Kauthar Page 10

  Rafiq talks. He starts talking in the taxi from the airport – in the first taxi – then we change once, twice, three times in order to dodge the warring parties who all call themselves Muslims. They are in fact hypocrites. Allah and His Prophet warned them: And hold fast, all of you together, to the rope of Allah, and do not become divided. But they have become divided and they fight each other.

  And Rafiq says, ‘It is a temporary marriage for Fatimah’s protection. So I can protect her and her four-year-old son, Hassan. Without male protection they’d be lost. Her husband was a victim of Saddam’s regime. I am looking for another husband for her. I have not touched her.’

  ‘Why haven’t you touched her? She is your wife. Don’t you desire her?’

  ‘I don’t want to touch her. You are my wife. I want to touch you.’

  ‘If you touch me, you have to touch her. That’s what the law says. She has become your wife in the name of Allah. You are no longer just my husband. You belong to her too.’

  ‘You are talking nonsense.’

  ‘I support your decision to marry a second woman. According to the law, you should have asked me, your first wife, but you didn’t. You have sinned before God. Only God can forgive you. But I can help you not be a hypocrite. Because I don’t want to be married to a hypocrite. And anyway, she will be able to give you what I am not capable of providing: children.’

  Rafiq takes my hand, which is resting between us on the seat.

  ‘Kauthar, please don’t talk like this. We will have children together, you and I. When my contract has finished, we’ll go back home, to London. I had to come here. But I now understand that I can’t live here. I am ashamed and I ask Allah and my father for forgiveness every single day. To forgive me for being so weak. I didn’t want you to come. I wanted to survive these months, sort out the situation with Fatimah and get back to you.’

  Later he is crying like a baby and I take him in my arms. We are sharing the bed of his dead aunt. Next door Fatimah and Hassan are sleeping on the couch. I rock Rafiq back and forth and stroke his head gently.

  ‘I feel so stupid. Like a little boy who is suddenly forced to face the real world. Ever since we arrived with my mother in London my dream has always been to return “home” – home to my country. I’d be free of the guilt I felt because of my father. I’d finally live in an Islamic country. London was an intermediate stop, a temporary solution out of necessity. And suddenly I realize that all this time I have been chasing a childish dream, while at the same time happiness was staring me right in the face. Kauthar, people in London – and by that I mean Christians, Jews, Shiites, Sunnis, Hindus, atheists, everyone, whatever their colour and whatever their religion – live more together in the name of Allah, in the name of peace, than here. I wish it wasn’t true. I wish I had the conviction that I should stay here and fight for the Islamic ummah. I have asked Allah for it, I have prayed for it. But I don’t have that conviction. I am scared, Kauthar.’

  And he is crying again, and he holds on to me tight and buries his face in the side of my neck.

  ‘Hold me.’

  And I hold him in my arms and rock him back and forth and I open myself to him and become one with him, Rafiq, my husband.

  When he has fallen asleep, I get up and wake Fatimah and tell her to lie next to him in the bed. At first she doesn’t understand. My foreign accent sounds strange to her. I explain that she has a duty towards her husband. I have shared the first half of the night with him, now she has to share the second half with him. She shakes her head and pulls the blanket up to her chin. I bend down towards her and hiss into her ear that if she refuses to fulfil her marital duties towards her husband, I’ll convince Rafiq in the morning to divorce her. So she gets up and walks into the next room and closes the door behind her. I lie down besides Hassan on the couch and move as close as possible to his little body without waking him. I breathe in the warm smell of his hair. I close my eyes and hear shellfire in the distance. I put my arm around Hassan and hope he doesn’t wake up, because then he’d cry and call for his mother.

