That Memory

The red in his eyes pained my heart.

“Listen, Faris . . .” I sighed.

But he didn’t listen. He was lost in a daze.

“You’d seek a khula?”

“Listen, please.”

“Am I a pair of pants?”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that, Faris.”

“You’d just get rid of me like that?”

I gathered my courage. Got up from my chair and sat on his right. I clasped his palm and squeezed it.

“Divorce would be better for you. If you get remarried you won’t be bothered by a khula case. It would be easier for you. It wouldn’t seem like there’s something wrong with you. You know how people talk, how people see these things . . .”

“Now you’re thinking about what’s best for me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Do you love me?”

I smiled. Squeezed his palm between my hands. “Not enough to be your wife.”

“What do you want us to be?”

“Friends?”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Plus, it’s wrong.”

He makes me smile, this son of righteous society. “Then nothing,” I continued. “We’ll be that memory.”

“What memory?”

“The one you remember and smile at without regret. I want to be that memory.”

He smiled and bowed his head. For the first time I felt that the idea of divorce had penetrated his mind. It had been hovering around him like a moth for two weeks. Now it was inside him, swaying heavily.

“If the divorce takes place at the request of the wife, she loses her right to alimony.”

What an awful expression. Alimony in Arabic is nafaqat al-muta: roughly, ‘pleasure compensation.’ Sounds like he’s being asked to pay for having ‘enjoyed’ me.

I smiled. Then he smiled.

“You know, I really loved you,” he said.

I patted his shoulder. “You really think you loved me?”

“Shame on you for doubting it.”

“Think about it. You loved what you thought I was. You loved the Fatima that Badriya painted for you. A girl who doesn’t want much. A housewife who lives to sculpt flowers out of tomatoes. That’s not me. It’s what you want me to be but it’s not me.”

“I liked your strange ideas sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Sometimes . . .”

We smiled. We were drifting on a wild current taking us right up to the end, except now, for the first time, he was allowing things to happen and not paddling against the current. He took a deep breath.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

He withdrew his hand from mine, stood up. I looked at him from the chair before him. He looked out of reach and taller than usual. He gave me a farewell look.

“Goodbye, dear.”

“Goodbye.” My heart beat like mad.

“I divorce you.”

My whole body went weak. Divorce, no matter how much we may want it, hurts. I wanted to cry but didn’t.

“Tomorrow I’ll go to the court and register the divorce.”

“Thank you.”

It was over. He turned his back to me, opened the door and started to leave.

“Goodbye, Fatima.”

“Goodbye, Faris.”