Chapter 3 - You'll Never to New York

Marianna spent every waking hour on her computer, combing the web, in search of any sign, any crumb of hope that the disease was reversible. Every search term she used returned the same verdict: incurable. 

How had this happened to her?

She paced the house. There had to be a solution. This wasn’t the first time Marianna was faced with IMPOSSIBLE. IMPOSSIBLES had always stood at every corner of her life. Over the years, she became desensitized to the word. She no longer feared or even heard it. She focused on her goals like an airplane in the sky. Thunder, lightning, storms, or even mechanical glitches wouldn’t stop the flight. It either reached its destination or crashed trying. 

Like a librarian, Marianna catalogued every IMPOSSIBLE by date, place, color, and emotion. Whenever a new one emerged, she'd revisit the old ones and the time and grit it took to knock them down. She juxtaposed this one against another from her youth, when every door was locked and she wasn't even allowed to approach them. 

It was April 1984. She had a date with Bahim, a famous singer she’d been dating on and off for about a year. Every time he wounded her, she ended the relationship, but she still hoped he’d call her or ask her back. A few months would pass, the pain would loosen its grip and the anger would fade away. She would find herself longing for the man she'd fallen in love with during those first intoxicating weeks.

He told her she was the one, and no one else could compare. He had finally found the woman he’d been searching for; she was the light of his darkest days. He would love and protect her beauty, her purity, and like a tree, he’d nurture to grow and thrive. She would be all his and he would love her with a passion that would make volcanoes seem like campfires. 

Decades later, Marianna would learn the name of this tactic. Psychologists call it the honeymoon phase, when a narcissist uses love bombing to forge a strong bond with their prey. At nineteen, Marianna knew nothing of narcissists or manipulation. She believed every word. And when he kissed her, she dissolved into cotton candy and drifted beyond the confines of her life.

Two months into the relationship, he popped the question. Marianna had no interest in marriage—she feared it as a tool of control and domination. She was already a captive with no rights or hope.

She lived in two worlds: France on the outside, Kabylia on the inside. She was inferior in both. In France, her race dictated her place; at home, her gender determined her destiny.

Surrounded by invisible walls, it was the worst kind of prison. Marriage wouldn’t open the cell; it would only tighten the screws. 

When she refused his proposal, Bahim invited her to move in with him instead. But Marianna’s intuition held her back. It was like someone screaming in her ear, Danger! Run! She was perhaps the only woman who refused to submit to Bahim. 

After two months of showering her with love, attention, and promises, he just vanished.

Like an addict desperate for a fix, she craved him. His absence left a crater nothing could fill. The sudden withdrawal of affection sent her spiraling. The silence shattered her like a fall from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

Every time the phone rang, she trembled. When it didn’t ring, the anxiety climbed. So she called him once. Twice. Three times. No answer.

Then every hour. 

At last, he picked up.

“Bahim?” Her voice quavered. 

“Merde,” came the reply.

Every sound around her died, as if she’d gone deaf. Life drained out of her, leaving her body limp. She sank into a chair and stared into the void as minutes stretched into hours. 

Every button on the switchboard glowed.

Like a robot, her hand reached for the receiver while her finger pressed on the glowing orange buttons. 

“Ford Pouillat, bonjour. Ne quittez pas, merci.” 

Once every caller was on hold, she sighed and returned to the land of the living.

She continued her day in a hollow state. She stood behind the reception desk like a scarecrow. She breathed only out of necessity. She spoke only when she had no choice.

Every day after that, she waited for an apology, an excuse, an explanation—or simply a phone call. Nothing ever came.

After a few weeks, the effect of the shock dissipated. She only remembered how loved he had made her feel—the promises, the tenderness, the intoxicating beginning. So she called him.

This time he answered and asked her out again.

That was the beginning of the cycle: affection, conflict, silence, reunion—always at Marianna's request. The harder she tried to draw close to him, the more he treated her as an afterthought. 

Eventually, Marianna figured out the game. Since he couldn’t control her, he wanted to destroy her. The love she once had felt for him gave way to a silent rage. Yet she didn’t know how to break the bond. 

