“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.
My patience is wearing thin, but I hold out. Soon I’ll tell him to go to hell, not right away. There’s no hurry. I can’t deny that I’m rather amused. I have to play the game, his game. I ask another question:
“Where are you going to find this muhallil?”
“I’ve already found him.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me it’s Akram, the owner of Little Cairo.”
“No, I don’t trust him.”
“Yes, they say he has three wives. I could be the fourth. So it would close the circle.”
“No, it’s not Akram.”
“Then it must be the imam butcher, Signor Haram.”
“No, not him. Anyway it’s better if he’s not Egyptian.”
“Oh, I see, he’s not Egyptian. Will you tell me who it is?”
“My friend Issa.”
“The Tunisian?”
“Yes. If you agree I’ll talk to him right away.”
Issa the Tunisian, alias the Arab Marcello. This is certainly news. Now Divorce Islamic Style in Viale Marconi has surpassed all the Egyptian, Mexican, Brazilian, and Turkish soap operas put together.
Here’s a proposal that interests me! I ought to accept immediately, without asking my girlfriends for advice. Maybe it’s a sign of maktùb.
I like the Arab Marcello a lot. I suppose I’m a little in love with him, as Samira says. In the end, after thinking it over a bit, I tell the architect that I accept, generally speaking, his candidate.
In the afternoon I decide to go to Little Cairo to call my family. I’d like to relieve their minds. As soon as I arrive I see the Arab Marcello, watching Al Jazeera. Now we have to get serious. I go over and ask him straight out to meet me at the Marconi library. It will be more tranquil, far from Akram’s surveillance.
He arrives in ten minutes. I like to get right to the point. And so? So what. He just has to say if he agrees or not about the marriage. A very simple question, or am I wrong? Thank God, the architect has already talked to him, so I can be spared a rendition of the idiotic scene of the divorced woman looking for a new husband, her savior.
“Will you agree?”
“You mean to get married and divorce right afterward, so you can marry Felice again?”
“No, I don’t want to marry him again. Our marriage is over forever.”
“Felice is my friend, I can’t betray him.”
“Why talk about betrayal? It’s all halal. I am now divorced and I can marry someone else, as long as he’s a Muslim, and you are. Islam is clear on this point.”
“Sofia . . . I . . . can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t.”
“Because you don’t want a divorced woman, with a child, besides?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then you want a virgin, like the suicide bombers!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Then why?”
The Arab Marcello is in love with me. You can read it in his eyes. I feel it when he takes my hand. But he is very troubled. I have a feeling that he has a secret. What can it be? Maybe it’s something he can’t confess. He reminds me of Marcello Mastroianni in Bell’Antonio, when he hides his impotence from his wife in every possible way. Or in A Special Day, when he finally abandons his flirtation with Sophia Loren because he’s a homosexual.
Arab Marcello, what are you hiding from me?
It’s possible that he’s afraid of the responsibilities of marriage. In other words, I’m also the mother of a daughter. I know Arabs very well, because I’m an Arab. I know they’re fixated on virginity. And I, alas, I’m not a virgin, what can I do about it? Well, I could always become one again, if it turned out to be indispensable. A small grant to the cosmetic surgeon would be sufficient.
I feel that this guy really does love me, but . . . but he’s afraid. Of what? Of whom? I trust my feminine intuition. I’m sure he’s hiding something from me.
Arab Marcello, why don’t you tell me the truth?
Issa
Saber wakes me at seven in the morning. He whispers, in order not to disturb our sleeping companions—Felice is looking for me, he’s waiting at the door. What does he want? They’ve discovered everything and are going to do me in? Has the moment of truth arrived, time for action?
I get up feeling a bit dopey, put on my slippers and leave the room. I see Felice leaning against the door. Instinctively I look at his hands. Luckily he’s not holding a gun or, worse, a knife. Just at this moment I think of the last sequences in the video showing poor Nick Berg, the young American kidnapped in Iraq in 2004, having his throat cut.
“Hello, Felice.”
“Hello, Issa, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Everything all right?”
“I’d like to ask a huge favor.”
“What?”
“Not here, let’s go out.”
I ask for ten minutes to go to the toilet, wash my face, and change. It takes even less time because the bathroom is free. The place is quite peaceful this morning.
I join Felice, who in the meantime has gone downstairs and is waiting at the entrance of the buildng. I suggest that we go have breakfast at the café, but he doesn’t want to, he’s in too much of a hurry. Without wasting any more time I ask, “What’s the matter, Felice? You look tired.”
“I’m in trouble—I’ve made an unforgivable mistake.”
“What did you do?”
“I divorced my wife for the third time. So now she’s not my wife anymore.”
