Payback - John Hayes Series 06 (2020), стр. 20
“What is her name?” the English speaker asked.
“Malak.”
“Angel.” The woman nodded, her eyes on the child. “In our language, we say Melek.” She said something to the other women that made them excited, and they all gathered around the child. “I used to believe in angels.” She shrugged. “But now...”
“Where are you from? I don’t understand your language.”
The woman regarded Mia for a moment and said, “Iraq.”
“Iraq?” Mia frowned. “How did you end up here?”
The woman said something to the others in her language, and they sneered, shaking their heads, some waving their hands. She turned back to Mia,
“You really don’t know?”
Mia shook her head.
“We are Yazidis. You know?”
“No.”
“These men,”—she gestured toward the door—“men like your husband,” she spat the word like it was a curse. “They came to my village... they killed all the men, my father, my brothers.” She paused and looked down at the floor. When she looked up, her face was blank, her eyes empty, devoid of emotion as if she was narrating something that happened to someone else,
“They made us line up... without clothes. They looked at us... touched us... asked if we were... virgins.” She nodded at two of the girls who must have been all of twelve or thirteen years old. “The young ones, they are worth more. Women like me?” She shrugged. “For them we are old, used, not worth as much. But... they rape us, anyway.”
Mia winced. “I’m so sorry.”
The woman stared at the wall over Mia’s shoulder, then snapped back to the present.
“Then they took us and sold us to other men, men who used us, then sold us again. They marry us, rape us, then sell us. Over and over.” She narrowed her eyes, “How many husbands have you had?”
The question puzzled Mia. “One.”
The woman sneered and again said something to the other women. She pointed at one of them, a girl of around fourteen.
“Shayma has had five husbands.” The girl wouldn’t meet Mia’s eyes, gazing down at her fingers as she toyed with the end of her blanket.
The woman pointed at the older lady holding Malak. “My mother. She is fifty-eight.” She looked back at Mia and held up three fingers.
Mia shook her head. She knew the fighters treated women as second-class humans, but she had never known the reality of it. Naeem had kept her isolated for most of her time in Syria, and she had resented him for it. She had been unhappy and incredibly lonely until Malak was born, but now, she understood why he had kept her alone.
“The last man who... took me... he was old and fat…” Her voice trailed off. “He beat me with a belt...”
Mia swallowed and leaned forward to take the woman’s hand. She held it in both of hers, and they sat quietly, listening to the murmured voices of the other women as they watched Malak. After a while, the woman took her hand back.
“My name is Nadia.”
“Mahfuza... I mean, Mia.”
Nadia raised an eyebrow.
“Mia is my real name. How do you know English?”
“I learned at school. I was good at my studies. My father wanted me to become a doctor.” Nadia sighed. “So long ago now.”
“I wanted to be an architect.”
Nadia smiled. “Only Allah, subhanahu wa-ta’ala, knows what is planned for us.”
Mia tilted her head to one side. “Nadia, all of you are Muslim. Why did the men do that to your village?”
“They don’t like our Islam.” Nadia sighed and raised her hands and shoulders in a half shrug. “We are different, our beliefs are different. We believe in angels, too.” She smiled. “Malak. But they think we worship Al Shaytan... the devil.” She scoffed, “Those men are the Al Shayateen. They are the real devils.”
32
“So, unlike English tea, we boil the tea leaves in with the milk.”
“Only milk?”
“No,” replied Maadhavi as she gave the pot a stir. “Half milk, half water.”
“And the spices?” Adriana asked as she watched.
“Yes, cardamom and ginger, but I also add lemongrass like this.” Maadhavi chopped a few leaves of lemongrass and added them to the pot.
“It smells so good.”
A movement caught their eye, and they both looked out the window as a cream-colored Land Cruiser pickup pulled into the driveway. It was battered and dusty, the bull bar and snorkel hinting at a hard, practical life.
“Who’s that?”
Maadhavi shrugged, “I don’t know. We’re not expecting anyone.”
The door of the pickup opened, and a tall, well-built man got out. His crisp white dishdasha accentuated his deeply tanned skin behind dark sunglasses and a richly embroidered Omani mussar tied around his head.
“Wait, it can’t be?” Adriana murmured.
The man reached inside to remove a bag, and when he stood up again, he removed his sunglasses.
“Mansur!” Adriana exclaimed.
“Who?”
“Come with me.” Adriana rushed for the front door.
“Marisel, keep an eye on the chai,” Maadhavi called over her shoulder as she followed after her.
Adriana opened the door and stood on the top step as Mansur approached.
“Miss Adriana.” He broke into a broad smile.
Adriana briefly puzzled over the appropriate way to greet the Bedouin, who had helped save her life in Oman, eventually opting to hold out her hand. Mansur dropped his kitbag on the ground and clasped her hand in both of his.
“I’m so happy to see you again.”
“So am I, Mansur.” Adriana beamed. “So am I. How is Warda? Farida and Saara?”
“They are all well. The girls are growing fast.”
“I’m sure.”
Mansur’s eyes flicked over her shoulder.
“Oh, Mansur, this is Maadhavi.”
Mansur let go of Adriana’s hand and shook Maadhavi’s. “Nice to meet you.”
“Mansur is a wonderful friend of ours from Oman. He saved my life.”
“Welcome to our home, Mansur, please come inside.”
Mansur bent down and picked up his bag.
“John told me he had a surprise for me. I would never have guessed you were coming.”
Mansur smiled, his teeth flashing white against his tan. “He called me yesterday.”
“Come on in, John and Steve are inside.”
Adriana led him inside and down the hallway into