Divorce Islamic Style (9 page)

“Yes.”

“You have documents?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Issa.”

“Why do you all have strange names? What does it mean?”

“It’s the name of Jesus in Arabic.”

“So you’re Christian?”

“No, Muslim.”

“You’re a Muslim and you’re called Jesus! I continue not to understand a fucking thing about you Muslims. Have you worked in a restaurant before?”

“No.”

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter. I just want boys who are serious, and on time, and don’t bug me. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“As you see, I’m not a racist. I don’t discriminate between Muslims and Christians, people with a residency permit and illegals. For me they’re all the same. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, I’ve already forgotten your name. It’s hard to remember. We’ll have to call you something else, what do you prefer: Christian or Tunisian?”

Obviously I choose the second. A Muslim who is called Christian is pure provocation. It would be like going to Mecca with a cross around your neck. I don’t have the slightest intention of running that risk.

I begin work right away, after accepting the owner’s conditions: two weeks’ trial and forget about a contract; that is, I work illegally from opening till closing. I think of my residency permit, so far it’s been of no help either for renting the bed or for the job. Who knows, maybe it will turn out to be useful for wiping my ass when I can’t find toilet paper.

In the kitchen I meet the three cooks: two Bangladeshis and a Peruvian. Besides Felice there’s an Egyptian pizza assistant named Farid. The waiters, on the other hand, are all Italians. The customers have no contact with the immigrant staff. Is it a coincidence?

I finish work around two in the morning. Everyone has left except the boss, who is enjoying a last whiskey before going to bed. It will take some time to get used to the fact that among the duties of the dishwasher are the cleaning of the kitchen and the two bathrooms. In short, I’m also the housewife of the restaurant.

I go home dead tired. I fall sleep without any problem. The insomnia of the past few days seems to have disappeared by itself. I begin to understand something important: people who work hard don’t need sleeping pills to get their sleep. Those are for the rich, who don’t do shit from morning to evening. The usual war between rich and poor. “
Cu avi suonnu nun cerca capizzu
”—“When you’re tired you don’t go looking for a pillow.” This is called class conflict. Am I becoming a Communist? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just the delirium of exhaustion.

I
’m sitting across from the Trevi fountain. It’s the middle of the night and no one is around. I see the big blonde (the one from
La Dolce Vita
) in the fountain, under the waterfall. Suddenly she starts shouting, in English, “Marcello, come here!” I go on watching, but I’m blinded by jealousy. Marcello Mastroianni is sitting there having coffee and he doesn’t make a move. I can’t bear it for very long, I take off my scarf and walk into the fountain. The water is freezing. Marcello puts aside his cup of coffee and gets up. I’m very surprised, because he’s looking not at the blonde but at me. I’m flattered. After a while he approaches. And when our gazes meet I realize that Marcello has the face of the guy with the tissue (the Arab without a name) whom I met first at Little Cairo and then at the Marconi library. After that I begin to tremble with cold. The Arab Marcello (from now on I’ll call him that) immediately understands that and embraces me very sweetly. I’m so happy. But the dream ends and abruptly I wake up.

Thank God I remember my dreams clearly, from beginning to end. And so? So what. I won’t have any trouble telling Samira. She is great at interpreting dreams—she always manages to get something important out of them. She often says, “The dream is an inner voice that comes directly from the heart.”

I get through the housecleaning in a hurry. Around ten-thirty I leave my husband sleeping soundly, as I do every morning, and go with Aida to the park in Piazza Meucci. When I get there I find Giulia and Dorina sitting on a bench chatting. Near them are two children playing on the swing, and Aida runs off to join them. Grandfather Giovanni is totally immersed in his newspaper. How strange! He’s reading
Il Manifesto!
What has happened in the world? Has he become a Communist? Why has he given up
Padania, Libero
, and
Il Giornale
? Life is strange. Nothing lasts forever, except God Almighty. I prefer not to say hello to him, in order not to disturb him. His reactions are always unpredictable.

I sit beside my two friends. I quickly discover the subject of discussion. Today we’re talking about breasts. About preventing breast cancer? No, about cosmetic surgery. Now that voluptuous bosoms are fashionable, many women (often they’re still adolescents, I’ve heard that the operation can even be a gift for high-school graduation) decide to remake their breasts in order to appear beautiful, attractive, or simply sexier. Giulia and Dorina are in favor of the operation. Giulia says, “What’s wrong with it? Today going to the cosmetic surgeon is like going to the dentist or the gynecologist.” Dorina agrees, “We live in 2005. A woman should be free to dispose of her own body as she likes.”