Felice tells me the whole story, in all its details. He reveals for the first time some details of his marriage. He admits, for example, that Sofia doesn’t love him as much as he loves her, and that she doesn’t want to have more children. Felice would like to have a boy, to name after his father, who died a couple of years ago. I’m touched to see him weeping in despair. He admits that he’s responsible. He keeps repeating, “Jealousy is a terrible disease.” He’s very worried about his daughter’s future. He explains to me that the third divorce is final. Now he can’t even touch Sofia, it’s haram. If he wants her back as his wife, she has to marry another man, obviously a Muslim, and then divorce him. Then, and only then, can Felice remarry her. What acrobatics! A true religious somersault.
“Issa, you’re the only one who can help me out of this nightmare.”
“Me? how?”
“You have to marry my wife.”
“What? Marry your wife?”
“You’re a respectable person, Issa, and I trust
you. I’ve persuaded her, she’ll do it.”
Felice immediately moves on to the practical aspects. The marriage has to be consummated. Translated into Italian: Sofia and I have to make love, like a married couple. I don’t dare ask how many times we have to do it. We men are obsessed with quantity, women prefer quality. What bullshit clichés are rushing into my mind now!
I’m getting a headache, without my morning coffee. This is certainly a remarkable situation, completely out of the ordinary. It doesn’t happen every day that someone, an observant Muslim, besides, asks you to marry his wife and go to bed with her. It seems more like something for swingers. Could there be Islamic swinging or swinging Islamic style? Enough, don’t be ridiculous.
Felice uses all the weapons at his disposal to try and persuade me, and even resorts to a couple of quotations from the Prophet, one on friendship and the other on solidarity. He also comes out with a verse from the Koran, but I don’t understand the connection with what we’re saying. I prefer to skip over it. I feel sympathy for him, goodness knows, but how can I do what he asks?
Still, I go along with the game, I listen patiently to his arguments. He wants to settle things right away to cut off any gossip. I doubt that he’ll succeed—news like this spreads in the blink of an eye. That bullshit privacy doesn’t exist on Viale Marconi. The story could end up on Al Jazeera: MUSLIM IMMIGRANT SEEKS HUSBAND FOR OWN WIFE! News like that would overshadow even the appearance of Osama bin Laden in a world exclusive on Al Jazeera. Scandal on a global level.
We part, finally, with an emotional embrace, leaving the “negotiations” open. After all, we’ll see each other this afternoon at work.
I immediately go to the café for an espresso to get rid of my headache. Sofia and I as husband and wife! Who could have imagined it? I feel something for her, it’s pointless to deny it. I think of her constantly. It would be great to marry her and disappear into the void. Far away from Viale Marconi, Judas, Felice, and everyone. Only her and me, and, if she wants, her daughter as well. That’s no problem, I’ll be a father to her. Have Sofia beside me, look into her eyes, touch her, kiss her. Am I awake or dreaming?
Stop this raving. I have to reason with my head, I can’t just listen to the heart. Ah, the head, it still hurts. One coffee is not enough. I order another. Run away with Sofia. That’s a good plan. Where could we go? Sicily? Tunisia? We’d have to cover our tracks, the way secret agents do when they decide to end their career and change their life. Cut the cord and go forward, without turning back. Marry Sofia. Be the husband of Sofia. Have the children of Sofia. Shit, I’m delirious.
The truth is that this business is a real black hole, there is no hope of finding a way out. So why the self-delusion? I would have to tell her everything, reveal that I’m not a Tunisian Muslim immigrant but an Italian informer. A spy. I’m sure she wouldn’t understand and would never forgive me. I imagine the scene:
“Sofia, I’d like to tell you a secret.”
“What, Issa?”
“My name isn’t Issa but Christian, and I’m not a Muslim immigrant from Tunisia.”
“Really? Then who are you?”
“I’m Sicilian.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and I’m a spy for the Italian secret service.”
“What?”
“I’ve even seen you naked while you make love with Felice.”
“You’re a piece of shit. I never want to see you again. Fuck off!”
I leave the bar and decide to take a walk. I get almost all the way to Viale Trastevere. Walking helps me relax a little.
Then I retrace my steps and head for Little Cairo. I go in. I don’t see Akram, in his place there’s a very tall kid. He’s probably Egyptian, too. Today I have neither the intention nor the desire to call my “Tunisian family.” I don’t want to hear anything else, I’ve already had my daily fill of news. I just watch Al Jazeera. It’s showing a repeat of a program of political analysis: three guests in a studio in London and a fourth connected by video in New York. They’re talking about a new fashion in Arab regimes: leaders handing over power to their own children. Even though the subject is interesting, even entertaining, I can’t manage to concentrate. Around and around, and I always end up with the image of Sofia. It’s a real obsession. What the fuck should I do? Inform Captain Judas about it or leave him in the dark? Agree to marry her, whatever the cost? A grand love story like this doesn’t happen every day. My mental jerk-off doesn’t last long. I’m distracted by the shouting of one of the participants on the talk show, an Arab from the opposition in exile in the British capital. “A country,” he cries, “cannot be considered property, like a house at the sea or in the mountains, to leave as an inheritance to one’s children. We have hit bottom, we can’t go any further. We Arabs are pitiful in the eyes of all the peoples of the world. We have to. . .” I don’t have time to hear the whole litany because who do I see emerging from one of the booths? Sofia!
