‘I’m finding it difficult to get to sleep.’
I can see Afra shaking her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s more than that—’
‘No, I’m fine!’
‘Can you tell me more, Mrs Ibrahim?’
‘Can nobody hear me?!’
She thinks for a while, searching her mind, and says, ‘I can’t explain what it is, Dr Faruk, but I know something is wrong. He is not my husband.’
Dr Faruk looks directly at me now. I laugh. ‘Honestly, Afra, I’m sleep-deprived, that’s all. I end up so tired that I fall asleep in all sorts of ridiculous places.’ My laughter seems to be having no effect on either of them.
‘Like where, for example?’
‘The storage cupboard,’ Afra says, ‘and the garden.’
The doctor is frowning now and I can see that he is overthinking this.
‘Anything else unusual?’
They are both ignoring me. I look from the doctor to Afra. She quickly looks away.
‘He changed in Istanbul. He …’ Afra hesitates.
‘He …?’
‘He talks aloud to himself, or rather to someone who is not there.’
‘Dr Faruk, I would really appreciate some sleeping tablets to help me rest, and once I do I won’t accidentally fall asleep in the storage cupboard again.’ I am smiling too broadly.
‘I am concerned about what your wife is saying, Mr Ibrahim.’
I laugh. ‘What? No! It’s just me running through things in my head. Just memories. To-do lists. That kind of thing. It’s nothing!’
‘Have you experienced any flashbacks, Mr Ibrahim?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Any repetitive or distressing images?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Trembling, nausea or sweating?’
‘No.’
‘How is your concentration?’
‘Fine.’
‘Do you feel numb, as if you have lost your ability to experience emotions such as pain or joy?’
‘No, doctor. Thank you for your concern, but I am fine.’
The doctor leans back in his chair now, more suspicious than before. Afra’s face has dropped, her eyes have darkened, and I feel a great sense of sadness watching her sitting there looking so burdened.
The doctor is unconvinced. Nonetheless, our time is up and he writes out a prescription for sleeping tablets, strong ones, and asks me to come and see him again in three weeks.
That afternoon Afra will not go into the living room. She sits on the edge of the bed for a long time.
‘It wasn’t the bomb that blinded me,’ she whispers. ‘I saw Sami die. And that’s when it all went black.’
I don’t know what to say to her, but I sit beside her for maybe an hour or more and we do not speak to each other. Through the window I watch the sky change colour, the clouds and the birds moving across it.
We do not even move from where we are to get anything to eat. Usually the landlady brings a pot of stew or soup from her house, carrying it with oven gloves across the driveway, banging on the door with her elbow, and placing it in the middle of the dining table for us to help ourselves. I am sure that everyone has already eaten, that all this has happened without me noticing. I can hear footsteps and voices and the murmur of the TV in the living room, doors open and close, the kettle boils, the toilet flushes, water runs. The sky grows darker and I catch the moon, a crescent behind the mist of clouds. Sometimes I expect Mohammed, but he doesn’t come. I move to the armchair and wait for
of the fifteenth day, the mother with the blue hijab stood up suddenly, Mahsa in her arms, and ran over to where the old lady was tending to another young child. She grabbed the old woman by the shoulders. At first, I thought something bad had happened and I jumped to my feet. But then I saw that the mother had a smile on her face, and once she’d let go of the old woman’s shoulders, she started pressing her own breasts with her palms.
‘Echeis gala!’ the old woman said. ‘Eftichos! Echeis gala!’ and she crossed herself and kissed the mother’s hands. The mother made herself comfortable now on a blanket, signalling to the old lady to keep watching as she held Mahsa in her arms, gave her the nipple and the baby girl began to feed. I smiled at this turn of events. A real smile, coming from my heart. The old lady saw this and she raised her hand to me in salute.
Having seen all this unfold convinced me that things can change, that hope can prevail, even in the most difficult of circumstances. Maybe we could get out of here soon. I remembered the money