Читать книгу The Nightingale - Morgana Gallaway - Страница 10

It had been one month since Leila began her job at the Al-Razi Hospital pharmacy. One month, and every day was worse than the one before it.

She did not want to seem ungrateful. She knew she was fortunate to have a job at all, and this one paid quite well. Dr. Musrahi was a good boss who explained things in clear terms and was understanding of the issues of supply shortages and power cuts. Leila had no cause to complain, aside from the big, pressing, panting problem: her coworker Sayyid.

On her first day at work, Leila had been relieved to not make small talk with the young man. She was not interested in becoming his friend, she was interested in becoming a doctor. Sayyid, however, had other ideas. The second day had been fine, and so had the third and the fourth. But on the fifth day, Sayyid asked her about her family. How many brothers and sisters, what did her father do, what neighborhood did she live in? Leila politely answered the questions in as vague a manner as she could.

Sayyid was a typical male. The miniscule encouragement, the paper-thin crack in Leila’s demeanor, had bounced his expectations sky-high. He grinned at her. He chattered to her. He did chores that belonged to Leila, hoping to win points with her. Worst of all, he insisted on doing the difficult aspects of the pharmacy job, thinking in error that Leila wanted the easy tasks. This annoyed Leila to the point of grinding her teeth: she wanted to prove herself capable of the most complex jobs so that she might earn a promotion. Instead, Sayyid always beat her to it with a toothy, smarmy smile.

So it was that one month into her job, Leila was counting pills on the counter for dispensary, and next to her Sayyid was labeling a new shipment of drugs donated from a company in Switzerland. She thought about saying something to him about letting her do the hard work, but even their small conversations were too much for her. She could go to Dr. Musrahi, but Leila did not want to sound petulant, and most of all she did not want to add proof to the myth that men and women could not work together professionally. She was in a delicate situation.

“Do you like baklava?” Sayyid asked. He inched his steadying left hand along the counter closer to Leila.

She took a tiny step away from him. What a stupid question, “do you like baklava”! Everyone liked baklava. It was like asking if you enjoyed breathing. She did not grace him with an answer and just shrugged.

“Have you ever heard the song ‘Hauolou’?” Sayyid tried again.

Leila held back a cough. Again, everyone had heard the popular song. “This one is ready,” she said, finishing the count of pills and folding the paper bag once over to staple it closed.

“Sinnah al-ah nemye-ee…” Sayyid sang softly, tilting his head back and forth, his eyes fixed on Leila.

She stared. This could not be happening. Sayyid gazed at her, singing his heart out in soft, intimate tones. She glanced around, desperate for Dr. Musrahi to come in, but he was making rounds of the wards, taking note of which antibiotics and anesthetics to order. He would be at least another hour.

“Uymde al-e ha naaa!” Sayyid stood, and took a step toward Leila. “You don’t like this song?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t like it.” She moved away.

Sayyid looked behind him. They were alone. He put down his writing pen and ran his hand through his side-parted, longish oily hair. “Come on, Leila. We are friends. You like me, right?”

She bit her lip, looking anywhere but his fervent eyes. Her space felt invaded with each breath Sayyid expelled. “This is inappropriate behavior, Sayyid,” she said. “Dr. Musrahi will not approve.”

“The boss doesn’t have to know,” said Sayyid.

Then he did the unthinkable: he touched her. He put his hand around her waist and yanked her close. It was the ultimate indiscretion, forbidden by Quran and society alike. He had no right, and Leila bit back a scream. “Let go of me, Sayyid,” she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “I don’t like you. Let go of me, if you want to keep your job!”

“Leila,” Sayyid whispered in her ear. He did not smell nice; like onions and hair gel and dirty clothes and body odor. “You are so beautiful,” Sayyid said. “I will treat you right.”

“You won’t treat me at all, you pig!” She wriggled, trying to get away from him, but his grip was iron around her waist and on her arm. Leila’s eyes widened as Sayyid readjusted his position against her, and she felt him pressing up harder against her lower abdomen. Leila gagged.