  When dawn breaks I get up and fill the round plastic bowl with water and take it to the toilet, a tiny square room with a hole in the ground. I wet my body from head to toe, then I wash my hands with soap and clean my mouth and my nose. I perform ghusl janabat, the full-body ablution. Qurbatan illa Allah, to be close to God. Once again I pour water over my hair. Then I shampoo it. I rub soap into my neck, my right shoulder, my right arm, my right breast, the right half of my bottom, the right leg, the right foot. Then the left side. As I straighten up, a light breeze touches me. I look up to the small open window. A bird flies past. And I notice the absence of shellfire. It is quiet. Many years ago, when I was another person who was called Lydia, she too used to get up early, at five, four thirty, sometimes four o’clock. It was always quiet during those early-morning hours. She would sit at her desk and study. Everyone else was asleep, so there was no danger of being disturbed. She would feel calm and able to concentrate on her work, confident in the knowledge that everything that should have happened happened yesterday and everything that should happen will happen with the new day. But the new day hasn’t yet arrived and Kauthar is standing in the little room, legs apart above the earth closet, the smell of cheap soap on her body, a lovely fresh breeze on her face. And there are no bombs falling and no shellfire and the muezzin hasn’t yet called out for the morning prayer and Rafiq, her husband, and Fatimah, his second wife, and Hassan, her young son, are asleep. Kauthar sees Lydia at her desk, bent over her homework, and for a fleeting moment her heart aches for Lydia, for the girl she once was, who she never wanted to be, who she shouldn’t have been. And if Kauthar were able to cry, she would. She bends forward, takes the bowl and pours the rest of the water over her head.

  Hassan is still asleep on the couch. No one seems to stir in the other room. I knock on the door to wake them for prayer. ‘Rafiq! Fatimah!’ I call out quietly. I am turning away from the door when suddenly it swings wide open.

  ‘Have you gone completely mad!’ Rafiq’s voice thunders out into the front room.

  At the same moment shellfire starts somewhere. Hassan jolts upright and bursts into tears. I spin round towards Rafiq, who is standing in the door between the two rooms. Behind him I spot Fatimah, who is getting up from a prayer mat she has slept on. Rafiq and I are staring at each other. Fatimah pushes past our husband, rushes towards her son, pulls him into her arms. She is wearing the dress in which she slept all night. Rafiq has wrapped the blanket around his waist and is holding it tight with one hand.

  ‘It’s time for prayer,’ I say calmly. ‘You should get ready.’

  ‘Kauthar!’ Rafiq shouts with such force that spit sprays out of his mouth.

  Hassan sobs convulsively, lifts his hands and presses them against his ears. Fatimah talks to him quietly. I throw a quick glance at mother and child. Then I turn back to Rafiq.

  ‘You should not lose control in front of your son,’ I say.

  ‘Get into the room,’ Rafiq commands.

  I don’t move. Hassan’s sobs are suddenly overpowered by a loud clicking sound. The muezzin from the mosque on the other side of the road has turned on his microphone. He coughs, clears his throat.

  A-lla-hu-ak-bar! Allah is the Greatest!

  ‘You can’t pray like this,’ I say to Rafiq. ‘You need to wash. You slept with your wives last night.’

  Rafiq stumbles forward two steps, grabs my arm, pulls me into the bedroom and shuts the door with a bang. We stand facing each other. He is still holding the blanket with one hand around his waist.

  ‘Have you lost your senses?’

  A-lla-hu-ak-bar!

  I shake my head. My upper arm, where Rafiq grabbed me, is burning. Muhammad, peace be upon Him, ordered men not to physically abuse their wives. But I don’t say this out loud.

  ‘I am a Muslim. I live according to the
sharia, the Islamic law,’ I say slowly and deliberately. I feel it’s important for Rafiq to understand what I say. Because only if he understands will it be possible for me to continue being his wife.

  A-lla-hu-ak-bar!

  ‘As a Muslim woman I am allowed to marry only a Muslim man,’ I continue.

  A-lla-hu-ak-bar!

  ‘My husband, you have now executed your right to take a second wife. I support your decision because it is Allah’s law. I see it as an opportunity yet again to show God my deep trust in Him.’

