Divorce Islamic Style (13 page)

Now it’s Antar’s turn for a speech, in the Egyptian style, obviously. “I, too, have received congratulations from my superiors in Cairo. It’s very important to make it clear that our government is always in the lead in the fight against terrorism. This war is not against Islam but against terrorists, wherever they are hiding out. Our Minister of the Interior is ready to come to Rome to take part in the celebration.”

Judas tries to rein in the enthusiasm and excitement of his colleagues. “It’s too soon to think about a press conference—Operation Little Cairo is not over yet. There are in fact two important questions still open. First: where are they hiding the explosives? Second: who is the suicide candidate?

The atmosphere degenerates when James has the idea of seizing Imam Zaki. Antar immediately reminds him of the case of the imam Abu Omar. In response, the C.I.A. agent accuses his Egyptian colleague of amateurism. “You didn’t honor the agreement. Abu Omar was supposed to disappear.” Antar won’t go along and turns the charges against the accuser. “You are the amateurs! You were caught like chickens—you left traces everywhere. And then what were we supposed to do with Abu Omar? Kill him? You Americans are really unbearable. You accuse us of not respecting human rights, then you want us to behave like General Pinochet!”

The Abu Omar case. The scandal that caused a crisis in the relations between Italy and the United States. Judas had already told me about it. The case can be summarized as follows: in February, 2003, a team of C.I.A. agents in Milan seizes, in broad daylight, the imam Abu Omar. He’s a forty-year-old Egyptian who has lived in Italy since 1999, after gaining political-refugee status. He is suspected of having ties to international terrorists because of his militancy in the Egyptian organization Gamaa Islamiya and his participation in the war in the former Yugoslavia on the side of the Bosnian Muslims.

Abu Omar is immediately brought to the American military base in Aviano, where he is subjected to torture and various interrogations. The next day he is put on a secret flight and transferred to Egypt, to the terrible prison of Tora, where he spends fourteen months and endures more torture.

His wife reports his disappearance to the Italian police, but there is no trace of him. Finally, in April of 2004, the Egyptian authorities release him, and Abu Omar shows up with his wife and some friends from Milan. The Italian judges, who had begun to intercept his phone calls, start investigating, and the scandal explodes: the Abu Omar case.

Last month the prosecutor in Milan ended the investigation into the kidnapping by charging the C.I.A. agents with violating the sovereignty of the Italian state. But questions remain: did our secret services know? And how was it possible for a political refugee to be handed over to his original country? Instinctively I think of Giuseppe Garibaldi and the hundreds of Mazzinian political opponents in Tunisia, who enjoyed the protection of the Bey of Tunis. No one ever thought of giving them up to Savoy. It should be remembered that a death sentence was hanging over Garibaldi.

Finally Captain Judas manages to restore calm. James opens the champagne, saying that it’s bad luck to put off a celebration that’s already planned. I don’t know if it’s true or if it’s just nonsense, an excuse to drain the bottle. I drink my glass and go.

I’m a little late getting to work, and Damiano, the owner, gives me a threatening warning glance. What the fuck does he want? I’ve always been punctual. Halfway through the evening I tell Felice that I’ve decided to start praying. I’m amazed by his reaction: a long, warm embrace. He invites me to come to his house for lunch after prayers next Friday. According to him prayer is necessary to keep religious faith alive, especially in a foreign country. “God has shown you the right path,
allahu akbar!
” he says, sincerely moved. Me on the right path? Let’s not go overboard.

I
t’s almost impossible to keep any information secret in Viale Marconi. An example? Yesterday the architect asked for an explanation of the altercation the other day in the market. He told me that the racist imbecile has a nickname, the Beast, and that he’s a dangerous felon. I told him what happened, but he didn’t seem convinced by my version of the facts. Probably he’s heard other ones. He was very insistent on knowing all the details. In other words, he subjected me to a detailed interrogation.

