Houria wrapped a scarf around her neck and walked the two blocks to the Café du Nord. Cold relentless wind sweeping her face made the walk longer than a road to a castle. A typical gray Friday in March. Graffiti-defacing storefronts added a touch of color like the bright red statement “Ni Dieu, Ni Maitre”, but it only contrasted the rebellious gray which refused to fade into the background. It was the background.

The empty café smelled of coffee grounds and beer. She surveyed the spread of small tables dotted with ashtrays and narrow booths with vomit-yellow upholstery.  No Bahim. As usual, he didn’t care enough to wake up early and he enjoyed making her wait. She sat in the back, near a window to watch the scenery, but only honking cars and speeding motorcycles populated the mid-morning streets. A couple of pedestrians walked dogs who honored the tall trees poking from square gaps in their concrete prisons. A young woman in a business suit clutched her briefcase as she hurried past. Houria sighed as she often did when she saw an educated, professional French woman her age. The kind of woman who lived a free life, while she wasn’t allowed even to wear makeup. The only explanation her parents offered for those privileges denied to her—dating, clubbing, having friends, traveling, dining out— was “We’re not French.”

“Do you know this word freedom you keep repeating is vulgar? Her father said. “Do you know what type of woman is free to do as she pleases?”

A waiter approached. Still recovering from a cold that left her voiceless, she whispered, “Un Badoit,  s’il vous plait.”

Houria loved how Badoit’s discreet bubbles comforted the mouth as they burst into joyful beads on the tongue—unlike Perrier’s bubbles which scraped like a wool carder and lit the throat on fire.

“We don’t have Badoit,” the waiter said. “Would you like a Perrier?”

“Green tea?”

“Regular.”

“An espresso.”

As she settled in the faux leather booth, she pulled a small calendar from her purse—one of those pocket calendars found inside chocolate bar wrappers. Houria loved calendars. They sliced time into tangible pieces. She liked to count days and weeks left in months or the remaining months in the year, a habit she acquired as a child to deal with an abusive teacher. She counted the days spent in his classroom until he got replaced.

She caressed the little wildflower on the calendar’s cover as she counted how many months she’d been with Bahim. The waiter returned with the espresso. She sipped and winced at the burn in her throat.

 She hadn’t seen Bahim in two months. He must really love her. Despite their infrequent dates and all the fights, he still hadn't found a new girlfriend. But today, strain replaced her usual butterflies and plenitude. Alone in the empty, dingy café filled her with dread and nudged at her senses like a drowning person who spits out water, takes a breath, and discovers the value of life. She sipped again—too bitter for even sugar to blunt. She called the waiter and ordered a café allongé.

She was about to place a third order when Bahim sauntered in. He sat beside her without a kiss. His uncombed hair hung over smokey glasses; His face, gray and grimy, begged for a scrub. His hand to her thigh smudged dirt on her white pants.

Embarrassed, he retrieved his hand. “I played with the dog.”

Houria twitched. Her cheeks lost their warmth as though under duress of an icy wind. She swallowed hard and smiled.

He mumbled, “Ça va?”

“Très bien. How about you?”

“Didn’t sleep all night. Too much drinking. Too much partying.”

A dagger pierced Houria’s chest, and her breathing hitched. She pictured a dim-lit room full of people smoking, drinking, dancing to loud music, and young women falling all over him. More than jealousy, it was a scene she’d never participate in. At twenty years old, she’d never been to a concert, a party, or even a movie. Her parents never allowed it.

“You should’ve come.” Another one of his jabs to remind her of the invisible shackles. She turned her head toward the window, then folded the calendar.

He pointed at the flower. “What’s that?”

“It’s a flower that grows in the woods. Nobody pays attention to it, but still thrives in darkness under trees, oppressed by moss.” She laughed and slid the calendar into her purse.

He grunted. “Anyone can step on it.”

Accustomed to his demeaning messages, she refrained from giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she lifted her chin and smiled. “It’s wild and tough and grows right back.”

