Divorce Islamic Style (15 page)

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Isn’t she the woman you defended at the market?”

“Yes, it’s her.”

“But didn’t you say you didn’t know her?”

“It’s true—I only really met her today.”

“I see. Listen, you want to see her naked?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m serious.”

Judas takes some DVDs out of a drawer. As he inserts the first one in the portable disk player he tells me that they bugged Felice’s apartment and also planted tiny telecameras in it. But what does it mean? That my colleague is part of the second cell, that he is in fact the head? Who would have imagined?

The first film begins: Sofia is in the living room with the child. Felice arrives. They talk about the trip to Egypt. He complains about the cost, the tickets are too expensive, all the gifts for the relatives . . . Sofia tries to convince her husband to let her work to help with the expenses, but he objects. They begin to argue. The little girl starts crying.

Second film: Felice is sitting in the living room and watching a program on Al Jazeera. Sofia arrives, in her nightgown, without the veil. She’s like a different woman. It’s her hair that makes the difference. She’s beautiful. The two are talking about the fight at the market. Felice asks her a lot of questions, Sofia says she doesn’t know me.

“What are they saying, Tunisian?”

“Problems of couples.”

“They’re not talking about attacks?”

“No.”

We watch more DVDs; the arguments are very frequent. Then comes the hardcore part. Felice and Sofia are nude in bed and they’re making love. I am speechless, Judas comes out with vulgar comments. What’s happening to me? I couldn’t be jealous?

“Your friend is hopeless in bed, but she’s a knockout. Look at that body, the tits, the ass. Look, Tunisian!”

“That’s enough!”

“Wait, between one sigh and the next they’ll say something about the attacks!”

“Shit! I completely forgot that I have to go to work!”

“It’s not the end of the world. Call the restaurant and pretend you’re sick. You know what I say? Tonight let’s have a nice break. I’ll take you out.”

“Where?”

“Surprise. How long since you’ve been laid?”

“I’ve lost count.”

“You like dark or blond?”

“Dark.”

“Arab looks?”

“O.K.”

“With a veil, maybe?”

“Fuck you!”

I have the evening free. I take off my immigrant clothes and put on the dark-blue suit that I left in the apartment on Via Nazionale when I moved to Viale Marconi. Judas takes me to a villa on the Via Cassia. The party has already begun. There are a lot of girls, all beautiful and all vivacious. Judas introduces me to a dark-haired girl and says, “
Ya Tunisi, hadhi al shabba al Arabia, halal aleik!
Tunisian, this beautiful Arab girl is yours!”

Shit, this dickhead knows Arabic! I’m impressed by his pronunciation. It’s almost perfect. My instinct is to ask if he really speaks it, but I don’t. I’m completely enchanted by the beauty of the girl. We sit on a couch, finally alone, and start talking. She tells me a few things, like that she is Lebanese and works in a travel agency. I have no intention of coming on as the Arabist. I want to forget my shit habit of showing off by asking questions meant to impress, like: you say you’re Lebanese, let’s see, are you Maronite Christian or Muslim? If you’re Muslim are you Sunni or Shiite? If you’re Shiite, are you close to Hezbollah or the movement of Amel? In other words, the obsession to prove that I know the other well, rather, to always have to astonish him. That’s what the work of the Arabist consists of. A crappy occupation, precisely!

Late in the evening Antar and James, alias Starsky & Hutch, join us. The C.I.A. agent is already drunk. Antar puts on a CD of Arab music and stars dancing Egyptian style. My mind is very tired, I just want to forget everything and relax. Yes, relaaaax. I’m drinking vodka. I’ve turned into into a raging bull. I’m incredibly excited. I find myself in bed with the Lebanese girl, we’re naked, caught in an embrace. After that, total blackout. I don’t remember anything, not a thing.

The next day I wake up in a big bedroom, completely naked. I’m not alone: there’s a surprise. Next to me is a young black guy, also unclothed. I decide not to wake him. What happened? Where did the others go? And the beautiful Lebanese girl, what happened to her? Captain Judas has also disappeared. I get dressed and leave in a hurry.

