Chapter 199
I have nothing to do but think. Nothing but memory and pain.
Derek is dead. It just hit me. I was too involved in the pain and in the mystery of Rania, but now, alone while she "works," all I have to do is feel the pain. Derek is dead.
G.o.d. He was my best friend. My only real friend. My brother. I've killed for him. We've stood over each other's bleeding bodies.
He's gone, but the pain won't let me cry. I can't. I don't know how anymore. After my parents died I wept, alone in a bathroom. I haven't since. Not for anything.
I won't cry for Derek, either. He wouldn't want me to. He'd tell me to get drunk in his memory. Bang a hot chick for him. Of course, none of that will happen now.
The reality of my situation is..h.i.tting me. I'm wounded, surrounded by insurgents. There's no sign of my unit. They might eventually come back for me, or at least to find my body. Until then, I'm stuck here. Reliant on this girl, this slip of a thing, this prost.i.tute.
Rania. Her name is music. Her eyes are veiled pools of expression. She hides behind anger, behind toughness. It's all an act. I see the pain. See the fear. See the need. She's lonely. She hates what she does.
I think I confuse her as much as she does me.
She's back, cleaning herself up. It's a familiar pattern now. She returns from the building next door, a half-destroyed mosque, I think it's called. The irony of a prost.i.tute operating in a bombed-out church isn't lost on me. She goes into the bathroom, cleans herself, then sits with me, and we exchange language lessons. I'm picking up Arabic faster than she is English, I think. It's only been a couple of days, but I can understand a few words here and there, say a few of my own. I want to be fluent, so I can talk to her. So I can understand what she says. We both have a tendency to say what we're thinking as if the other can understand us. I told her about Derek earlier. How we met, how we've been friends our whole lives. How much I miss him. How he saved my life, and ended up dying for it. She heard the pain in my voice and let me talk, even if she didn't know what I was saying. It was cathartic, in a way. Like a confession, if I was Catholic. I can say the truest things in my heart without having to worry about feeling vulnerable. She can't tell anyone. Can't judge me. Can't level expectations at me.
Why do I feel so rotten when she goes out that door? Why do I care what she does? I've known plenty of s.l.u.ts, men and women. People who sleep with anything that moves, anything with t.i.ts and a t.w.a.t, anything with a c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s. In a way, that's worse. What Rania does, she does out of necessity. Those s.l.u.tty people, it's totally different. They have no self-respect, no modesty, no morals. They f.u.c.k for the sake of f.u.c.king, as if it means nothing. Derek was like that. Total man-wh.o.r.e. Except he was honest about it. He plied them with drinks and took them home and f.u.c.ked them, and that was it, and they both knew it going in.
Rania...the look in her eyes in the moment before she walks out the door, it's resignation. Disgust. Loathing. It's there, and then gone, hidden behind the careful facade of applied seductiveness. In private, with me, she's another person. Quiet, reserved. She hates getting close to me, hates touching me or being touched. As if she's afraid of what will happen if I touch her.
I think she expects me to try to sleep with her. To try to use her like...well, like a wh.o.r.e.
I won't deny the attraction. She's beautiful, and what I've seen of her body makes my mouth go dry and my c.o.c.k hard. I've managed to keep her from noticing, but I have to keep my eyes off her when she forgets I'm here and changes in front of me, or cleans up in front of me. She's used to being alone. She forgets I'm here and then remembers, blushes, gets angry at my presence, at my eyes on her. I can't help looking at her. I try, but I can't. There's no privacy in this little house. No door on the bathroom, no curtain, nowhere to change. When she strips her s.h.i.+rt off to change it, I try not to watch her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s sway in the dim light. She peels her skirt off, and I try to stare at the wall or the floor, but my eyes are drawn to the dark triangle between her legs, the swell of her hips.
She's all woman, but she's...forbidden fruit. Her clients are enemy soldiers, officers, insurgents. We must be near a base of operations or something. I don't know.
All I know is I shouldn't want her. But I do.
