Bled Dry

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  Salwa placed a pack of cigarettes in front of her and called to order a coffee from the café next door. She waited until Nezha had lit the cigarette and taken a few quick drags.

  “What happened?” Salwa asked. “I didn’t like the tone of your voice when you called.”

  Nezha, trying hard to hold back tears, started describing her night. She detailed the previous day’s events, especially her horrifying encounter with the police, and embellished a bit as she went. Salwa didn’t interrupt her except to open the door for the waiter who brought Nezha’s coffee. When Nezha arrived at the incident that happened at daybreak, Salwa rushed to the door to take a look outside.

  “I’m scared of an attack,” Salwa said. “I’ve thought a lot about leaving this area. If it weren’t for my kids, I wouldn’t stay another night.” She slouched into the styling chair. “I get letters every day demanding that I close the salon and start wearing a veil,” she went on. “I’ve gotten plenty of phone calls from people urging me to close the ‘Prostitute Club,’ as they call it. They urge me to repent and return to God, as if I’m a nonbeliever.”

  Nezha lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and drank the last sip of coffee. She rose, went to the mirror, and inspected herself closely.

  “Why do I have such bad luck?” she asked, addressing herself in the mirror.

  Salwa smiled to herself and sighed. At the end of the day, Nezha was still just an innocent young woman whose life circumstances had placed her in difficult situations.

  “My income this month is zero,” said Nezha. “I was depending on Hamadi, and now everything is busted. Screw the police!”

  “I heard that the raid yesterday was extensive, and that the station is full of girls.”

  Nezha sat in the styling chair that Salwa had just gotten up from, and checked her hair.

  “I wish the police had arrested me so I wouldn’t have run into my brother and his friends when I got back,” she said.

  Salwa began to comb Nezha’s hair.

  “Don’t pay attention to your brother,” said Salwa. “Doesn’t he know that you go out? If he was a real man he’d be looking for a job. I don’t get those guys who spend their days at the mosque or bumming around all day in the streets. They don’t seem to care about their parents slaving away. Is that religion? The Prophet, peace be upon him, commanded us to work. Honorable work, of course.”

  “And if we can’t find honorable work?”

  “You want my opinion?” said Salwa. “Even your job is honorable. You go out with men to help your sick mother. If there is anyone at fault here it’s your brother—he’s lazy and dependent.”

  “He did go to university and tried to take our father’s place in the market, but they prevented him.”

  “He should have fought harder to find any job, for your sake and your mother’s sake. He hasn’t got an excuse.”

  Salwa continued combing Nezha’s hair, feeling really worked up. Nezha was a bit taken aback by how intensely Salwa criticized Ibrahim.

  “My brother is really shy and will avoid conflict at all costs,” Nezha said. “I feel like he’s tortured but doesn’t know what to do. He went everywhere looking for a job after our father passed. He even sold individual cigarettes and shined shoes as a university student. But he’s shy. God knows what Sufyan and Driss said to him when they saw Hamadi dropping me off, half naked and drunk, right in front of them.”

  “Be careful, sister. Your brother hangs out with the ‘Afghans,’ as they call them.”

  “If not for my mother, I wouldn’t have gone home.”

  Salwa turned on the hair dryer to finish shaping Nezha’s hair, its loud hum drowning out their conversation.

  Nezha sat quietly while Salwa teased and styled. She thought about the first time she’d met Salwa, and how that meeting had changed her life. Salwa’s father had died unexpectedly following a botched operation. Afterward, the family’s financial situation got worse by the day. Salwa stopped going to school and took to the streets in search of a job. Whenever she found one, she learned that she had to do something ‘extra’ to get it. One time, one of her bosses assaulted her right in his office, ripping off her underwear and nearly raping her. He only stopped when she screamed. He slapped her, called her a young whore, told her she was out of line, and threw her out of his office. She wasn’t able to get a job without using her body. She considered submitting to this reality, but felt they would get rid of her as soon as they had their way. What they all wanted was her young body—a child’s body, really—since she wasn’t even sixteen at that time.