“What did that criminal say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“The usual racist things, like you’re a mummy, go back to Afghanistan, you people are all terrorists, you come here to plant bombs.”

“Did he insult you?”

“No.”

“Did he hit you?”

“No! I stumbled and fell.”

“Who was the man who intervened?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Arab or Italian?”

“Arab.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he said something to me in Arabic.”

“What did he say to you?”

“‘Don’t be scared.’”

“Now he absolutely has to be found.”

“Why?”

“Because the Beast wants to kill him.”

The Arab Marcello’s life is in danger on account of me! He has to be warned immediately. I don’t want to have the death of a guardian angel on my conscience.

My problem is that the architect uses the matter to gain other objectives. As usual it takes a while to get to the point.

“The Beast might also bother you again.”

“What should I do? Stay shut up in the house?”

“No, I don’t mean that. But I can go with you when you go out.”

“You’re practically asking me to become a recluse.”

“What are you talking about?”

Ah no, architect, no thanks. You want to control me, find an outlet for your jealous husband’s paranoia. This is a real trap, but I’m not going to fall into it. I’m not that stupid. And so? So what. I’ll never agree to live closed up within four walls, gorging myself on stupid soap operas. I’m not the frightened little wife who needs her little husband to protect her. To hell with jealousy, fear, and the Beast!

Today is Friday, and I use the occasion to call my family. I hope to find my father at home: it would be nice to talk to him, since I haven’t for a while. Little Cairo is crowded; many of the clients don’t confine themselves to telephoning, like me, but stay to watch Madame Al Jazeera. The TV is useful for attracting clients and making them feel at home. Unfortunately a lot of them succumb to it. I don’t know how they can sit for hours and hours watching the news of attacks, bombs, suicide bombers, wars, death. It’s a daily media storm. A true doping of the mind and the memory. Poor immigrants, every day they absorb a huge amount of negativity, and are in danger of becoming sick, addicted.

Alas, it’s a problem that I know close up. My happy husband Felice belongs to this unfortunate and cursed category. It’s a dangerous dependency. And so? So what. I just hope that doctors and psychologists are doing something about finding a cure. In cases like this you need a drug, or am I wrong?

I glance around Little Cairo. Where is Akram alias secret polygamist? I don’t see him. Better that way, better to avoid his questions. Even his looks can’t be underestimated. He has an astonishing power—he can read your thoughts.

I don’t see anything interesting to remark on. No sign of the Arab Marcello. Too bad, I’d like to warn him against the racist Beast.

I have a long wait, then booth No. 6 is free. I go in and dial the number of my house in Cairo. The line is busy. I wait a minute and try again. My heart starts pounding. It always happens like this—I get very emotional, as if I were to meet in person a loved one I hadn’t seen in years. A serious male voice answers. I recognize it right away. After the usual greetings I say:

“Mamma told me that this year you’re going together to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.”

“Inshallah, we’ll carry out the fifth duty of Islam.”

“I’m really happy for you.”

“Your mother and I are growing old. We’ve lived our life. We are only looking for
misk al khitam
, a happy ending.”

“May God give you a long life, papa.”

“Amen. We ask God to see our children and grandchildren happy.”

“Inshallah, papa.”

“Tell me about yourself. How are things going?”

“Thank God, we can’t complain.”

“You’re right, my child. When we’re healthy we must be content with what God gives us.”

“That’s right, papa.”

“Will you come to Egypt this summer?”

“This year there is no
maktùb
, it will be the following summer, inshallah.”

“Inshallah.”

After the short chat with papa I talk to my mother. She brings me up to date on the preparations for the wedding of Layla, my little sister. Everything is going well, which is good, because a wedding celebration is very stressful. I got through it. I felt everything on my skin. You have to stay totally focused. First of all, don’t forget to invite relatives and friends. Every inattention costs dearly. People are easily offended. A neglected invitation is enough to end a friendship that has lasted a lifetime. Then, you have to be able to endure a horrendous weariness. It takes entire weeks of rest to recover. In fact the best part of the honeymoon is that the newlyweds can finally relax.

