only the Albino’s taste had been a little better! Why did you choose precisely her, Albino? What drew you to her? “A fine metal thread, too hard and solid for your bombs to destroy, Luqman,” he used to answer.
And when a shell mowed down Salaam’s parents, hiding from a bombardment in the shelter, the Albino exulted joyously. Luqman had never seen him so worked up.
“She didn’t cry, Luqman!” the Albino was saying. “And when I went to comfort her, she looked at me for a long time and said with a touch of reproach, ‘You offer me your condolances for two old people, Albino, while the gang are dying by the dozens, no, the hundreds?’”
On that day, the Albino was certain that he loved her, that he had loved her for a long time, from the very first instant. He kissed her on the hand and the head and fired off twenty rounds in her honor.
--
Luqman knocked on the door. This was another point in Salaam’s favor: a wooden door with opaque glass; no doorbell or buzzer.
She woke up.
He heard the bedroom door creak. He heard her heavy feet in their slippers shuffling over the old, yellow floor tiles. If only she would lose a little weight, then maybe...Even if she lost weight, what would he do about her age? She was over forty. What about her hairy chin? What about her face? Whenever he saw it, he felt that the skin was sagging and melting away. What would he do with her cracked lips? And what about her small, dry breasts? Her ass! Of course, if he focused on her ass, then maybe...The thought had crossed his mind. But if he set aside the rest of the details and kept the ass like it was, wouldn’t it, too, appear with surprises of its own?
The door opened.
He hadn’t been wrong. He had surprised her by coming this morning. And she surprised him with her puffy eyes and the way her short hair stood up on the side of her head like a cat that had been electrocuted.
She smiled and embraced him. The odor of her breath shocked him, and her oily sweat stuck to his cheek. He pushed her away. “Someone might see us,” he said.
She looked at him kindly and showed him in.
“Be careful not to step on the traps! The rats are killing me,” she said. She disappeared into the bathroom.
Luqman heard the splashing of the shower as he took a turn around the sitting room. Old furniture, without a speck of dust. He touched things. Cold and clean. He pushed open the bedroom door and saw the bed. White sheets, clean and white like snow. Like the amazing body of Marina. No! He should put Marina out of his mind for now. Out of respect for Salaam, for all she did on his behalf without any payment, or for the sake of some recompense that he kept putting off.
At the beginning, when he began visiting her after the Albino’s death, she had maintained a definite reticence. Then, towards the end of the war, when the comrades began to be hunted down and thrown in prison, she came to him one evening and said, “Don’t stay here a single moment longer! You’ll be safe at my place.” She had gathered his things for him and brought him to her house, saying, “Stay here. No one will see you or turn you in.”
No one saw him again for weeks.
She would come home to him from her work at the telephone exchange—“the Central,” as it was called—bringing news about strangers and relatives, about allies and enemies. She would make dinner in the evening and talk to him about the Albino and about her life, which had been shattered by the Albino’s death. She would talk about her terrible luck, which had robbed her of a friend, a brother, a husband, and a father for the children she would never have. She would fall silent for a while and then conclude her speech by swearing she would never again think about men.
A few more weeks.
Here was Salaam, enjoying his presence and no longer talking about the Albino when she made dinner. Deep down, she had begun to cherish the dream of marrying Luqman. He figured that out from the news of raids and detentions, which she started inventing sometimes, exaggerating the details in order to make him afraid and keep him there. Later, he had no doubt about it when she began to shower him with gifts and embarrass him with effusive gestures of respect.
Another few weeks.
Here was Luqman, enjoying in turn his free stay at this luxurious hotel. But Salaam surprised him. She didn’t limit herself to that kind of persuasion alone. She began resorting to an endless litany of laudatory ethical descriptions, which she began hanging on her breast as badges, or jabbing into his chest like safety pins.
“Isn’t a true woman the housewife rather than the fashion model? Aren’t honor and morals the two essential pillars for the success of the institution of marriage? Doesn’t one hand need its sister in order to clap?”
And so on, with other enigmatic and loaded sentences that aimed at leading him into a marriage trap.
At first, Luqman let himself get caught up in Salaam’s game because he believed he was the one calling the shots. He would respond to her questions by advocating the counterarguments to her face, feeding that game of incursions and increasing her zealous efforts to persuade him. But as she became more aggressive and no longer stopped at the border, he realized his danger and the need to escape with his skin intact before losing his chance.
When he let her know he intended to leave, she became furious and slapped him. Then she used her fear for him as a pretext for his staying, claiming his stubbornness was an act of suicide. But by now, she had regained her senses and become calm after a long torment. Perhaps she had despaired. Or else she understood and was content with his occasional visits.
She still pampered him. She loved him in silence and pampered him. Nevertheless, despite all that she did for him, Luqman didn’t fall into the trap. Instead, he would “remain faithful,” as he put it, to the memory of a friend he used to have. He wouldn’t touch her in order to make her understand that he, for his part, saw in her a woman he respected, even venerated. She was the wife he didn’t deserve, he who had no past or future.
He persuaded her of all this without needing to use words. Just looks and sighs that Salaam took days, even weeks, to interpret. Until the time came for a subsequent visit and a new puzzle, a riddle wrapped inside an enigma, which he would drop in her lap to distract her from him. She would devote herself to taking apart the riddle, and he would slip away for periods of varying length—according to the amount of provisions he obtained from her—never more than a month...
--
Salaam came out of the bathroom followed by a cloud of soap and perfume. She was looking much better now. Well, a little better anyway.
Luqman went with her into the kitchen. She made breakfast. Cream, yogurt, za’atar, fried eggs, and cheeses. Fresh mint leaves, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Warm bread, as though fresh from the bakery oven.
He sat across the table from her. As she was cutting the food and seasoning it with salt and spices, she said a little flirtatiously, “What got you up so early like this? Or after being out all night as usual, did you get fed up and remember Salaam?”
Luqman smiled. Now the sweat was beading on her temples and her cracked lips. After a bit, the spots would appear under her bushy armpits. A sweaty woman. That was more than he could endure. Salaam was a woman for the winter. Marina was a cool breeze for the summer.
“I didn’t sleep yesterday,” Salaam went on.
“Why not?”
“After midnight and after two sleeping pills, the Albino’s mother woke me up. She had come down with some kind of fever or delirium. She began stomping on the floor of the room right above my head, calling, ‘Salaam! Come quickly, Salaam!’ I got up like a madwomen and raced up the stairs four at a time. I thought someone had broken in, to rob or kill her. But I found her all alone in her nightgown. I gave her a sedative and told her, ‘Calm down, Lurice!’ Which she did. I waited until I was sure she was okay, and she fell asleep near dawn. That’s when I came down to sleep...Why are you lighting a cigarette? You haven’t eaten anything yet!”
Luqman