By Shena Newton
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UNFORGETTABLE STRANGERS……Today, the memory of most of the strangers I’ve met in the countries I’ve lived or visited is nothing but a blur. I may recall a face but can’t put a name to it nor the details of the circumstances under which we met. But there are two strangers I met many years ago that stand out in my memory today, with the clarity of yesterday.
The first was Fatima, a young Moroccan maid, who was my next door neighbor in 1981 when I was a student in Paris. And the second, I can’t recall his name, was a homeless young man I came across each morning on the way to my 8:00 o’ clock Spanish classes in Quito, Ecuador in the fall of 2012. More often than not, this homeless stranger was lying on the ground, stoned from either alcohol or drugs or both. But, more about the Ecuadorian homeless man in another post. In this post, I’m going to talk about Fatima.
The room that Fatima shared with her husband was two doors down from mine, on the seventh and top floor of a building in the 17th arrondissement (district) of Paris. Fatima worked as a maid for a family on the third floor. I, at the time, was doing a stint as a maid to a family on the second floor, to make ends meet as the funds from my Bahamas Government scholarship for the year were quickly dwindling. Fatima and I met one day in the hallway coming in from work. We developed an instant friendship. She was a talker, and I listened intently.
After work, before Fatima’s husband came home, I would visit her room, not only for the stories that Fatima told of her life which, was very different from mine, but also to secretly gaze at her beauty. In all my life, I had never seen a human being as beautiful as Fatima. The attractiveness of Miss Universe and Miss World paled in comparison to the sheer beauty of this Moroccan young woman.
“That’s why my husband doesn’t like me to go out on the streets,” Fatima confided in me. “When I walk in the street, I cause traffic jam; everybody slows down to look at me.” I could easily imagine the motorists on the streets of Paris slowing down to gawk at this young woman with skin the color of polished alabaster, almond shaped eyes and a cascade of waist-length silky black hair.
Fatima and I compared notes about our working conditions as maids in the homes of the affluent families downstairs. Neither of us was pleased with our bosses. Fatima’s lady of the house was haughty and impatient; mine was petty and stingy. Then we got on the topic of our wages. I was frank about what I earned, which was slave wages. Fatima confessed that she didn’t know how much she earned. “You see, I never have opportunity to go to school. My boss gives my pay to my husband, and if I need something he buys for me.” I couldn’t believe my ears. This beautiful creature was illiterate. She worked five days a week, and her husband received her salary. This was beyond sad.
In spite of her beauty, Fatima had a deep sadness. But it had nothing to do with her salary.
“I’ve been married two years now. Still no children. If by third year I have no children, my husband will take another wife. I pray Allah to give me child.” I felt Fatima’s sadness and sent up a prayer to Jesus, for her fertility. Fatima described how happy she was on her wedding day. She explained to me how weddings in her Moroccan Village was a multi-event affair that took place over several days.
The last day of the wedding was the big day, D-Day. At a specific time of the day, the entire wedding contingent including all the guests arrived at the house of the newlywed couple. They waited outside for the signal. Meanwhile, Fatima and her groom were in the bedroom. Fatima’s mother-in-law had just finished putting the final touches to the marriage bed, carefully laying a white linen napkin in the center of the bed. The mother-in-law retreated from the bridal chamber leaving Fatima and her husband to carry out their conjugal duty. After twenty minutes, the mother-in-law appeared on the balcony before the crowd. In her right hand she waved the white linen napkin which was now crimson red. When the crowd caught sight of the napkin, jubilation broke out. Everyone congratulated Fatima’s father who beamed with pride. Then the party started…
“But Fatima,” I asked. “What if there was no spot on the linen napkin?”
The English translation of Fatima’s answer was, “If there’s no blood, there will be hell to pay!”
“In my village, one time,” she explained, “there was a case like that. Girl got married. She and husband spent a long time in the bedroom. Mother-in-law had nothing to show. The father of that girl was so enraged that he grabbed her by the hair, and with a long switch-blade sliced her neck.”
“Wow!”
Today, Fatima came strong to my mind. I wondered what became of her. Did she ever have a child? Did her husband take a second wife? Was she still working as maid in Paris? Did she learn to read and write?