“Come on, habibti.”

Leila narrowed her eyes and stopped struggling. Let him think she was considering the proposal. He loosened his grip, and then quick as a cat she ducked away from him.

“You will not touch me again!” she said. “I swear upon Allah, I will tell Dr. Musrahi.”

“No, you won’t,” Sayyid said. He put his hands in his front pockets. Leila avoided looking there. She just focused on his sneer. “Musrahi won’t hear of it. The other girl who complained got fired. Whatever you say, honey, I’ll deny.”

Leila flushed in anger and shame. The worst part was that what Sayyid said was true. In a battle of words, Sayyid would win. If she complained he had accosted her, she would be fired, if only to remove her from the situation. That was the way it worked. A boiling rage simmered around the edges of Leila’s vision, and she wished that for ten minutes, she could be a man. That way she might get Sayyid fired and beat him to a pulp as well.

Standing with him in the narrow, grimy space of the pharmacy’s back room, Leila glanced at the wall clock. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. Leila did not want to be with Sayyid anymore; what if he tried something else? Dr. Musrahi had not yet returned, and might be delayed. “I’m going home,” she said. “I don’t feel well.”

The smirk on Sayyid’s face grew wider. He knew he’d won. “I’ll finish your work,” he said, and again Leila wanted to slap him. If she went home early, it would make her look lazy, and Sayyid would get the credit for doing the job.

It was a choice between staying the afternoon alone with lust-crazed Sayyid, or feigning illness and getting blamed for avoiding work. Leila hesitated. But one more glance at Sayyid made up her mind: no job was worth this. If she was dishonored, that would be the end of her. “I’m going,” she said. She grabbed her handbag and rushed out the door before she could be further insulted.

As she rode her bicycle home that day in the light afternoon traffic, Leila could not stop rehashing what had happened. It was so unfair. It was unprofessional and wrong and Leila had no one to talk to about it. She would not go to Dr. Musrahi; if Sayyid was telling the truth, she would be fired. Her parents were out of the question, and Leila did not want to burden Fatima with the worry that she might be attacked at the hospital.

Leila was alone in the world. She swerved her bicycle out of the way for a large honking truck that lumbered down the narrow side street she’d chosen that day. She still varied her route to and from the hospital. Today she was motivated by the irrational fear that Sayyid might follow her, and she could not help glancing over her shoulder, looking for his gleaming hair gel amongst the street crowd.

The entire family was home when Leila entered her own spacious house in the Wahdah neighborhood. Her parents were in the sitting room with Fatima, Naji, Naji’s wife and children, and cousin Abdul, on the last full day of his visit.

“Leila! What are you doing home?” Umm Naji said, necessitating that Leila give her greetings to the rest of the family.

“Hello,” Leila said in the general direction of the room, trying in vain to keep a flush from edging across her face. She hesitated. “They let us off early today. Until we get a new shipment of drugs, we can’t do anything.”

Umm Naji made a noise with her tongue against her teeth. “The hospitals are all understocked. It’s worse than during the sanctions!”

Tamir grunted. “Just proves that the Americans are not the answer to our problems. They are the problem.”

Leila backed out of the room. Once her father was on the subject of the Americans, she would not be questioned further about her day at the hospital. She went upstairs to change out of her work clothes, and as she unbuttoned her jacket her fingers trembled. She’d had a close call today. Sayyid might have raped her, and then what would be her choice? She could report it and bring tremendous shame upon the family, or she could keep silent and suffer. Leila sank down onto her bed, relieved that she had escaped with only a bruised ego. She sent a little prayer up to Allah, her first genuine prayer in a long time.

Leila did not rejoin her family that night. Instead she pleaded a headache, successfully avoided cousin Abdul, and secluded herself into the safe cocoon of her own room. She had every reason to be grateful.

The next morning, Leila knew what she should do. Dr. Amina Dahbawi might offer her some advice. She did not phone in to the pharmacy that she would be late; instead Leila left an hour earlier than usual to call on Dr. Dahbawi in person. At eight o’clock in the morning, the hospital would not be busy.

