Interlude: The Joining of the Indari and Kwaran Families in Matrimony
December 3, 2000
Ervamea wanted to get married at the chapel in Isherrith, but Marsilamat vetoed the plan; he still preferred to avoid visiting his hometown, except when required to for his profession. Instead, they settled on a chapel in Tiabsadda, a suburb of the capital. The chapel overlooked the Pela River, and the garden behind it in which the ceremony was to take place had a fine view of the Pelachis skyline. It was late spring, and the trees surrounding the building and its gardens were beginning to bloom.
As per Hlenderian custom, the couple had separated the day before; Ervamea staying with her parents in their apartment in the capital and Marse staying with a friend, Councilor Orvin Bagtani of Traditionalist Kwarim. Bagtani represented a small town about 25 miles up the road from Isherrith, and the two hit it off immediately upon Marsilamat’s admission to the Council in 1996. Bagtani, his wife, and their daughter would be the most prominent of Marse’s guests to attend – his mother and sister still were not speaking to him.
Ervamea, meanwhile, was inviting the entire Kwaran clan: Her mother and father, aunts and uncles, and all variety of cousins. Some were coming from as far as Kwarrōth’s Grant, 150 miles from Isherrith. This particular branch of the family were distantly related to King Yendrin, and made sure everyone knew it. Marse resented their pretensions. He tried to keep this hidden from Ervamea, but knew he was unsuccessful most of the time.
Marsilamat sat in what was known as the “Groom’s Chamber”, a room in most Hlenderian chapels in which the groom prepared for the marriage ceremony. Ervamea, helped by maids, dressed in the corresponding “Bride’s Chamber”. The Groom’s Chamber was lit by a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows along the eastern wall, through which the morning light shone. Bookshelves built into the room’s walls contained religious texts on marriage, souvenirs from previous weddings the congregation celebrated, and rows of ishulim – marriage contracts which once recorded dowry information, but now mainly served as ritual.
Marse wore a fine Kwari-styled jacket in a deep forest green, and had a silk scarf tied around his neck and tucked into his shirt. Ervamea, in preparation for the wedding, had sewn patterns representing the Indari and Kwaran clans into the piping of his jacket, and along the sides of his pant legs. Always a fan of fine clothes, Marse loved his wedding garments. He was adjusting his scarf when he heard a knock at the door. Shortly after, his soon-to-be father-in-law Meril Kwaran entered with a thirty-something man that Marse did not recognize.
“Congratulations,” Meril said, embracing Marse. They greeted in the Kwari manner, briefly rubbing their cheeks together.
“Thank you,” Marse smiled. He glanced at the stranger with Meril.
“Marsilamat, I would like you to meet my nephew, Fenran Kwaran.”
“Hello,” Marse said, greeting Fenran the same way.
“Congratulations, Councilor Indari.”
“Thank you.”
Meril put his arm on Fenran’s shoulders. “Would you mind if I spoke to Councilor Indari alone for a minute?”
“Of course,” Fenran said. “Excuse me.”
Fenran left the room. Marse returned to adjusting his scarf in the mirror.
“My brother’s son,” Meril said, motioning towards the door that Fenran just walked out of. Marse nodded. “Ervamea will be ready to begin shortly. One of her maids will let Councilor Bagtani know to come get you.”
“Okay.”
Meril said Marsilamat’s name as if he was beginning a thought. He looked at Meril and noticed he was looking older, with grays beginning to appear in his hair on his temples.
“Marsilamat, the side business we are involved in,” Meril began.
“The mine?” Marse asked. “What about it?”
“Not the mine, the other business.”
Marse remembered his trip to Aivintis back in ‘95. “Ah,” he said.
“I am selling my stake to Fenran.”
“Why?” Marse asked, turning back to the mirror.
“We shouldn’t be involved in this, Marse,” Meril said. “Could bring too much attention to men in our positions.”
Marse scoffed. “What, a little snow? When was the last time you were in the Council chamber bathrooms?”
Meril turned red. “I’m serious, son. It’s bad news. Don’t you read the papers? The King is sick of government officials making something on the side. He thinks it hurts the country’s reputation.”
Marse laughed again, louder this time. “Our side businesses pay for this wedding. We should stop because of what foreigners might think of us?”
A knock came at the door. It was Bagtani: “Marsilamat, we are ready to begin!”
Meril walked to the door. “My nephew can be trusted. We should remove ourselves from corruption.”
Marse smirked and shook his head.
