‘They found out about us,’ he said. ‘They heard about it. I don’t know how. Don’t know who told them. But that’s why they’re here. That’s why they came.’
Iman’s first thought was that he had come to fetch her, to take her back so that she could meet them. No need to hide. No need to be tucked away at the loch with Salma and Moni.
‘My father is furious,’ Ibrahim said.
She was taken aback but still hopeful. ‘He’ll come round. Give him time. If he meets me—’
‘No, you don’t know him. He won’t give you a chance. He’s going to cut me off.’
‘But you have a scholarship,’ she said. ‘The government pays for your studies.’
‘They were, but when I failed and had to repeat the year, they stopped the grant and my father started paying—’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She hadn’t even guessed. He had been as generous as ever.
‘I was ashamed to tell you.’
‘But I tell you everything.’
‘The point is my father is now saying he’ll cut me off. I have no choice. I have to divorce you.’
‘You can’t . . .’
‘My father is ordering me to do so. I have no choice. Don’t cry. Please.’
‘You don’t mean it,’ she shouted. ‘He can’t force you. You don’t have to listen to him.’
‘I will send you money. As soon as he’s back giving me my allowance. I’ll put money in your account.’
But for how long? Until she remarries? Would it always be like this, from one husband to another? She stood up and grabbed him by the shoulders. His arms dangled by his side. Helpless and furtive, he didn’t want to meet her eyes. ‘You can’t do this. It’s wrong.’ She shook him and struggled for the right words. The argument that would convince him, pull the brakes before everything crashed.
‘They’re all against me – my mother, my brother. There’s no point talking to them. They don’t understand. Otherwise, they say, I will have to abandon my studies and go back home. No degree. I don’t have a choice. We will be separated either way.’
‘No, we won’t, because you’re going to stand up to them.’
‘I told them.’ He shook his head. ‘I told them that all I wanted was to live without sin. That’s all. That’s why I married you.’ He shrugged off her hands and moved away.
‘They’ll come round. We just need to stick it out.’
‘They said I should have asked their permission. But they would have said no, of course. That’s why I didn’t tell them. They’re forcing me to divorce you. I brought all your things. They’re in the car.’
‘You’re throwing me out! Out of my own home?’
‘It’s finished, Iman. I’ll transfer your stuff to Salma’s car.’
‘Where am I meant to go?’ She picked up small rocks and started to stone him.
‘Stop it.’ He blocked a stone with his arm, but the next one hit him on the forehead. ‘You mad bitch,’ he yelled, crouching on the ground and covering his face with his arms.
‘Coward,’ she shouted. She scrabbled on her knees in the dirt. ‘Eunuch. Sissy!’ Swear words in Kurdish that he couldn’t understand, insults in Arabic which he could. ‘Mummy’s boy,’ she screamed. ‘You’re not a man. I’m hitting you and you’re not hitting me back. Hit me back!’ She stood up and dropped the stone in her hand, launched at him, punching his shoulders and slapping his ears.
He let her kick him and he let her pull his hair and then they both cried.
Afterwards, they did not walk amiably back to his car, fetch her things and transfer them to Salma’s car. Ibrahim did this by himself. And Iman, drained after her outburst, lay down on her coat on the sand. When her phone rang, she saw it was Salma, but she didn’t pick up. The pain was in her torso and her head. Her legs and arms felt light and distant. Instead of Ibrahim, she found herself thinking of her siblings and her village, the way it changed during the war. Indoors, the women kept their homes clean, washed and ironed their family’s clothes. Men went to the barber even when the children couldn’t go to school. Women sugared the excess hair from their legs and armpits, even after the rationing started. ‘Don’t come back,’ that’s what they said to her whenever she phoned. ‘You’re envied,’ her mother said. ‘You’re lucky,’ her cousin said. So did her neighbour and her best friend. None of them wanted her back. For her own good, of course. But still, it felt, at times, like a rejection. She wanted them to say the opposite: come back, we need you, we miss you, we are waiting for you with open arms. Instead, they said, stay where you are, and with time a coolness grew in these conversations. Her family had less and less patience for her trials or complaints, and to mask jealousy there was now a faint contempt. A refusal to listen or understand. ‘Stay put, my girl. Don’t come back.’
Iman’s anger ebbed away as her tears flowed. I am watering the date seed I planted, watering it with my tears, she told herself. It sounded like words from a song.
You’re beautiful, Ibrahim had said. So had the husband before him and the one before him. Other men too, behind her back. And yet it wasn’t a guarantee; not much of a safety net. She sat up and stared at the sea. Her feet were cold. She put her coat back on and stood up. She could walk straight into the sea. She could keep