I
t all happens quickly, like a strong, sudden storm. I’m sleeping. The architect wakes me abruptly. I open my eyes with a sensation of fear. My first thought goes to Aida. The second thought is an earthquake. I continue to have nightmares because of the terrible quake that hit Cairo in 1992, where more than five hundred people died. My architect is agitated, angry, he’s barking like a wild dog. What’s happening? It takes me a few seconds to emerge from sleep and return to reality. His voice invades my ears aggressively.

“Who does this money belong to? I found it hidden behind the sofa.”

“It’s mine.”

“How did you get it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What?”

I get out of bed. I glance at the alarm clock on the night table: it’s three-fifteen in the morning. Satan be damned! Damn him, too. Why doesn’t he let me sleep? Why doesn’t he leave me in peace and spend the rest of the night with Al Jazeera, his real mistress? I go into the bathroom and wash my face. I can’t close the door: Felice follows me like a shadow and starts shouting

“How did you get this money?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“You must tell me immediately.”

The bathroom is next to Aida’s room. In order not to wake her I go back to the bedroom. I say to myself that if we have to discuss, or, rather, fight, it’s better to do it here. I sit on the right side of the bed, my side. My head is spinning, but I resist and try to soothe the waters. I choose the diplomacy route, maybe it will get me somewhere.

“Please, it’s very late. It’s not the moment to discuss it.”

“I don’t give a damn. I asked you a question and I want an answer.”

“You’re tired, why don’t you come to bed?”

“Do you want to provoke me?”

“No. I’m just asking you to rest.”

“Don’t make fun of me!”

“All right. But don’t shout, the child is sleeping.”

“I will not calm down until I know how you got this damn money.”

“All right, I’ll explain it all, but later.”

“No, I want the truth now.”

Damn the devil! The architect wants the truth. Telling the truth is a serious thing, it requires premises, parentheses, and notes. The question is very complicated. And so? So what. If I tell Felice
my
truth, will he believe me? If I tell him that the money he discovered comes exclusively from my secret career as a hairdresser and is to be used to help my sister Zeineb have an operation, will he comprehend it? Will he understand me? I’m sure he won’t. Try explaining to him that the operation is to repair the damage done by circumcision. He can’t understand. These are difficult things to relate, to justify, to explain . . . . It’s likely that he has found out about my clandestine work. Further confirmation that you can’t hide anything on Viale Marconi. Secrets don’t exist. Anyway, I refuse to speak. It’s better to maintain silence, at least right now. I try to gain time, then we’ll see. Unfortunately he won’t let go.

“I want to know the truth about the money.”

“Please, let’s sleep now. We’re tired.”

“I don’t want to sleep. I want to know the truth.”

“I’m repeating for the last time. I don’t feel like talking
now
.”

“You’re not the one who decides when the moment is. I’m the man in this house.”

“But I’m not your slave.”

“You’re not a slave, you’re a
sharmùta!
Only a
sharmùta
earns money without working.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard this word come out of his mouth. It’s worse than a bullet in the heart. Wounds heal, because they affect the body, but certain words can wound forever, because they go right to the depths of the soul.
Sharmùta
, whore!
Sharmùta
to me! How dare you!

This I can’t let go. You will pay for this, my dear Felice. I swear it. I can’t remain silent, I have to react. Even patience has a limit, as Om Kalthoum says. I get up from the bed and now we’re face to face.

“You’re right. But if I’m a
sharmùta
, as you say, then you are the husband of a
sharmùta
.”

“Shut that mouth.”

A hard slap knocks me to the floor. My nose is bleeding. I get up and stare at him in defiance. Now I have nothing to lose. I move to the attack, the final assault.

“If you’re really a man, divorce me now.”

“Shut up or I’ll kill you.”

“You’re a coward.”

“
Anti tàliq
, you are divorced!”

Anti tàliq!
Anti tàliq!
Anti tàliq!
I repeat these two words over and over to myself. I start crying. The third divorce is final. I feel that something in me is changing. There are knots that are loosening, thoughts and memories that rise to the surface.

