How Samia cried when we slept together the first time. The sheet in the dorm room was covered in blood, and she didn’t stop crying the rest of the night. She sat on the bed, her knees pulled up, leaning her head on them between her arms, and cried. I was sure she’d cry herself to death. I could tell that something horrifying was about to happen, and there was nothing I could do. I just sat there facing her, helpless, frightened, and kept promising I’d marry her if she wanted. I was prepared to marry her then and there. So what if I was nineteen years old?
She can’t leave now. After losing her virginity. They’ll kill her, they’ll kill me. Nobody will ever marry her. If it isn’t me, there’ll never be anyone else. Women without their hymen intact are kicked out. What a disgrace. Damaged goods, they have to be discarded. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. I’d never let her suffer on my account. I was the one who did it to her, and I’ll take responsibility.
“It was a black day,” my wife says. “God, what an idiot I was. Damn the circumstances that made me stick it out with you. You animal. Did I say animal? Even an animal has more feelings than you do. I hope you die. I hope I finally get rid of you. There’s no point making an effort to love you anymore.” And again she curses her parents and her family. They’re the reason she can’t just dump me. If she had the strength, she’d kill me. She’d grab me by the neck and never let go. She lashes out and slaps the air by way of showing me what she means. She’d like to bang my head against the wall again and again till it broke. She says I have no idea how much she hates me. Even just looking at me makes her sick. “I hate you, I hate you! You dog. You animal.”
Sometimes I think I ought to just throw my clothes in the car and take a few books I read long ago, books I know I used to love, though I can’t remember why. I’d fix the car radio and drive off. For a few days in Eilat maybe. I’ve never been to Eilat. If I had the courage to cross the border, I’d go to the Sinai. And if it weren’t for the baby, I’d never come back.
When I grew older, I realized I’d been duped. An Arab girl’s hymen wasn’t as holy and pure as people said it was. Samia had been doing a number on me. She’d been taking advantage of my naïveté. She’d been exploiting the fact that I didn’t know much and filling my head with honor-or-death ideas. Those were years of being afraid, of hiding out. Sometimes I went through an entire night in Nahlaot without sleeping a wink, even though nobody in that neighborhood knew me anyhow. I was sure they’d find me, and once they did it would be the end of me. I never left the door unlocked and never slept with the window open. Not that it would have saved me. If anyone had wanted to get to me, nothing would have stopped them. But I had to try to stop anyone who was likely to arrive on the scene. I had to be there to shout it out: “I’m willing to marry her right away!”
I would never tell my wife “I hope you die,” even though I’ve pictured her dead often enough. I know I wouldn’t be able to handle the loss; suddenly, when she disappeared, I’d start loving her, missing her, and understanding how right she was. What a sonofabitch I was. If anything happened to her, I’d blame myself, nobody else. Because I’d wished for it to happen. And I believe wishes do come true in the end.
If Samia dies, I’ll visit her grave as often as I can. Not only on holidays, like the other people in the village. At the beginning, I’ll go there at least once a week. I’ll weep, I’ll speak to her, I’ll ask her to forgive me, I’ll speak words of love. I’ll mourn her with all my heart. I’ll suffer. I can picture myself sitting there, all by myself in the cemetery on rainy days, in the cold, cocooned in the long black overcoat I don’t own. I won’t be afraid of going there at night. I’ll have a beard, and it will give me an air of suffering, a special aura. I’ll cry out at the grave, and people will hear my pain. And every now and then I’ll give out a long moan that will echo through every home in Tira.
Hitting Rock Bottom
I think I’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve broken almost every rule I can think of in the moral code. I’m going home now, to sleep it off. I’d like the radio to be on in the background as I doze off but I don’t have a radio. It broke long ago, and I can’t face the idea of having to take it to be fixed or of having to fork out the money for a new one. I’d like to go to sleep now and not have any bad thoughts.
Sometimes I think I know what mental relaxation means. I can outline it in my brain. I know where I’m heading. I’d like to be able to crawl into bed with a book, any book. A book of jokes, maybe, or light stories about Jucha. I’d like to settle into it, to enjoy it, to doze off with a smile on my lips. I’d like the book to slip out of my hands ever so slowly, to fall off the bed without my noticing. I’d like to be tucked in tight with my body at just the right temperature, not too cold and not too hot. I’d like to fall asleep in just the right position. I’d like the pillows to be propped at just the right height. My neck won’t hurt and I won’t have to move. I won’t have any noise in my ears, and my head won’t ache either. I’d like to find sublime serenity.
I’d like my wife to be there with me too, to blend with me as we relax and fall asleep. Our bodies will be in sync. She can place her head on my chest. She won’t have to twist her neck, and her hair won’t get in my eyes or in my mouth. I’ll hug her. I’ll place a hand under her head, and my arm won’t hurt or fall asleep. I’ll place one leg on her waist, and it won’t be too heavy. It will even make her feel good, give her a warm sensation, round off her own body. Her waist will be a comfortable resting place. It’ll be thin and youthful. She’ll smile at me and say a heartfelt “I love you” and kiss me. I’ll feel the kiss draw me into a delightful childhood dream. I’ll smile in my sleep, and my wife will smile back and fall asleep.
The baby will sleep, knowing she has loving parents that she can always count on. She’ll have an angelic smile and a dry diaper. She’ll be eager to talk, to tell us how wonderful we are, how much she loves us. She won’t have a rash or an eye infection, and she’ll never ever cry. She won’t be bored. She’ll feel wonderful; she’ll be happy to be alive. She’ll sleep till morning and wake us at just the right moment with little giggles and her first word. Baba, maybe. My wife will be happy for me. She’ll hug me and tell me she’s always known that the baby would say my name first, because I’m so good to her. I shower her with love.
I’ll give up drinking. Just a glass of wine on Friday night. I’ll buy a good bottle of wine in a liquor store, not a supermarket. A store in a good neighborhood. Not the kind that sells mostly to Romanian workers, not one that sells Gold Star Beer. We’ll have a set of wineglasses that we’ll receive from our parents. A bottle is too much for two so we’ll invite a couple we know. We’ll enjoy a good meal together. We’ll be comfortably full, with no stomachaches. Nobody will need to use the bathroom. We’ll eat just the right amount and we won’t grow a potbelly. The wine will go well with the meal. Maybe a piece of fine cake too, to enhance the pleasurable experience. It’ll melt in our mouths. It won’t stick to our teeth, and it’ll be digested smoothly, with no pangs of conscience.