The train beeped to signal departure.

Houria thumbed through previous tickets and counted nine. She pulled November 12, 1982—Their first date—her first lie to her parents. She told them she had to work in the sales office in Versailles every other Saturday.

She shivered anytime she revisited that day, riding the same train from La Verrière to Montparnasse, then the metro to Gare du Nord. Even though it was a two-hour trip, she didn’t want it to end. November gloom looked like sunshine as she floated high above her life into a blue sky, where birds sang and butterflies swarmed around her. Bahim was punctual for the first and last time.

It couldn't be a date. Sure, she was infatuated, but he was married, eighteen years older, and a famous singer. Dating requires freedom of movement. She was incarcerated for possession—possession of vagina. She had only one precious gift: virginity, something she couldn’t afford to lose. In it was wrapped the family’s honor and her value. The virginity protection guidelines were ingrained into her at a very early age. Any attention from a man who’s not a relative decreased her value. A woman should never invite such behavior, much less participate in it.

So, when she took an afternoon off from work to spend with her idol, sex was the last thing on her mind. He wouldn’t ask for such a thing. Traditions and laws of his culture governing women forbid sex before marriage. In many ways, she was still a child. Her wide blue eyes were filled with fear and wonder, despite the perky attitude displayed by her size D bosom. This is the man she listened to on the radio throughout her childhood. She was safe.

He picked her up Gare du Nord drove to a café. He sat close to her and nibbled on her space. She kept her hands on her lap and her gaze on the espresso cup. She shrunk. But it was harmless. He could have any woman; why would he want a child with a curfew? Before she sorted her thoughts, his lips covered hers. Her entire body turned into a tiny marshmallow that fit in his mouth. She was transported into soft, fluffy, swirling ribbons of color riding the Aurora Borealis. He pulled away, smiled, and excused himself. He returned a few minutes later, paid the bill, and guided her toward the door. They walked hand in hand to the back of the café and she found herself in a hotel room. She kept saying “no” as he undressed her; she kept saying “no” as he pushed her on the bed; she kept saying “no” when pierced by a sharp pain. Then she felt nothing. The resonant voice of Jean Ferrat hummed in the back of her mind. “Should we cry / should we laugh / Does she inspire envy or pity / it’s not easy to say.”

 He dropped her at the metro like one discarded a bouquet of faded flowers.

She felt nothing, except a sharp pain in her bottom when she sat down. One thing was sure: she would never hear from him again. She was now damaged goods. She’d never marry or be with another man. She’d never experience that feeling again. That flight over the rainbow when he kissed her; how her entire body melted like butter on hot sand. She still had youth and beauty. Maybe he’d call. She had to wait until she returned to work to find out.

Monday morning the switchboard was illuminated like a starry night over the Sahara. “Ford Chouillat, bonjour.” Her boss told her she was the most important person in the company. She was the client’s first contact and her interaction with them shaped their experience.

Her salary didn’t reflect that power. At her age, with little experience, no education, minimum wage was to be expected. But it didn’t matter how much money she made. Every month, she handed her paycheck to her father. A woman didn’t keep a stash he told her. So, Monday through Friday, she answered the phone, fielded calls, and went home in the evening. Saturday and Sunday she was locked in. Sometimes she sat at the window for hours watching traffic jam. A long line of cars moved like beads on a necklace. All those cars crammed into one lane prevented each other from moving forward. When traffic cleared, the last cars sped through, leaving her behind. The drivers were probably headed to some elaborate Saturday night dinner, dancing, movies.

She waited for Monday. Monday, she waited for Bahim to call. When the needle touched five on the large clock in the hall, the switchboard went dark; she still waited. A few of her colleagues gave her that look “Aren’t you going home?” It was way past five when the top button lit.

“Banjoor!” said the familiar voice with a suave accent.

Houria pressed the phone to her ear and sat down. It wasn’t rape. He loved me. He wanted all of her, not just her virginity. He confessed his love. She relaxed into the seat and extended her feet under the desk, pushing the paper bin to the side. Naturally, when he asked to see her again, she couldn’t refuse.

She pulled the second ticket—their next date—but the train stopped. She lifted her eyes and saw Versailles. She put the tickets and the inscribed memories in her purse. Three more stations before La Verrière. She closed her eyes and the train noise drowned her thoughts.

 She arrived home on time, greeted by her sister.

“Vava was talking about coming to see you at work today?” her sister whispered.

“Why? How did he come up with that idea?”

“I don’t know. But you’d better stop seeing him. What has he done for you, anyway?”

Houria couldn’t argue with her sister. She can’t explain why she keeps going back to a man who mistreats her. She walks to her bedroom. “Can we not discuss it? Please!”

“He never intended to marry you,” her sister followed her. “He knew they’d never go for it. He expected you to run off with him so he’d have full control over you and full-time sex. Greedy bastard.”

Marriage was an oppressive institution that denied a woman’s identity and put her under new ownership. Houria’s dream was to be the owner of her destiny. When she pictured her future, she imagined her own apartment, her own car, and a career. When Bahim proposed, after only one month of dating, she wasn’t thrilled or excited. Truth be told, it wasn’t the most romantic proposal. He put his arm around her and asked if he could see her the next day.