I say to myself, “Freedom! Finally I’m free.” Hooray for the third divorce! Who says that divorce has to be the end of me? A death sentence? Why can’t it be a beginning instead? I want to decide for myself. Why should I be afraid? The future will be better, inshallah. I’ll be able to live as I like. I’ll find my way. God is always merciful, he closes one door and opens many others.

But . . . what will become of me? I don’t have a real job . . . and my child? My poor Aida?

I persist in convincing myself that divorce is not a tragedy but an absolution. Liberation from a life without dreams and without love. I think of my family—it won’t be easy to explain to them what happened. But it’s not my fault. I’ll have to call and tell them. I want the news to be official. I’m not looking for compromise, or reconciliation. I want to put the word “end” on this marriage. I’m inclined to run the risk. Better divorced than unhappily married. Why go on like this?

After an hour or so my ex-husband calms down and goes to sleep. I wait for morning in the living room, accompanied by tears. Around eight I take Aida and go to Samira’s. As soon as she sees me she can tell that something serious has happened. I can’t hide my emotions. She reads everything in my face. I explain what happened without omitting the slightest detail. I can’t stop crying. She tries to soothe me with gentle words and embraces. And above all she refrains from asking that terrible question that makes you feel alone and desperate: “What are you going to do now?” The only answer I’d have is “I don’t know!”

Samira helps me get my thoughts in order. I need an emergency plan, a way of getting out of this awful crisis. First, my position should be very clear from the start: no reconciliation. This time, the divorce is final. Second, it has to be made public. If I could, I would even let Al Jazeera know. I don’t care at all about the scandal. It wasn’t my fault. I’m the injured party. I’m the divorced one, aren’t I, or am I wrong? And so? So what. I mustn’t be ashamed. Third, I don’t want to stay under the same roof as the architect anymore. Clear?

“Sofia, you can come and stay with me.”

“But what about your husband?”

“He left for Tunis yesterday, he’ll be gone for two weeks.”

After a couple of hours the architect shows up. Obviously he knows where to find me. Samira leaves us alone in the living room, taking Aida to the other room. The architect starts weeping like a baby. This is déjà vu! It’s like a scene from a very boring soap opera. The title could be
Divorce Islamic Style 3
. He repeats like a parrot, “I’m sorry.”

I tell him that I’m coming with Aida to stay with Samira, but he won’t agree to that. After some back and forth he suggests that he should leave the house. I consent. It’s better that way—I won’t disturb my friend.

At lunchtime I go to Little Cairo to call my parents. I feel like a messenger bearing news of the death of a close relative. After three attempts mamma answers. When she asks, “How are you, daughter?” I burst into tears. I shouldn’t, but it’s stronger than I am. It takes a little time to collect myself and tell her everything. My mother interrupts me only to sigh, saying, “
Ya msibti!
What a catastrophe!” I try to calm her, but it’s not easy. For a woman like her the word “divorce” is worse than the plague. I’m sure she’ll soon discover that times have changed. And then I live in Rome, not Cairo. I’m far away from the social pressures that divorcées and unmarried women are subject to in Egypt.

Finally she asks the feared question.

“What are you going do now, my dear?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come to Cairo, your family’s here. You’re not an orphan.”

“I have to think about it.”

“You can’t stay there alone, without a husband.”

Go back to Egypt? That’s out of the question, especially right now. And then if I go back to Egypt I won’t be able to protect my daughter from circumcision. Anyway, I have to be diplomatic in order not to become the one who is in the wrong. I can’t afford the luxury of losing my family’s support.

I’ve got to stand firm. If I go back to Egypt I’ll never leave. Yes, I have to be firm and gain time. I know that God Almighty won’t abandon me and will help me find a way out.

When I go to pay I find Akram waiting for me like a hungry wolf. Does he want to talk to me? It seems he does. He takes me aside. Don’t tell me he already knows the latest developments in the soap opera
Divorce Islamic Style in Viale Marconi!

“I heard about your misfortune, madame.”

“Misfortune?”

“Yes, the third divorce. It’s
maktùb
.”

“Of course, it’s
maktùb
.”

“I wanted to tell you that we’re like a family. You can count on me.”

