The Girl from Baghdad (20 page)

‘Mum,' I whispered to her, pulling on her sleeve, ‘we can't afford dinner here. We don't have any money left. Have you gone crazy?'

‘Don't worry. It's all taken care of. Go on, choose a meal and let's order.'

‘But, Mum …'

‘Don't ruin Christmas dinner for your sisters. Let's enjoy this evening. We deserve it, don't we?'

Linda seemed enthusiastic. She was still too little to understand what was going on. Klara stared absently into space without speaking. I didn't know what to say. We didn't want to ruin everything, but our mother's idea seemed pathetic and strange. Where had she found the money for the bill? That concern, combined with the awkward silence which had befallen our table, made me completely lose my appetite. I felt my stomach tighten like a fist.

Mum tried to make conversation throughout dinner, but Linda was the only one who was willing to join in. Klara and I sat mute and barely ate. That hotel was a painful reminder of better times. My mother wanted us to relive our happy moments, but how could she have thought this would work? Being in that restaurant didn't give me any joy and became more agonising by the second.

I watched my mother move her food around on her plate with her fork. She chewed small morsels with difficulty and swallowed reluctantly. I could see she was trying to appear happy and relaxed. At the end of the meal, Mum insisted we order dessert. Klara and I refused, saying we were too tired and wanted to go home. The thought of the bill to pay loomed. My mother told me to take my sisters outside and wait for her in front of the restaurant.

I didn't know where Mum had found the money to pay for the expensive dinner. Linda dozed off on the bus ride back, leaning against my mother's shoulder. Klara looked out the window. Nobody spoke. My mother and I exchanged a melancholy stare, sitting on the filthy seats, under the low and demoralising light.

By January little had changed. The cold weather continued and we huddled together at night in Mum's big bed. Night was always a scary time. The intrusion attempts were still happening; either strangers or my father tried to come in through the hastily repaired terrace door.

One night my father was able to force his way inside. We heard Mum scream, followed by the sound of his voice. Then he started hitting her and Mum's pained cries echoed throughout the house.

‘You have to go, understand?' he yelled furiously. ‘I don't want you here anymore! This house is mine! Mine!'

We could hear the scuffling again from Linda's room, where we were hiding. A piece of furniture launched against the wall. We kept close to each other in a corner; we could feel ourselves trembling in unison. Linda cried and called to Mum, but the fight continued. Eventually,
Klara and I decided to go to where they were in the living room and defend her.

We found her curled up on the floor, shielding herself with her arms.

My father, with crazed eyes, screamed insults at her. ‘You have to get away from here! Out!' he yelled as he kicked her. ‘Away! Get out of my house!'

She crawled to the wall to protect herself. She cried pitifully, ‘We don't have anywhere to go. You can't kick us out into the street! You're an animal!'

‘I don't care! Go back to where you came from, and take them with you.'

‘We're not going until you give us what you owe us,' she answered back.

I saw him raise a hand to Mum. I was shaking in fear. I heard my father curse, but then he took a step backwards and quickly made for the door. The sound of the door slamming violently allowed me to breathe again. We ran towards Mum, who gathered us in her arms. Linda's terrified cries wound their way through the house. Through it all she had been alone in the bedroom; the unexpected silence had frightened her. She didn't understand that this was just the sign of a momentary ceasefire.

Spring came, though we hardly noticed the seasons anymore. We also didn't pay much attention to the news about the war, as it had been going on for years now and seemed interminable. The air strikes continued, filling the Baghdad skies with sparks from airborne missiles. Parts of the city had turned into mountains of dust and rubble. People walked anxiously around the streets and shared stories of mourning families, as the body count piled up.

Although a missile hadn't destroyed our lives, to us our father's abandonment was equally tragic. Gazing at bare walls and wandering the empty rooms of our house with little to do was unbearably painful. My happy memories of the past were so vivid that sometimes I wished the explosion that took Otůr had taken us all.

Bàsil, in one of his ever more frequent notes, advised me to stay strong. ‘As soon as the war is over, everything will return to normal,' he wrote reassuringly. Bàsil believed even our family, what was left of it, would have a future. I didn't share his optimism. How could we start again? We had a house, but we were alone. Paradoxically, we were in a more desperate situation than those who had lost their house in the war, but had preserved a united family. The war raged around us, but inside our forlorn group of four was waging a battle of our own.