A melange of sadness and anger stirred in her. Why does she let him step on her? Love was a drug that highjacked one’s common sense, distorted reality, and transported you into a glittery universe of marvels, sunshine, and bathed the soul into an addictive sweetness. Once the victim was hooked, the dealer took ownership. She remained hopeful the man he was in the first month of their relationship would return. The man who told her she was the light in his world of darkness and without her, he’d fade and wither away. Those words still resonated. She held on to them like a hanged man held on to the noose.  “It's best to love you one minute and die than live an eternity deprived of your beauty. Without your smile, I can’t see. Without your presence, I can’t breathe.”

She craved that passion;  she missed being important. How could she get it back? Maybe, she just had to wait. Maybe, he was testing her. It’s common practice for a man to put a woman through the wringer to ensure her values are solid and she can endure. She’d wait. She wouldn’t leave him like the others.

Bahim ordered an espresso for himself and Houria wanted a Vittel. They drank in silence. He never had much to say. His singing career ended years ago, he spent his time drinking, hanging out with friends, and animating soirees at his café, managed by his concubine.

Around noon, they left the café for their usual destination: Hotel 12, rue du Menesnilmontant. Inside their room, he fumbled with her blouse and pulled on the knot but couldn’t open it. She helped him and he finished undressing her. He pushed her onto the bed and penetrated her; she screamed from the pain. He lasted three more thrusts, dribbled his climax on her belly—she wouldn’t get pregnant.  He crawled off and dressed with his back to her and mumbled on his way out, “Wait for me in the car.”

On previous dates, Bahim would park the car in front of the hotel, leave Houria inside, and go to the music store on the opposite street to talk to his friend Aklee, the store owner, an up-and-coming singer. Today, he got the sex out of the way first.

In the shower, Houria let the warm water drown her thoughts. Once the shower filled with steam, she stepped out from beneath the shower head and rubbed soap all over until it formed a layer of cream on her skin, then washed it down. She toweled herself, dressed, and left the hotel. Early afternoon now, the gray-thickened sky rested on roofs of buildings like a damp blanket of gloom. The glacial wind made her nose run. Bahim was still in the music store; she entered the car to wait for him.

He returned an hour later and without acknowledging her presence, drove her to the metro.

Houria’s brain fogged during the ride from Gare du Nord to Montparnasse. The metro pushed through darkness in the long tunnel and made its hiccupy stops pummeling into yellow artificial light. Each time the doors opened the smell of rubber blew like a hot desert wind. Houria wanted to avoid the light but, each time she closed her eyes, she was back in the hotel room, providing a service like a common prostitute. The cleaner metro stations after Châtelet made the ride tolerable until she reached Montparnasse.

She usually flew through the long hallways and stair flights between the metro and the train tracks. But today she had to slow down. She wasn’t going anywhere. If she arrived home early, there would be questions. So, she wasted time. She had plenty of it—cheap, available, and cumbersome.  

In Montparnasse, she mechanically walked to Voie 12, the train for La Verrière. She was grateful for the long ride. Maybe she’d feel cleaner by the time she arrived home. She settled into a seat next to a window and pulled out the bundle of tickets from her purse. She saved all the tickets from previous dates. Like a book, each ticket was a page of their relationship, a sliver of time she didn’t want to lose; a space she owned and could visit anytime she wanted to taste happiness again when each kiss was poetry, each touch a promise, and each word cocooned her away from her limited world.

Today, he was angry. All his attempts—disappearing, refusing to see her— had failed to get her to leave her parents. She was probably the only woman he couldn’t control. His current concubine, Houria’s age when they met, left her family and moved in with him. He recounted how her father and uncle came to his house with a gun and one of his buddies told them, “We didn’t kidnap your dog. Take her if you want.” She refused to leave.  

Houria couldn’t leave her parents—a humiliation they wouldn’t recover from. She didn’t want to give that satisfaction to the gossip-hungry busybodies of  Chicago who competed for the upbringing of the most submissive daughter. Chicago. How did Bois de L’Etang ever get nicknamed after such a wonderful city? The real Chicago, with its many skyscrapers, rock and roll clubs, chic restaurants, and beautiful people, would probably be offended. But even if she could leave Chicago, where would she go without money or friends?

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