Bin Laden's Woman, Page 3

be venerated.

  The offer was generous, much more than they could expect, it came from a close relative… They asked for a few days to think.

  The world turned upside down in Naffahs’ house.

  Marriages, for them, were like that, it has always been. Arranged! The possibility of paying all their debts and getting back to what they were. The daughter married to a prince. That became a fixed idea in George’s head. There was no other subject for them.

  Mrs. Samira was divided.

  If they were still living in Damascus, it would be natural. That had happened to her, to her mother, to all the women in her family.

  She hadn’t hit the jackpot herself, but at last, her marriage worked. Her mother-in-law was right. Mrs. Samira knew herself, she was a strong woman, she probably wouldn’t have stood a bossy man. The friendly and kind nature of George fitted like a glove, he was a friend, respected her opinion, and they had wonderful children. What more could they expect? The eldest daughter married to a prince. Rich, powerful, very powerful, said the cousin.

  Sammy wasn’t easy either, besides the strong personality, she needed space to grow, wouldn’t hold up at home taking care of her husband and children. The daughter needed adventure. And there it was. Getting married to an Arab prince.

  And more, if they didn’t do anything, she would end up with that chinstrapped guy.

  Sammy already had all the credits she needed to receive the college certificate. She came back home before the end of the year.

  She was sad about Giardini, her friend also had his credits, he said he would give the diploma to his father and start over, a new college in São Paulo. Anthropology, his true passion. He got a job at night, in the processing center of a bank. He was studying for the university entrance exam.

  She now had a problem. At best, her parents would let her spend more time with aunt Nadia to continue studying a little more, it wouldn’t be easy. George was counting the days to his daughter’s graduation. He wanted her back.

  It was in this climate that Sammy heard the news.

  The Contract

  Sammy knew her people, their traditions. Her mother’s strong and liberal personality was the only reason she wasn’t already married to a cousin, and now this odd story.

  Her dear father. Crazy about the idea.

  Her mother. Washed her hands.

  Her sister was married, children, she had a family of her own.

  Giardini. With his own new thoughts, anthropology. In São Paulo!

  Her turn. That would come anyway.

  Here comes de bride!

  When the cousin returned with the contract, of course, there were a lot of fine print. The advantages for the Naffahs were even better, but Sammy would be practically unreachable in the next few years. They would have news of each other, but secrecy was essential. For their own safety. The prince was very rich.

  They opened an account for Samira, in a unusual bank in São Paulo, they put a large sum in it, and they gave her a card for immediate expenses. She enjoyed computers, so the cousin brought her a brand new laptop, state of the art.

  None of this cheered Samira up. She was really disappointed with everyone. She could understand their reasons, but until the last minute, she waited for someone to take action.

  Nothing, no one had courage enough to say it was an absurd, that she was more important to them. None.

  Impressive how the group stands for what seems correct. Everyone is afraid of getting burned. "Imagine if I condemn this marriage and then, it works out, I’ll be shamed." Nobody cared about the poor Sammy, gift-wrapped.

  She even thought up that a few years without contact would be a relief.

  And there was Sammy toward her destination.

  George was counting his thirty pieces of silver.

  Mrs. Samira regretted her omission, never recovered her joy of living.

  Carol had followed her destiny.

  Eli spread himself through the house.

  Abbottabad

  - Abbotsomethingbad, what a name. It must be something really bad.

  Samira was in an awful mood, she wasn’t even in the desert yet and was already cursing as a camel driver.

  The cousin escorted her to Islamabad. There, he received his share and couldn’t go with her anymore. Security issues.

  You know what? - Samira thought - this guy is an artist, he even tricked Mrs. Samira - that “monument” of wisdom! - then received his share and left. I’ve got to learn that from him. Idea, goal and class.

  She wasn’t introduced to anybody, just kept herself quiet on the back seat. The younger brother was driving the van, the elder looked dumb. They went along the dusty road.

  Samira closes her eyes and thought, all the family struggle for this? For everyone else, the glory. For her, an enormous emptiness. She tries to get distracted.

  The trip wasn’t too bad at the beginning, with her cousin, he was really polite. This step, by van, wasn’t as good as she had planned, but whatever. Local customs!

