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 whore, 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 sex, 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 assuming 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 shitty life. Stuck being a whore. 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, prostitution, the mime for hunger. She point out into the street, mimes shooting a rifle.
"Hassan is dead."
This Hassan 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 assume. "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 Hassan 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 Hassan 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**k out of the john waiting for her.
She’s mine.
But she isn’t. Where the hell 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 br**sts 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.
SEVEN
RANIA
The client, Mahmoud, is slow finishing. 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.
Hassan 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 Hassan. 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 whore. 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.