She's sitting beside me, staring at me. Her brown eyes are narrowed and inscrutable. She's within reach. I could stretch out my hand and touch her knee, her slim thigh. My hand trembles beneath the blanket, straining against my self-control.
She saved my life. I owe her.
She doesn't want me. How could she? I'm an American, a man, a soldier...for all I know, I may have killed someone she loves.
My hand slips out from beneath the blanket to rest on my knee. Rania is watching me with a guarded expression, concealing her thoughts, her feelings. My hand moves toward her, and I sense her freeze. She was already stone-still, but now she's not even breathing.
I can't help it. My fingers touch her knee. Just her knee. No higher. Her eyes burn into me. Dare me to go farther, yet beg me not to. So conflicted, both of us. She wants, doesn't want. I want, don't want.
Her skin, so soft. So delicate.
Rania gazes at me, sighs gently, a sound of resignation, then grasps the bottom hem of her s.h.i.+rt and lifts it up, crossing her arms to draw it off. I'm the one frozen now. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, unhampered by a bra, are round and full, with small nipples surrounded by wide dark fields of areola.
My hands move faster than my l.u.s.t, quicker than my desires. I want to keep looking. I want to touch her. I want her to keep stripping. Instead, I grab her wrists and pull them down. She fights me, trying to pull the s.h.i.+rt off. I'm weak right now, each motion causing excruciating pain, but I still overpower her easily, without hurting her. I force her hands away and pull her s.h.i.+rt down so her magnificent b.r.e.a.s.t.s are covered once again.
She stares at me in confusion. My hand has landed on her knee once more, and she looks at it pointedly. I withdraw my hand and she breathes a sigh, whether in relief or disappointment, I don't know.
Rania stands up and storms away, out the door and into the heat and brightness of the afternoon.
When she comes back, she won't so much as look at me. She's ignoring me.
I give her some time-there are no clocks here, so I have no way to measure the pa.s.sage of time except the rise and fall of the sun-and then decide to break the ice.
"Rania," I say. She ignores me. "Rania. Please listen to me." This is in English.
Her shoulders flinch when I say her name, but that's the only recognition I get. I'll have to claim her attention, then. I learned how to say "I'm sorry" the other day. It took a lot of miming, but I think that's what she was getting at.
I lever myself to a sitting position. My broken ribs scream, send lightning bolts of agony through me, so blinding I have to stop and pant to keep the breath
I move so I'm standing in front of her. "Rania."
She ducks her head to stare at the floor. I growl in frustration, hopping in place to keep my balance. Eventually, I have to put my other foot down, but it collapses under me and I fall to the ground. Rania's expression is shuttered, and I can tell she wants to move to help me but isn't letting herself. I lie gasping, stunned, fighting the pain, and then work back upright onto my a.s.s, game leg stretched out in front me.
She doesn't look at me, but now I know she's aware. Listening.
"I am sorry, Rania," I say in Arabic, and I know I've butchered it, by the way her lips twitch.
I'm not even sure what I did to p.i.s.s her off besides touch her. I didn't let her strip. I think she meant to have s.e.x with me, thinking that's what I expected. But why is she mad? I'd think that would be a relief, knowing I don't expect it from her.
She finally looks at me, brown eyes searching mine.
"I won't touch you again," I say in English.
Time for an Arabic lesson. I touch my knee and say "touch." I touch the floor, which she's told me the word for, and repeat myself. Touch various things within reach, repeating the word "touch."
Eventually she gets it and tells me the word in her language.
I know I'm going to butcher the grammar on this one, but I say it anyway. It's important that she trusts me. I don't know why, but it is.
"I not touch," I say, in halting Arabic.
She frowns. Shakes her head. Thinks.
She touches her chest, our symbol for "I," then produces a carefully folded bill from her pocket and holds it up, points to her crotch, then to me, then gestures with the money. Says a word.
Prost.i.tute.Wh.o.r.e. She's telling me what she is. No. Not what she is. Not who she is. What she does. There's more to her than that.
I shrug, pause. Then point to her: "Rania."
I don't know what my point is. Maybe that I see her, not her job. It is a job for her, I realize. Not a profession. Not a lifestyle.
