Divorce Islamic Style (12 page)

“We, on the other hand, can’t give Aida a little brother.”

“It’s
maktùb
.”

“
Maktùb
has nothing to do with it. God has given us health. We’re healthy.”

“Thank God.”

“It’s you who don’t want to.”

“I’m sorry, it’s not the moment to talk about this. I’ve had a terrible headache since this morning. I’m going to take an aspirin and lie down for a while.”

Usually I don’t use the feminine ruse of the headache to avoid some “conjugal obligation.” But in this situation I can’t do anything else. I have no alternatives. I’m sorry, this time I’m not going to fall for it like a fly in the honey jar.

Have another child now? He absolutely shouldn’t talk about it. Akram can be a father for the fourth time or the fortieth, I don’t give a damn about him. God alone knows how many children that secret polygamist has brought into the world.

Around six I take Aida and go to Samira’s. As soon as she sees me she cries, “Sofia, I have a surprise for you!”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’ve managed to record the play with Adel Imam.”

“Which one?”

“
Sayed the Servant
.”

Fantastic! It’s a comedy from the late eighties or early nineties, very famous in the Arab world. What’s it about? Well, it tells the story of Sayed, a young servant in a wealthy family. His life is turned upside down after the daughter of the house is divorced for the third time. In exchange for a sum of money, Sayed receives a proposal to be the
muhàllil
, that is, to marry the girl and then divorce her, so that she’ll be able to return to her first husband. What? I’ve already explained the business of divorce in Islam. O.K., I’ll repeat it, but this is the last time. Couples are allowed two divorces; after the third no reconciliation is possible. If a couple wants to go back to being husband and wife she has to marry another man, strictly Muslim, consummate the marriage, and then divorce him. Is it clear now?

Back to Sayed, the servant. After he marries the rich girl, things get complicated, because Sayed refuses to divorce her. The two fall in love. The actor Adel Imam is extraordinary. You could die laughing.

I go home and watch the wonderful
Divorce Italian Style,
with Marcello Mastroianni. The story is entertaining. A Sicilian baron sets up the perfect plot to get rid of his wife and marry another, younger woman, and then . . .

I
wake up around eight. I don’t feel like getting in line for the bathroom. I’m thinking about going to wash my face in the kitchen sink and then heading out to the café to pee in the bathroom there. What to do? The truth is that I feel kind of down, so I decide to lie in bed for a few minutes. In a hurry I’m not. I start thinking about the mission, this damn Little Cairo operation. So far I’ve gotten no concrete results. It’s not easy to flush out professional terrorists who are ready for anything, even death. I dodge the disagreeable question: where is the Goma-2 Eco hidden?

Saber rushes into the room. He’s just had a shower, a serious undertaking in this shitty house. He is all sweet-smelling. Lucky him. He’s fit and, as usual, in a good mood. Does he have a date with Simona Barberini? Anything is possible. He stares at me and says with a mischievous smile:

“You know who’s coming on to me?”

“Simona Barberini?”

“I wish!”

“Who?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Come on.”

“Teresa, the landlady.”

“Teresa!”

“Yes. She wants me to go to bed with her.”

“Really?”

“Issa, brebare yourself. Next time will be your turn.”

“I can’t wait.”

Saber tells me a few things about Teresa alias Vacation. It seems that she has a weakness for young Arabs, and this would explain her frequent trips to the Middle East and North Africa. I don’t think Saber is a liar who invents stuff out of whole cloth. Probably he’s telling the truth. His theory is convincing.

“You know why Teresa rents the house to us?”

“To make money.”

“No. She’s rich. There’s another reason.”

“What is it?”

“Teresa uses the abartment to attract new studs. You get it now?”

Saber tries to lend support to his argument by citing the cases of many young Arabs seduced by Signora Teresa. If you agree to play the game you can have a lot of benefits, like, for example, not paying rent. Saber has already refused an invitation to dinner, which is the first step to ending up in her bed.

“Issa, you remember Teresa’s sby?”

“Yes.”

“Now we have brove.”

“Who is it?”

“Omar, the Bangladeshi.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. The Bangladeshi always live among themselves. Why did he come to live with us?”

On the way out I see Ibrahima sitting in the kitchen by himself, staring at the ceiling. Strange, what’s he doing here at this hour? Usually he goes out early in the morning to sell his counterfeit purses. I greet him and sit down across from him. The Senegalese has a sad, weary expression and he avoids looking me in the eyes. He doesn’t seem to feel like joking.

“You look kind of down, Ibrahima.”

“I’ve got some problems, brother.”

“Family?”

“No, work, even if according to the law I don’t work, I’m still a smuggler and a fence. To them I’m a criminal.”

“But what happened?”

“The cops are bastards—they gave me another fine and confiscated all my merchandise, damn it.”

