The Birdcage

****discussion of domestic abuse****

The formica table stood tight on thin chrome legs in the small space under the window overlooking the 18th Arrondissement of Paris. The rain beat against the window, while the cold air leaking through battled the heat from the wall furnace. I paused in the middle of the kitchen, the spot where the two temperatures balanced out, before continuing to the table. My boy Amir, just six months old, began to cry and squirm in my arms reaching for his grandfather, Nasir.

“No, stay with me Amir. Your Grandfather is still drinking his coffee.” 

The two doves in the birdcage twittered at his crying. I bounced Amir on my hip, having already walked him through our bedroom, and into the small kitchen, the only rooms where I can go. The door to Nasir’s bedroom stood closed, the other room of the small apartment where I am not allowed. My passport must be in there, I have torn apart everywhere else. But I have a plan. Until then, we stay here, hour after hour.  

“Aaetini al tifl" (Hand me the boy) Nasir said, as he stubbed out his cigarette and put both hands out toward Amir. 

“No, he does not need to…” I twisted away, but as Nasir did not put his hands down, and Amir continued to dive across the table, I gave in, handing Amir over. 

Amir settled in Nasir’s lap pulling on his Grandfather's beard, and thick fingers. Nasir began talking quietly to him in Arabic. 

“Ok then!” I poured a half a cup of coffee from the silver espresso pot on the tiny two burner stove, and then filled the rest with milk to counteract its thick bitter taste. I was hungry but didn’t want to eat the food in the refrigerator, too rich and spicy for me still, after almost a year here in Paris.

‘Bourek’ Nasir said, pronouncing the word slowly. Like I will ever learn Arabic. He pushed a plate of the meat-filled rolls at me from across the table.

 I took one. “Merci.”

Nasir gets the Bourek, as well as Makrout, cookies filled with dates from Samira, his girlfriend who he will see tonight, I just need to wait. He whistled toward the birds. The doves coo and flutter, but then calm down. 

Nasir speaks Arabic, Berber, French of course, and maybe dove too, but no English. 

I held the small cup in my hand, leaning against the stove and looked at my child, happily distracted by Nasir’s fingers and phone. I could be invisible, I’m just here to feed these men. My eyes began to tear as I remembered my conversation with Khalil last night.

“You cant leave me here all day Khalil," I whispered. We were in bed, Amir asleep in a tiny crib. Khalil’s hair, longer now than when we first met, falls loose into his dark eyes. His beard makes his jaw line longer, more square. He has turned from a lean, and soft man who recited poetry to me into a different person, hard and rough. 

 “Your dad doesn't speak to me, he just drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes.”

“He understands you- he says he does.” Khalil's eyes closed.

"When can we get our own place? You promised…” 

“Soon, we need to save up. I’ve told you before.” Khalil turned away, his back wide and uncaring. 

“Who is Safa?” I whisper.

Khalil’s breath caught at that name. 

“Safa?” He moved away from me. “Safa is an old classmate, we went to school together, she…”

“Why is she calling you in the middle of the night?” I tried to keep my voice level, while my heart beat out of my chest. 

“What? No one is calling me-” Khalil’s voice rose in pitch as he sat up.

“Safa is. I was up with Amir when the phone buzzed. I picked it up thinking it was mine but a woman spoke in Arabic before hanging up. Safi has called you many times.”

“I saw her a few weeks ago at Hama’s party. The one you didn’t want to go to-”

“Because no one speaks English! I would have just sat in the corner being miserable-” I paused. “Have you seen her since?”  

“What right have you to question me?” Khalil straightened, his eyes turned black. “You live in my house, I do what I need to do.”

“Are you sleeping with her?” I asked, the words I have been dreading, finally spoken out loud. 

I felt the slap in my heart, though my cheek stung and my eyes teared up. I knew then that I had to leave this small apartment, but I did not know how.  

Amir’s banging brought me back to the present, his wild hands tossed a bowl of nuts and dried fruits to the floor. I slapped his hand. “No!” 

I pulled my own hand back, shocked that I hit my son. What am I becoming? 

Nasir, looked at me with a sad smile as he picked up the bowl and placed it back on the high chair. Does he see the bruise? I put on extra makeup this morning to hide it. He doesn't clean up the spilled food, we both know that is my job.  

“I need to get out of this damn kitchen," I say in a calm and measured voice, "or I will kill myself.” 