She stares at me in confusion. Says something, a long sentence in which I catch a reference to herself, the word she'd used before, which I take to mean "wh.o.r.e." And then points next door, where she entertains the johns, and says "Sabah." It's a name. I know that much. Then she gestures to the house around us, and says "Rania."
It takes a while to comprehend her meaning. I think she's saying she uses a different name for the johns. To them, she's Sabah.
I point at her. "You Rania," I say. "No Sabah."
Her face shutters closed. "No. Not Rania. I am Sabah. Only Sabah. Rania is-" and she says a word I don't recognize. She mimes being dead, eyes rolled back in her head, tongue lolling out, making a gagging, gasping sound.
Rania is dead. The sentiment makes my heart clench for her. She's only Sabah, the wh.o.r.e, to herself. Why is that so sad? This is all she has? All she knows? Has she ever known love? Has she ever known the beauty of s.e.x, the joy in making love?
To her, it must be a dirty, shameful, ugly act. I doubt she ever gains any enjoyment from it. I wish I knew how to communicate with her. Show her. I wish there was a way I could give her joy. Give her even a moment of peace, or pleasure.
Her eyes burn into me, hunting for my reaction. I don't know enough of her language to express what I want to say.
"No. No dead." I use the word she did, hoping it means what I'm a.s.suming it does. "Rania."
She shakes her head and looks away.
I start talking in English, needing to say it. "There's so much more to life. You're stuck here. Stuck in this s.h.i.+tty life. Stuck being a wh.o.r.e. You deserve more." I don't know why I feel that way about her. I've known her for a matter of days, and I can't even have a real conversation with her. "You're more than this, and I wish you could see it. I wish I could take you away. Give you something better. Except...I don't have anything to give you. I can't even walk on my own."
She speaks, slow and sad words. Eyes downcast. I catch references to herself, prost.i.tution, the mime for hunger. She point out into the street, mimes shooting a rifle.
"Ha.s.san is dead."
This Ha.s.san must be the guy who threw the grenade and then died in the street. She knew him.
I point to her ring finger, then say his name, point at her. Was he your husband?
She looks confused for a split second, then understands. "No. Not-" and the word for husband, I a.s.sume. "Mama," she says, then mimes a pregnant belly, hand curving out over her belly, the points at herself and holds up one finger, then says his name, mimes pregnant again, and holds up a second finger.
I have to work at the meaning, but get it eventually. He was her younger brother. Derek killed her brother, and Ha.s.san killed the closest thing to a brother I've ever had.
We both fall silent then, both reflecting on our lost brothers. Derek had family, a mom and dad and a sister. I wonder if they know he's dead. I wonder if what's-her-name, the girl he hooked up with over holiday leave-the Rack...Megan? Something like that. I wonder if she'll be sad for his death. If they were serious.
If I die, no one will care. Derek's family might, a little. I spent a lot of time with them growing up, especially after Mom and Dad died.
I look at Rania. "Your mama?"
She flinches, won't look at me. "Dead."
"I, too." I say it in my broken Arabic.
"Papa, too?" she asks. I'm guessing on that last word.
I nod. "Yes. Papa dead. Mama dead. Only I."
She looks outside, as if seeing the street where Ha.s.san and Derek died. We should hate each other for our losses. Instead, I feel closer to her for it. She meets my eyes, and lets me see her pain.
Her hand is resting on her knee, and I, perhaps stupidly, rest my hand atop hers. She glances up at me sharply. I keep my eyes on hers, keep my hand on hers. It's meant as a gesture of comfort, but I'm not sure she sees it that way. She leaves my hand on hers for a while. Perhaps she draws comfort from it, perhaps not. She doesn't seem mad this time.
She stands up, takes my hand in hers, and helps me to my feet, then to the nest of blankets that is my bed. When I'm finally lying down again, every fiber of my body is pulsating with pain and I can't breathe, and she's touching up her makeup. I hear an engine. Then it turns off, and there are footsteps.