“Leila!” said Dr. Dahbawi, opening the door of the little office when Leila knocked. “Come in!”

“Hello, Dr. Dahbawi,” said Leila. She clasped her hands and sat on the proffered foldaway metal chair.

“How are you? Your job in the pharmacy is good?” Dr. Dahbawi asked, shuffling through a stack of papers on her scuffed metal desk.

“Well…” Leila paused.

“You are lucky to have such work. Out of the line of fire, so to speak,” the doctor continued. She squeezed into her desk chair and it creaked in protest. “Just yesterday, I saw two children who’d happened upon some old ordnance. Twin brother and sister. The boy lost both arms, and the girl did not survive.” Dr. Dahbawi sighed. “You are glad you don’t have to see it.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” said Leila. Leila suddenly felt awkward; her problem seemed so trivial compared to the tragic stories of the pediatric ward.

Dr. Dahbawi raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“It’s Sayyid,” Leila said. “My coworker in the pharmacy, you know.”

“Sayyid?” Dr. Dahbawi paused and looked up at the ceiling, as though searching her memory. “Ohhh yes. Sayyid. Young man, a bit flighty.”

“That’s the one,” said Leila. “Anyway, I didn’t know who else to talk to about this. Yesterday afternoon, he—he—well, I guess you could say—”

“He’s giving you trouble?” Dr. Dahbawi asked, peering at Leila. “Is he tardy? Not doing his job?”

“Not that, exactly,” said Leila. She felt as if she were on fire, but she had to just say it, blurt it out, get it over with. “He behaved inappropriately,” she said in a rush. “He started out just flirting, you know, but yesterday he grabbed me.”

Dr. Dahbawi sat back in her chair, her mouth an O of surprise. “He grabbed you.”

“Yes,” said Leila. “I told him to let me go, that I was not interested, but he wouldn’t listen until I got away from him. Then I left for the afternoon because I didn’t want to be alone with him anymore.”

“I see,” said Dr. Dahbawi. She pressed her large fingers together on top of her stack of papers. “Have you encouraged him in any way? Responded to his flirtations?”

Leila made an involuntary face. “Of course not!” she said. Could Dr. Dahbawi think her capable of sloppy moral conduct?

“Are you certain of it, Leila? Sometimes what seems innocent can lead to other expectations.”

“I’m certain, Dr. Dahbawi,” Leila said. She stared down the older woman. “I would never consider it. I never encouraged his attentions.”

“I see,” Dr. Dahbawi said again. “You were right to come to me. Perhaps we can work something else out.”

“I want this to be my career,” Leila said. She was desperate. She was serious about being a doctor. “Please, I want experience. I want to go to medical school. And I don’t want some man to—”

“Take it easy, child,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I know. And we’re not going to fire you.” She smiled. “You’re not the first woman in the medical field to be harassed. It is a constant struggle. Don’t let it get you down.”

Leila breathed a sigh of relief. Dr. Dahbawi must have experienced similar incidents in the past and here she was, a full doctor of pediatrics at one of the city’s best hospitals. It gave Leila some hope for herself.

“Something came across my desk two days ago,” said Dr. Dahbawi, rummaging through a drawer on her right-hand side. “I did not think of you at first, since you were settled in the pharmacy, but this might be the right thing. We must not let you stay in the pharmacy where further incidents might happen.”

“I agree,” said Leila.

“The best solution would be to get rid of Sayyid, but he is a man, and without cause for dismissal…Unless, of course, you want to file a formal complaint against him.”

“No,” Leila said. “No. I’d rather find a new position.”

“Good,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “It would tarnish your name, and for such a young career, you must avoid controversy.”

Leila nodded.

“Here is the job description,” said Dr. Dahbawi, finding the paper. “You’d be working directly with two experienced surgeons as an assistant. It’s a very prestigious position, with a great deal of hands-on experience. You would also serve as a translator between patient and surgeon.”

