“Since living alone was impossible financially and socially, I decided that marriage was the best choice among a set of bad options. My father didn’t care that much. He said that Ayad was successful and established financially and that would guarantee me a secure future. I felt he was talking about one of those profitable deals he was so good at. As for my stepmother, she didn’t even bother to hide how happy she was to be getting rid of me.
“The wedding took place at the Sheraton, and our honeymoon was one week at the Habbaniyya Lake Resort. He went back to the front line afterward and I went to our little nest, which he’d bought in Zayyuna, next to the Fashion House. His salary was excellent, but he’d also inherited money from his father, who’d died two years before in a car accident.
“Our problems started during his second leave, when I realized that the polite Ayad was a mountain hiding a volcano. It was very easy for it to pour lava on everything and everyone around. It was never easy to predict what would set the volcano off. The first eruption was because my cooking failed to rise to his standards. I wasn’t a great cook, but I tried earnestly and enlisted the help of my maternal aunt. I hand-copied my grandmother’s famous recipes to secure his satisfaction. He said that even the army food was better than my cooking. I apologized and promised to improve with practice. I had warned him when we were engaged that I was not a good cook, but he’d said that he was used to army food and we’d cook together. His sweet talk during our engagement was like the courting of political parties before they assume power.
“He used to always apologize and shower me with kisses, especially on my hands, after hitting me. He used to buy me gifts and promise that he would never lift his hand against me again and that it was the last time. But every time was the last time. In one of his fits of rage, he broke my arm. The pain was so excruciating he took me to the Tawari’ Hospital at night and told them that I’d tripped and fallen down the stairs. I kept silent, but my tears were obvious. I sensed that the resident doctor suspected my husband’s story, but all he did was look at him suspiciously. I thought about screaming that he had hit me. But who was going to believe that a valiant officer who had been awarded three medals by the president would harm his own wife?
“After that, I decided to move back to my father’s house. Ayad apologized and pleaded, but I’d heard it all before.
“I tried to feel some sadness when Ayad died, but I couldn’t. I was so relieved that I felt guilty for that. My tears at the funeral were genuine, but I was crying for myself and all the years of my life that had died. I visit Ayad’s mother sometimes. She’s a kind person. She knew how cruel he was and understood my suffering. But she still keeps a framed photo of him on her TV: Ayad accepting a medal from Saddam Hussein.”
FOURTEEN
She was cautious with me at the outset of our friendship. More than once she made me feel that I had to slow down. I learned to be patient, to crawl into her heart instead of storming it impulsively.
With time, friendship turned into something more intense. We didn’t talk about what we felt precisely, but our silent gazes meeting for a few seconds were eloquent. When we walked or sat together, I felt the air between us grow moist. Often I drew her and gave her my sketches. She would thank me shyly and say, “Is there no one else for you to draw? No other subject?” I would answer, “No, no one but you.”
I once told her that I would love to sculpt her.
“And the price?”
“For free. A gift. But, you have to … you know. For it to be exact.” Then I gestured with my hands that she would have to get naked.
She laughed out loud: “No way. That’s an old trick. A tree could grow on your head and I would still not allow you.”
“Alas, had you said ‘When a tree grows on your head, then I will allow you,’ I would have at least tried to plant one there.”
She laughed, “Anyway, if your style is abstract as you claim, why do you need a model?”
“Inspiration, my dear colleague.”
“Oh, how collegial of you!”
Suddenly, three months later, she invited me to have lunch at her house. I asked her who would be there.
“Why? Are you afraid?”
I laughed. “No, but am I not allowed to ask?”
“My father is at work and his wife is on a trip to Mosul. Do you want to invite anyone else?”
“No, the two of us will do.”
It wasn’t the first time we’d been alone in her car. We had occasionally gone to plays together, and she would drive me home afterward. But this was the first time I was going to her house or anywhere knowing that we would be by ourselves.
The house was in al-Jadiriyya, huge and elegant. She let me in through the kitchen door and I followed her along a corridor to the guest room. She asked me to make myself at home while she heated the food. I asked whether she needed any help. “No, you are my guest,” she said. She offered me a drink, but I declined. She smiled and left me contemplating the extravagant furniture and precious Persian carpets.
She returned ten minutes later carrying a tablecloth and plates with silverware. She spread the white tablecloth and then set plates down in front of two of the eight chairs. One was at the head of the table and the other right next to it so that we would occupy a corner. I wasn’t used to all these elaborate preparations for a meal. I followed her into the kitchen. She laughed: “Where are you going?”
“It’s not right. I have to help you.”
She scooped the yellow rice she’d warmed into a big dish and asked me to carry it. It was mixed with almonds, raisins, and pieces of chicken. The smell of saffron filled the air. I took the dish and put it on the table. When I went back to the kitchen she pointed to a big salad bowl she’d taken out of the fridge. “That one, too, please.” She followed me carrying a tray that had two bottles of Pepsi, two glasses, and some bread. We sat down to eat.
I loved to watch her do anything, no matter how mundane or casual. I loved to watch her eat. The food was good, and I asked who should be praised. She said the maid, an experienced cook, came three times a week. I asked about her battles with her stepmother. She said that peace now prevailed, because her father had remodeled the house after she had moved back in. He had built an additional room on the second floor. A living room next to her bedroom served as an office and a TV room. She had her own bathroom, so she came downstairs only to eat, and she rarely had to deal with her stepmother. She said, as she smiled shyly, that she would show me what she called her private wing after lunch. I interpreted this as an encouraging sign.
After we finished eating I thanked her and we took the dishes back to the kitchen. She said I could wash my hands in the bathroom upstairs. We went up the stairs, which were made of marble tiles and led to a wooden door. She opened it and I closed it behind us. The first door on the left was the bathroom. She opened the door and showed me in, saying she was going to fetch a towel. Her bathroom was bigger than my bedroom. The walls and floor were tiled in light blue. The floor was covered with tiny dark blue rugs. There was a tub behind a see-through curtain. The oval basin was sky-blue.
I turned the faucet knobs, trying to find the right combination of cold and hot water. I took the yellow bar of soap and lathered my hands and mouth. I gargled and rinsed my mouth and hands and then shut the faucet.
She came in and handed me a white towel.
I took the towel with my left hand and put my right hand on her left. She didn’t pull away. I told her: “I want to wash your hands.”