Rania looks at me, and then as I watch she becomes Sabah. The pain is pushed away, the flash of disgust that crossed her face when she heard the vehicle is gone, replaced by a silky, seductive smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
My belly tightens, my heart rebels, my mind screams. No. No. I want to grab her and shove her back into the house. Go outside and beat the f.u.c.k out of the john waiting for her.
She's mine.
But she isn't. Where the h.e.l.l did that thought come from?
I listen to the sounds of false enthusiasm and try to banish the whirling maelstrom of thoughts from my head. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s flash into my mind. Her eyes on me. Her lips as she smiles, a real smile meant for me. Small and hesitant, as if she has to remember how to smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
RANIA.
The client, Mahmoud, is slow finis.h.i.+ng. It is difficult to summon the strength needed to fake enjoyment. He is thin, all hard angles and rough, clumsy hands. Mahmoud is one of my few clients who is not a soldier. He is an older man, widowed. Lonely. He pays me well, is respectful, and does not hit me or try to extort more from me than what he has paid for. But he is clumsy. So slow. Unintentionally rough.
All I can think of is Hunter. His eyes on me as we exchange halting conversation. His hand on mine, a strange comfort. Just a touch. A hand on my hand. But it tells me I am not alone. Not seeking to gain anything from the contact, but rather impart something, give something. He, too, has lost his parents. I think he was very close to the soldier who died. Derek. I saw him grieving, when he thought I was not looking. He did not weep, and I do not think he can, any more than I.
Ha.s.san chose to be a soldier, so his death was not a surprise, but it still hurts. My heart still mourns for him. I have always missed him, as I did not see him for many years. Now he is dead and truly gone. But I cannot weep for Ha.s.san. I have cried all my tears, and now my sadness has no way to get out except through anger. I think Hunter is the same, except his anger is harder, deeper. Kept deep down in the bottom of his soul. I do not think he recognizes or understands his own anger. His loneliness.
Mahmoud leaves, handing over my money without looking directly at me.
When I go back home, Hunter is sleeping, or pretending to. I have felt his eyes on me when I clean myself, and I have sneaked glances at him and I have seen his discomfort. Mahmoud was my last client for the day, so I take a shower. It is quick and cold. I have no privacy, and I know Hunter is trying not to watch me. His determination to give me some semblance of privacy is difficult for me to accept or understand. I am a wh.o.r.e. Why should I care if he sees my nude body? But I do care. He knows it, and he does something about it.
When he touched my knee that first time, I was sure he meant to take it further. I was sure he meant to touch me, get me to touch him, and so I tried to give it to him. I thought it was what he expected, and I have learned the hard way that men will stop at nothing to get what they want from me. Hunter is wounded and weak now, but he can still hurt me. And when he heals, he could do worse. There is little worse than to have a man force himself on me. Even when they pay me afterward, they have still raped me.
Something in my heart tells me Hunter would not do that, but I cannot trust my heart.
Abdul comes today, which means it has been a week. Hunter has been in my house for over a week now.
Abdul is not the first to hit me, to force his will on me. I have no power to stop him, now that he has me. He could kill me and no one would know or care. He could beat me senseless, and no one would do anything. If Abdul finds out about Hunter, he would kill both of us.
I try to distract myself from my fear by talking with Hunter, learning each other's languages. Hunter learns quickly, more so than I. He can say many things, but not enough to allow us to really converse. Soon he will be able to, I think. He is making the leap from parroting words to stringing sentences together, making complete thoughts.
When he can, what will we talk about?
It is time. Abdul is coming soon. I wait for him in the mosque. I have a knife hidden in the blankets nearby. I do not know what I would do with it, but I feel better with it at hand. I refuse to let a man like Abdul be the end of me.
He is here. Swaggering, fat-bellied, beady-eyed. Like a giant hog. Bristly, greasy, violent, dangerous.
I do not stand when he swaggers in. I stare up at him, meeting his gaze. He stands over me, grins, then unbuckles his belt. Always before now, he has pushed me to my back and done his business. I can tell by the evil twist of his lips that he has something else in mind. He drops his pants, revealing his short, thick member, hard and sticking straight out.
He gestures at himself. "Suck, wh.o.r.e."