Leila listened with growing excitement. It sounded perfect for her, and she wanted nothing more than hands-on experience. But the last sentence confused her. “Translator? What do you mean?”

“Arabic to English,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “The surgeons are Americans. This job is based at the 67th Combat Support Hospital, on the military base. Camp Diamondback.”

Leila was astonished. She, Leila al-Ghani, work at the American base? Her father would never allow it. Tamir would sooner see her dead than working for the Americans. But it would be such an opportunity to work with American surgeons, the best in the world…. Leila’s ambition overruled her qualms about her family. “Tell me more,” she said.

“The position pays 150,000 dinars a week,” said Dr. Dahbawi, and Leila nearly choked. That was close to one hundred U.S. dollars per week. It was a fortune. Dr. Dahbawi continued with the details. “The hours are ten in the morning until six at night, and transportation will be provided. You’ll take the bus of workers that goes into and out of the base every day.”

“Will they even let me work there?” Leila asked. “I mean, my father was a Baathist. They must investigate those things.”

“They are desperate,” Dr. Dahbawi said. “No one is willing to work there anymore, not after the bombing of the mess hall two years ago, and the shootings. I can’t lie to you, Leila. If you take this position, you are putting yourself at risk. You know this.”

“Yes,” said Leila. “I know.” Her hands grasped her knees.

“But,” said Dr. Dahbawi, “you’d be doing a lot of good. They need a competent medical assistant who is fluent in Arabic and English, and especially one who can translate medical terms. Based on your English test scores, you qualify.”

Leila smiled. But there was still one giant hurdle, and she was determined not to let it get in her way. “My father,” Leila said. “He will not approve. If he knows I am working with the Americans, he’ll…” She paused. “He might just kick me out of the house. So please, will you object if I tell my family I am still working at the pharmacy?”

Dr. Dahbawi paused. “That is deception….”

“Yes, but it’s necessary,” Leila said. She leaned forward. “I can do a lot of good with this position. I can help. And I’ll learn a lot. My father…” She hesitated again, searching for the proper words. “He lacks tolerance, and I don’t want that to affect me.”

Leila held her breath as Dr. Dahbawi nodded. “It will be up to you what you tell your family,” she finally said. “It is not the business of the Al-Razi Hospital.”

“Yes,” said Leila. Then she smiled. “The Hippocratic oath, right? First do no harm.”

“That’s correct,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I’ll pass along the word that you’ve agreed to work for the Americans. Come back tomorrow at this time, and the bus will take you into the military base. You already have your hospital security clearance, but the Americans will do another background check and issue you their own pass.” She paused, twirling the wedding ring on her finger. “Leila, you do know why they’re looking for a new translator, right?”

Leila did not think she wanted to hear this. But she shook her head. “No.”

“The previous one was kidnapped by the mujahideen. His tongue was cut out. I can’t let you take this job without telling you.”

Leila gulped. Perhaps as the daughter of a Baathist she might be protected from the mujahideen. It was a useless comfort, she knew, but Leila let herself believe it. “I still want the job,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

“Very well,” said Dr. Dahbawi. “I will tell Dr. Musrahi and your change of position will not be held against you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Dahbawi,” said Leila. She stood and with a startled glance at the clock, saw it was nine-thirty already.

“Take the day off, be back tomorrow,” Dr. Dahbawi said. She looked at Leila with concern and a faint tinge of respect. “You’ll do the name of Iraqi women proud, my dear.”

As she walked out of Al-Razi Hospital into the morning’s cool sunshine, Leila felt tossed about like a boat in a storm. She had taken a job with the Americans. It was the most dangerous thing she could do, and Leila was exhilarated and terrified and helpless all at once. It was inshallah, the will of God, the wheel of the Fates, spinning round and round, depositing her somewhere unexpected.