  As a result, Salwa didn’t keep up the job search for very long. She began spending all her time wandering from one store to the next trying to sell toothpaste on behalf of some company, barely making enough to get by. One day while she was out selling, a boy mugged her, hitting her in the face and stealing her bag, leaving her with nothing.

  Eventually Salwa was able to get her affairs in order and open a small salon. The salon gained a bad reputation in the neighborhood, and everyone, including Nezha, heard how husbands forbade their wives from visiting it. But Nezha was curious about Salwa and her salon, and one morning she decided to head there. Salwa welcomed Nezha into the salon and got right to down to business.

  “You have a gorgeous body. Why not take advantage of it before giving it up to some loser for nothing?”

  Nezha was startled by Salwa’s directness, and as she started to reply Salwa approached, grabbed her by the hand, and sat her in the very same styling chair that she was sitting in now.

  “I’ve known you since you were a baby,” she said. “Ruqiya, your mom, cleaned houses and your father, Mohamed, may he rest in peace, had a stall in the market. Your brother wasn’t able to take his place—may God help you all. Times are tough, but if you want me to help, I can help.”

  Salwa inspected Nezha from head to toe. “If you’re busy and you need to go, come back another time.”

  “No. I’m not busy,” Nezha replied quickly.

  Salwa smiled.

  “Are you interested in making ten thousand dirhams, which equals a million centimes?”

  The word “a million” had an amazing ring for Nezha. The amount was so large she couldn’t wrap her head around it. She thought Salwa might be teasing her.

  “Yeah, I want to make a million centimes. What do I have to do?”

  “If you can promise me that you are still a virgin, come back tomorrow at noon.”

  Nezha thought about her encounters with her teacher. He was careful to keep things tame so as not to risk taking her virginity.

  “Are you still a virgin?” Salwa asked.

  Nezha blushed. “I’m a virgin,” she replied, feeling compelled to respond.

  Salwa explained that the ten thousand dirhams would be for the cost of her virginity.

  The next day, Nezha returned to the salon a little before noon. Salwa opened the door for her, greeting her with a kiss on both cheeks. She gestured for Nezha to take a seat on the sofa. A few minutes after Nezha’s arrival, a woman with a mouthful of gold teeth entered the salon. She was veiled and spoke in a Marrakesh accent. She immediately walked over to Nezha and inspected her carefully. Nezha was nervous and quiet while she waited for the woman to finish looking her over.

  “Do whatever this woman tells you, like she’s your mother,” Salwa instructed.

  The woman took Nezha by the hand and led her to a cab that was waiting outside. The cab dropped them off at a luxurious villa in one of the most upscale neighborhoods in Casablanca, called California. Nezha was wide-eyed as she took in the extravagant mansion. The woman headed toward the door, leading Nezha by the hand. She rang the doorbell and a burly guard wearing a tracksuit and holding a huge club in one hand opened the door. He smiled at the woman and quickly glanced at Nezha, and then gestured for them to follow him.

  The garden extended as far as the eye could see and was edged with leafy shrubs and exquisite rosebushes. Nezha absorbed the fragrances and colo
rs of the garden as the guard and woman led her to a shaded area at the far end of the garden, an oasis from the hot afternoon sun. The woman took a seat at the table, clearly familiar with her surroundings, and waited for a moment to let Nezha take in the full grandeur of the garden.

  “Everything will go well,” she said, taking Nezha by the hand and smiling at her. “The sheikh is decent and generous. He won’t hurt you. Had I known fate would have us cross paths, I would have given him twenty girls.”

  Nezha didn’t really understand what the woman meant, but she felt safe inside this magical place and smiled to show her appreciation.

  “Salwa didn’t explain what I’m supposed to do.”

  “There isn’t anything that needs to be explained. Everything will go smoothly as long as you’re a virgin. It’s so hard to find virgins your age these days. I don’t know when things changed, but girls these days are sinful. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Are you an orphan?”

  “Well, my dad died not long ago.”

