Chapter 7
Nadiya
– No.
– That’s what I thought.
We glare at each other, as if waging a completely incomprehensible war.
How can I find out why me?
Or maybe they just needed a girl from the street? An unknown Muslim bride?
Idar clenches his teeth, but doesn’t look away, squinting.
“What condition?” he asks calmly.
– My brother. He needs help.
Idar doesn’t ask for details, and I don’t say anything else, as if afraid of scaring him off.
“Is that the only reason you agreed to marry me?” His voice betrays no emotion.
— Only for this reason.
If he refuses, I’ll leave him with a light heart. I don’t care about my own reputation, my tarnished name. I don’t want this marriage if my conditions aren’t met.
This is what Tamerlane should have taken care of. But he only took care of himself.
“Okay,” Idar says. “But you won’t cause me any more problems.”
I live quietly, I don’t attract attention, and… I don’t have a man.
“I agree,” I nod.
“Then you have ten minutes to get yourself together. I won’t let you into a car like that.”
I can’t help but hug myself. My clothes are dirty, yes. But not too badly. And yet, I’m still uncomfortable with this treatment.
– I won’t go with Olesya.
Idar sighs and rolls his eyes.
– I told you: you shouldn’t create problems for me.
I shake my head:
“If Olesya and I go together, it won’t be me who’s causing the problems. You should understand that it wasn’t me you pushed aside and married the first woman you met.”
Yunusov’s eye twitches and he speaks slowly:
– You know… Your sharp tongue is starting to bother me.
“It’s not a sharp tongue, but the voice of reason. I doubt you could calmly drive two thousand kilometers with two women fighting behind your back. Or I could take the train.”
– No. You will come with me.
He turns and walks towards the door:
– You have nine minutes left, Nadia.
Idar leaves and I stick my middle finger out at the closing door.
A second later the door swings open.
“And one more thing…” Idar’s eyebrows rise at the sight of my middle finger aimed at him.
I jerk my hand away and put it behind my back. A flush of embarrassment rises to my cheeks.
Yunusov returns to the room, stands opposite me, and looks down.
— Did you just show me the finger?
“Who? Me? Of course not,” I snort.
Idar inhales tensely through his nose.
“Your hand,” he demands, holding his out in front of my nose.
“No,” I say, stepping back in fear.
He doesn’t want to hurt me, does he? Like, twist my middle finger?
Idar makes a lunge, grabs my hand painfully and pulls it towards himself.
I slam my chest against his and our eyes meet. I think he can clearly see in my gaze how much I hate him right now.
“Just dare,” I hiss.
My husband takes something out of the pocket of his dark jeans and yanks my hand toward him again. Everything inside me boils. I’m not a doll, damn it, for this to happen to me!
I feel a wave of resentment from hopelessness – without realizing it, I found myself a hostage to the situation.
Idar forcefully unclenches my fist and, putting a ring on my ring finger, lets me go.
“You’re supposed to wear it all the time!” he growls at me. “Is that clear to you?”
Send him?
How far? Erotic walking distance? Surprise with your knowledge of male anatomy? Or better yet, female?
“Where’s your ring then?” My voice seethes with resentment.
“I don’t need to confirm my belonging to you, Nadiya.”
He doesn’t belong to me, but I belong to him. Because he has power and money in his hands.
“Five minutes, Nadia,” my name sounds like spit from his lips.
He leaves, and I look at the closed door and wipe the tears that have rolled down my cheeks.
There are too many of them in my life.
I change into jeans and a sweater, put my pajamas and dirty clothes in my backpack, go to the bathroom, wash my hands thoroughly, feeling like some kind of beggar, although I have done nothing wrong.
I’m not dirty.
Angry, hating, despising Tamerlane, Idar, and the entire male gender, I go down to the street.
Idar smokes by the car, chatting with someone on the phone.
– I’m ready.
He raises his head and looks me up and down. Displeased.
— What’s wrong?
— Do you always wear clothes like this?
I’m wearing simple jeans and a loose sweater.
— Said the one whose girlfriend wears a miniskirt and stilettos.
– That’s exactly it, Nadi. A girlfriend. Not a wife.
“Hypocrite,” I spit, looking him straight in the eye. “I wear simple, unremarkable clothes. And I won’t change them.”
– Handkerchief?
– No. – As a matter of principle.
He wants… there’s so much he wants to tell me. But he holds back, as if he knows it will only get worse.
– Sit down.
I walk around the car and sit in the back seat.
— Don’t you need to say goodbye to your family?
– No. I’ll see them tomorrow.
And me?
Will I see them? Will I meet your mother, your father?
With anyone at all?
I don’t ask these questions because I know the answers.
If my husband’s parents wanted to meet me, they would have come to our wedding.