After the phone call I make a quick trip to the market to do the shopping. I hope I won’t run into the racist monster. I don’t want to change my life because I’m afraid of another human being. As a Muslim I should fear only God the Almighty. I won’t be intimidated. The market belongs to everyone, so I, too, have the right to come here when I like. Clear? I buy some vegetables. I don’t need fruit, I stocked up yesterday. The Arab Marcello? He’s not there.

I decide to go home without stopping at the Marconi library, because I have to make a big lunch. Today we’re having a guest. My husband is very happy. He managed to persuade the Tunisian friend who works with him to go to prayers. And by guiding him onto the right path he receives a commission for good actions. It’s a fruitful investment that leads directly to Paradise. In Islam there are many incentives to proselytize. For example, if someone teaches you the Koran, God will reward him every time you recite some verses. Same thing with prayer. And so? So what. My husband has turned into a proselytizer, a sort of Muslim evangelist. A fine outcome, isn’t it? What satisfaction!

As a wife should I be happy or unhappy if my husband goes to paradise? The answer is very complicated. I’ll try to simplify the question. So, Muslims are supposed to use their earthly life to gain eternal life. The principal goal of every believer is to earn this reward. You pray, you observe Ramadan, you make the pilgrimage to Mecca, and so on, for a precise reason: to get to paradise. But if you ask an observant Muslim why he is so attached to paradise, after some verbal acrobatics he will confess: houri! Here’s what a good Muslim gets: beautiful women who remain virgins after every sexual encounter.

And so we reach the billion-euro question: what does a Muslim woman get if she has the good fortune to set foot in paradise? Houri? I don’t think so, unless she’s a lesbian. As far as I know lesbians and gays are excluded from the Muslim paradise. Do houri of the male sex exist? I doubt it. And so? So what. We have quite a problem to solve, don’t we?

Now an important detail comes to mind. When we were in high school, a very bold friend asked the professor of Islamic studies this very question. The answer was simple: if a Muslim woman reaches Paradise she will find waiting for her the husband with whom she lived her earthly life. And this would be the reward? For heaven’s sake! My classmates burst out: what if the woman wasn’t happy with her husband in earthly life? Isn’t Paradise supposed to be the place of happiness? So wouldn’t it then become Hell for her? And what about the situation where the husband ends up in Hell because he was a murderer or a rapist: what will happen to the good wife? Also: what if the woman was unmarried or divorced, that is, without a husband?

The professor was dumbstruck. He had no answers to our questions. Probably he had never thought about it because he had never put himself in a woman’s shoes. Anyway, I still don’t understand what we’re going to do (we women) if we win a place in Paradise. Here’s why I worry about the religious future of my husband. With the life he leads, in which he follows the tiniest details of the dictates of Islam, it’s likely he’ll go to paradise. I, too, have all the necessary requirements so that I can hope not to end up in Hell. So will we find ourselves together in the other world? The truth is, this scenario doesn’t excite me in the least. In other words, I find no incentives, you see?

My husband’s Tunisian colleague is becoming an observant Muslim. The great event is set for today, when he makes his début at the Mosque of Peace. Too bad Al Jazeera wasn’t informed in time—it will be a private ceremony, no TV cameras. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, there will be a small celebration. For the occasion, the architect asked me to make lunch in honor of his friend. They’ll come here after the Friday prayers.

I’m not too worried, I’ve got time to get everything ready. I’ll cook some Egyptian dishes like
mulukhia
and baked chicken with rice. Aida is watching cartoons in the living room. She’s very fond of Minnie, Mickey’s eternal girlfriend.

Around two-thirty the architect arrives with his guest. He doesn’t use his keys and so he rings the bell. I open the door and am stricken dumb. Total blackout! Earthquake!

“May I introduce brother Issa.”

“Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

The Arab Marcello has a name: Issa. He is Tunisian, not Algerian. I must have been fooled a little by my Algerian friend Samira’s accent. But I didn’t take into account a crucial point: she has been married to a Tunisian for many years, and over time she’s probably taken on her husband’s accent. Accents change from one Arab country to another.

Thank God the architect is not aware of my agitation. During lunch very few words are exchanged. I act as if everything’s normal and the Arab Marcello does the same. He is a little embarrassed, like me. And so? So what. I try not to look at him, but every so often our glances meet. I like his Tunisian accent. I think he’d look better with his hair slicked back, like John Travolta in
Grease
. Get rid of the mustache, it’s really out of place. For Arabs hair continues to be the symbol of virility and paternal authority. I have nothing against it, but the harmony of the face as a whole has to take precedence.

Lunch proceeds smoothly. The guest eats eagerly. After tea he pays me a lot of compliments on my cooking. This gives me great pleasure. I wait for the architect and the Arab Marcello (I can’t seem to call him Issa) to leave the house together to go to work. Then I rush to Samira’s for an extraordinary summit meeting. The news of today is extremely important. A real scoop, as the journalists say, so it’s useless to waste time in long introductions. I have to get right to the point. As soon as Samira opens the door I fire the first shot. And what a shot!

“The Arab Marcello came to lunch at my house!”

“Is this one of your dreams?”

“No, no dreams. It’s pure reality, I swear.”

“Are you kidding?”

Samira is right not to believe me. Even I can’t convince myself that today’s lunch really happened. The Arab Marcello was sitting opposite me for almost an hour. He ate what I cooked with my own hands. It’s not a dream but, really, an exceptional event. It has to be said that
maktùb
, the will of God, has no limits.

I tell Samira the whole story from A to Z. I try not to omit a single detail, in order to allow her to make a complete diagnosis. Luckily my memory doesn’t play tricks; in fact it’s faithful and generous. After a long exposition of the facts I give my friend the floor.

“I don’t have words, Sofia. This is really strange, I mean it doesn’t seem true.”

“Believe me, I didn’t invent anything.”

“Of course I believe you. You know, life is full of things we can’t explain rationally.”

Samira is completely right. I, too, have trouble believing it. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where reality begins and ends.

A little later Giulia arrives to have her hair cut. She’s smiling. What happened? Did she get a raise? Win the lottery? Has her companion finally decided to marry her?

“We’re going to live in Australia.”

“In Australia?”

“Yes, my companion got a job at the University of Sydney.”

“When do you leave?”

“In three months.”

Giulia is really happy. She tells me that her companion, a researcher in the field of new cell technologies, can’t find a job in Italy, even though he’s very good. Then she explains to me how the Italian university system functions, that is, like the Mafia: there are godfathers, like Don Corleone, and families that hold all the academic power. If you don’t enter into the logic of the clan, you are excluded. At least three times she repeats, “There’s no meritocracy in our country, only mediocrity.”

Emigrate to Australia? Giulia isn’t very worried about the place. She and her companion speak English well. And, with her degree in economics, she hopes to find a job easily. Maybe they’ll open a business, and have more children. In other words, they’re thinking big. Giulia wants to let it out, her heart is full.

“Sofia, Italy is like Monte Carlo, you can live here only if you already have money in your pocket. It’s a country for tourists.”

“No!”

“In Italy it’s easy to become poor: just have a child.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m an Italian and I love my country. But the truth is that there’s no future here.”

“There’s no future here?”

“Yes, Sofia, you should leave Italy before it’s too late.”

“And where would we go?”

In Italy there’s no future! Those words worry me a lot. I think automatically of my daughter, Aida, of her future. The Italians leave Italy to seek their fortune elsewhere. But we immigrants come here for the same reason. And so? So what. Something doesn’t work. A country for tourists, not for workers. Giulia said, “Italy is like Monte Carlo.” I’m curious about this comparison. There are casinos in Monte Carlo, where you gamble. I wonder: isn’t immigration ultimately a form of gambling? Win everything or lose everything?