The Rebel

Amina

Amina

Paris has a unique atmosphere, that would be hard to deny, but at the moment I am immune to it. I have been here several times with my family, and there are hardly any places here that don’t remind me of them, so after the first day I gave up walking in the streets. I don’t feel up to it, anyway, I can hardly stand on my feet, so I just sit on the hotel’s balcony, enjoying the light of the afternoon sun on my face. Sunlight is not as much of a killer here as it is in the Emirates.

This is my third day in Paris, and I’m growing more and more impatient. The truth is, I wanted to move on the first day after my arrival, but I had to give up my plan. My stomach is still in a horrible state, whatever it was I caught on the road, it must be some stubborn virus, because I still often feel sick. The wound on my knee is not about to get better and my lower arm is oozing. I’m afraid I might have a temperature too, yet, I don’t want to risk seeing a doctor. There isn’t much more to go, I just have to board one more plane and I’ve made it. Although the mere thought of flying gives me nausea, I still have to pull myself together. London is the destination, my new home. That city is attracting me like a strong magnet. Something tells me if I can get there, everything will be all right, and my new life can finally begin. I’m holding fast onto this hope.

There is a knock to the door, my dinner must have arrived. I wasn’t in the mood to go to the dining room, nor did I have the energy, so I ordered the food to my room. I push myself up from the chair and hiss at once, as my bloated knee hits against the little coffee table. I limp over to the door, take the tray and put it on the table next to the dry sandwich from breakfast. I know I should eat, but even just thinking about food makes my stomach churn. I had a few extra pounds on my backside when I left home, which I know I lost. I have never been on a diet, but I don’t think Nasirah would have allowed it anyway. It never used to be in custom at our place. Nasirah and aunt Nadia always assured us that healthy men like it when a woman has a round, shapely booty. They always spoke up against following the idiotic Western fashion, starving ourselves thin, because we would cause our future husband disappointment on our wedding night. Nadia has always been more outspoken than my mother, so she often told us that women with fuller hips give much more pleasure to men than those who are skinny as a broomstick. This male-chauvinistic approach to coupling and sexuality bothered me even back then, the fact that it focused exclusively on men’s needs and their satisfaction. Whenever s*x came up in the bath between women – which happened a lot – the central issue was always what men like, not what we want.

＊

Since online shopping is out of the question, no matter how weak I am, I gather my strength and leave for the city to find a travel agency where I can purchase my plane ticket to London for cash. Luckily, the receptionist gives very clear instruction, so I quickly find the place. My hands are literally shaking with nervousness as I pay the fee for tomorrow’s British Airways service to Heathrow. In a way, it feels like going home, since I lived there for years. Yet, there is a mixture of mourning and hope inside me when I collapse onto a bench and twist the ticket between my fingers as if under a spell.

Did I make the right decision? I have turned my back on my family, and probably lost the ones I love the best, forever. Am I a bad person? A guilty, ungrateful child? It would be good to see into the future and know whether I will ever be happy without them. Can any other thing replace family, my blood relatives? Will I ever be able to start a family? I have no idea.

I hate loneliness, and as I catch sight of an old-fashioned phone booth on my way to the hotel, I grow weak. just one call, a few words, a familiar voice, and I would feel better. Perhaps if I called Selina… I would only tell her I’m well and she shouldn’t be worried. I step into the glass booth and close the door on me. I put my hand on the receiver and lift it up carefully. A sober voice inside me is crying out loud not to do it, because it’s a dreadful idea. I’m not an IT expert, but even I know that a call reaching a mobile phone can be traced without a problem. I’m positive they’re keeping an eye on my friend, or, they may have even taken her phone. If it turns out I’m calling from Paris, my father might mobilize his local contacts, and I will be stopped at the airport before I could board the plane to London. I’m clutching the receiver, there is a terrible fight inside me. I’m unable to put it back on the hook, but I can’t get myself to press the numbers. I’m dying to hear the voice of a friend, but can I really take such a big risk?