She comes over.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
“I have to talk to you.”
“O.K.”
“I’ll expect you at the Marconi library in ten minutes.”
I pretend I’m still following the television debate, but now my mind is elsewhere. I leave Little Cairo after a couple of minutes. Staying in one place makes me more anxious. Better to walk to get rid of some of the tension. I cross the market and reach the Marconi library punctually. I go up to the first floor. She’s waiting for me, and wastes no time with preliminaries.
“My ex-husband told you about the marriage?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve agreed?”
I ask myself, why are women always in a hurry? This question I don’t want to hear. At least, not now. It’s a real trap. I can’t answer. Life can’t be white or black. Shit, isn’t there gray? Or not?
The truth is that I have a great fear of losing her, so I try to gain time. I take advantage of her desire to unburden herself. So I also hear her version of the events. It’s not different from Felice’s, except for one detail. He thinks there’s still hope of mending the breach, while for her there’s no way: the third divorce is irrevocable. I’m moved when I see her tears. I feel like hugging her, but I can’t. I simply place my hand on hers. It’s the first time I’ve touched her. A charge of electricity runs through my whole body.
“So you agree to the marriage?”
I have no answer. Sofia is very patient, she wants to soothe me. She has definite ideas about the future, our future. I needn’t worry about the financial aspect, despite my precarious situation. L’occhi chini e ’a panza vacanti: eyes full and stomach empty. She says that she’ll get work as a hairdresser (it’s the first time I’ve heard of a hairdresser who wears a veil in Italy), it shouldn’t be a problem, because she’s very good. She already has some regular clients. She has a plan to set up on her own.
We make a date for the next day, same place and same time, to exchange news.
In the early afternoon I get a phone call from Captain Judas. He wants to see me urgently. Not at operation headquarters in Via Nazionale but in a café near Piazza della Radio. Why all this hurry? He’ll blow my cover if he keeps this up!
It doesn’t take me long to reach the place of the appointment. He’s sitting in a corner, but one from which he can see everything. He’s in a good mood.
“Hello, Tunisian.”
“What the fuck is going on, captain? Why did you tell me to come here? What’s happened to all the precautions?”
“Sit down, we have to drink a toast.”
“The occasion?”
“Your mission is completed. If you like, you can return to Sicily today.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve identified the two suicide bombers.”
“And who might they be?”
“Your friend Felice and his better half.”
“Sofia?”
“The very one. What luck! It’s the first instanc
e in the West of a woman suicide bomber.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
Triumphantly, Judas tells me that while we’re there drinking our toast the police are arresting all the members of the two cells: Akram, Imam Zaki alias Signor Halal, Ali the convert, and, obviously, the couple Felice and Sofia (I wonder: didn’t he hear the story of the third divorce?). Tomorrow morning there will be a big press conference revealing the behind-the-scenes details of Operation Little Cairo. High U.S. and Egyptian officials are arriving in Rome. We’ll be well rewarded: for him almost surely a promotion to the rank of commander, for me money and good opportunities for work in Italy and abroad. Then he tells me that the discovery of the identity of the two suicide bombers was possible thanks to the decoding of an event that took place the other day: Felice and Sofia spread the news of their divorce, and that was the coded message to take action. Because if they divorce now, that is, before blowing themselves up, they can be married again in Paradise.
This story makes no sense. It doesn’t stand up. It doesn’t convince me at all. I can’t remain silent.
“I’m really sorry, but I don’t see any evidence.”
“What bullshit is that, Tunisian. We have tons of proof, more than enough to fuck them all. In Italy in recent years we’ve arrested quite a number of Muslim immigrants on charges of terrorism, on the basis of circumstantial evidence, never or almost never real proof. I’m telling you, there’s no problem: we’re sure that the terrorists of Viale Marconi are really the plotters.”
“Oh yes? Then you must have also found the explosives.”
“No, but we’ve taken steps.”
“In what sense?”
“Tonight we planted a moderate amount of TNT in their fine mosque.”
“So you want to get them!”
“Tunisian, are you with us or with them?”
“I’m with the truth.”
“I repeat, they are not innocent people, understand? But if we didn’t find the explosives they would immediately relax and we would look like shit. The explosive material is the bait to force them to confess everything.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t agree with those methods.”
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