I myself have a different opinion, and since it’s impossible for me to remain silent, I have to interrupt to defend my convictions. My theory is simple: veils are not always pieces of fabric, there are tricks, comparable to our veil, that hide other parts of the body. And so? So what. In other words, the reshaped breast hides the original breast, the reshaped nose hides the original nose, the reshaped lips hide the original lips, and so on. I begin my sermon (I’m a good orator, one day I might even become a female imam!) with the health risks: how many poor breasts are ruined by operations? Unfortunately I don’t have statistics at hand, but the percentage of failures is high. Dorina and Giulia (now they’re speaking with a single voice) reply, “The cosmetic surgeon is a doctor like any other doctor, so it happens that every so often he makes a mistake. These are things that happen in every field of medicine.” On this point they’re not wrong. The medical argument won’t get me anywhere. I have to change my strategy and find something more persuasive.

I move to religion, a subject I know better; in other words, I’m still a believing and practicing Muslim. So the question is this: what is the position of Islam on cosmetic surgery? It is
haram
, illegal, if the surgery is not indispensable. Which means? If a person gets a broken nose in a car accident and can no longer breathe well he has every right to turn to a cosmetic surgeon to fix it. Here beauty has nothing to do with it. It’s a matter of health. Clear? Instead, if a woman looks at herself in the mirror when she wakes up in the morning and decides to touch up her upper lip because she doesn’t like it anymore, Islam says, “No, madame. You can’t.” Why? The reason is simple: our body doesn’t belong to us—the true owner is God Almighty. When we’re born we take it only in trust, it’s under our management for a limited time. In the end we have to give it back in good condition. Even tattoos are
haram
.

Dorina and Giulia listen to me with interest. I understand that my speech has hit the mark. I’ve got one line left before the curtain falls. You have to leave the stage in grand style and to applause. So here comes the finale. “Excuse me! What will a reshaped woman say to God Almighty on Judgment Day? I’m giving back the body that I had on loan. But . . . I’m sorry . . . the breast surgery didn’t go well.”

Giulia stares at me a moment before moving to the counterattack. “Judgment Day? What are you talking about, Sofia? You know what I say? I don’t give a damn about Islam, I’m not a Muslim. Well, all right, I’m a Catholic who remembers I’m a Catholic only at Christmas and Easter. In reality I’m allergic to all religions, without exception. I’ll do what I like with my body. Do you understand?”

Giulia’s words make a breach in the silence of our Albanian friend. “I don’t deny that I’m a Muslim, but in my private life I want to be free: my body belongs only to me. We say that God gave it to me. All right? And we can do what we want with this gift, or not? Otherwise what sort of gift would it be?”

Bravo Dorina! Solid reasoning, really. I’d never thought of the body as a divine gift. Anyway, the religious argument wasn’t a great idea for the case against cosmetic surgery. I’m an observant believer and I act accordingly. For Dorina and Giulia the situation is completely different. Let’s say they’re sailing in other seas.

To what point can we Muslims consider ourselves truly free? While I reflect on the meaning of freedom in Islam, Giulia won’t let go—she wants to have the last word. “Dear Sofia, you wear the veil, so you don’t need to show off a shapely bosom. Think of poor women like us, who can’t display a nice décolleté because of their flat chests, and so they get complexes.” And Dorina in support: “Who would ever have said? Even the veil has its advantages. You’re lucky, Sofia.” Me, lucky? Well, maybe, yes. Basically, why always be complaining? Dorina is very ironic. But I’m not joking, either, and when I start there’s trouble for everybody. “You want to wear the veil, like me? No problem. Please, make yourself comfortable. Welcome to the club of veiled women.”

More laughs.

Grandfather Giovanni, sitting on the bench next to ours, comes out of his isolation. Maybe we’ve disturbed him. He has the look of an angry person. Is he mad at us? It’s likely. He stares at us for a few seconds, then throws the paper on the ground, shouting, “Have you seen what those Communist bastards of the
Manifesto
write? They say that the partisans are heroes, patriots, the country’s saviors! I say they are a band of traitors. Yes, they are trai-
tors
. The ones who are still alive should be hanged and I spit on the graves of the dead. Goddamn Communists!”

Giulia explains this business of the partisans. Kind of complicated, to tell the truth. They are heroes because they fought the Nazis to liberate the country from the occupation, and traitors because they murdered the leader Benito Mussolini. It’s really hard to have a clear and definite opinion. Today Grandfather Giovanni is in a terrible mood. Dorina tells us the reason. The old man gets depressed because, ever since his wife died, three years ago, he’s felt abandoned by his children. They come to see him only on big occasions. When he wants to express his sadness he buys the
Manifesto
and pretends to read it. Then he vents his feelings by getting angry at the partisans. It’s a simple trick, but it always works. Dorina decides to intervene right away and takes the old man home before the situation gets worse. You never know. Giulia, too, leaves after a few minutes.

