Divorce Islamic Style by Amara Lakhous Page B

soon I’m going to wake up.” In short, he needed time to get used to words like “signor,” “diplomatic office,” and “pass,” since people in his category generally never heard them. You can’t change like that, point blank.
    In the waiting room, he sat beside people with connections, people who count, the crème de la crème: families of foreign ambassadors in Italy, Russian and Chinese entrepreneurs, first-class non-Europeans (Americans and Canadians). He got a headache that lasted for the rest of the day. He felt out of place in every sense. And in the end he was issued a residency permit valid for two years. Until that moment he had been living in the nightmare of receiving a permit that was already expired. Now he could enjoy two years of peace.
    Mohammed was still in shock. He couldn’t find any explanation for the phone call from the police and the warm welcome they had given him. He continued to speak of an inexplicable miracle. A providential intervention. He didn’t know whom to thank. God? Maybe, because last year he had observed Ramadan. His mother? Maybe, because he always prays for her.
    I would have liked to reveal to Mohammed the true identity of his guardian angel, but I couldn’t. State secret.
    I get in line for the bathroom. Luckily it’s not long. I dress quickly to go to the café for my usual morning cappuccino. Saber asks me to wait because he wants to tell me something important. Will he talk to me about Simona Barberini or about the Milan team? We’ll see. In five minutes we’re going out together. With him now I speak only Italian, I mean his Italian, with the “b” in place of the “p.”
    “I’ve got something imbortant to tell you.”
    “What?”
    “There’s a sby among us.”
    “A spy?”
    “Yes, the bastard will be uncovered soon. We’ll bust his ass.”
    “Who is it?”
    “We have a susbect, but broof is lacking.”
    “And who does he work for?”
    “For that fucking whore Teresa.”
    Shit, I practically had a heart attack! Worse, I was peeing in my pants. That would be the least of it in the face of this goddamn suspense. Saber explains that the “rat” has been employed by the landlady alias Vacation for a long time. So she knows about everything that happens here. The most serious thing has to do with the visitors who sleep in the kitchen. My fellow-tenants are afraid that Teresa will exploit this business to increase the number of beds, by adding a bunk bed to every room. She can come to us and say tranquilly, “My dear immigrant Muslims, you see? Sixteen of you can live happily and comfortably.” So she would have a new source of income, of four or five hundred euros a month. The hypothesis can’t be ruled out, given all the ads for exotic tours and low-cost cruises you see these days. More and more, this apartment resembles an overcrowded prison. The good news is that there’s another spy, although his duties are different from mine. In other words, a new colleague so I won’t feel alone. To each his mission. Hooray!
    On the way to Little Cairo I get a text message from Judas. He wants to see me right away. Usually we meet in the afternoon. Why has he changed the plan? It takes me twenty minutes to get to Via Nazionale. Judas opens the door and asks me to follow him out onto the balcony to talk. He grabs a cigarette but doesn’t light it right away. During these weeks I’ve started getting to know him: when he’s nervous he prefers to stand up, preferably outside. Why does he do it? Probably to avoid the gaze of his interlocutor. He stands there and pretends to look at the passersby, the trees, the cars. A perfect way to hide his own emotions. To break the ice, I tell him about Mohammed’s adventure at the police station. He listens without saying a word. In fact he seems really annoyed.
    “Anyway, I’d like to thank you for your help at police headquarters.”
    “You’re happy for your Moroccan friend?”
    “Of course—he was getting