She recalled one of Fatima’s acquaintances, a Christian girl called Tara. She had worked at the American operations base, Camp Marez, as a cleaner, since her family needed the extra income. Tara shared a car pool with several other girls, and one day as they returned along the airport road from their work at the base, they were attacked by a group of angry jihadis. All four girls were killed, shot to death in the name of some murky religious ideal. It made sense to no one. A girl in her prime, dead, all because of a job. Leila knew it was reckless faith to believe herself exempt from the violence sweeping her city…yet what choice did she have? To languish in poverty, to slide down inch by inch until her education was forgotten? No, if she wanted to make her way in a dangerous world, she needed to be in the dangerous world. Inshallah to the rest.

She spent the remainder of the day at home. There was no electricity and Leila was, for once, not disappointed because of it; she was in the perfect mood to sit in the women’s sitting room with the windows open and the small breeze lifting through the window to chill her. It was an overstuffed space full of knickknacks, cushions, Western-style furniture from Naji’s shop, and a glass cabinet stacked with special teacups. Leila had always thought the color scheme of gold, pink, and green garish next to the deep jewel tones of the main sitting room.

She finished her second Robin Cook novel of the month. Umm Naji sat opposite, doing a pile of mending, and Fatima worked on her embroidery skills, to the occasional exclamation of a needle-pricked finger. Leila let her hair down, playing with the long, wavy strands, enjoying the freedom of it.

Cousin Abdul had left that morning with little Mohammed, and to Leila’s great relief there had been no mention of a betrothal. Umm Naji was happy because Abdul raved about the al-Ghani hospitality, and Leila and Fatima were happy to have the houseguest gone.

“I found some material for new scarves,” said Fatima.

“Where?” asked Umm Naji.

“It was on sale at the market. See, dark blue, and this patterned tan and pink.” Fatima pulled the fabric from her plaid plastic shopping bag and it made a whispering noise as she moved it between her hands. “I thought of the pink for Leila.”

“I do like it,” Leila admitted. Sometimes the hijab was not so bad, especially when Fatima was so thoughtful about choosing what she knew Leila would like.

“How much?” Umm Naji asked.

“For all of it, just a thousand dinars,” said Fatima.

“I think some new scarves would be nice,” said Umm Naji. Fatima smiled at Leila; this meant their mother approved of the purchase. Umm Naji bent her head to her own embroidery, and she murmured a folk tune that she’d sung to the girls when they were children; the lyrics were of the love of a humble shepherd boy for a beautiful princess. Umm Naji’s voice was sturdy and soft, and the quiet mood was so congenial that for a moment Leila wondered why she wanted to risk this home for a hazardous career. What if her father was right? Perhaps the best thing to do was to marry, move out to a tiny village in the surrounding countryside, and wait out the imminent civil war. Never leave the house, get pregnant, raise babies on small cups of rice and the milk from scrawny goats. It would make her family happy.

Umm Naji looked up from her needlework and saw Leila’s daydreaming. “You are not working today, either?” Umm Naji asked.

“No,” said Leila. “No supplies yet, like yesterday. They will arrive tomorrow, and then we can get back to work.” Today would be a temporary supply glitch, and tomorrow her parents would think her back at work at Al-Razi Hospital. She prayed they never visited the pharmacy to look for her, but—as the Americans would say—she would cross that bridge when she got to it.

For all its danger, this job at the American base sparked the flame of that old hope: medical school in the West.

Tamir returned from his day’s activities, which were never discussed with the ladies of the household, and accompanying him were six new strangers, plus the ever-present Abdul-Hakam, the imam at the Al-lah Al-Hasib Mosque where Tamir worshipped. Leila swore there were more strangers in the house in the past year than in all previous years combined. All the men were the same: curt, conservative, demanding food and shelter and no questions asked. As had become the routine, Leila and Fatima prepared a large tray meal for the men, and then Leila listened from her loose-brick listening post.

“The martyr brigades are forming across the country,” said the gravelly voice of a stranger. “With the proper discipline, we might accomplish something.”

“It is with the grace of Allah we’ll do this,” said the imam. “The country will be purged of infidels and Shiites—”

“No,” Tamir said. “The Americans must go first.”