The time passes quickly, it’s almost lunchtime. I have to go to the market to do the shopping. I like to wander among the fruit and vegetable stalls. Shopping is a career, in fact an art, as my father always says. There are important rules to follow. First, examine the goods very patiently. Second, don’t respond immediately to the solicitations of the vendors. Third, take the time necessary to choose what you want. Fourth, buy exclusively on the basis of the quality-price relationship. You have to be like a good hunter: strike at the right moment in order not to make a mistake. Maybe I’ve found my prey. This vendor has the best apples in the market. There are two people ahead of me. After a couple of minutes it’s my turn. As I’m about to speak a man of around fifty emerges out of nowhere and asks to be served first. I thought he hadn’t seen me, a simple and innocent lack of attention. I was wrong. And in a big way. The man looks at me disdainfully and says:

“I was here first. Do you understand Italian?”

“I understand Italian perfectly. You are rude.”

“Look at this! A speaking mummy! Why don’t you go back to your own country! Why do you come here to make trouble, to spread fanaticism and plant bombs, eh?”

“You’re an imbecile.”

“Go back to Afghanistan in your burka, or else I’m gonna get really pissed off and give you a beating.”

The imbecile gives me a shove, and I lose my balance and fall down. Aida starts crying. I feel a knot in my throat. I can hardly breathe. People gather in a circle around us to enjoy the show entitled “The Veiled Maya and the Racist Idiot.” Someone reaches out a hand to help me up. Now I can’t keep from crying. I struggle to open my eyes, and I see him: the nameless Arab, the Arab Marcello. He says, “
Ma tkhafish
, don’t be afraid.” Then he speaks harshly to the imbecile. As long as I’ve lived in Italy I’ve never heard an Arab, an immigrant, a foreigner, speak such perfect Italian.

I’m preoccupied with getting Aida away immediately, because she’s really scared, and so unfortunately I leave without thanking the Arab Marcello. But in my heart of hearts I hope I’ll see him again soon. When I get home I decide not to say anything to my husband. What would be the use? Best to forget about it. I know him too well. He’ll use the affair to shut me up in the house or not let me go out by myself anymore. To tell you the truth it’s not the first time I’ve been a victim of racism. I’m sure that my veil is only a pretext. Nuns also wear a sort of veil. Why doesn’t anything happen to them? And what about girls who wear miniskirts or go around half naked? They’re free and I’m not? That’s not right! What happened to all the fine speeches about democracy, individual freedom, and the right to diversity?

Over time I’ve become united with my veil. Yes, I really have. It’s true that I didn’t choose it, but now it’s the symbol of my identity; rather, it’s a second skin. And so? So what. I not only have to accept it; I have to defend it publicly. It’s not a question of the veil, the clothing, the fabric, it’s a question of dignity. If they don’t accept my veil it means that they reject my religion, my culture, my country, my language, my family—in other words, my entire existence. And that is unacceptable.

I make lunch for the architect and Aida. I have no appetite myself. I’m still shaken by what happened at the market. It’s not easy to put up with insults. Damn racists, they’re just ignorant. That brute thought my veil was a burkha! They are two extremely different things. And then he told me to go and live in Afghanistan! Let him go there, he’s nothing but a nasty imbecile. What do I have to do with a burka and Afghanistan?

At four my husband leaves the house to go to work. I get ready to go down to the second floor, to Samira’s. Today I have a professional appointment, a new client is waiting, a girl who wants to change her hairstyle. Suddenly the doorbell rings, and I go to open the door.

“
Assalamu aleikum
, sister.”

“
Aleikum salam
.”

What a surprise. With no warning, Aisha, alias Signora Haram, has come to see me. She’s the wife of the butcher Rami, who pretends to be an imam and is crazy about prohibitions. Paola, that’s her real name, is an Italian who converted to Islam ten years ago. She’s more or less my age and wears the
niqab
, oh Lord, that complete veil which covers the entire body except the eyes. Her great ambition is to someday bring us the fashion item of the century: the burka on Viale Marconi and environs! Let’s hope she never succeeds.

“Sister, I’ve come to give you some advice.”

“You want to lead me back on the right path?”

“Look, consider me an older sister who only wants what’s best for you.”

“Excuse me, get to the point. I’ve got an appointment.”

“Exactly. I would like to talk to you about your secret work.”

“My secret work?”

“I know that you cut hair at Samira’s.”

“So?”

“It’s
haram
, strictly forbidden by Islam.”

“Why?”

“We should encourage women to conceal their hair, not display it, to excite men.”

“But I cut hair for non-Muslim women.”

“You have a duty to convert them to Islam, the only salvation in this world.”

“I see. Is there something else?”

“I heard what happened in the market this morning.”

“In the market?”

“Yes, the attack of that godless criminal.”

“I see you’re very well informed.”

“Let’s say frankly that the reason is your colored veil.”

“My veil?”

“In Islam it must be black.”

“Really?”

“A colored veil causes confusion and temptation, that is,
fitna
.”

“Really? Who says so?”

“There’s a fatwa.”

“A fatwa against my veil! Issued by whom? By your husband’s
halal
butcher shop?”

“I will not allow you to insult my husband. He’s a very respectable imam.”

“Imam? And where did he study Islam? Maybe at the University of Al Azhar?”