"Well, I'm a walking pharmacy myself," David admitted. "He's welcome to whatever he needs. I've got a ton of stuff in my briefcase."
The young man was working his way along the deck toward them.
"Let's ask him," Craig said.
Chapter Seventeen
Having two people escort her was actually better than one, especially since one of them was so familiar with Erbil and the streets and neighborhoods.
The three of them took an unmarked white van from the hotel. Fahimah could no longer stand wearing the camouflage fatigue pants. And it was more than personal choice, she told herself. Dressed as she was, she didn't know how successful she'd be getting any locals even to talk to her.
"We are stopping there," she told Ken, who was driving the car.
"What is this place?" Newman asked, sitting next to her in the back.
"A woman's clothing store. And you are coming in with me."
The look on his face conveyed volumes about how thrilled he was at the prospect of shopping for women's clothes. Ken pulled to the curb in front of the store.
"Out," she told him, reaching over him and opening the door. "Move, please."
He frowned at her for a moment, not moving.
"I thought you were in a hurry," she said.
"Maybe I should wait outside and send Ken in with you?" he asked as he climbed out. He stood on the sidewalk, eyeing the glass front windows. It could have been a shop in any Western city.
"No, you must pay for things. I have no money." She went past him into the store. Two women, who appeared to be the owner of the shop and her helper, were the only ones in the store. Their attention immediately focused on the American, despite the fact that Fahimah was obviously the customer. Fahimah decided his good looks might have something to do with it. Or perhaps her own clothes were the deterrent. The assistant spoke broken English.
Fahimah went quickly through the racks, picking up a couple of pairs of pants, some shirts, underwear and socks, and a sweater. She knew how cold this section of the country could get at nights. Near the register, she grabbed two head scarves. She didn't want to walk around wearing a cap. The store didn't have any shoes, so she had to do with the plastic sandals for now. She took her purchases to the counter to have the shop owner figure out the cost.
"You pay for them and I'll change," she told Austyn. The older woman was very pleasant, and after Fahimah spoke to her in Kurdish, she gave them a large discount on everything. .without any bartering. Fahimah was directed to a curtained area at the far end of the small shop where she could change.
"Is she your girlfriend?" she heard the assistant ask when she headed that way.
"No… she's my wife."
Fahimah looked in shock over her shoulder. He had his back to her. She went around the curtain to change. She could clearly hear every word.
This area of the shop was almost half as large as the store itself. An old Singer sewing machine with a foot pedal sat on a table in the corner. Pieces of clothing in various stages of alteration and mending were draped on the tables and chairs around the machine. Yards of fabric were piled in a corner. Fahimah put her things on a nearby chair.
"What happened to her… moo?" Fahimah heard the woman ask the American.
"Excuse me?" Austyn asked. "I'm sorry, I don't…" His voice trailed off.
"Moo chee shodeh?" the other voice asked. She didn't know the word for hair.
"Ser… kelle…" The first one struggled.
"Oh. Head… hair," he said. "Her hair."
Fahimah figured she must have pointed to her hair or head.
"It's very sad," he said, lowering his voice.
Fahimah hurried to change, fearing what he was going to tell them as a way of explanation. He didn't understand their way of life. Still, he'd guessed correctly about the inappropriateness of a woman, even at Fahimah's age, to be going around with a boyfriend. When it came to dealing with women, Kurds were in most ways more advanced than the rest of Iraq. They educated their girls. The women worked. They voted. They played a public role in this open, liberal, peaceful society. At the same time, five years could not change the fact that Iraq was still an area ruled by conservative Muslim clerics. Correctness was a must.
Fahimah was pulling a shirt over her head. She'd missed what he'd said, but from the women's reaction, she guessed it wasn't good. The two were praying aloud, and she thought it sounded like one of them might even be crying. She hurried and folded the clothes she'd peeled off. She gave herself a quick look in the small mirror and draped the scarf over her head, wrapping one corner around her throat and tossing the end over her shoulder. She left the changing room with her arms full.
"Teflaki," the younger woman said with a sigh at the sight of Fahimah.
The older woman touched her chest with a fisted hand. "Gherngin," she said as she came around the counter.
Fahimah looked suspiciously at Austyn. "What did you tell them?"
He shook his head. "It's okay that they know."
Both women reached her. The younger one took everything out of Fahimah's hands, taking her by the arm as if she was an invalid. The older one undid a pin and a charm from the neckline of her blouse and started pinning it on Fahimah. There was an Arabic prayer etched on the gold charm.
"Saratan…" The woman tapped her chest again.
"You told them I had cancer?" she asked, looking in shock at the agent.
"I told you it's okay. They understand," he said, looking contrite.
She was stunned to think that he thought he'd done her a favor. The older woman took Fahimah by the hand and took her back to the register. She tried to stuff all the money Newman had given her for the clothing back.
"Na, na. Mamnun," Fahimah said, thanking her. "Ew zêngîn e. Mamnun. Mamnun." She pushed the shop owner's register closed and took the bag of clothes from the other woman and grabbed Newman by the arm.
"What did you tell them?" he asked.
"That you are rich." She tugged on his arm. "We need to go. You have upset these poor people enough "
At the door, she remembered the charm and turned around to give it back to the shop owner. She was on Fahimah's heels and wouldn't have it. She had to keep it.
Prayers followed them as they left the store.
"That was very… mean, you know. They believed what you told them. You could see how it upset them so," she scolded when they were on the street. "How could you do that?"
"How else was I going to tell them why you're bald?"
"I am not bald," she said defensively, touching the scarf on her head. "I have very short hair. And you could have told the truth or given no answer. These women are innocent. They are really upset about this."
"Aren't you making too much of this?" he asked.
"No." She stopped and looked hard into his face. "These are Kurds. After Saddam's military poisoned the Kurdish people in Halabja in 1988 with their chemical weapons, the people's misery didn't just go away. Cancer and leukemia have been following the survivors of that horrible crime. I don't know what it is now, but before your people locked me away, we had one of the highest percentages of cancer in the world."
His expression changed. He touched her arm. "I'm very sorry about this. I didn't do that very well."
He had a kicked look. It flustered her. She felt the warmth of his fingers through the material of the shirt. She tried to focus on where she was, what she was saying.
"I'm sorry, Fahimah," he repeated.
She realized this was the first time he had called her by her first name.