce.

In some ways he was merely adding to tradition, taking something old and making it new.

Continue Reading

← 1 2 3 View All →

Tags

fictionRob RossStory of the Week

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleLost in the Flow of Time
Next articlesummons

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

God in Translation

“…neither time nor God belongs to anyone./ The birds know this as they peck ruby seeds/ from fenced-in pomegranate trees…” Weekend Poem, by Jacqueline Balderrama.

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at [email protected].

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Private Theatre: The Act of Killing

Tom Nixon reviews Joshua Oppenheimer's extraordinary project, The Act of Killing.

Close