That was the most she could express about me the first time we talked, but I totally understood where she was coming from. Our culture is never fair to a divorced woman, even more so to a divorced mother; it is simply not accepted in Iraqi society. Women are supposed to be patient and continue on, to just keep quiet and put up with whatever comes their way, no matter how unhappy they may be in their marriages. Still, I couldn’t help but fall for Fatima, and it made my heart hurt to know she was in such pain in her union with my cousin.
The following weeks went on, the same as usual. I picked Sarah up, spent a few moments with Fatima, and we talked on the phone at night. Day by day, little by little, we got to know each other better. In time, it became a bit of an obsession, an addiction on both sides, as if we could not get through the day without hearing one another’s voice.
Around a month later, I went home and picked the most beautiful red rose from my garden, then took it with me to the school. When I gave it to her, she smelled it and kissed it. That night, though, she didn’t answer my call. I tried a dozen times to ring her, but no one picked up.
For the next week, there was no sign of her at the kindergarten, and another teacher took over. Her co-workers told me she was taking some time off, but no one mentioned why. Her quick leave of absence worried me, and a million worst-case scenarios crossed my mind: Is Fatima sick? Oh my God, did Ibrahim find out about us? How could he? We haven’t done anything to arouse suspicions. Even if he did suspect something, all we had really done was talk on the phone for the past four months, and I was sure Fatima could talk her way out of that.
More time passed, and my worry grew. A few days later, I’d had enough, and I had to find an answer. I left work around two and told them I would not be back to Kings and Queens that day. After I picked up Sarah, I drove near Fatima and Ibrahim’s home, keeping my distance. I waited for Ibrahim to leave, as I was well aware of his work schedule. Ten minutes after he took off, I Parked the car closer, and with close proximity, I left Sarah asleep in the car and walked up to ring their doorbell.
Fatima opened the door and froze when she saw me. “What are you doing here, Omar?” she asked, nervously darting her eyes around. “Are you crazy?”
“Where have you been? What is wrong?” I replied.
“Nothing, but this is… It’s all wrong, Omar. It must stop. We just…can’t go on. Please leave,” she begged, standing there in a casual top and jeans, with tears filling her gorgeous eyes.
I was suddenly consumed with the same guilt she felt, so I said nothing more and turned to leave.
A week later, she came back to work, but I deliberately kept my distance. In fact, I arranged to pick Sarah up earlier, so I wouldn’t run into Fatima anymore. I even told her to wait at a different place, to prevent any accidental encounters. Despite doing that, a battle raged within me; part of me craved her, but the other part knew it was for the best that we stayed away from one another.
More weeks passed, and everything seemed to be going smoothly until one day when Ibrahim called to tell me they were throwing a birthday party for the twins. Sarah, some other cousins and friends, and I were invited. It had been a month since I had seen or talked to Fatima, and now I had no choice but to see her again. Turning down the invitation would have only made things more awkward and suspicious, since it was no secret that our daughters were very good friends who saw each other at school daily, not to mention second cousins.
The party was held on a lovely Friday at the end of May. I bought the twins two beautiful bags, gifts Mr. Hani brought from Jordan. They were colorful, with buttons that played different melodies, and inside were sunglasses and headbands.
My mother and my two aunts were there, as were my other cousins and some of their friends. Overall, there were about twenty-five guests. The birthday party was held outside in their garden, and the layout was lovely. Fatima had decorated everything, and the music was nice. It was really like a festival, with balloons of different colors and shapes. A small playground was set up in the corner of the garden, and the kids loved it. There was even a magician to entertain them with his silly tricks. The choice of food was also great. There were tasty hotdogs and burgers with fries for the kids, and the grownups enjoyed rice, kebabs, and appetizers.
Throughout the four hours I was there, I said only six words to Fatima: “Hello. How are you?” when we first met, and, “Thank you,” as we made our way out. Only once did we make eye contact, quite by chance, when we all had a photo taken together. I stood from my chair, as I was in the way of the photographer, and in that brief second when I turned, when our eyes met, I felt her whole face light up. It was not easy, but I made sure to remain emotionless.
At sunset, the party was over, and everyone went home. Then, at exactly ten p.m. that night, my phone rang.
“I just want to thank you for the gifts. The girls have been carrying them around ever since they opened them, ignoring their other presents. The melodies are still playing in my head. Thanks for coming, Omar,” Fatima said.
“It was our pleasure. You know I love the twins. Have a good night. You deserve it after all the hard work you did on the party” I said, then prepared to hang up.
“Omar, that’s not all. I also called to say…I love you,” she rushed out.
I was rendered silent by that, unable to say a word.
