Unlike her coworkers, Shaygha preferred the empty rooms, where the clients did not ask for much and did not take long. The sturdier women would take the ones with chairs, while those with soft, white skin would be escorted to the beds. Shaygha was in greatest demand for oral sex, perhaps because the customers saw her as the smallest, most abased woman in the club. Also, because she was good at the kind of sex that satisfied them quickly and didn’t cost too much. She would uncover her barely grown breasts and kneel down. The client would give her his penis, which she would work with her small hands and compact mouth until ejaculation. Some were embarrassed and closed their eyes, half-apologetic. Others were cocky and aggressive. They grabbed her hair, spat in her face, and hissed foul language. Once, one of them began beating her, striking her head against the wall. When she screamed, Mr. Joe came with his men and taught the man a lesson he would remember to the end of his days, no matter how long he lived.

Shaygha would return at dawn, exhausted. It was as though she had been gone for years and returned an old woman. Her eyes would be turned into black, unmined coal. Her sleek, coal-black hair would be glued to her small skull. Her makeup would be running down skin wet with vinegar and water. When she came through the door, she would not look at me but would head straight for the bathroom, where she would remain until she had peeled away that worn-out skin and emerged restored and renewed. Then Shaygha would recover her smile, her childishness, her voice, and her gaze. She would touch me, and I would touch her. She would speak to me, and I to her. The day had drawn near, and we would retreat into ourselves and sink into our den.

As though in paradise, I lived with Shaygha for two months. The bliss was double because I had abandoned all hope entirely before receiving this gift that caressed my soul and gave me a new skin, just like a snake. I forgot Luqman. I forgot the heart of the city and its streets. I forgot the damn skyscraper and my poor apartment I had abandoned. I forgot Thurayya’s cruelty, my father’s egotism, Sa’id’s rise, my abandoned writing, and the wickedness of Miss Zahra. No … No, at that time I had not yet moved to the hotel or gotten to know Zahra; I was still living in my apartment, as far as I can recall. Mary had left for her village. Thurayya was still alive: Alzheimer’s had impaired her mind, and they had moved her to an institution. Sa’id had traveled to be with his wife, his villa, and his acquaintances, a prelude to moving abroad later on … Yes, Shaygha was my compensation for all that: my mother, my father, my brother, and my writing—which I was resisting, and which resisted me.