Daughters of Iraq by Revital Shiri-Horowitz Page B

who hadn’t left the house since he’d retired, Farida envying her neighbor for having someone at home to keep her company.
    “Patience, Dora. Think how nice it is for you, not being alone. I can’t remember the last time I woke up next to a man, even one who behaves like a little boy.” Farida put her hands on her hips and rebuked her neighbor: “When was the last time someone said something nice to me? Or brought me a cup of tea when I was sick? All my days and nights are like this. Lonely.”
    “You know what?” Dora chuckled nervously. She seemed taken aback, unsure how to respond to her neighbor of more than thirty years. “You might be right. But believe me, things were better when he was working. At least it was quiet.”
    “Everything will be alright, Dora,” Farida assured her. “You should visit me once in a while. At my house it’s quiet. You can have all the rest you want. I’ll make you some strong coffee, just as you like it, and we’ll read our fortunes in the coffee grounds.” They often drank Turkish coffee together, then inverted their cups when they finished, deposited the piled grounds on the table, waited for them to dry, and read their futures in the brown mosaic. “ Ya’allah ,” Farida said, trying to wrap up the conversation—it was putting her in a bad mood. “I’ve got to get moving; my bus is almost here.”
    “Where are you going?” Dora asked.
    “Town. To get my hair cut, colored, and styled. Look at me! I’m a train wreck, as Sigali would say. Ya’allah ,my dear,” she said, “ Salaam . And come visit me, Okay?”
    As she continued down the street, Farida ran into Carmella from the first floor, who asked her about Sigal, and Jamil from the market, who complimented her dress. After that, she felt a little lighter on her feet. She stepped onto the bus, greeted the driver, and sat down behind him.
    The bus wove its way through the neighborhood. People came on and got off, said hello to each other, asked after one relative or another. Everyone in the small town knew one another, and they knew all the gossip: who was pregnant and when they were due; who was having an affair; who was getting divorced; who was getting married; who owed money. Knowing each other’s business was a fact of life here, for better or for worse, and Farida felt at home. When the bus arrived downtown, she got off and walked toward the beauty shop.
    A fellow named Shimon owned and operated the small salon. His uncle had given him the shop when he’d retired. Shimon had renovated the place, installed a stereo system, and installed comfortable chairs. He’d even set up an aquarium for the clients to enjoy. The salon was the social hub of the neighborhood. Everyone stopped by, and not just for a haircut. They came to drink coffee, talk about this and that, see and be seen. Gossip reached the salon first.
    Farida walked into the salon, sat down, and gazed into the mirror opposite her. She grimaced as she ran her hand through her hair. Shimon waited patiently for her to complete the ritual, then offered her something to drink.
    “Just some cold water,” Farida said. “You know how it is, the diet.” But when she turned her head and saw the plate of cookies on the table, she was suddenly hungry. She pointed to the sweet date-filled cookies. “Is that ma’amul ?”
    “ Walla , yes, fresher than fresh. My mother baked them yesterday. Do you want to try one?”
    “Your mother, may she live and be well, knows how to bake.” Farida took one and tasted it, smacked her lips, and—like a true epicurean—rolled her eyes in pleasure.
    Shimon waited for the verdict. “Well? What do you think?”
    “ Walla ,these date cookies are the best I’ve ever had—almost as good as my baba with dates. Ya’allah ,don’t be stingy—bring me another one.”
    “I’m sure you’re right,” Shimon said. He put the plate in front of her and got to work.
    “What are you doing? Are you crazy? I told you I was on