Divorce Islamic Style by Amara Lakhous

go to a hotel, she’ll insist on taking you home with her. I’m telling you, don’t say no. Courage! You’re very lucky. You won’t sleep in the guest room but in her bed. Her bed? Yes, exactly. I won’t tell you what you’ll do all night, you can imagine it, no? And anyway, that’s your business.
    My friend, European women are not like the women of your country, they’re not neurotic and backward, but open in every way. What did you say? I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that, please? You ask me about virginity? Hahaha. Don’t worry, no one will force you to marry the blonde because you went to bed with her. That’s no problem. Those things still happen in your country, but not here.
    Let’s keep going. Don’t worry about documents, no one notices. Really? Of course! And the police checks? An urban legend. And the detention centers for illegal immigrants? They don’t exist, like flying saucers and aliens. And the difficulties of learning the language? You can do without it. A pure formality: people communicate with gestures, like chimpanzees.
    After a brief stay in the country called “Paradise on earth” you can go to the bank and ask for all the loans you want, at zero interest. You can buy anything: a Ferrari, a villa on Lake Garda, a new wife (docile as a sheep), and so on and so forth.
    Don’t wake the poor dreamers, don’t break the spell, and above all never complain to those who stayed down there and can’t wait to leave their hell for your paradise. And always remember: a person who has a toothache doesn’t have the right to complain to a person who has cancer of the prostate or the brain. There’s a limit to unseemliness. You have to feel pity for the people who’ve stayed down there, in the country of origin. In Italian “down” means low: when a person is sad or depressed, he says simply: I’m down. Get it?
    You can understand, then, why many Egyptians delay the return home in the grand style—in order not to find themselves in this situation, which can be stressful and very upsetting. They say to themselves and their families, in a consolatory tone: “There’s no
maktùb
for this year, may it be next year, inshallah!”
    It’s very tough to be truthful and tell things as they are. Immigrants prefer to lie to their relatives when they’re unemployed, or exploited at work, or treated badly by the police, and so on. Why? They’re afraid of not being understood, of being considered failures. That’s the key word: failure. Every immigrant is condemned to be successful. Well? Well, nothing. He has to get rich. How? It doesn’t matter how. In the end the result alone is what counts, or am I wrong?
    I often go to the call center of my husband’s friend. The place is frequented by Arabs, Egyptians for the most part. Akram, the owner, is very proud of the fact that he was one of the first immigrants (“No, really the first!” he maintains) to come and live in Viale Marconi. In some ways he can be compared to Christopher Columbus. Certainly he will be remembered in the history books of future generations as the pioneer of the Little Cairo of Rome. He places a high value on posterity, which explains the name he chose for his place: Little Cairo.
    Akram is an important person in the life of our neighborhood. If he didn’t exist, you’d have to invent him. He’s an indispensable middleman for every type of business: renting a house, a room, or a bed, organizing a trip to Egypt or to Mecca, looking for a job or a wife, the renewal of a residency permit, application for Italian citizenship, and so on. To see him do his utmost for someone you would say he’s altruistic and helpful, just like a volunteer from Caritas or the Red Cross. In reality his services aren’t free. He’s a shopkeeper to his marrow. Everything has its price. For example, if he helps you find a bed you mustn’t try to be smart and think you can get by with a “Thank you” or a “God bless you.” It’s not