In the center of the chapel’s sanctuary stood Ervamea, looking resplendent in a long navy-blue gown. Around her shoulders she wore the tassled shawl, resembling a net, that Marse first saw her wear at the Isherrith spring dance years ago. On her head, she wore a headscarf made of silk that matched the one Marse wore around his neck. Her round face peeked out from the headscarf along with a narrow wisp of her brown hair. Next to her sat a short table made of spruce, carved along its edges, with a bound copy of the couple’s ishul sitting atop of it.
The wedding’s guests were arranged around Ervamea in concentric circles, with a narrow opening to make room for Marsilamat. They were arranged in order of importance, with immediately family and friends in the innermost circle. Marse walked through the crowd arm-in-arm with Councilor Bagtani. Upon their arrival at the center of the sanctuary, Bagtani left Marse to stand near his own wife and child.
Marse stood with Ervamea and smiled at her. At times, he felt like he could never get enough out of life. He always wanted more – money, status, gratification. Today, though, he felt satisfied. With one hand, he reached out to grasp hers, and the other he rested on the table. He could feel its age, reckoning that it must be an antique treasured by the chapel’s congregation. He wondered how many other ishulim rested on it over the years, and felt a brief pang of guilt that he did not attend chapel as much as he should.
The chapel’s priest stepped out of the crowd. Of Hlenderia’s three peoples, the Kwarim had the most organized expression of the national faith, and the most hierarchical: local priests reported to local directors, who reported to a National Council of Kwari Chapels. Among the Vrotrim, each chapel was an independent unit, free to do or teach whatever it liked. And the Mūnim did not even have chapels, usually, instead sticking to a sort of wild, animist religious fervor: each Mūni a shaman, and each village a holy land.
The priest began to speak to the couple. “With the signing of this ishul , this couple is to be wed. Two families, two clans, will be joined together as one family, one community. Saint Chabael of great faith said, ‘Through marriage, creation is continued’. Ervamea Kwaran, daughter of Meril and Badasea, please step forward to sign the ishul .”
Erva stepped in front of the table and bent to sign the document in three places. This next part, Marse had to rehearse with the priest three times.
“Marsilamat Kwaran, please step forward to sign the ishul .” The priest stuttered for a moment after saying Marse’s name, unused to leaving out the groom’s parentage.
Marse, just as Erva had, stepped forward to sign the ishul . When he finished, the priest signed to certify that he had officiated the wedding, then he embraced the couple in turn. The chapel’s choir began ringing handbells and singing as the crowd rushed forward, nearly squeezing Erva and Marse to death. Someone picked each of them up and began carrying them on their shoulders, along with the marital table, to the reception hall.
The reception finished forty-five minutes past midnight. Ervamea and her husband, the last to leave, sat in the back of a hired car to take them from the chapel in Tiabsadda to their hotel in downtown Pelachis. Both were drunk on local millet-beer, brandy made from strawberry wine, and imported whisky. Buried underneath the smell of alcohol on Ervamea’s breath was the orange perfume she always wore. As the car approached the King Randris Bridge across the Pela River into the city, Erva turned to her husband.
“What did Fa’ say to you when he went to the Groom’s Chamber?”
Marse, half asleep, mumbled: “Conglaturashun.”
Erva’s eyes narrowed. If Marse was fully conscious, he’d have noticed that his wife was much less drunk than him.
“What did you think of my cousin Fenran?”
Marse woke up a bit at the name “Fenran”, dimly remembering the conversation that he’d had with Meril.
“He’s nishe,” Marse said, slurring “nice”.
“Is he going to buy your share of Fa’s business?”
Now Marse’s eyes opened. Erva knew about this? He chose to bluff, poorly:
“What bish-ness?”
“Your coke business with my father.”
Marse now sat up, swaying in his seat, making sure the panel between the car’s driver and them was up.
“You crazy?” he exclaimed.
“Don’t you read the news?” Erva said, leaning towards Marse. “The King’s ‘anti-corruption drive’? We just got married. I don’t want to see you in prison. Or worse,” she said. Her eyes were wet, either from being drunk or emotional.
“What ish thish, on our wedding night?!” Marse said. “I don’t even know this ‘Fen-an’ and you want me to shell my bish-ness to ‘em?”
“My cousin is very loyal, and -”
“My bish-ness paid for thish wedding!” Marsilamat yelled. The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror. Marse didn’t notice, but Erva did. She chose to stay silent, and turned to look out the car window. Pelachis’s skyline grew in the distance.
Marse shook his head and leaned back in his seat.