“I’ve been trying everything for the past month. I even made sure to dress up, to wear my best clothes, but he didn’t say a thing. I prepared his favorite foods, but he just doesn’t care. Omar, whenever I’m alone, all I can think about is you. Your eyes speak a million words to me. No one—especially not my husband—looks at me the way you do. I am such a mess, Omar. What am I supposed to do? I-I can’t stand this life. For the girls’ party, I had to do everything on my own. To him, a few balloons would have been enough. He only stayed out there long enough for the girls to open a couple gifts, and then he went back to his study. He didn’t even bother to help me clean up the mess. By nine o’clock, he was already in bed.” She paused and sighed. “I’m sorry I’m telling you all this, complaining to you, Omar, but you… Well, you’re the closest thing I have to a friend, I guess.”
“Fatima, the party was beautiful, even for someone my age. All those colors and decorations in your beautiful garden… It made my inner child happy, and I’m sure the kids felt they were in Heaven. The food was also excellent. You did an amazing job,” I said with a smile in my voice, as I meant every word.
“You always know what to say to cheer me up. Thanks, Omar,” she said.
“Have a warm bath, Fatima, and do you have any jazz music?”
“No.”
“Well, just have a nice soak and enjoy some warm milk. It will help you relax. You did great today. Just forget all the bad things and start fresh tomorrow. Oh, and you should know that your perfume took my breath away.”
“Really? How did you even smell it? You barely looked at me, avoided me all day.”
I went on to explain the truth to her, that every essence of her scent, right down to the last flower and fruit, I just sensed.
During that brief conversation, her mood lifted, and her voice filled with life again. When she hung up, she sounded like an entirely different person, the Fatima I knew and loved instead of the miserable, helpless zombie Ibrahim was turning her into.
That night, I called Aws and confessed, “I am in trouble, deep trouble.”
Twenty minutes later, my friend was at my doorstep. We talked over a lovely late dinner, and a good red wine.
“You asked if I loved her. I can’t even whisper her name, my heart might burst out of my chest”
At the conclusion of that talk, he said words that would echo in my mind for years to come: “You are playing with fire, and this is not just any fire. Once you start this inferno, you won’t be able to extinguish it, Omar.”
I knew he was right, but I fully gave in. I crossed that red line and didn’t look back. What made it easier was that Fatima
’s life at home was utterly broken, and I took full advantage of that.
I began looking for any excuse to meet her. The first was an Eid gathering at my home. After thirty days of fasting from sunrise to sunset during the month of Ramadan, Eid with its holy feast was celebrated at my home this time. I invited the whole family and a few friends, of course Fatima and her family were present. We spent the whole day stealing glances. As wrong as it was, it felt good. I felt alive again, and I knew she felt the same. For a brief moment, I thought, What the hell am I doing? But that all changed when I saw how Ibrahim reacted after one of his twins fell down and tore her jeans while running around and playing with other kids in the garden. His loud, booming voice caught everyone’s attention. Fatima tried to comfort the child, but Ibrahim rudely told Fatima it was her fault because she was always too soft on them.
I am not one to judge or get involved with other people’s family business, but that was too much. Everyone heard how badly he was treating her and how poorly he handled the situation with his kids. He was overreacting and embarrassing his wife and daughter, and any guilt I felt melted away in the wake of that. The minute I managed to catch Fatima sitting alone, I approached her and consoled, “Don’t be sad, dear. I wish I was him, your man. Please forget what happened and try to enjoy your day.”
“My hero, now and forever,” she softly replied, the first time she’d ever said that to me. After that, she smiled, went with the other women, and had a great time.
I met them on a regular basis from then on, and every week or two, we went to the social club for bingo night, just Sarah and me and their family of four. For three hours, we exchanged secret looks but spoke few words. We called each other at night, shared compliments, and talked about the discussions during those outings.
That went on for a few months, but when summer came and school was not in session, the bingo nights were not enough. We simply had to see each other more, so I began driving to her house every other weekday at exactly eight thirty a.m. Without fail, every other weekday, at that very moment, Fatima walked out of her home, opened their gate slightly, and stood there with her mug of tea and milk while I passed by the car. I made three or four passes, and on the last, I dropped a red or pink rose, then made my way to work. Thinking about that now, I realize I was already very deep in the relationship, acting like a teenager who’d just found his first love. A few times, I left her a cassette, a mix tape of songs. Other times, I left letters, a few words signed with our trademark insignia, four red roses that shared one green root. I even surprised her once by decorating a cupcake with that design. Sarah took it to her on a special teacher’s day when school started again, a red velvet treat with our special mark on the top. Fatima couldn’t believe it and called me as soon as she got home, to thank me and tell me how much she loved me.
Another year passed, and Fatima seemed to be getting more and more lost. She would laugh one day, at anything and everything, but the next, she would barely say a word. Her internal struggle was fierce, and in November of that year, she finally took action.
When she called me, crying, I could not understand what she was saying at first. When she finally calmed down, she explained that she’d gotten into a fight with Ibrahim again, something related to the twins. She packed her bags and took the girls to her parents’ house. I offered her any help she needed.
The first few days were fine, and during that time, we went out together for the first time. I picked her up an hour before sunset, a few blocks from her parents’ home; she told them she was going to visit a friend. She was absolutely stunning, in maroon trousers and a loose, flowy white top. Her hair was in an up-do, exposing her face and two dangling earrings.
