The blazing sun of the Moroccan medina burned through the narrow streets of Fes, painting the clay walls with a deep orange glow. The air trembled, smelling of mint, dust, and sweet tea. I sat at a tiny round table in a street café, and my too-thin, seemingly fragile fingers were shaking as I tried to take a sip of tea from the glass.
The one sitting across from me didn’t even seem to notice. His — until recently my — face was turned toward the sun, as if, damn it, nothing had happened.
— Safi! (enough! that’s it!) — burst out of me, and I sharply pulled open the top edge of my tunic, feeling how the bra cups were painfully squeezing those two unfamiliar mounds that had appeared on my chest ten minutes ago.
The fabric slid down, exposing the lace edge of a black bra and a deep cleavage. It was real. Breasts. Women’s breasts. My fucking tits, rising with every heavy breath I took, with my nipples rubbing against the thin lace, sending sharp, almost painful flashes straight to my clit.
The guy across from me slowly turned his head. His — goddamn it, my former — mustache twitched in a familiar ironic smile.
— Close it, Amina, — he said calmly in my voice. — Men watching.
I jerked my head up.
— Don’t call me that! — I squeaked, sounding like some hysterical drunk girl being refused entry to a club.
He took an unhurried sip of tea.
— You are Amina Zahra El-Khatib, — he said calmly. — Twenty-five. Married. From Fes.
— I am Daniel Clarke! From Brighton! — I hissed. — Thirty-two! And five minutes ago I had a flat chest!
He raised an eyebrow — my eyebrow — and leaned closer.
— Lower your voice, you are woman now and women here don’t scream in street like crazy tourist. People already look.
He spoke calmly, almost lazily, but in my own voice it sounded especially mocking, and then it hit me. I leaned closer and hissed:
— Nti li dirti hadshi! (You did this!) — I switched to Darija without even noticing, but from my tone it was clear enough what I meant. — Rje3 lia jismi! (Give me my body back!)
He didn’t even flinch.
Sunlight slid across his face, his thick dark hair, the neatly curled mustache I’d spent so long growing. He looked… comfortable. Confident. Sitting in my dark blue vest that I’d bought on sale at Alexandre London over a light shirt, gazing off to the side, relaxed.
— You really better cover up, — he said softly in English, which now sounded to me like a foreign tongue, even though I understood parts of it. — People watching, Hamid get angry, he beat you.
Hamid? Why the hell should I care? I wanted to snap that back, already forming the words in English, but froze. Something in my stomach clenched into a tight knot, my throat went dry, and my body began to shake. Without knowing why, I suddenly grabbed the edges of the tunic and pulled them up, trying to cover my breasts while nervously scanning the street around me.
Hamid. Hamid. Hamid! Damn it, why does this name feel so familiar, so… necessary? As if my whole life depended on this name right now, no — my whole damn essence knew that this name—
— This your husband, — my former voice said calmly, as if reading my thoughts. — Three years or four or… Heh, didn’t think I start forgetting all this so fast.
I snapped my gaze at him.
— Actually four and… — I began, pressing my hand to my lips, but then narrowed my eyes and added. — What you mean “forget”?
He twisted his face as if saying “Oops, looks like you caught me”, but then he sighed heavily, slowly lifted and dropped his shoulders, and said:
— I don’t know. — He ran his palm across his face, over my old cheekbones, as if checking whether the skin was still there. — Something… shifting. Memories not stable. Yours coming. Mine… going.
I stared at him, not grasping the English words right away. They sounded fast, sharp, and I had to literally chase them.
But for some reason that wasn’t the most important thing for me right now. Or no — of course it was the most important, but actually no, because my cheeks were burning and the thought that men passing by saw my breasts was hitting my brain harder than any gunshot. My eyes darted from “Me” — the former me — to the passersby, and back to “Daniel.” One guy definitely saw more than he should have. I felt it almost physically when I caught his stare — still stuck on me.
I jerked my chin downward, clutching the fabric of the tunic even tighter at my collarbones.
— 7shouma… 7shouma… (Shame… Shame…) — I whispered in a trembling, quiet voice.
My heart was pounding fast, uneven. One thought pulsed in my head: if someone tells. If the neighbor sees. If it gets to Hamid.
I swallowed.
— You feel it already, — he said quietly in English. — How eyes work here. God, I’m so glad to get rid of this feeling.
I snapped my head up angrily, wanting to retort, to say something sharp, something manly like before, but instead of words, only a pathetic sob escaped my throat. My lips trembled, my eyes burned.
— Shut up… shut up… — I whispered like someone who’d just been slapped. — We need fix. We go police or Embassy? British embassy!
The word “British” came out with effort — honestly I think I said it more like “Britich.”
He raised an eyebrow.
— And say what? “Excuse me, I am English man in Moroccan woman body”? They laugh. Maybe send you doctor. — He seemed about to add something, but then his face turned more serious, — By the way, when your flight back to UK?
I froze. My mind suddenly went blank, like someone had turned off the lights. Flight. UK. Ticket. I knew there had to be a ticket. I remembered buying it online, choosing a window seat, being happy about Ryanair’s cheap prices. But when exactly? Tomorrow? The day after? Time… time was slipping away like sand through fingers.
— I… I don’t… — I began, cursing myself again for how hard it was to speak English and how I had to search for the words. — When… today? Tomorrow? Z3ma shnu had l’khra?! (What the fuck is all this?!)
I flinched myself at how natural the curse sounded. It rolled off my tongue easier than even the simplest words.
He was watching me closely, and then, as if something clicked in his head, he suddenly stood up.
— It’s tonight! I need go pack already!
The chair scraped against the stone so sharply I jolted, even though it was just a normal sound — but something about it felt so damn final.
— No— wait! — I jumped up too, but instantly felt my breasts jolt under the thin fabric, the bra digging hard into my skin. I quickly pressed my palm against my chest, glancing around again.
A couple of men at the next table turned. One snorted.
I sat back down immediately.
— Sit… sit down… — I whispered, not even sure whether I said it to him or to myself.
He kept standing, looking down at me. At my weakness and at the same time at the boiling anger deep inside — anger I was now terrified to express. And all those stares, all those thoughts, damn it… I need to fix this! Get my body back! I can’t let her go like that!
— I think you better just accept, — he said calmly, taking MY cash out of the wallet and leaving more than needed on the table, as if… as if paying me off with these pathetic scraps for my stolen life.
I stared at the money, and something twisted inside me, because it was my money. Or rather a tiny fragment of my money from my damn wallet. The same cash I withdrew from the ATM in Gatwick before the flight. But now it was lying here like some payment for my life?
— No… this my money… — I whispered, reaching toward the bills, but my fingers froze midair. For some reason I didn’t dare even touch them. Not from pride — from something else. As if I already knew this wasn’t my money anymore, but his. And that if someone found out, I’d be in real trouble.
He noticed the movement and smirked.
— Don’t fear. Hide far… — he added quieter, almost gently, and leaned down himself, scooping the bills off the table with one hand, folding them neatly and pushing them into my palm. — And don’t show anyone. Even him.
Him.
He didn’t say the name — probably already forgot — but I didn’t need it.
I nodded barely, feeling my breasts under the lace grow noticeably heavier, as if screaming about themselves, a new constant reminder of this day.
— I come back, wait here, we fix later, — he said, and added while walking away, — Quick to hotel, there and back.
He said it calmly, but I knew — I knew — he wasn’t coming back, and instead of running after him, grabbing his sleeve, grabbing my own former shoulders, I just stayed seated, head lowered.
Because running through the medina screaming was not allowed.
Because men were watching.
Because if Hamid finds out, then…