On the night before their dates, she often cried. She didn’t want to see him. She no longer loved him and despised herself for lacking the strength to break free.
*** 

Paris was always beautiful but even more so in the spring, when the sunlight was soft, the air gentle, and the temperature sweet. Marianna sat at the terrace of a café, waiting for Bahim, who always arrived an hour late. Whenever he said he'd call, she spent the day waiting for him to confirm the time and place of their date. As the hours crawled by, so did her anxiety. He always waited until 5:02, the time she left work. The relief dissolved the frustration. She looked forward to the date.

When he finally appeared, he gave her a quick peck on the lips and sat across from her. She hadn't seen him for three months. She savored the moment, searching for comfort in his presence, the way an alcoholic refuses to let go of an empty bottle
He caught the intensity of her gaze. Embarrassed, she read the text on his T-shirt aloud.

“New York City.” 

The island of Manhattan stretched over his protruding belly, the Twin Towers rising in the distance, piercing a receding blue sky.

He looked down at his chest. “Maybe I’ll go someday.”

He lifted his head and searched her face. Five innocent words. To anyone else, they would’ve sounded like a wish. To Marianna, they were an attack. I’m a man. I can do as I please; I can go anywhere I want. You cannot.

Even though she felt the weight of Djurdjura crushing her, she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She lifted her espresso to her lips and let her eyes wander over the boxed trees, the rooftops, and the weathered walls, witnesses of centuries of history.

She’d never go to New York. He knew how much it’d hurt to remind her. It wasn’t the lack of money or education that stood in her way. She was incarcerated for possession. Possession of vagina.

His unspoken jab lingered in her head like an irritating refrain she’d heard too many times.

They left the café and headed to his house in northern Paris. The two-story home, built sometime around the 1930s, sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, overlooking a terrace shaded by a tall sycamore. The warm spring afternoon, the serenity of the atmosphere and the gentle breeze painted a perfect setting for romance. Marianna drank it all in and paid no mind to the dark clouds gathering overhead.

A young woman came in looking for her boyfriend, who played in Bahim's band. Bahim was no longer a recording artist, but he still performed small concerts for older audiences who remembered his biggest hits from the early 1970s.

After she left, Bahim grunted, “Huh. She thinks she’s the only one. He cheats on her every chance he gets.” Marianna felt sorry for the young woman. Bahim would never cheat her. She was beautiful, sexy, and only twenty-one. He was always eager to see her—whenever she asked.

“You cheated on me at least once,” Marianna said.

“More. Maybe twenty times.”

If someone hit her with a baseball bat in the gut, the blow would’ve been less painful. But once again, she refused to give him the pleasure of savoring his punch. Besides, it could be another ploy to make her feel insecure enough to move in with him.

She kept talking, but his voice seemed to come from far away.  Her body remained in the chair while her soul hovered above the scene, impervious to any sensation. She nodded, smiled, and murmured just enough to feign her presence in the conversation. 

A few hours passed before a young woman, about Mariana’s age, walked in front of the house, beyond the fence. She was short, ordinary-looking, but had the largest consumption of fuchsia lipstick of any cabaret performer, making her lips bright enough to be seen from space.

Bahim pointed at her. “You see that girl? She’s been hitting on me.” 

Marianna smiled and stood. “I’m going to the store to get some juice. Do you need anything?”

“Get me some aspirin or something. I’m getting a headache,” Said Bahim.

On her way back from the pharmacy, Mariana came face to face with Miss Fuchsia Lips.

“Mademoiselle?” Marianna murmured.

“Yes?” The young woman replied, expecting to be asked for directions.

Marianna scratched her head and cleared her throat. Pointing toward Bahim's house, she asked, “Is it true you’re interested in the gentleman who lives there?” 

The young woman's face crumpled as though she'd just seen a dead toad.  She shook her head, her voice trembling with indignation. “No, ma’am. It’s not me. It’s him. Every time I walk by, he calls out to me, whistles, and blows me kisses.”

Marianna politely thanked the woman and walked away. She felt hollow as though her insides were carved out. Infidelity was no longer the issue. The look of disgust on the young woman's face revealed something Marianna wasn’t prepared for: she was in love with a man who repulsed other women; she had fallen for trash.

She walked back to the house, befuddled like an amnesiac. It was only four blocks away, yet she managed to get lost. When she finally arrived, she walked straight to Bahim, who was surrounded by his entourage—musicians, servants, and admirers eager to touch the hem of his garment.

She hurled the bag of medication at his face and shouted, “You are the biggest piece of shit in Paris!”

© Copyright 2026 dominique. All rights reserved.