“cooo-AAH, oo, oo, oo" Ali, the male dove in the birdcage responded.  At least someone listens to me. I gritted my teeth watching Nasir, all day he just sits, talking to his doves, or on the phone to his many friends. Once a week he goes to his girlfriend’s house, and tonight is the night, my chance. 

Basira, the female dove in the cage, rubbed her head into her partner’s chest and cooed back. Their coos and chirps are my only reliable conversationalists. The only love in this house was in that cage, I thought. The walls of the small kitchen squeezed, pressing into my heart, making it hard to breathe. “He is cheating on me, he is lying, and there is nothing I can do about it.” 

Nasir looked at me, his face serene. He spoke in Arabic, then French, pointing at the birds, then at me. I stared blankly at his words. Amir babbled too, in baby talk. I have two men to talk to, and I understand neither. 

 It felt good to speak about it, though. The air in the small kitchen was close, the smell of coffee, cigarettes and of the pungent Tabil spice that infused every corner of this house, the smell of captivity and boredom.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him in our International Relations class at University, and then I just wanted to listen to him talk, once I heard his exotic accent. Would I have fallen as hard if he was not from France? Khalil’s beautiful dusky brown hands were as warm as fresh baguettes from a Paris bakery, his musky scent that smelled of French cheese, his kisses the same on my lips as Burgundy wine.

“Move with me to Paris,” Khalil whispered, “you’ll love it!” His dark brown eyes sparkled when he said it, his words spiced my dreams. To a girl from a small town in California, the word 'Paris' dusted our entire relationship with fantasy and sparkling lights. Khalil helped me apply for my first passport, showed me the magic of making love, and then held my hand when the pregnancy test came back with the solid blue line.

The wine and cheese are here, somewhere. I looked out the window to the large hill of Montmartre, towering over the cement apartment buildings, and brightly colored shirts on clotheslines, but not in Khalil’s Paris. We might as well be living in Algeria. My life was filled with Arabic, cigarettes and arguing. Black coffee instead of wine, kesra flatbread instead of baguettes. 

I stood up, circled the kitchen, into our bedroom, and then right back out to sit down. Too cold to go outside, we had to stay in the small apartment while Khalil was off working or with his girlfriend, speaking a language I no longer want to understand. As the sun began to set, Nasir finally went to his room to get dressed, to go visit Samira. He came back out, smiled and kissed Amir on the head. He moved around the kitchen, touching things, talking to the birds. My anxiety was picked up by Amir who fussed and cried. Why won't he just leave! 

He grabbed the small key ring and stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him. I put Amir in the high chair and ran to Nasir’s room, pushing the door open.

 The funk of old sweat and cigarettes overwhelmed me. Dirty clothes decorated the chair and bed. Many coffee cups, brown with sludge rested on the dresser, on side tables, even balanced on the TV.  Where would my passport be, my ticket to escape?

 I opened several drawers, more clothes, more trash, empty cigarette cartons, crumpled paper. A drawer held loose pictures, the one on top, of a young Kahlil. I picked them up, looking back in history to an awkward shy boy hiding behind a small beautiful women, must be his mother. 

I saw the Khalil I knew, the young kid I met at University. What happened? Was it coming back here to France that taught him this new misogyny, the mindset that he must be tough and emotionless?

A scraping sound caught my attention, Amir in his chair, I need to get back to him. 

I flipped through rest of the pictures, of his family, his friends, and then more recently of the them all in black, his mother’s funeral just last year. Was that the change?  

The scraping sound again, and then the door opened, creaking into the kitchen.  My breath caught, my body froze Khalil would not be back tonight could he?

 I closed the door most of the way, my heart thumping, it was Nasir! Picking through the crack, I saw him pick up his old leather wallet off the counter, place it in his jacket pocket.

He paused to look at Amir, his body still and his head down. Fear paralyzed me, I squeezed the pictures still in my hand, bringing them to my face as if I could hide behind them, be protected by the young, different Khalil. 

Nasir continued turning and moved to the birdcage. He spoke Arabic, a low monotone. He pulled out his wallet, and then took out several bills placing them on the counter. I watched, confused about what he was doing. What was he waiting for? 

Nasir touched the cage softly, whistling to the birds, moving his head to look at his door, slightly ajar.

I pulled back, he knew where I was, what will he do?

“Ant alhamaama.” (you are the dove) He said.

Then he opened the cage, his hand shuffled the papers underneath and pulled out a clear plastic bag, my passport inside. He placed it on the money on the counter, leaving the cage door open. 

"Auhrib wakun hurana. " (run and be free).

Nasir kissed Amir on the head one more time and walked out the door, leaving it open behind him.