  The muezzin lowers his voice. Ashadu alla ilaha illallah – I testify that there is no god except Allah.

  ‘I have to help you to stay on the right path, Rafiq. Did you let Fatimah sleep on the cold floor last night? She belongs in bed with you. Don’t just choose the rules that suit you. You can’t do that. Allah will see through you.’

  Ashadu alla ilaha illallah. No God except Allah.

  ‘I will have to file for divorce if I realize that you are no longer a true Muslim.’

  While I speak Rafiq doesn’t take his eyes off me. Disbelief. Naked disbelief is written all over his face. Where is the Rafiq I know, whom I married, with whom I became one in the name of Allah? Instead I am staring at a doubting man. I lift my arm. I want to shake him, wake him up, free him from the devil’s embrace in which he is lost. But I lower my arm.

  ‘Rafiq, come back to God, please. I beg you,’ I whisper, and fall to my knees in front of him and fling my arms around his legs. ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t leave your religion. I will help you.’

  Rafiq crouches down, then sits with his back against the wall on the floor and pulls me towards him. He strokes my hair.

  ‘Kauthar, I love you. I don’t want to sleep with Fatimah. You are my wife. My only wife. And Allah is my witness. I should not have left you behind in London on your own. You are suffering from depression. As a doctor, I can see this now. You and I need to go back as quickly as possible, so you can receive treatment.’

  I straighten up, free myself from him, move away.

  And now I do start to cry after all, now Kauthar begins to cry for Rafiq, who no longer is her Rafiq, for her marriage, which no longer is a marriage, which no longer can be a marriage. Because Rafiq has gone astray.

  ‘You have lost your faith. May God forgive you, Rafiq.’

  For a moment Rafiq doesn’t move. Then he says, ‘I will find a new husband for Fatimah and get us both back to London on the next possible flight.’

  He stands up, fetches his clothes, which are lying on the only chair in the room, and dresses with his back against the door. At the same time I pick up the mat on which Fatimah slept last night and turn it towards Ka’abah. I look around the bare room for something to cover my hair.

  ‘I have to pray,’ I say to Rafiq, who is buckling his belt. ‘I need a hijab.’

  He opens the door and asks Fatimah to hand him my chador. She gives it to him without saying a word and he passes it to me. I pull the garment over my head and while I am standing upright with my hands by my side, ready to commence my prayer, Rafiq leaves the room. My prayer stone is in my bag next door but I don’t want to go there and I know Allah will forgive me.

  I sink into prayer. Each single word enters my body, my heart, as if never heard before but at the same time as ancient as mankind, so utterly familiar.

  I cower against the wall opposite the door. Again and again I strain to hear if Rafiq has come back. I am waiting and hoping and praying to God that He may guide my husband. I am willing to forgive him, but forgiveness is not mine to give. Only God can forgive. I arrange the chador around my body and pull the veil over my face so that there is only a little opening for my eyes.

  When the door opens and Fatimah indicates I should follow her, I am not in the least surprised.

  She whispers, ‘There are men in the other room. The brother of my first husband and his friends.’

  I stand up and rearrange my chador and make sure that my hairline is covered. I adjust the niqab. I step into the next room. A big lake of thick blood covers the floor. A man is lying in the middle of it.

  ‘An American soldier shot him,’ I hear Fatimah say. ‘If we move him, he will die. You have to run to the hospital and fetch Rafiq.’

  I stare at the red puddle, thick as oil paint. Thick red. Everywhere blood.

  ‘Kauthar! You have to get Rafiq. Quickly. Here is your passport. They’ve blocked the roads downstairs. But you with your British passport will get past the soldiers.’

  ‘Where is the hospital?’ I ask.

  Fatimah explains it to me. I can’t miss it. I am about to ask, Why is this man here? Why have they shot him? But Fatimah pushes me out of the door.

  ‘Quick. Hurry. He is bleeding to death. Can’t you see?’

