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, whore.”
“It costs extra.”
“I will pay you what I wish, bitch. Suck it.”
“Pay first. One hundred extra.”
I do not even see his hand move. I find myself lying on my side, cheek throbbing. Abdul is above me, a pistol barrel pressed to my forehead.
“Whore!” he yells. “Do what I tell you, or I will kill you. You are nothing but a filthy whore. I pay you because I am generous. Today, you will give me what I want, and you will not be paid. Your payment will be your life. Do you understand?”
I can only nod. He grabs my hair and drags me upright, thrusts my face against his crotch. His member bumps my closed lips. I consider biting him, but I know he’ll kill me. The gunshot will alert Hunter, who will drag himself here to look for me. He will be killed, and then my work to save him will be wasted.
I do as I am told. He is unwashed. He tastes vile. He fists his hands into my hair, pulls me against his crotch, jabbing himself into my throat violently, choking me. I gag, nearly vomit, which is when he finishes, filling my throat with his seed. I cannot stop it then. I turn my head to the side and vomit on the cracked tile floor beside the blankets.
Abdul laughs. “Next time, do not argue.” He leans down and puts his face next to mine as I heave. “If you argue with me again, I will kill you.”
He swaggers away, buckling his belt. I remain there, kneeling on the hard floor, vomiting. Eventually I am able to stop, and I make my way back home, wiping my mouth. My cheek throbs, bruised.
I stumble into the bathroom and brush my teeth obsessively.
I cannot look at Hunter. He sees me, though, and exclaims angrily in English. Tries to get up.
“No. Sit,” I say. “I am fine.”
“Not,” he says in Arabic.
He begins the long, torturous struggle to his feet, so I kneel beside him and let him look at me. He takes my chin between gentle fingers, turns my face to the side to examine my cheek. His brow furrows, and anger flashes in his blue eyes. He touches my cheek, his finger a feather-light brush along the swollen skin. The longer he touches me, the hotter the rage in his eyes grows.
He says something in English, a single growled question. I don’t need to know the meaning of the word to know what he asked. Who?
I shake my head. “No.” He understands that much. “I do not want you involved. He will kill you. He will kill both of us.”
“Who?” He says it again in English.
“Abdul.” I have to think hard about how to use gestures and our limited mutual understand to communicate who Abdul is. “Soldier, general.”
He shakes his head, shrugs. I stand up, try to assume an “attention” position, heels together, back straight, and then I salute. Hunter laughs at my pantomime, but nods, understanding. I draw my fingers in a wide rectangle above my left breast, meaning the row of medals and other colorful things a high-ranking soldier wears there, then pat my shoulders, meaning the rank insignia. Hunter seems confused still. I sigh.
I hit on an idea. I put my forefinger on my upper lip, indicating a mustache, and say, “Saddam,” and hold my hand above my head. Then I move my hand down a few inches, indicating a slightly lower rank, and say, “Abdul.”
Hunter’s eyes widen as he comprehends my meaning. Abdul is a high-ranking general not far beneath Saddam Hussein himself. Or, he was until Saddam was overthrown by the Americans. Abdul has been a regular client for many years, since before he achieved his current rank.
I sit down again, and Hunter touches my cheek once more. “No,” he says. His voice is hard, angry, determined. “I dead him.”
I laugh at his mangled Arabic and shake my head. “No. Say, ‘I will kill him.’” I repeat it, pantomiming stabbing.
He nods and repeats what I said. “I will kill him.”
There’s no humor in my eyes or voice now. “No!” I say it in English and Arabic. “No.”
He does not respond, doesn’t argue, but I can see in his eyes that he hasn’t changed his mind. He intends to kill Abdul for hitting me. I cannot make him understand. This is my life. This is my job. How I survive. If Abdul ends up dead, it could ruin my business, ten years’ worth of establishing clients and a reputation as Sabah.
But something in my heart yearns to let Hunter do as he wishes. Something in me twinges and twitches, like an unused muscle coming to life. He wants to protect me. He sees me hurt, and there is pain in his eyes, anger for me.
He does not know me. He does not even truly speak my language, nor I his. We know nothing of each other. We are enemies. Our people are at war. He cannot protect me. Not from the likes of Abdul. Not from anyone.
Hunter’s eyes are mere inches from mine. I suddenly realize how close I am to him. His thigh brushes mine. His body is near enough for me to feel the heat pouring from him. I can see the individual hairs of his beard growing on his chin and cheeks, thick and black. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, curves over his cheekbone to mingle with the stubble of beard. He wipes his cheek on his shoulder, smearing the sweat into a shiny patch of wetness.