  “Right, that’s what Salwa said. I like to help kids who have lost a parent since I raised my kids on my own. Listen, if you’re obedient—and it seems you are—I’ll introduce you to some very important people and you won’t have to worry about anything ever again, inshallah.”

  Nezha didn’t know if she was supposed to thank this woman or not, so she just nodded and waited for whatever was in store for her.

  The housekeeper approached them and gave a cursory greeting, barely even looking at them. The woman promptly stood and nudged Nezha forward.

  “You can leave now,” the housekeeper said coldly to the woman who had brought Nezha.

  The woman nodded and retreated toward a side door, where the guard was standing. He pointed with his club to a car parked near the walkway.

  “Wait in the car,” he said. “The driver will bring you back when it’s time.”

  The housekeeper took Nezha by the hand and brought her into a splendid parlor filled with elegant divans. She left Nezha standing there, without instructing her to sit down, and then disappeared through a small door. This is a real palace, Nezha thought to herself, as she stared at the ornate ceiling, the glistening chandeliers, and delicate antiques. She waited there for over two hours.

  The housekeeper returned, and with a cold expression grabbed Nezha tightly by the hand and led her to a small door with a golden handle. When she opened it, Nezha found herself in a large bedroom with what looked to be a comfortable bed, sofas, a large dresser, and several chairs. The sheikh was sitting on one of the massive, tufted sofas. He looked over seventy, wore tinted black glasses, and was dressed in the finest Gulfie robes. Nezha suddenly realized that she was alone in the room with him. She hadn’t noticed the housekeeper slip out. The sheikh was deep in thought, focused solely on the prayer beads in his hand. She could hear him mutter fragments of prayers, the words unintelligibly meshed together in repetition. He seemed not to notice Nezha until he had finished his recitation. He kissed the beads and placed them under a pillow.

  “Come closer, my girl. Come closer,” he said, motioning to a spot beside him.

  It was at this moment that she realized he was blind. She drew closer, taking short, cautious steps until she stood in front of him. He extended his hand to touch her and

  she froze.

  “A bit closer. Don’t be afraid.”

  When she edged even closer, he took hold of her and sat her down on the chair facing him. He began touching her face lightly, reading her features with his palms and then gently tracing the shape of her nose and mouth with his fingertip. Nezha was waiting for him to start groping her chest, and down below.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Sixteen.”

  He nodded, satisfied, and then placed his hand on her knee. “Did they tell you what you have to do?”

  “What do I have to do?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “Take your clothes off over there,” he said, pointing to a door in the corner that led to another room, “then clean up and put on the white pajamas.”

  After a brief hesitation she headed to the room, feeling confused, and still not exactly sure what she was being asked to do. She returned to the bedroom wearing the white pajamas, feeling like a patient in a hospital. She found the sheikh still seated on the sofa, but he had taken off his robes and was in his undergarments. His old, wrinkled body disgusted her and she hoped to get this finished quickly, get her ten thousand dirhams, and then forget it all. He asked her to sit in front of him, and removed his black-tinted glasses. She had never seen eyes like his before—dark, glassy, and hideous. She had to look away to keep from feeling nauseated.

  “Take off your pajamas and open your legs, my girl,” he said with a fatherly sweetness.

  Nezha paused for a second and looked closely at his face—maybe she’d discover a kind soul behind this ugly façade, but she couldn’t bear to look for long. She was terrified of him. She hurriedly removed her pajamas, and sat in her underwear. She reached out to touch him to let him know that she was ready. She had no idea how he planned to have sex with her. She was hoping he would bring her to the bed—maybe that would be quicker and gentler. Instead, he grabbed her thighs like he was inspecting cattle. His hands climbed up until he reached her underwear, which he took off gently. Then he told her to relax and open her legs. She was scared as first, but remembered that he was blind. Why wouldn’t he just bring her to the comfortable bed? Did he want something other than sex? The way he was situated in front of her didn’t seem relaxing or indicative of some sexual position; rather, it was like she was at the women’s clinic. Her confusion only increased when he touched her vagina without flinching or showing any signs of satisfaction. He began by inserting one finger, gently and determinedly, like he was used to doing this. She felt his finger enter her, and didn’t know how to react. She watched his hideous face contort with displeasure as he probed inside her. She felt his fingernail scratch her, causing her to pull back in pain. He scolded her, using words she didn’t understand. Then he inserted his entire finger, and when he withdrew it, it was smeared with blood. He raised his finger to his eyes and began wiping his eyelids with her blood.

