I woke up one night from a nightmare feeling thirsty. As usual, there was no electricity, so I lit a candle and took it downstairs to the kitchen. Ghayda’ rushed toward me and I suddenly found her hugging me and burying her head in my chest, whispering “I’m scared, Jawad, very scared.” The candle fell and its flame went out. I put my arms around her and asked her softly, “What is scaring you?”
“Nightmares.”
I put my right hand on her head and caressed her hair and said, “Don’t be scared. It’s over now.”
Her breasts pressed against my chest and the warmth in her body flowed into mine. I kissed her head and smelled the henna in her hair. I felt my erection pushing against her. Her lips were kissing my neck. She looked up. I kissed her forehead, but she lifted her head higher and I felt she was on her toes. I wiped a few tears off her cheek. She touched my left cheek. I kissed her wrist and felt her warm breath on my chin.
I kissed her lips lightly and she responded. Our lips met more forcefully. I sucked her upper lip voraciously while my hands caressed her back. She held onto me. My tongue wandered into her mouth, and she gently bit it. I kissed her cheek and took her earlobe between my lips. She was tickled and swayed like a branch.
The trouble that would erupt if we were exposed flashed into my mind. Her brother was a few meters away and her mother just upstairs. I told myself that I had to stop before it was too late. I put my hand on her cheek. I kissed her one last time on the mouth and whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry.”
She put her head on my chest and said, “I’m not.”
I caressed her hair a bit and then said, “OK, good night.”
She didn’t answer. I left the kitchen and made my way upstairs in the dark. I got back into bed and was gripped by mixed feelings of pleasure and regret. I retrieved our images kissing and started to touch myself. I heard the door opening slowly and she was right there. She closed the door behind her. I got up and stood in front of her.
“I want to sleep next to you,” she whispered.
I hugged her and we kissed. I locked the door and took her to my bed. I took her T-shirt off and kissed her between her breasts. She dropped her sweatpants and they fell at her feet. I touched her underwear and it was drenched. I pushed her to my bed and she lay on her back. I kissed her everywhere, compensating for the years I’d squandered. Her skin felt very soft, and warm to my tongue.
She took the initiative and explored my body with her fingers and mouth. When I took off her underwear she didn’t stop me. She was shaved. I tried to kiss her in between her thighs, but she pushed my head away gently and whispered, “Not today.”
With fingers and hands we made each other shudder, the need for silent secrecy increasing our ecstasy. Afterward, I had to be strict and tell her to go back to her bed before daybreak. She bit my lip and hurt me a bit as she said goodbye.
We had our own secret world every night between two and four in the morning, fleeing from our nightmares to each other’s bodies. It was a world bordered by danger and the fear of scandal. One night she whispered coquettishly, “Do whatever you want with my body, but not from the front.” It was reasonable for her to preserve her capital in a society like ours. The first part of what she said—“Do whatever you want”—triggered a volcano in my body. We did everything but fully unite our bodies. I played in the taboo zone with my finger and gave my offerings with my tongue.
Her nocturnal presence reminded me that life can be generous, if only for a few hours a day. I found myself singing out loud for the first time in years while I was walking home. I often wished that the entire world would dissolve, including our mothers, society and its traditions, and the entire country. I would look at my hand after touching her breast and could not believe that a few hours later it would touch the body of another man. Her naked body started to flash in my mind as I washed, and often I felt guilty.
“Take me,” she would say. When I pretended not to know what she meant and asked “Where to?” she would say, “To you.” I asked her once, “What do you want with me? I’m too old for you and will be a useless troll in twenty years.” “Why do you think they invented Viagra?” she said and laughed wholeheartedly.
She liked to chat after we were done making love, but I wanted to feel the pleasure of emptiness — which never lasted long and which I felt should never be interrupted by anything. I was more concerned than she that we would be discovered, and I would urge her to go back to her room lest her brother wake up and find her gone. She would cling to me and say that he was a deep sleeper. She usually put two pillows under the blanket to make it look like she was there.
When my mother, who must’ve noticed that Ghayda’ and I liked each other, asked me what I thought of her, I could smell a conspiracy to have us get married.
“Isn’t she gorgeous?” she asked me.
“Yes, she is. Why?”
“Do you like her?”
“Why do you ask?”
“If you like her, I can ask her mom.”
“Hold on a second. Who told you I wanted to get married?”
“What do you mean, son? Are you gonna be single forever? I wanna be happy before I die.”
“You have a long life ahead of you.”
She usually shook her head and put her hand on her cheek after these conversations.
My entire body was full of Ghayda’, but my heart was full of death. She started to say “I love you.” I would stay silent and just kiss her. She thought that I was still in love with Reem. More than once she asked, “Is she still in your heart?” I would answer her truthfully, “I don’t have a heart anymore.”
I told her that she should protect her heart. Should I have told her the truth? Did I know it? All I knew was that I was tired of myself and of everything around me. I knew that my heart was a hole one could pass through but never reside in. I desired her and wanted her and wanted to be with her, but I was drained. I was not material for marriage or a family.
Two and a half months after our bodies had met in the dark, Ghayda’s maternal uncle called. He asked her mother to go to Amman with the children so he could arrange their asylum application. He lived in Sweden, which he told her was much more receptive to Iraqi refugees than other countries. He could serve as a guarantor. Ghayda’ was unhappy.
She asked me again, “Don’t you want me?”
This question killed me. “Yes,” I said. “I want you, but I cannot get married.”
“You’re a coward,” she said. It was the only time she ever insulted me.
For the first few weeks after they were gone, her scent lingered in my bed, but then I slowly returned to my habit of solitude. Should I have clung to her? Could I have? We talked on Skype a few times after they left. She would text message me every now and then.
Her voice sounded sad the last time we spoke on Skype. I had told her that I was thinking of leaving Iraq for good and that I might come to Amman in a month or two in order to get asylum or a scholarship. My mom was going to live with my sister. I thought this would make her happy since we would see each other soon, but she said nothing.
“Why are you silent?” I asked her.
“You used to be silent so often when we were together. Don’t I have the right to be silent?” Then she added: “Our asylum application was accepted and we are going to Sweden in a few weeks to live with my uncle.”
We were both silent and then she asked me a question I couldn’t answer: “Why did you let me go?”
FORTY-FIVE
Mahdi and I were sitting in the side room when we heard knocks. Mahdi went to open the door. A voice murmured, confirming that this was the mghaysil. I got up and stood at the door. A man in his early fifties came in with two younger men who looked like him. He looked well to do and was carrying a black bag. I welcomed them.