Before Our Dawn| ongoing

four

chapitre quatre
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Life felt strangely normal as the weeks passed. More specifically, three weeks. It was now mid-April. The city was just beginning to awaken from its winter slumber, and the air was crisp and fresh; the sun was shining and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the streets as people took advantage of the warmer weather to enjoy all that the city had to offer. The smell of blooming flowers was pervasive, as the gardens of Paris were coming to life once again. The Tuileries were awash in a sea of colors, with tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils all in bloom.

Isra had written to Haadi once so far, and she had described everything, down to the most insignificant details—she mentioned the building they lived in, she mentioned Farid and Nadia and Aisha, she mentioned having to sleep on the rock-hard floor with a pillow and a worn quilt, she mentioned how cluttered the city was; how isolated she felt despite being surrounded by so many people, people of her nationality and culture here at the 18th arrondissement. She missed Algeria terribly, and the gnawing ache of homesickness expanded like a chasm every night while she lay awake on the cold floor, staring up at the white ceiling as Aisha slept soundly in her bed. She told Haadi that she still remembered their after-school escapades on the beach and their quiet nights at Jardin d'Essai. His own letter assured her that he longed for her return one of these days, though they both knew it would be a long time away before they reconnected. He wrote:

You've only ever slept once in my bed, but I lay awake at night and it feels cold, and it's as though it knows you're missing, Isra. Everything has lost its vibrancy. I see in hues of grey now.

She often complained about Aisha and her crass, secretive ways, but she didn't reveal anything about Etienne. Whenever Aisha would leave the house, Isra would feign ignorance and act as though she knew nothing of her friend's whereabouts, allowing Aisha the freedom to come and go as she pleased. Over time, this mutual protectiveness and care had formed a friendship between the two young women. The girl trusted her enough to give her a glimpse into the hidden life she lived beyond the walls of this apartment, and the sharing of that secret was like a silent bond being formed. Isra vowed never to jeopardize it.

Although much of her letter was laced with complaints, a major bit of it was full of fascinating details of the things she found interesting. Not interesting because they were of particular significance or beauty, but because of how jarring they were to her in contrast to her experiences in Algeria. She found their open displays of affection quite foreign—she and Haadi had always ensured that they were away from the eyes of the public when they touched hands or stole kisses. But here, women claimed their men boldly. And they 'screwed'--she had used that word in her letter—without the fear of any repercussions aside from pregnancy.

The young girls here are quite daring, and I have to admit that their fearlessness is admirable. They wear pretty dresses and put on makeup before leaving the house. They meet boys at cafes or run off with them after school, much like we did, except here, they are a bit careless and nonchalant about their behaviour. They 'screw' a lot—it's a word Aisha, Farid's daughter, taught me. It means they have sex, in rather crude terms. I suppose we've 'screwed' a lot, haven't we, Haadi? We're no different than the youth here. It's like we're all living the same lives, but in different times and places. I can't help but be reminded of you whenever I see a blonde French girl and a young man on her arm strolling in the evenings. I feel my jealousy surge. If you had come with me, we'd be freer here. I could kiss you in the park and in front of the pond in the eyes of the city. I'd tell you that I love you as women and their children bustle by, without a care that they'd hear me...

Her letter totaled six pages and had taken four hours to write. And as if she could sense the solemnity that Isra radiated as she penned her deepest thoughts, Aisha didn't go about teasing or belittling her in her usual mocking yet endearing way. By then, Tarek had already begun working at the clinic and was being paid a decent salary, so he had escorted her to the post office which was a fifteen-minute walk from the apartment and had the letter stamped and mailed. Haadi's letter arrived ten days after, the envelope containing eight pages of his familiar handwriting and within the pages, a photograph of himself that he had dated and written a location on.