  The sudden silence of the hair dryer being turned off brought Nezha back to reality. She couldn’t quite catch her breath and tried not to cry. She felt Salwa pat her on the shoulder.

  “You haven’t even checked out your hair. Do you like this do?”

  “Sorry, Salwa, I was thinking about that horrible experience with the sheikh.”

  Salwa bit her lip, dropped her shoulders, and sighed. “You’re still thinking about that, after all this time? I bet you’ve experienced worse since.”

  Nezha nodded. “You’re right. My life has been a series of trials, tribulations, and suffering. What reminded me of the sheikh was what happened yesterday with Hamadi—in both instances I made out horribly. Yesterday, I got nothing. With the sheikh, I only got a thousand dirhams instead of the ten thousand promised.”

  Salwa tried to keep quiet, knowing that Nezha hadn’t really processed what happened.

  “Listen, the mistake was yours. You were the one who lied when you said you were a virgin.”

  “But I was a virgin! I promised you that my only experience was with that teacher and it was nothing. He never penetrated me. And the sheikh, he smeared his eyes with my blood. If I wasn’t a virgin then he wouldn’t have gotten a single drop.”

  Salwa stared at her through the mirror and leaned over. “He didn’t think you were a virgin, my dear. What came out was just the very last bit of your virginity. The sheikh is an expert in these things. I hope he is cured of his blindness. He’s violated hundreds of girls to no avail.”

  “God will take revenge on everyone who stole my honor,” Nezha said, looking up at the ceiling.

  Salwa gave her an angry look. “I know that you still think we took your money—how many times have I sworn on the holy book . . .” />
  “That’s not important,” Nezha interrupted. “What’s important is this: can you lend me some money now?”

  Salwa reached for the pack of cigarettes on top of the counter, lit one, and exhaled the smoke in short bursts, thinking about how many little loans Nezha never repaid. And Nezha always preceded her request with this same memory.

  “If you need something like fifty dirhams, no problem, but I don’t have more than that.”

  Nezha spun around in the styling chair, turning her back to the mirror. “I need two thousand at least. I need to give Farqash half of that or he’ll kill me. The other half is for household expenses. Just give me a month, at most, and I promise you both your money and something special.”

  Salwa nearly said no immediately, but chose to decline gently instead. “I swear to God, my dear—and here’s my bag, check it yourself—I am suffering financially because of these religious zealots. Most girls are now veiled and no longer need a salon, so I’m thinking about selling it. And I’m scared one of these guys will blow himself up in here.”

  Nezha reached for the cigarettes and lit one. As she exhaled, her stomach rumbled and she felt sick. Except for the cup of black coffee, she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since yesterday morning. Salwa walked over to the counter and began arranging her hairstyling equipment, making it clear that she was done with Nezha.

  5

  Nezha left Salwa’s Salon fuming. She took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the bus station, a place she detested. It had been ages since she’d taken the bus. She had the mobile numbers of a handful of cab drivers who would drop everything, no matter where they were or who they were driving, to come pick her up when she called. But at that moment, she couldn’t indulge in this luxury. Salwa had only given her fifty dirhams, which was about enough for a pack of cigarettes and a bus ticket. As she stood there waiting for the next bus, she thought about what a terrible situation she was in. She was alone and afraid, with no one to protect her.

  She fought back tears as she thought about her father. Despite his financial troubles and sickness he had always been there to provide her with love and support. He had sacrificed so much to give her what she wanted, however meager it was. She closed her eyes and pictured her father with his gentle, ever-present smile. She remembered how he would take her by the hand, stroke her hair, and embrace her lovingly. She thought about all the men she had been with since who had never really cared for her. Their hearts beat with cruelty.