At this, Leila bit her lip. She sent a silent prayer up to Allah, and the angels, or whatever other deity might be listening, that her father would never discover her new job.

“My friends, you know what to do,” said Tamir. “You are each in charge of your own cell. Discipline, remember. Never stay in one place.”

As he continued, Leila backed away from her eavesdropping spot, blinking her eyes fast. Her head buzzed with disbelief—her father was a mujahideen, how could it be true? Tamir could not be plotting, not for real. It must be some religious metaphor. Among scholars of the Quran, jihad was a term of spiritual struggle…but she could not explain away the men’s very temporal words. Cells. Brigades. Martyrs. The evidence was in the false thunder that assaulted Mosul every day. Leila winced and something cold settled in her stomach. This was the price of her eavesdropping, yet she knew that she would listen again.

As she passed by the door to the courtyard, she remembered a past conversation with him, or perhaps it was an amalgamation of many views formed in subtle ways over the years.

It did not matter which. The point to Leila was that she no longer knew what to think.

Tamir al-Ghani, judge of Saddam’s regime, had been forward thinking when it came to politics. He, and his fathers before him, had been part of Mosul’s power structure for so many years that he had space to be more liberal in some of his views.

He and Leila sat in the courtyard; Umm Naji had brought them their shai. Leila was in high school and that day she had gotten in a near argument with her tutor about the economic loans given by the West to other countries. Leila followed Tamir’s thinking, that modernization was the key to success. The teacher, a nervous woman with beady eyes, always suspicious, had told Leila to defer to the government in such matters.

“But, Baba,” Leila said to Tamir, “you are the government, so I told her I would turn to you.”

Tamir smiled. “Daughter, governments are made of people, and every person has his own opinion. Sometimes he hides what he thinks because he is afraid.”

“So how do I know when I can speak out?”

Tamir pulled on his beard and seemed to consider this. “Well. First, make sure your position is strong. Because you are a woman, you must find a husband who agrees with your politics. This way, you will have support for your thoughts.” He smiled. “But not yet.”

“Does Mama agree with you in everything?” Leila asked.

This made her father chuckle.

“Everything that matters,” said Tamir. He pinched Leila’s cheek.

“I would never marry a man unless he thought the way we do, and you approved of him,” Leila said.

“I trust your judgment,” said Tamir. “We are not like our fundamentalist neighbors. Every person should be given a chance to decide for himself, including marriage.” Leila’s mother, after all, was a Kurdish woman, so Tamir was indeed a representative of free thinking in his version of Iraq.

“But,” he continued, “you understand that things are not black-and-white. All things take time, especially good things and great changes.”

Leila held her tongue between her teeth as she remembered the things her father used to say. It was most uncomfortable to be confronted with a new Tamir, a harsher version of the man whom she’d so admired and respected. Leila wished it were not so. If the Americans had let them alone, they might have come to their own way of peace in Iraq, and Tamir would still be wise and kind and would never need to talk of bombs and weapons.

The country was on shifting sands, and there were a million degrees of insurgency, of sympathizers and participants and innocent bystanders. There was no universal formula for determining loyalty to tribe or family or religion. Leila did not even know the heart of her own father. Was he a mere pretender, talking about the fight against an occupying force? Or had he taken it further and orchestrated attacks against the Americans? Leila hoped he had the sense to stay out of the worst of it.

When she went up to bed that night, Leila lay in the dark of her room, her bedcovers pulled up to her chin. In just two days, her life had changed so quickly. The light from the waxing moon filtered through a gap in her curtains, and Leila stared up at the light spot on the opposite wall. She was in a fog and nothing was certain. There was nothing to hold on to anymore.

Just before she drifted into a fitful sleep, Leila heard voices and footsteps in the courtyard. She heard the clink of a chain, and the creaking of a metal door. There was an old well in the courtyard, gone dry years ago and covered over with a dusty metal hatch. Why was it being opened in the middle of the night? She did not have time to contemplate it, for sleep came seconds later.