We drove around cautiously, and I bought us some fresh beverages from a juice shop. I opted for lemon mint juice with salt inside instead of sugar, but she preferred sweet melon juice. I then parked the car in a nice, quiet area overlooking the Tigris. It was a clear day. We stayed in the car and watched the sunset over the river. An hour later, the moon reflected its beauty on the Tigris as well. The sun, the moon, and Fatima. What more could I want? I said to myself, and forevermore, we would refer to that day as our “sun and moon day.”
We stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity, till her eyes glistened with tears and she had to turn away. As much as we loved each other, we respected the boundaries. Up until that moment, I had not even touched her hands, because she was someone else’s, at least on paper. Fatima was scared at first that someone might see and recognize us, but then she agreed to get out of the car and walk closer to the river. That was the first time I ever touched her.
“Do you trust me, Fatima?”
She nodded.
“Close your eyes and don’t move.” I then moved behind her, took a necklace out of my pocket, slowly lifted her hair, and put it on her. I heard her breathing heavily as I stood behind her. My breath wasn’t quiet either, because the warmth of her skin excited me.
Fatima didn’t say a word or move. She was obedient and trusted me with all her heart. The moment I told her to open her eyes, she did. She glanced down at the jewelry I’d placed on her, a circular pendant, half of its interior filled with small leaves.
“This circle represents our life, Fatima, and those leaves represent everything we have now. It is only half full. Together, we will fill the other half.”
I felt her heart melt with every word I said. By the time I finished, she was in another world. She did not utter a word as we made our way back. I dropped her off at the same place where I’d picked her up, and, just like that, our wonderful, unforgettable day ended, one of the few we ever had.
We continued talking a lot in the days that followed, but her mood seemed to change. The consistent nagging of her mother and Ibrahim’s daily calls got to her. She felt she was a burden on her mother, who went on and on about society all the time, worried that Fatima’s absence from her husband looked bad and made a poor impression of their family. She was very quiet for a while, but then she became angry, and that rage was often directed at me. Eventually, she ordered me to leave her alone for a while. She felt she was being selfish, taking the kids from their father just because she was unhappy. She knew she had to accept her fate; she had chosen and married Ibrahim, and that was it. Three weeks later, she went back to him, and that cycle repeated itself twice over the course of the next three months, hurting me time and time again.
In time, when we resumed our lovely daily talks, they became less and less romantic. “What is next, Omar? Tell me?” she demanded. “I can neither leave this marriage nor realistically stay in it. I am just…lost. This is screwed up from every angle. Even if I leave and accept society’s brutal treatment of me as a divorcee, I can’t be with you, my ex-husband’s cousin. It would be the talk of the city. Imagine how people would look at me. What about my daughters? What kind of a role model will I be to them if I do that?”
I had remained silent on the matter for too long, far longer than I should have, and I finally had to give her my opinion: “Divorce him and stay single for a few years, while I gradually come into your life. If we move slowly, the community will learn to accept it. Either that, or you have to stay in your marriage and try to work it out and forget all about us.”
She refused the first option time and time again. “Even if I decide to leave, we can never be together, Omar. Never! Is it worth it?” she asked. “We can never go out in public, never even enjoy a decent, normal dinner together without fear. Everything will have to be done in secret. I have to laugh when you say you will make me your queen in front of the entire world, that you will dance with me regardless. That is a mirage, a fantasy, like something out of The Arabian Nights. It will never happen, and we will always, always have to hide our love.” She went on to say, “It is easy for you to suggest, because you are single, a widower. In a way, you have destroyed my home. I don’t even see your cousin as a man anymore. I can’t have you, yet I can’t live without you
after all this.”
At times I offered her a reply, but at other times, I knew it was best to keep quiet.
Sometimes, Fatima disappeared from my life for a week or two. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I would see her car parked in front of my house when I stepped out to go to work. Once, I spotted her there early, around seven a.m.
At first, the only people who knew about her problems at home were those who lived there, as well as her mother. Then one day, at our weekly Friday family lunch, attended by Sarah, me, and my brother and his wife when they were in Iraq, Ibrahim’s mother showed up. It wasn’t entirely unusual to see my aunt, but it wasn’t that common either. She seemed nervous and very distressed, and I easily guessed why.
She sat down with my mother to talk in their kitchen. I walked in every now and then and overheard a little of what they were saying. They mentioned Fatima and Ibrahim more than once, and my mother looked at me strangely when Fatima’s name came up.
“Omar, isn’t Ibrahim a nice man?” my aunt said to me, crying.
It was the hardest question I had ever had to answer, a reality I was not ready to face. Not sure what to say or do, I deliberately let the glass slip out of my hand. As my aunt and mother rushed to fetch a broom to clean it up, I hurried out of the kitchen.
Baghdad: The Final Gathering Page 10