He was very proper, but there were invisible barriers he didn’t care to cross. We exchanged pleasantries and the ritual went on as usual. He asked us what we would like to drink: juice, tea, or Arabic coffee? We both asked for coffee. He went to the door, which was ajar, and relayed our request. They had a maid, but I knew that Reem was going to bring the coffee, since that was what ritual dictated.
I knew from her footsteps that she was about to enter. She was wearing medium-heeled black shoes, which accentuated her slenderness as she walked, a black skirt just below the knees and a blue shirt with long loose sleeves. She had on her favorite silver bracelets, and her fingernails were painted creamy white. She offered the coffee to Father and invited him to take a piece of chocolate as well. He thanked her. Then she turned to me. We exchanged a smile as I took the coffee and chocolate. I couldn’t resist stealing a glimpse at her cleavage. In deference to the occasion, she was not as generous that day as she usually was, so I couldn’t see much. She seemed a bit timid, as if she knew what my eyes were searching for.
A heavy silence fell. My attempts to initiate a conversation that could engage both my father and hers failed. Both were laconic and kept what they said to the minimum. My father wasn’t chatty to start with. Her father seemed to believe that he had been forced to seal an unprofitable deal. On the way back, Father warned me against depending too much on Reem and her father. Don’t become a “burden” on them, he said. I was hurt by that word, but said nothing. The years had taught me that it was futile to argue with him.
The engagement ring gave us a freedom we had not enjoyed before. I started to visit her at home, and we could go out together for hours far more often than before. But this sweetest of times lasted only three months. Reem suddenly disappeared.
I kept calling, but there was no answer. In the evening I went to their house and rang the bell, but no one came to the door. I noticed there were only two cars, Reem’s and her stepmother’s. Her father’s car was not there. The curtains were shut and the gate was locked. I was baffled. I went home and called her friend Suha. She said that they’d left that morning for Jordan and that she had no idea when they would be back.
I thought of all possibilities, but couldn’t find a convincing explanation. If her father had forced her to leave, she would have called and asked for help. I knew he was thinking of leaving the country and had increased his business in Jordan and Turkey, but still. I went to his office in Karrada to inquire. One of his assistants said that he didn’t know, but perhaps his wife was ill and had gone to Jordan for treatment. I thought that Reem must have gone along with her and would return soon. I convinced myself that she would call, send a letter, or just return and surprise me, but she never did.
A month and a half later, one of the drivers at her father’s company hand-delivered a letter from her. I recognized her handwriting on the envelope. I opened it right away and read it while standing. It was written in blue ink on elegant paper:
Darling,
You will always be darling to me no matter what happens. Please forgive my absence and sudden departure and my not telling you anything. Maybe you will forgive me after reading this letter. I hope you understand me, just as you always have, with an open heart after you listen so lovingly and patiently. The last thing I want to do in the world is to hurt you, or be away from you. When I am far away from you I am far from myself. Please believe me when I say that you are more precious than anything in this world and my love is what compelled me to do what I did.
Two months ago while showering, I felt a tiny lump in my left breast. I went to the doctor, but didn’t say anything to you at the time, because I didn’t want you to worry. The doctor decided that they would remove it and do a biopsy. It turned out that it was malignant. My father insisted that we go to Jordan to get a second opinion and it all happened rather quickly. The second and third opinions were identical. The X-rays showed that the cancerous cells had spread quickly and a mastectomy was the only option. I am undergoing chemotherapy now and my days are full of nausea, headaches, and vomiting. My long hair, which you stroked, is all gone. They say it will grow again after treatment, but I find that hard to believe right now. My chest scar has yet to heal, because I suffered an infection after the surgery. I woke up after surgery to find a big wound as if someone had stabbed me and stolen away the breast you so loved and called one of the domes of your pagan temple. The breast you used to cup with your palms. The breast whose nipple you used to suckle on at times and bite like an insatiable puppy at others. The breast whose rights you said you wanted to defend and which you wanted to liberate from the fabric and wires that strangle it. They took that breast away from me and it is no longer part of my body. I couldn’t muster the courage to stand before the mirror — except once. I broke down afterward and cried for hours. I’m struck with the storms of irrational thoughts and feelings which inhabit anyone whose body is afflicted with sickness. Why? Why me? I’m still too young for it. I’m not forty yet. The doctor back in Baghdad said that cancer rates have quadrupled in recent years and it might be the depleted uranium used in the ordnance in 1991. I hate my body now and wish I could run away from it to a new body. I don’t think I could live in peace with it. Forgive me for going on and on so selfishly about my fears and thoughts.
What I wanted to say is that I gave this a great deal of thought and only came to this decision because I love you and love your love for me. I never wanted that love to change. I know that you will read these lines and say that you will still love my body, even without my left breast. Don’t lie! Even I no longer love my body and don’t think I could ever love it again. I know you will always love me, but my fight with cancer might not end. This might seem harsh toward both of us, but I must sever myself from your life. I don’t want you to live with a woman who has a ticking bomb in her body. Please forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye. I didn’t want to say goodbye, but I will keep saying goodbye every day.
I will carry you in my memory. My body will carry your scents and pores in its memory.
Please forgive me. I will make things easier for us by not giving you my address and by giving you the opportunity to begin anew with another woman. I am already jealous of her without knowing who she might be.
This could very well be the most difficult sentence I have written in my whole life, but please don’t try to get in touch with me.
Love and kisses,
Reem
I read the letter dozens of times until I had memorized every word. The first few times I wiped tears that fell. The tears kept falling afterward, but deep down inside. I felt they had amassed and settled in my chest and would remind me now and then that they were residing there forever. I tried to get her address, but to no avail. I heard that her father had come back for a few days and had given his lawyer full power of attorney and asked him to sell all their property. I heard later that they had settled in England. I asked Suha about her, but she said she hadn’t heard anything either.
Months and years passed and my wound healed, but it left a scar I would touch from time to time. I used to reread the letter, which I hid in a small box together with an envelope containing some of our old letters and the photographs from our school days.