Ibrahim explains to me briefly his difficult situation. He’s not worried about the fine, because over the years he’s collected a lot of fines and has never paid one. The real problem is the confiscation of the merchandise. Now he has no capital and can’t buy new merchandise. The wholesalers aren’t generous and understanding the way they used to be. Today most of them are Chinese and they won’t accept a promise to pay, they want the money immediately. Ibrahima is worried not so much for himself as for the support of his family in Senegal.

“Brother, it’s hard to be the father of a family. Every month I have to send two hundred euros.”

“How will you manage now?”

“I don’t know. Worse than the fine and the loss of the merchandise, one of the cops insulted me, a cop
con la facia da cul de can da cacia
—with a face like a hound’s ass, as they say in Milan.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He called me a filthy shit black bastard son of slaves.”

“Dirty racist bastard!”

“Brother, in Italy there’s racism among the Italians themselves. In Milan they say ‘Hey, southerner. Go back where you came from.’ In other words, fuck off.”

Yesterday “Hey, southerner,” today “Hey, non-European, Moroccan, black.” What should we do? It sort of makes me laugh to hear the Senegalese speaking the Milanese dialect. I know that Captain Judas will not be very happy about my initiative. He’ll tell me I’m acting like a social worker or a volunteer for some charity, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve decided to give Ibrahima two hundred euros. At first he won’t accept it—we all have our money problems, he says, it’s not right. But I insist until I persuade him. We agree on the fact that it’s a loan (without interest and to be repaid as soon as possible). Ibrahima gives me a warm embrace.

I go to the bar with a double objective: to pee and to get breakfast. In the end I give up the
cornetto
and am satisfied with an espresso to cheer myself up. I realize I’ve gotten very thin. I don’t have to rack my brains to discover the reason. I’m stressed. It certainly would be better not to let my real mother see me. I’m practically unrecognizable.

After the coffee I go over to Little Cairo. I call the “family” in Tunisia. A male voice answers: “It’s your father.” My Tunisian “papa”! What a surprise. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him. The phone call goes without complications for two reasons. One, a good Arab son shouldn’t talk to his father but listen. It’s a sign of respect. Second, I know about his business troubles, so I confine myself to asking for news. My “father” is very succinct, not like the “mamma.” Five minutes is enough for him to summarize the matter. Now he’s found a tiny opening, a way of getting out of the crisis: transform the grocery store into a call center. You have to keep up with the changes in society. Before the final goodbye he gives me a series of instructions: don’t drink alcoholic beverages, don’t spend time with criminals, don’t get into debt, etc. Nothing about women. It’s a delicate subject. Arab fathers are old-fashioned, it’s not easy for them to talk to their sons about women and, especially, sex.

After the phone call, I’m kind of at loose ends, so I settle in to watch TV. It’s always the same channel, Al Jazeera. There’s a repeat of a program about women. I sit glued to the screen, because the subject is interesting: sexual molestation in the Arab world. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve heard Muslim women speak openly about sexuality on television. It’s a real cultural revolution. A couple of years ago in Tunis I met a graduate student from Oxford who was doing a thesis on Al Jazeera. According to him a democratization is taking place in the Arab countries, thanks to the satellite channels. The autocratic regimes are no longer able to exercise censorship. People are beginning to speak more freely on three taboo subjects: sex, politics, and religion. Too bad, the program’s over, I got here too late.

Coming out of Little Cairo I run into Felice. He’s with four people I don’t know. They seem to be holding a small public meeting.

“
Assalamu aleikum
.”

“
Aleikum salam
, Issa. We’re talking about something of interest to you. Let me introduce brother Zaki, the imam of the Mosque of Peace. We’re discussing the fatwa against working in Italian restaurants.”

Here’s the imam they’ve talked about so much. And always in positive terms. His nickname, Signor Halal, was probably given to him to contrast with that of the butcher, Imam Rami alias Signor Haram. He’s around forty, well dressed, without the loose shirt or the beard. He has chosen to speak in a simple, clear Italian, not Arabic. It takes me a few minutes to understand the reason: among the listeners is a convert who doesn’t know Arabic; his name is Alessandro, but he’s called Ali.

Signor Halal has a calm way of speaking; he never raises his voice. He is able to take apart Signor Haram’s fatwa point by point, asserting the principle under which the context should take precedence over the text. The Koran has to be interpreted on the basis of the reality we live in. It’s damaging to import fatwas from the outside. He notes several times that there is more religious freedom in Italy than in many Muslim countries.

It really seems that Signor Haram’s shock fatwa is foundering. Signor Halal is quoting the Prophet when he says, “Facilitate, don’t complicate.” So the ultimate message is clear: Muslims are allowed to work in Italian and other Western restaurants.