  I run down the stairs. The lift, if it ever worked, has obviously not been in use for ages. As I step outside, the hot, dusty dry air takes my breath away. I look to the right, down the narrow unpaved road. A few blocks away a tank is parked right across the road. Soldiers with helmets and machine guns are standing in front of it. I can spot no other living soul, but I can sense them behind the walls of the houses, behind the windows, and as I start walking towards the tank and the soldiers I feel their invisible eyes on me.

  ‘Stop. No further!’ American accent.

  What if I didn’t speak or even understand English? A gloved hand with fingers spread wide on an outstretched arm indicates that I can go no further. I stop and hold out my passport.

  ‘I am British,’ I say. ‘I have to get to the hospital at the end of the road.’

  The soldier, a boy really, surely no older than twenty, takes my passport, flicks through it. He is ready for combat in his camouflage battledress, helmet, ammunition belt, knee- and elbow-protectors. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes; only his nose, mouth and part of his cheeks are visible. Still, a name tag on his jacket tells me he is ‘Johnson’. I wonder what colour his eyes are.

  ‘Remove the veil,’ Johnson commands.

  I lift my veil.

  ‘Remove it completely,’ he barks.

  I shake my head, let the niqab drop down over my face again.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Even at passport control in London it’s enough to raise it. You’ve seen my face.’

  ‘We are not British passport control here. We are in Baghdad. Remove your veil. We won’t discuss it. If you want to pass this control, you have to remove your veil.’

  I am thinking about the man up on the eighth floor in the pool of blood. It might have even been this soldier who shot him. Playing his war games, giving himself airs, as if he has a right to be here, as if there is anyone here wanting to play with him. But this is no playground and Lydia is no longer hanging from the monkey bar upside-down, scared of letting go.

  I remove the niqab.

  ‘OK. Now legs apart, arms wide.’

  I look up into the blue sky while Johnson runs the gun barrel across my body.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  I point to the block of flats.

  The soldier hands me back my passport and points alongside the tank.

  ‘You can go.’

  I fasten my niqab and continue along the ghost road. I can hear noise from parallel streets, but here nothing moves. I pass a burnt-out car. The windows in the house behind it are shattered. Shreds of curtain blow in the wind. I turn round, look back to the tank. From this side, too, soldiers are guarding the checkpoint, machine guns at the ready.

  Noisy chaos meets me at the hospital. Human bodies are sitting, standing, laying, sleeping, arguing, praying, eating. Sick and wounded and dead. In between men – and a few women – in white coats dart about like lost white dots. I approach one of them, ask for Rafiq. He points down a corridor. I ask another one and then another one. I finally see him, huddled on a chair, a cup of water in his hand. He l
ooks tired and thin. I hadn’t noticed up until now.

  ‘Rafiq!’ I kneel down next to him, place my hand on his knee.

  ‘Kauthar!’ He looks up in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ He sounds immensely tired. All the anger from this morning has evaporated. Has he forgotten?

  ‘Fatimah sent me. You have to come. They brought some-one with a bullet wound. We don’t have much time. He is bleeding to death in the flat.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  He has placed his hand above mine on his knee. I see his greasy hair, the dark circles under his eyes. I would love to take him in my arms, like a mother holding her son. I find it difficult to keep in my mind what happened between us this morning.

  And if we stay here and don’t move, would everything that has happened not have happened? And after an eternity would we get up and return to London, to walk once again hand in hand on the Heath?

  But I am already saying the next words: ‘I think it’s the brother of Fatimah’s first husband.’

  Rafiq shakes his head. ‘Ahmed, that fool. It was predictable.’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll explain later. Not now.’

  He puts the cup on the floor. ‘Wait here. I’ll be back in a second. I just have to let a colleague know that I am going.’

  We are running back along detours to avoid the checkpoint. Since we are running, we can’t talk. We approach the building from the other side and enter through the cellar. And only when we are in front of the flat does Rafiq turn around to me.