Regain Your Virginity with Moisturizers

Wind but no rain yet. Even without the rain, the inexorable sadness of the lands of the Mediterranean could not be ignored. The olive trees outside Kara Tepe stood sleeping, soughing instead of snoring, weary in the grayish cold. I parked the car, zipped up my jacket before exiting. Mazen, next to me, matched my movements, except that his eyes seemed to get stuck on a faint oily stain on the belly of his parka. As we entered the camp I told him no one would notice it. He informed me that wasn’t the point. He knew, and since he did, the stain grew to the size of continental Europe. In his mind, of course, he added.

Refugees stood about the camp. We walked into a motionless and cold world, too quiet for that many people up and about, no one moving but Mazen and me. Two women chatted before one of the larger tents. There was no television, one was telling the other, both head scarfed and heavily layered. From the snippets of conversation we heard passing by, it seemed that the talked-to woman was a recent arrival. There was no privacy, the first woman said, no kitchen for cooking, nothing to pass the time, all the waiting with little to do. Not much to look at either, what was she supposed to do, admire sunsets or something? She prayed—that was how she entertained herself—talked to God, who didn’t seem to be listening much these days and who never talked back, tongue-tied as usual.

The dirt beneath my feet seemed frozen, as if dreaming of snow. I shivered, trying to shake off the chill, trying to get rid of winter.

“I should still be in bed,” Emma said, appearing next to us as if by a Swedish magic spell. “See all the things I do for you.”

“As you mentioned for the hundredth time,” I said.

“Well, it’s freezing,” she said. “My bed is comfortable and warm. I left a gorgeous young man in it. I left while he was still asleep. He’ll wake up and wonder what happened to that stunning being he spent the night with.”

“Didn’t take you long,” I said.

“George is quite different from Rodrigo, less talented but more charmingly innocent. He was a virgin until last night.”

Mazen chuckled. “You deserve a medal,” he said.

The whole family was attending Sumaiya, who looked wan, more noticeably jaundiced. A gray blanket covered her undulating chest, a limp oxygen tube tickled her nostrils. Sammy looked terrified, his wife imperturbed, her face slack. She fixed her sight on some point along the canvas’s snow-white ceiling, oblivious to the ebb and flow of her daughters around her. Asma whispered into her mother’s ear, giggling with an effort that would rip her apart if she kept it up. Another daughter ate the remains of Sumaiya’s breakfast, which sat on the laminated fiberboard table. Both Sammy and Sumaiya smiled upon seeing us, his smile nervous, hers drugged beatific. She clutched a distended makeup bag of cloth covered in Palestinian embroideries.

I asked Sammy what happened to the imitation crocodile handbag. He explained that a number of the Syrian ladies in camp had heard that Sumaiya liked her makeup but hadn’t brought any with her when she escaped. They gifted her some of what they had. It wasn’t much, they told Sammy, but he had to accept the offering. The ladies were sure to be able to replenish their paltry losses with better products once they settled in Europe. Sumaiya had no makeup on her face.

I asked how she was doing. Sammy began to speak but stopped when his wife reached for my hand. She nodded happily. Well, she said. She was doing well. Emma was going through the patient report. I didn’t need her to tell me that Sumaiya was not doing well at all.

“Are you in any pain?” I asked her.

“No,” she said in a soft, almost ethereal voice. The scarf was the same one she’d worn the day before.

Mazen spoke up. “Come on, girls. Let’s leave the doctor alone so she can treat your mother. Come on. We can go outside and play a game or, even better, look for a second breakfast.” His eyes searched mine. Mine glanced quickly at Sammy, and my brother understood. “And you too, Sammy,” he said. “Help me find some food and let the doctor work in peace.”

Sumaiya’s eyes were wide open, staring at me in wonder, then at Emma, who was checking her IV. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Sumaiya, still admiring Emma, tapped a finger on my hand.

“She looks like a houri,” Sumaiya said. “I must be dying and going to heaven, because it’s what I see. Don’t tell the children.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. A virginal Emma was difficult for me to imagine. The real one wanted to know what Sumaiya said. I told her, having to explain the word “houri” and its origins. Her reaction surprised me. She almost teared up, her face flushed; even her hands, which reached out to Sumaiya’s, seemed to have more color. She asked me to thank Sumaiya.

“Her skin is soft,” Sumaiya said. “Like fresh milk. Not dry like mine, which is more like powdered milk.”

Emma sat on the bed next to Sumaiya. She rummaged through her pockets, came up with a small bottle of blue plastic.

“Don’t tell her it’s my last one,” Emma said. “I’m telling you because I want you to admit that I do all these things for you. I want a signed receipt from you saying: ‘I don’t know what I’d do without my best friend, Emma.’”

She undid the square knot of the scarf from around Sumaiya’s neck and poured the moisturizer onto the palm of her hand. She applied it thoroughly to Sumaiya’s face and neck, massaging the patient’s skin with a delicate touch. The familiar scent of the cream must have soothed Emma, her face smoothing out before my eyes as if by osmosis. And Sumaiya—Sumaiya purred in pleasure, like a contented cat being visited by bliss. Emma’s fingers repeated movements that had been memorized for years and years, middle and forefinger swipe above the brow, thumbs around the mouth folds, pinky under the eyes, up, down, side to side. When she was done, Emma held the bottle up for Sumaiya to see, unzipped the cloth makeup bag Sumaiya was clutching, and placed the moisturizer inside. While the bag was open, I noticed an unused box of Garnier Nutrisse hair dye before Emma zipped it back up.

Sumaiya turned, and in a voice that seemed quite sane, she said, “Kill me.”