Before I go to work I stop at Via Nazionale to see Captain Judas. He hasn’t arrived yet and I take advantage of that to have a shower. Then I go online and glance at my email. Seventy-nine unread messages. More than half are from Marta. Shit, better to call her right away. This time, too, I use a prepaid card.

“Hi Marta, it’s Christian.”

“Christian! Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered my emails?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve had a lot to do.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Give me your number in Tunis.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain everything, but not now.”

“Christian, where are you calling from?”

“From Tunis.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

“Are you leaving me, Christian?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Is there someone else, Christian? Tell me the truth. I have the right to know.”

“What are you talking about? There’s no other woman, Marta. You’re the only one for me.”

“You bastard, Christian!”

There, Marta’s tantrum arrives right on schedule. It takes me a while to calm her down. I promise to call her more often. I hope to keep my word, otherwise it’s going to end badly. I make a rapid series of calls to say hello to my real family, the one that lives in Mazara del Vallo. Everything’s O.K. Everyone’s fine. No news, good news!

The girl with the veil comes to mind—I don’t know why. Last time she had a CD of Om Kalthoum’s, and since I’ve got a good memory, I remember what the title song was:
Awedt Einy
, “I’m Used to Seeing You.” I look for it on the Arabic music sites and find it easily. I put on the headphones and listen to the song.

My eyes are used to seeing you

My heart has delivered my will to you

I feel happy when you look at me

And when you’re beside me

And if a day passes without seeing you

It doesn’t count in the days of my life.

Finally Captain Judas arrives. I’m astonished to see that he’s smiling. If there’s anything that truly drives me crazy it’s men who are moody, like women—now they’re happy, now sad, now affectionate and now sullen, now calm and now agitated. At least with women there’s some warning––you can be prepared in advance to absorb the blows. I sit down and wait for Captain Judas’s pearls of wisdom.

“Dear Tunisian, I’ve got some good news for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“We’ve discovered the head of the second cell.”

“Really? Who is it?”

“He lives in Viale Marconi and he’s an imam.’

“Signor Haram!”

“No, the dog that barks doesn’t bite.”

“Who the hell is it, then?”

“The other one, Imam Zaki, known as Signor Halal.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. You seem bewildered.”

“To me he seems like a regular guy. I just met him today.”

“Tunisian, appearances are deceiving. These people are skilled in the practice of Taqiyya.”

“Taqiyya?”

“You know what it is?”

Of course I know. It’s a doctrine followed by certain Shiite sects that exhorts its adherents to hide their beliefs in order to avoid being persecuted. Luckily the courses in Islamic studies I took at the University of Palermo were good for something. It’s a shitty doctrine. Should we be suspicious of everyone? Judge intention rather than facts? And how the fuck do you know? I don’t have the slightest idea. Judas is convinced that now it will be easier to discover the other members of the cell: we have to look in the entourage of Imam Zaki. So it’s likely that Felice is one of them. It would be quite a joke on me: to work with him, see him every day, and not realize anything.

“You’ll have to infiltrate the Mosque of Peace.”

“How?”

“By going there to pray.”

“Me? Are you joking?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“It’s a delicate thing, I’d like to think about it a little.”

“Maybe you don’t understand. I’m not asking you to convert to Islam.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“We’re playing the last round. We have to get busy before it’s too late, agreed?”

“All right. When should I start?”

“Right away.”

“Right away?”

“Yes. Listen . . . one last thing.”

“What.”

“I would advise you, when you perform the ablutions, don’t show your dick. Remember, you’re not circumcised, hahaha.”

He’s laughing, the bastard, he’s always ready with a wisecrack. Anyway, I thank him for the valuable advice. All I need is prayer to become a real Muslim! I wanted the bicycle and now I have to pedal.

But why should I complain? This is a real opportunity—a unique experience that would enrich my résumé as an Orientalist, or, rather, an Arabist, as they say in the academic world. I’ve always distrusted those Westerners who live in Arab countries for years without making the least effort to learn Arabic, and who remain tourists forever, hateful, superficial and spoiled—unbearable. They think they know the country they live in, but really they don’t know shit.

After a few minutes Antar alias Starsky and James alias Hutch join us. They are smiling happily, like two children on Christmas. The atmosphere is very cheerful. James has brought a bottle of champagne. He’s like a drunk English soccer fan coming out of a pub. He sits down and starts his speech American style. “They called a little while ago from Langley to congratulate me. The discovery of the second cell on Viale Marconi is a tremendous result. We have to organize a big event to disclose the behind-the-scenes details of Operation Little Cairo. We need a press conference with a minister, the Interior or Foreign Minister. Our ambassador in Rome has agreed to participate. Little Cairo should send a clear message to the world: the fight against Islamic terrorism, the war on Terror, as President Bush says, requires international cooperation. Let’s drink a toast!”