I press my forehead against the glass of the booth, and stare at the buzz of the street through my tears. Suddenly, I see a veiled woman who is walking with a curly-haired little boy. Only her eyes are visible from under the niqab covering her head, yet I can tell she must be very young. Her moves are light, even though her abaya is suspiciously round at the front. Ahead of her, her husband is walking, wearing jeans and a white shirt, holding the hand of a five-year-old boy. There is nothing about the sight that I wouldn’t recognize since my birth, nothing that would shock me, yet this image is like a symbol to me. It’s like an ice-cold shower poured over my head, I sober up in a second. With a firm move, I replace the receiver, step out of the booth and wipe my tears off with my hand. my knee is sore, the wound on my arm is burning, and my heart is aching, yet, I start back to the hotel with my head held high to pack my rucksack for the flight.

＊

In a feverish state, I pace towards the taxi station at Heathrow’s departures. I’ve been here many times before, I know the building, the shops and the restaurants, yet now I feel like I’m treading another planet. The ground is moving under my feet as I look down, but I know it’s only a play of senses. I’ve had a temperature for days, I’m shivering with cold, then I break out in sweat. At first, I thought the infected wound was causing this on my arm, but I’m not sure anymore. Although I’ve never had malaria, but I’ve read about it, and my symptoms do remind me of it. Of course, it’s also true that I’ve never travelled under circumstances like recently, and when I think about the bites that I scratched on the ship to Karachi, I wouldn’t be surprised if I actually had malaria. The most difficult thing was to keep myself together during the flight. Several times I felt that things went dark before my eyes and I was close to passing out, but I couldn’t ask for help. If they spot that I am sick, they can even put me into quarantine, which would mean being caught. Luckily, the journey didn’t take long. Only a nightmare of one hour and ten minutes, but I definitely wouldn’t have endured it much longer without vomiting or fainting.

Perhaps I should feel emotional as I leave the building and breathe fresh, English air for the first time, but I don’t feel anything like that. I’m unwell, shivering, I hardly stand on my feet, and there is only one thing I’m sure about: I need a doctor, and very quickly. I must find a private clinic where I can pay by cash and where they don’t ask for my papers. If I go to the hospital, I have to identify myself at once, which I want to avoid for a while yet. I get into the first taxi I find, collapse onto the seat, and gathering the last of my strength I say the first thing my feverish mind can produce: “To London Zoo, please.” Why there of all places? I don’t have the foggiest, all I know is that the zoo is in the northernmost corner of Regents Park, in the city centre, and simply that was my first thought. in that area there is a good chance I will find a doctor or a hospital if I don’t die before then, I feel I’m not too far from that. I’m feeling dizzy as I stare out of the windscreen, so I lay back in the seat instead and close my eyes.

＊

It’s dark. What time could it be? What difference does the time make, though? I’m tired. Sleepy, very sleepy. I don’t even know where I am exactly since I got out of the taxi at the zoo, I’ve been wandering aimlessly. Fever gradually takes control of my mind, I hardly have any clear thoughts left, I’m simply stumbling on. I need a doctor. I must find a doctor – I keep saying half loudly like a mantra, but my legs fail me, I’m at the end of my strength. Here I am in London. I’ve done it. I’ve done it, all alone. I am one step away from the beginning of a new life, I can’t give up now. God, help me! I need medication, a doctor. Worn out, I lift my head, rub my eyes so I can see more clearly, but the street is revolving around me. I dimly perceive the endless row of identical houses with white façades, and something else… Some greenish light above a gateway, attracting my eyes like magic, but I can’t make out the letters. With uncertain footsteps I start walking towards the writing shining green while holding onto the lamp posts in my way. From the outside I must look completely sloshed, I’m no longer in control of my movements. Oh, to make it there, just to that green light… I stumble, and in the last second, I manage to grab the black iron bar in front of the house. I am panting as if I had done the distance between here and Ras al-Khaimah at running speed, and feel the sweat running down my temples. I try to swallow with a bone-dry throat as I tilt my head upwards and try to spell the shiny white letters on the green. All I can comprehend is Dr Parker, and the word clinic gets to my mind before my chin drops again.

I must ring the bell. I must! About five steps separate me from the bell, but as I stand at the bottom and look up at the entrance, it feels like being at the foot of Everest. It seems out of reach. I collapse onto the bottom step and push my back against the wall. Every muscle, every join of my body is sore, it feels like a terribly strong soreness in my whole body. I no longer feel separate pain here or there, I’m simply one, agonizing ball of agony. I’ll gather my strength, yes… I only need a single minute, then I will push myself up these stairs to push that buzzer. Then everything will be fine. Has got to be fine. Just a minute, one moment while I close my eyes. Just a second…

Chapter 10