  Half asleep she imagines the van coming to a huge castle! Stop, this is Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Ok, again. A great camp with big tents, wonderful rugs, torches of fire. Got better. She is received by Nubian slaves. Stop again, there aren’t Nubian slaves anymore. By Arab ladies in charge of bathing her in goat milk. Eww, stop again, stop, less Sammy, less!! A bath with salts and oils that will scent her skin. Would they have conditioner? Her hair can’t go without it. Then they would dress her, put flowers in her hair and walk her to meet the prince. Not bad! Thanks, Mr. George. What a trip! We are in the twenty-first century, of course we go to a five star hotel where the prince has a suite. He must have his women, a secretary who takes care of everything. No, not that either. It must be one of the condos we see on the internet, with artificial lake. Oh boy! I don’t know.

  When they are entering the city, Samira wakes from her thoughts, looks at the incredibly green hills and smiles, it looks like Marilia. When they come closer, nothing is like Marilia, as a matter of fact. What a disappointment, no buildings, where's the five-star hotel? Where's the condo?

  They pass right through the city, stopping to buy some bread. To buy some bread? Her, a princess? Yeah, to buy some bread.

  The mute brother, who she would discover that is called Arshad, gets out. She and the other brother, Tariq, were waiting in the car.

  They drive some more, pass by the simple houses on the outskirts. Stop in front of a high wall, a big house, like a prison. Men armed with machine guns open the gate and let the van go inside.

  They stop in the middle of an enclosed passage, more guns, they enter a courtyard, chickens, goats, a mess.

  My God! - Samira thinks – I was kidnapped by slave merchants! What you did to me, my father?

  They get into the house, Samira is received by a woman and a little girl, five, six years old, rubbing her runny nose in her mother's skirt and looking curiously at the hair of the newcomer.

  They show her the room where she’ll stay and leave her to get ready, they would return later to pick her up.

  Samira hasn’t recovered from the shock yet. My God, my God! What happened to me? The windows are barred. Outside, it's getting dark, the city lights start to bright. It's cold.

  She tries to put herself together, there’s nothing to do. It’s impossible to imagine what’s going on. She consoles herself; after all it was a cousin, a relative indicated by her grandmother, who intermediated the arrangement. OK, the business, but it can’t be that bad.

  After a time that seems huge, they bring her a tray with a simple meal. A glass of water, bread, olives, dried curd, eggplant with sesame oil. Nothing she didn’t know. It wasn’t as good as Mrs. Samira’s, but she could eat it. For her, the lunch hour had passed, there were eight hour difference in time zones.

  It was all very strange; she hasn’t been being well treated. A guest in an Arab house was a king, as she had learned. She hasn’t been being abused either, but that constant tension was frightening h
er.

  Later they picked up the tray and told her to sleep; tomorrow someone would speak to her.

  Someone would speak! Who?

  Samira was very intelligent, lively, her head was trained to think, hours playing backgammon with her father in the store, school, college, computers.

  Arabs don’t forgive slow people.

  Yalah - fast -, girl.

  Sehif! No, she wasn’t silly.

  She opens her suitcase, turns on her laptop.

  Nothing, no network within range.

  It’s not possible! In Tupã, there would be four or five, but here, nothing. She looks at the walls, an outlet, a switch, nothing else. Not even a single telephone point.

  She puts the computer aside and rubs her face. What can I do?

  The computer goes into screen saver mode, pictures appear. Her, smiling, her nephews, aunt Nadia.

  She closes the laptop and collapses in tears.

  She cries, cries, can’t sleep.

  When she finally sleeps, is awoken.

  It's daylight.

  It Can Always Get Worse

  It’s always a fuss, a tension. They tell Samira to dress up quickly, Yalah!

  She washes her face, dresses up a bit. Some women examine her again, looking for weapons or something; she is taken through a passageway and enters the room. There’s a bed, lying down on several pillows, there he is.

  Samira smiles. She always does it, a nervous smile. Fuck!

  Bin Laden is also embarrassed, he smiles.

  Samira’s head spins, she almost falls down, my God, what the fuck?

  With a gesture, Bin sends them out; he wants to get alone with Samira.

  - Samira! - he starts, she barely recognizes her own name in the mouth of