“You know I can’t. I don’t go out on weekends, day or night.”

He kissed her. “Then let’s get married.”

Houria recoiled. She always had a sixth sense and could read people beyond their words. Bahim’s voice lacked sincerity. His proposal lacked weight. It floated in the air and couldn’t land like a balloon released in the air. “But you’re still living with someone?”

“I will leave her after I put my daughter to my name. In the meantime, we would be engaged and it would be legit for us to see each other. There is no dishonor to your family.” He cupped her face in his hands and sucked on her lips, penetrated her mouth, and almost swallowed her tongue. He withdrew and kneeled on the bed. “If God loves him, he’d let me die in your arms. I want you to be the last woman of my career.”

The last woman of his career. Like the wind bending olive trees on hilltops, Houria swept that phrase to the back of her mind. She was too much in love to care what it meant.

“Don’t deprive me of the best joy I’ve ever known. No woman has ever stirred so much fire in me. You have lit my world. Don’t let me return to darkness.”

Her parents would never permit her to marry a celebrity, much less accept her sleeping with him before the wedding. Then there is the little voice in her head saying “Y’a Anguille sous Roche.”

“I’m not ready for marriage.”

“You don’t love me enough.”

“I do. You’re the only one I’ll ever love.”

He grunted. “Sois-disant. If you don’t want to marry me, you’re not the woman I thought you were.” He got up and dressed.

“Come on, I’ll drive you to the metro.”

“Bahim, you don’t understand. I don’t know what my father would do if he finds out I’m seeing you.”

“Enough with the excuses. Let’s go."

“If they find out I’ll never …”

He was out the door.

When they reached the metro, he kept his hands on the steering wheel and his head down. Silence was his favorite weapon to put pressure. She leaned to kiss him; he turned away.

 “You know I’ll do anything for you, but I’m too scared to tell them.”

“Okay, it’s the last time we see each other then.”

“If I tell them and something bad happens, will you be there for me?”

He kissed her with more passion than any violin could cry. She believed him. Someone who loved that much wouldn’t lie to her.

Sunday afternoon, she broke the news to her parents. Irate, her mother spit in her face; her father fainted and needed a week of sick leave to recover.

“Tomorrow, hand in your resignation. You’ll stay home until you leave for Algeria. Obviously, you can’t handle having all these privileges.” Her father decreed.

Work and hand in the paycheck. That’s a luxurious life. She waited until everyone was watching television and sneaked to the kitchen to call Bahim.  

“I told them,” she whispered when he answered the phone. “It’s a disaster. They want to send me to Kabylia.”  The line went silent for what seemed to her like an hour.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hung up.

His voice was hollow and elusive. She didn’t sleep that night. Her dream of freedom just evaporated. She would be forced into marriage to someone she didn’t know who would be in charge of her life.

Monday morning, she arrived to work early. A flood of calls streamed through the switchboard all day. No Bahim. He never called on Tuesday, or the week after. She still waited. Every day. At the end of the day, she turned off her emotions. She retreated into an empty shell to absorb the insults and the humiliation waiting for her at home. Her parents knew she wasn’t a virgin. And that’s precisely what saved her. She was stained, shame-stamped, unfit for marriage. Virginity is an interesting tool. Once lost, it protects the owner against forced marriage and in some cases, like a divorce, the loss of virginity opens doors to so many opportunities for fun, like dating, travel, staying out late. The woman no longer had anything to protect—or be proud of.

A month went by without a word from Bahim. Every time the switchboard lit, a surge of hope rose in her chest.

“Ford Chouillat, Bonjour.”

“Monsieur Sauvage, s’il vous plait.”

Each call intensified her anguish. The only person who put her on a pedestal was gone, so was her appetite and sleep. Her self-esteem shrunk; her pride shriveled. Like an addict, she suffered from withdrawal. She called him daily, then several times a day; she left messages. Her persistence paid off.

She shook like a building during an earthquake when he picked up the phone. “Bahim?”

“Merde,” click.

Like a soldier standing in an open field without a shield, that five letter word hit her like a hundred bullets. Unable to hear or talk, she stood next to the switchboard like a scarecrow.

“Houria? Answer the phone,” her colleague, Chantal, whispered.

Houria didn’t react. Chantal got up, sat her down and answered all five blinking buttons. Then she asked Houria if she wanted to go home.

“You look like you saw a ghost. What happened? Anyone in your family hurt?”

Houria tried to swallow but couldn’t. Her mouth was dry. Chantal slapped her gently. “Wake up!”

“Bahim doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“I told you he’s no good. You deserve better. Why do you go back to him?”

It was the only happiness she’d ever known. As a girl, she wasn’t good enough in her family. As an Algerian, she wasn’t good enough for French society; as an employee with only a fifth-grade education, she was good only for the least skilled position. But she was good enough for him, even precious as he liked to call her, “mon cœur precieux.” If she let go, she’d be in that black hole again, only this time, there was no hope of ever getting out.

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