“Thank you,
hagg
Akram.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Satan be damned! What do I have to put up with! A soap opera based on a true story. The worst of the worst of the Egyptian, Brazilian, Mexican, and Turkish together. How terrible it is to play the role of a divorced woman, rather, a woman dealing with the third and final divorce!

In the afternoon I go home. I see that the architect has taken his black suitcase. I glance at the bathroom, there’s no sign of the electric razor. So he’s gone. A couple of hours later, I hear someone knocking at the door. I open it and who should I see before me? Aisha the convert, alias Signora Haram. The last time I threw her out of the house. Now she’s back. Why didn’t she ring the outside bell?

“I heard about the tragedy, sister.”

“What tragedy?”

“The third divorce.”

“Ah yes.”

“We are sisters in Islam and we have to help each other in difficult moments.”

Thank you.”

“A Muslim woman can’t live without a husband, sister.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s the way it is.”

“There are Muslim widows and divorced women who are happy and satisfied.”

“What are you saying, sister? You are very young.”

Maybe Aisha came to get revenge, or to feel out the terrain, to propose me to her husband. Did he send her? If I’m not wrong the butcher has two wives: one regular and the other secret. So there are still two free places. Aisha is a hundred percent submissive to him. If he told her to throw herself in the Tiber or the Nile she would do it without a moment’s hesitation. In the end, as she’s leaving, she looks me in the eyes and says, “If you need help you can count on me.” She seems sincere, very sincere.

I call Giulia and Dorina. I’ll recount this new episode in the soap opera
Divorce Islamic Style in Viale Marconi
. They show up in twenty minutes. They are fond of me. I summarize the facts yet again. As we Arabs say, “
Iaada ifada
, repetition is beneficial.” Dorina takes the opportunity to vent and take a weight off her mind: “Men are bastards, period. They’re bullies. Castrate them all. They’re all shits!”

Giulia, on the other hand, argues against marriage as an institution. She summarizes her theory with the maxim “There would be no divorce without marriage.” Then she urges me to regain my freedom as a woman. “Sofia, now you should throw out those male traditions and take off that damn veil.”

But I don’t want to reopen that question. Women’s freedom can’t be reduced to a matter of clothes. It’s more complicated. What about those girls who dance half-naked on TV or appear on calendars without veils? Are they truly liberated women?

Two days after divorce No. 3 the architect comes home, early. You can see he hasn’t slept. He’s sad, in fact very sad. But I can’t do anything. We sit in the living room. I tell Aida to go and play in her room. I try to listen to him out of pure politeness because I have no desire to talk or to hear his apologies. After a short silence he looks at me and says:

“We have to find a way out.”

“A way out?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see one.”

“Every problem has a solution.”

“I must remind you that the third divorce is final.”

“Even the third divorce has a solution.”

“In what sense?”

“We’ll look for a
muhàllil
.”

“A
muhàllil
? Are you joking?”

“No, I’m serious.”

My ex-husband isn’t joking at all. Scenes come to mind from the play in which the comic Adel Imam plays the role of the
muhàllil.
Irony of fate! My ex-husband explains to me that the
muhàllil
is in conformity with Islam. This word derives from
halal
and means literally: “make something legal.” However, I’m not going to be influenced by his apologies. According to his plan I should marry another Muslim and then divorce him. That way we could go back to being man and wife. I pretend not to understand, I want to see how far his delusion will go. I start with a question:

“If I understand you, I have to marry a Muslim only on paper? Is that right?”

“No, I’m an observant Muslim. I don’t want to make fun of my religion.”

“What do you mean?”

“The marriage has to be consummated.”

I can’t believe my ears. He’s talking about a real marriage. In other words, I have to marry a man, obviously a Muslim, and go to bed with him. Clear? He considers me goods to sell and buy back.

I try to maintain my self-control. I want to hear his ridiculous speech to the end. My ex-husband notes an important consideration about the figure of the
muhàllil
. Through the
muhàllil
God punishes the husband who has uttered the divorce formula three times. Imagining his wife in someone else’s bed, even just for a night, is a great punishment. The poor wife (in this case that means me) has no say in the matter.