We spend the morning exchanging words. I show him bread and teach him the word for it, and he teaches me the English equivalent. Objects are easy to learn, but abstract concepts like "please" are more difficult. I want to talk to him. I want to know how his thoughts flow into words.
My first client is scheduled for just after lunch. I find myself dreading it even more than usual. I hate the unreadable expression in Hunter's eyes as I dress in an absurdly short skirt and a top cut so low my br**sts may as well be bare. I hate the disapproving look he gives me when I slather on the makeup.
I hate most of all the pain in his eyes when I leave the house to wait outside the mosque for my client.
This client is a repeat customer. He comes every week on this day, at this time. He is married, I know. I see the ring on his finger, or the shadow of it when he remembers to take it off. He tells me his name is Abdul, but he does not always remember to answer to it when I address him by that name, so I know it is not his real name. As if I care who is. Whether he is married or has children. I have no place to cast blame if he wishes to spend his money on me, if he needs to find sexual release with me rather than his wife.
If he would pay a whore for sex, he is a pig. If he cannot find what he wants or needs with a woman who does not demand money for it, then he is a pig.
Of course, I know nothing of such things, having never had sex with a man who has not paid me for it. Perhaps all sex is paid for in some way. I think this is true. A man who takes a woman to dinner first, takes her to drink, tells her she is beautiful, pays her father to arrange a marriage to her...this is paying for sex. It is cloaked in custom and tradition, but the result—sexual dominion of the man over the woman—is still prostitution.
I am not willing in this. I did not choose this life. I do what I must to survive. It is this, or starve.
These are the justifications I repeat to myself over and over again as Abdul approaches me, uniform straight and creased, medals polished, sidearm adjusted just so, boots shining.
I hate Abdul. His eyes are cruel. His fingers are hard and strong when they claw my top down, my skirt up. His breath stinks of garlic and his body of unwashed male sweat and flabby musk. His belly hangs over the zipper of his pants as he reveals himself, kneeling above me. His mouth is twisted in a cruel grin, as if he knows a secret that delights him.
There are different kinds of clients. There are those who hand me their money before they begin, eyes averted while I stash it under my blankets. There are those who dig it out of their pockets while they dress afterward and walk away without looking me in the eye. They are the ones who feel some shame for what they do with me.
Then there are men like Abdul. He wastes no time. He paws at my shirt, tugging my top down until my br**sts bounce free, and then he paws at my skirt, pushing it up to bare my privates. He takes a moment to look at me, a hungry, evil grin on his thin lips, and then he shoves his short, fat member into me. He only takes a few moments, thankfully, and then he is done. He rises up to his feet, tugs his pants back into place, and buckles his belt. All the while, his greedy, leering dark eyes stare at me. And then, after a moment of triumphant silence, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a wad of money. He does not bother to count. He has made sure the correct amount is in that pocket beforehand, for the sole purpose of being able to toss the wad of filthy money onto my bare br**sts.
He does this every time. He does it to show his power over me, to degrade me.
I play my own game. He expects me to scramble to count it, but I do not. I wait, motionless, while he leaves. I do not cover myself. I do not brush the greasy bills aside or stack them or count them. I leave them in place, and bear up under his gaze, let him look, let him feel powerful. When he is gone, I gather it together, stack it with the rest of my earnings, and go to clean up, stashing it in the cabinet.
Today, when Abdul tosses the money onto me, he waits. "Pick it up, whore," he growls.
I do not answer, make no move to comply.
"I gave you an instruction, whore. You must obey."
"You do not pay me to obey you. You pay me to let you have sex with me. You are finished. You may leave now."
His eyes narrow and grow angry. Fear gathers low in my gut, but I refuse to let it show.
"I pay you to do whatever the f**k I tell you. I told you to pick up the money. Count it. Now."
I lift my chin slightly. A refusal.
He snarls like a rabid animal, lunges for me, grabs my shirt in his hands and lifts me to my feet. He lifts me off the ground easily, holds me aloft. I refuse to show fear. Refuse to shake for him. He lowers me to my feet, takes a hand off my shirt, and slaps me across the face. It stings, but it was not a blow meant to cause damage, only to demonstrate power. Then he grins at me. The evil glaze of his eyes causes the first burst of real panic.
He grabs my nipple and pinches, twisting it. I scream through gritted teeth. He lets go, grinning in satisfaction, then rears back and slaps my breast so hard I collapse to my knees, breathless from agony.
"Pick up the money, whore." He stands over me, glaring down at me. "Count it."
I do as he says, rage burning in my chest tangled with the pain.
"Now you will remember," he says. "You will do as I say. You are a whore. You are paid to please me."
I remain on my knees, face to the floor, hiding my tears and my hate. He laughs and walks away. When his footsteps are gone, I adjust my clothing, but my breast hurts so badly from his blow that I cannot bear to have anything touching it. I take my money and leave the ruins of the mosque, stumbling the few feet back to my house.
Hunter is on his knees, his canvas uniform belt clenched between his teeth, struggling to get to his feet. He is growling, a long continuous sound of pain and determination.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
He stops, and the concern and the rage in his eyes startles me. "Rania?" He says something else I don't understand.
Are you okay? I imagine he is saying.
I shake my head at him. I mean, don't worry about it, but he takes it to mean I am not okay. He has made it to his feet, and the pain is etched into every line of his face. He puts a hand to the wall and shuffles toward me.
I point to the floor. "Lie back down. You'll start bleeding again," I say.
He shakes his head. Reaches for me. Concern, worry, anger. He heard me scream, heard the blows. He stands in front of me now, heaving, panting, sweating, groaning with every breath. I hold perfectly still, feeling oddly like prey caught by the gaze of a predator. Only, this predator seems worried for me.