The Rebel

Amina-7

“To the airport,” I shout, and no matter how shocked the driver looks at me, I swear to myself, there is no power on earth that could force me out of this car before I reach the airport. The driver is still staring at me instead of facing forward, so I shout at him again: “Drive on. I have money. I’ll pay you double if we get there in half an hour.”

I lie down on the seat, and can’t see, only sense the car starting. You’ve survived, Amina! You’ve made it.

＊

I keep my head down and walk around people at the airport. As soon as I can, I need to find a restroom where I can clean up. Even though it’s evening, there are still a lot of people around. After I got out of the taxi, I caught sight of myself in a glass door, and was terrified. I wasn’t even aware my temple was bleeding, even though the stream of blood has reached my neck. It must have happened when I fell against the wall during the scuffle. I heave a sigh of relief when I see the toilet at last, I open the door, but just as I have anticipated, I’m not alone. A middle-aged man is washing his hands, and beside him there is a five-year-old boy. I walk straight to the wash basin, open the tap and begin to wash my face. The edge of the shemagh gets wet too, but I don’t care about it. My blood paints the white marble sheet of the tap red, and out of the corner of my eye I see that the man pulls the child away from me with shock. I don’t resent him; I might be doing the same in his situation.

I can’t wait to finally take off the thobe and wear women’s clothes again but seeing the condition of the trousers and the sweater I’m wearing underneath; I have to do something. There are shops on the airport’s premises, so this shouldn’t be a problem, I only wish I wasn’t so tired. After drying myself, I lock myself into a cubicle, and just sit on the lid of the toilet, motionless. As I finally manage to pull myself together and leave the cubicle, I feel like I’m a hundred years old. For a moment it crosses my mind that my arm is broken, every movement hurts so much, and even the fabric of the sweater irritates it rubbing against it.

I don’t waste my time, just walk into the first shop on the way, and take a pair of jeans from the shelf. It’s a Diesel. I check the size, then move on to find a shirt. In the recent days I’ve been boiling hot in the clothes I’m wearing, so right now I would love to opt for a simple, short-sleeved T-shirt, but I can’t do that. The injury on my lower arm is quite a sight, so I have to wear something to cover it. I choose a simple black long-sleeved top, but before getting changed, I realize I don’t have a bra. The shop assistants are busy with other customers, and I don’t want to draw their attention. It wouldn’t look good if I was asking about bras while wearing men’s clothes.

I quickly scan the shop, but they don’t have any underwear. The best I find is a colourful swimsuit. So be it. I limp into the fitting room, hoping nobody has taken notice. Taking my clothes off is a nightmare. Every move takes three times longer than normal. It’s very hard for me to lift my arm and feel horrified when I see the condition of my knee. I struggle to roll off the silk that has covered my breasts and throw it on the floor with anger. I rip the price tags off the new clothes and put them on at a lame speed. Feels so good. They are not too tight, they don’t cut into me anywhere, if anything, they are a little loose. Once again, I check the size of the jeans, but it is right. The problem is not the size, but the fact that I must have lost a few pounds in the past week. There is a nice large mirror here, so I can tidy my hair after freeing it from under the net. Well, it’s quite a mess, stuck to my head, but that’s my least worry. I try to fix my hair in such a way that it covers the wound on my temple, and I think it works just fine. I roll the men’s clothes in one bundle, as small as I can, and put them into a plastic bag. I will be overjoyed to toss them into the first bin.

Before I leave, I take out my own passport, and smooth over it like some precious treasure. Now I’m facing the last hurdle. If I’m not caught here, then it’s done, I’ve made it. The rest of the journey will be child’s play compared to what was before. At least, that’s what I hope. I leaf through my passport and my eyes are caught on my photo with dread. I haven’t thought about this yet, but it might be a problem when they see that I’m a citizen of the Emirates. In the picture I’m wearing a hijab which covers my hair, and now it’s hanging loose down to the small of my back. I don’t know if they will have a problem with that, but I don’t want to risk it. Luckily, I have also seen scarves in the shop, so I gather my stuff, buckle the belt around my waist, then choose a dark blue stola and a sweater. The shop assistant at the till makes big eyes when I put the ripped-off labels in front of her. Before she is too freaked out, I give an explanation.

“I’ve had a little accident on my way here, and… you know, my clothes are ripped,” I say, and try to pull a big smile. I pull my hair to the side to reveal the wound on my temple. “I hope it’s okay that I’ve already put the clothes on, I couldn’t keep my own ones on.”

Her face eases up at the sight of my injury, and she assures me that there is no issue. I pay, thank her for her kindness, and limb out of the shop. I’m absolutely knackered, long to sit in a corner and get some sleep, but I can’t until I buy my air ticket. As I walk past a drug store, I remember it wouldn’t be a bad idea to buy some more painkillers. What I bought in the city, was stolen by the two bandits, but let them be happy with those three tablets. I swear, I don’t even mind. I can’t believe I got away with this much.

＊

“Well, the next flight is an Emirates one, with one transfer in Dubai,” the lady with the heavy makeup says, smiling brightly behind the counter. I feel like a miserable stick next to her, seeing her impeccable hairdo and perfectly pressed blouse. “It departs early in the morning and lands in Paris at eight in the evening at Charles de Gaulle.”

I listen with an open mouth and a dizzy brain; I believe shock has made me numb. She can’t be serious. It’s absolutely out of the question that I would fly with the Emirates, plus, through Dubai. She must be out of her mind!

“W… what?” I groan with a dry mouth.

“The Emirates service…” she starts over, obviously taking me for a complete i***t.

With difficulty, I find my voice again, and before she would repeat the whole crap, I interrupt her.

“What else is there? What other flights go to Paris?”

She heaves a big sigh, types away on the keyboard, then begins to list them as if I was mentally challenged. I admit I’m not used to these kinds of manners.

“Both Oman Air and Saudi have flights in the morning,” she lifts my eyes to me expectantly, but when I don’t react, she continues. “And then, there is Turkish Airlines through Istanbul…”

“That will be great,” I say quickly. “Yes, I’ll have a ticket to the next Turkish Airlines to Paris, please.”

“Sure,” she smiles at me condescendingly. “Your passport, please.”

I take my passport from my belt, and need all my will-power to keep my hands from shaking when I hand it over. Just before, I covered my hair with the scarf to look more like my photo with the hijab, I hope it will work. I don’t even know where to look, what is better. Oh, God. Please, don’t let her start questioning me. I have no idea what I will do if it doesn’t work out, if, seeing my nationality, she starts asking why I’m travelling alone. I don’t have a plan Bother than running out of the building like some madman, but I doubt I will get too far with this injured knee if she sends the guards on me. As the seconds pass and she says nothing, I’m getting more nervous and break out in sweat. My palms are sweating too, the vein in my neck is pulsing like crazy, and I feel that my head is red hot. She’ll spot that something’s wrong. For sure, she’ll…

“That will be it, then. The flight departs for Istanbul at 7:15, the gate will probably be announced about two hours before take off,” she says, sending me a condescending smile. “Would you like to pay by cash or ca—"

“Cash. In dollars,” I say too fast and too thrilled, with which I earn a reprimanding frown. While she prints out my ticket, I take out the amount from my belt and push it towards her. She begins to count, and when she’s finished, she puts down the ticket together with my passport, with her pink polished nails. I can hardly control myself; I snatch them like a predator its prey.

“Have a pleasant journey and thank you for—"

My ears can hear the words, but I can’t comprehend them anymore. I leave the counter and as if in trance, I leave, holding the token of my freedom in my hands.

Chapter 9