I’m sharing a room with one of the Russian’s other wives. She is called Maysan. She is his second, I am the third.
At a guess she’s younger than me, a local. She reminds me of girls I knew at school, the ones who had the strictest parents and you hardly knew they were there, they spent their whole time trying to disappear into the corners. Pretty, but skinny, and timid. She comes in while I’m unpacking and nods a greeting before busying herself in a chest of drawers, looking for something that I’m not sure exists. I leave her to it.
The first wife shows me round. A big woman, under her abaya, she must be nearly six foot, a proper wife for him. I can’t tell where she’s from. She has an odd accent, not Russian, her voice is hard and harsh, and she barks out short sentences like she doesn’t want any conversation. I don’t think she’s thrilled to find me here. I get the impression she’s been told to take charge of me but would much rather the house was hers alone.
There are rules. So many rules. Which bathroom I’m allowed to use and when, the places I’m not allowed to go (his office, the dining room and sitting room unless invited, the garages for his cars, the basement, the main bedroom, the main bathroom), when I will be eating my meals, what to do if I need the toilet in the night. Mealtimes are complicated. If he is away fighting, the three wives eat in the kitchen at seven, but when he’s home the four of us sit down at eight, unless he has fellow commanders in the house, in which case he may choose to be with none or all of us, with the rest making do in the kitchen. The children eat separately, except on feast days. Under no circumstances can he see any of his wives before he has had his breakfast, unless he has spent the night with them, in which case he may ask that wife to join him, or he may not. To be safe – the way she says it it’s more like an order than advice – it is best to wait until he has eaten before going to wash. The same goes for the children.
We aren’t meant to cook, but together we are responsible for overseeing the Yazidi girl who prepares all our food. If it isn’t good enough, he will punish us and we will punish her, and she’s Yazidi, a teenager, so you have to be on top of her the whole time. Basically we do quite a lot of it. He likes chicken, and fattoush, and the bread has to be very fresh, as does the baklava, so she checks it at the baker’s each day and if he tries to palm her off with yesterday’s muck – well, he tried that once and he probably won’t try it again. Still, it’s important to look over his shoulder, make sure he’s concentrating. Sometimes if she can’t do this, when she has other things to do, maybe I could go there in her place, with one of the guards (we do not speak to the guards). When I tell her that I work all day with the Yazidis she throws her hands up and asks no one in particular what she did to deserve two such useless wives.
There are three children. She doesn’t say who their mothers are, or whether they’re girls or boys, but I know from the crying I’ve heard that one of them is a baby. They all share a room. I’m not to go in it.
Her name is Hafa. His is Borz. He is from Dagestan, a great warrior in his homeland who established a caliphate there before joining this greater battle. She corrects herself. This greater war. That is all I need to know, except that some of our most glorious victories have been his, and that it is a great privilege to be his wife. As she says it she tries to give me the kind of stare her husband does but it has nothing like the same effect.
Borz and I are married in the house the next day, Saturday. When I lay my best niqab out on the bed that morning it’s like the old me is still inside it, being joined to Khalil, first by God and then on earth. The only time I ever put it on was my wedding day. I swear I can feel him in the room with me, and it’s all I can do not to break down. I’m honoured, of course, to be the wife of a truly great warrior. When I left London how could I ever have imagined such a thing? It’s a fairy tale, and I should be glad. First I married a prince, and now I am marrying a king.
As I come downstairs I see Imam Talib in the sitting room. It’s fitting, that it should be him again, and it must mean that I am a special case after all, that the waiting period can be shortened. That puts my mind at rest. To maintain the dignity of the occasion he doesn’t look at me as I come in. Umm Karam is there as well. It feels like they are there to bless me into my new family.
Borz is in white, as he always seems to be. He nods to me as I stand by him. His eyes are at rest again.
The words are said, and we are husband and wife. Afterwards Borz leaves the house and says nothing to me before he goes.