Like everyone who comes to my house, she too began to stare at the pictures of Iraq which covered the walls. She said, “This is the first time I’ve seen a house like this. Are they pictures of Iraq?”
“Yes,” I said. “I put them up with the hope of reducing my sense of exile. But they actually increased it.”
She said it was a lovely idea and that she wanted to examine every single picture another time because she loved Iraq and didn’t know much about it. She was wearing a simple dress, which made her seem more feminine in my eyes since in my long years here I had only seen a few women who weren’t wearing pants.
I asked her if she wanted to eat or drink anything, and she requested just a little water. I brought her a glass and sat in front of her, asking about her injured hand.
“It’s certainly better,” she said, “but it still stings. I need to replace the bandage. Do you have any here?”
“Yes,” I said, getting up. “I have iodine and bandages.”
“No, not now,” she said. “Please, sit. I came to tell you what happened. You have to talk to Mr. Noah. I think he needs a close friend to understand and help him.”
“What happened?”
“An hour ago, at the end of the party, he quarreled with Rosa. She was furious and left in tears for Barcelona.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Noah drank more than he should have last night and got drunk. He joked more with the customers. He danced and flirted more with the girls, kissing a few of them sometimes. Rosa was consumed by jealousy. She restrained her anger until the end of the night, when the battle between them began. He answered her harshly, and she picked up her purse and went off, leaving him staggering around drunkenly. I tried to calm her down but couldn’t. Then a co-worker and I took Mr. Noah home. We left him on his bed, passed out like a dead man. He slept in his clothes just as he was. I took off his shoes. Then I locked up, leaving the club in a disastrous mess, and came to you.”
“Does this happen often?”
“No, not like this. He drinks, but he never loses consciousness or his self-control. He drank so much yesterday and became drunk like never before. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to think of someone else who could help me with this situation. But although Mr. Noah has lots of acquaintances, I noticed that he and Rosa harbor a special respect and affection for you. What’s more, you’re from his village, his country, his culture, and you speak his language, so I thought that you would be the best person to talk to him, listen to him, understand him. In any case, you’re his friend, right?”
I bowed my head for a few moments, thinking the matter over and deciding how to respond. I sighed audibly, then looked at her and said, “He’s my father.”
The sudden surprise threw Fatima back in the couch. Her eyes widened, and all the features of her face changed. Her mouth gaped open, and she hurried to cover it with her right hand. “Really?”
Without any further details, I confirmed that it was true, and I told her that she had to take it easy, to sleep. Likewise, that we ought to let him sleep, and after a few hours we would go to him. She said her body was exhausted, but that her mind was awake, and she didn’t think she would be able to sleep. But she needed to shower and change her bandage. Then she had to call her sister to set her mind at ease and let her know that she wouldn’t be coming home that day. So I told her, “Sleep a little now, and then we’ll take care of everything.”
She said, “Half an hour should be enough.”
I led her to my bed in the bedroom and took out a pair of my pajamas for her, but she insisted on sleeping in her dress just as she was.
I closed the door on her and went down to pick up bread, cheese, and milk. Then I began preparing breakfast for both of us. This time I made it rich and varied, adding eggs, olives, and jam, since it wouldn’t be appropriate to offer her the traditional breakfast I have every day: coffee with milk, cookies, and cigarettes.
She slept more than an hour, and I heard her gentle snoring, like that of an overweight child exhausted from playing or whose nose was stuffed up.
I spread newspaper out on the coffee table, as usual, and started bringing in the dishes and arranging them. Then I got the coffee machine ready and started it before heading to the bathroom for a shower. When I finished and came back out, I found Fatima sitting in the living room. I greeted her, my hands still drying my hair with the towel.
“Good morning! Did you sleep well?”
“Yes,” she said. She smiled and added with a feminine shyness, “Did I bother you with my snoring? I snore when I’m tired.”
“No! Your snoring is really light compared to mine. I’m the smoker. Mine’s like the roar of a tractor stuck in the mud.”
She laughed, and I showed her the way to the bathroom door. Meanwhile, I went into the bedroom to change clothes. I noticed that she had made my bed in an elegant way, different from how I always did it. I felt that each of us — the bed and I — smiled, giving the other a meaningful wink. I took all the medical bandages and iodine I had out of one of the dresser drawers and carried them into the living room. I brought in the coffee, and I put a popular Fairuz cassette that I was addicted to listening to every morning into the tape player. I sat smoking and waiting for Fatima to come out.
The bathroom door opened, and Fatima’s head and half a naked shoulder appeared from behind the door frame. Her hair hung down, dripping wet. The sight startled me by reminding me of Aliya when she swam — or when she drowned. Before this idea could distract me entirely, she said with a happy smile, “Oh my God! I love Fairuz so much!” Then she asked, “Do you have another towel, or should I just use the one in here?”
I jumped up. “I’m sorry! I forgot. Of course, I do.” And I quickly brought her another towel, which she took with a naked arm that gave off the scent of woman and soap. She thanked me and smiled, then shut the door.
I turned up the volume of the Fairuz song. Then I sat smoking another cigarette and waiting for Fatima while my heart became more and more tender, like butter melting in a dish of warm oil.
We finished our breakfast, during which I asked, “Did you try the dates?”
She replied, “I only like them during Ramadan.”
That provoked a twinge of disappointment, and I said, “Try them; they are Iraqi dates.”
“Really?” She immediately took one.
Fairuz finished her set of songs. The scent of Fatima’s body mixed with the fragrance of the soap filled the room. She said to the cigarette I held out, “No, thanks; I don’t smoke.”
I began to ask her about herself. I noticed that she told her story confidently, on account of feeling relaxed and comfortable. Little by little, with the gradual progress of the morning light, she shared her story and her personality with me.
Fatima was from Tangier. She was four years younger than me, and she’d been living in Madrid for four years. She had four siblings (and for what it’s worth, she likes the number four). Her two older sisters were married; she and her younger sister were here.
As for their only brother, he drowned in the Strait of Gibraltar during a risky crossing to Spain on one of the “death boats.” He had been forced to drop out of college without finishing his degree after their father was laid off from his restaurant job. That job had lasted more than thirty years, but when the restaurant’s owner died, his sons converted it into an arcade. With the change, they replaced the entire staff with younger workers. They gave her father a little severance pay, no longer needing his services. He rapidly aged and various illnesses crept into his body. Fatima’s brother took on several jobs in an effort to meet the family’s living expenses and the cost of their father’s treatment, but these wore him down and he couldn’t make ends meet. So he decided to embark upon the adventure in which he drowned. He had spoken to them about the dream of Europe and all the money he would send back to them.