From Arba'taash Ramadàn, the main street that passed by our house, the festive sound of car horns and loud, merry voices floated past. I bolted onto the terrace. Linda and Klara were peering over the balustrade at a long procession of cars on the street.

‘What's going on? The war – is it over?' I asked, still breathless.

‘I don't think so. It's a wedding party,' Klara answered, without taking her eyes off the cars.

It was a custom. Newlyweds and their entourage drove their flash wedding cars down Arba'taash Ramadàn, honking their horns madly. The guests leaned out of the car windows, yelling and shrieking with joy.

‘The newlyweds are in that beige car!' Linda shouted excitedly, pointing at a very sleek Mercedes. The rear windows were rolled up so we couldn't see inside.

‘Just imagine how pretty the bride must be,' Klara sighed, resting her chin against the balcony.

‘But who gets married during wartime?' I asked.

‘Why not?' Klara answered back.

‘It's your father.' Our mother's voice was tight, and we turned around quickly. She was standing on the edge of the veranda, watching the procession.

‘Pardon?' Klara asked.

‘What did you say?' I demanded.

‘That's your father's wedding,' she replied, her eyes fixed on the departing spectacle on the street.

‘But what does it mean?' I asked with incredulity.

‘Your father is getting married today,' she repeated again.

‘He can't, you're his wife!' Klara said, alarmed.

Mum didn't respond. Nearly all the cars had gone away, but we could still hear the sound of the horns in the distance.

‘Who is he marrying?'

‘Zainab,' she replied. An instant later, she turned and went back in the house.

The name was familiar. But of course! Zainab was the young woman in the boutique who I had seen that day with Dad at the shopping gallery. I suddenly understood why she was so kind to me.

My father had been having an affair with that girl, almost twenty years his junior, ever since he introduced her to me. She must have been the one who had moved the things in our house while my sisters, Mum and me were away on our trip to Pattaya. It all made sense. Dad had started working late because she worked the night shift. My aunts knew about the relationship – they had supported the union and had wanted my father to marry Zainab. That's why they weren't happy – even disappointed – when Mum got pregnant.

In time I learnt that only Dad's brother Uncle Kassid was against this second marriage. When I was little, my mother told me Uncle Kassid had rocked me in his arms
for hours. Since the war years, he had worked in the Baghdad military hospital, caring for wounded soldiers. He had always been a minor presence in our lives, but he was the only one who tried to defend us in any way. He believed a second marriage, even if the law allowed it, was a shameful act.

To add insult to injury, my father married Zainab without asking my mother's consent, as he should have done according to Muslim law. Ahlam had told her about the wedding, which is how Mum knew exactly what was happening that day on the terrace.

But despite everything, she didn't let herself be disregarded. We had a right to an explanation. A week later, we went to Ahlam's house but she refused to let us in.

‘Mohamed
zawich
! Married! Understand? You need to leave him alone!' she shouted from the doorway.

‘Mohamed is still married to me, too. I know the law, Ahlam. My daughters and I still have rights.'

‘He doesn't want you anymore. Now he has a real wife. Your daughters chose to stay with you. They should have thought about it first. If they'd gone with their father they'd be with him now, in his new house,' my aunt retorted. ‘You've always been an obstacle to my brother's happiness. If you hadn't been so careless with that money it wouldn't have taken him so long to rebuild his life.'

‘That's what he wanted our savings for? To build a house for that home-wrecker? He fooled me into thinking he wanted to take us away from here. Damn him!' my mother hissed through clenched teeth.

‘We couldn't wait for you to leave him.'

‘What are you saying? He was the one who left me, he abandoned me and his three children. He's still obligated to take care of us,' Mum shouted, infuriated.

‘You're wrong. He says you ended the marriage, and now he doesn't owe you anything. He's zawich! Married! Get it through your head!'

Mum could no longer handle Ahlam's torrent of lies. She grabbed me by the arm. ‘Let's get out of here. It's useless,' she said. She turned one last time to look at Ahlam, ‘It's not over yet, I promise. Your brother doesn't have the right to treat us this way. He'll pay.'

Instead, we were the ones to pay – again. Dad refused my mother a legal separation to avoid being forced to pay alimony. I found out many years later that during Dad's second marriage Zainab bore him three more daughters. The boy his family had so desired never arrived.