Remember To Scream

As he watched her face, he suddenly wondered, with alarm, if she were going to cry—or scream. Instead, she reached for her drink. She hold it up and said, "I could easily become best friends, with this." She threw back her head, emptying the glass, and banged it down. "You began to take me back—almost—to then."

"Just like the presentation this afternoon?"

She was shaking her head even before he finished speaking. "The cases are not comparable. So I'm going to tell you, right? For the first time in America, I will tell someone."

He frowned. "Why? My interest is not to hurt you." He added, gently, "Certainly not to expose you..."

"Why? Because nothing changes if you don't ever let it out. But you can't, in medical school, in your first big job... How can you? But you? You half guess, anyway, and you deal in secrets."

She had been gazing down at her empty glass, but now she looked up at him. "And you deal in what happens to people, even if it is unimaginable..."

Bell nodded. He 'got it.' Because it wasn't the first time.

She sat in a tired slump, now. Her eyelids drooped slightly and she stared down. She shook her head slowly, as though seeing something, denying it. "You don't know what will hurt me. You don't know how much. To you, it's just finding out, just a story. Yes, I'm a Kurd. And yes, I grew up in Iraq, in Kirkuk. You said it is hard to be a woman there, an intelligent Kurdish woman."

He frowned. "And you want to tell me? Even though..."

She nodded slightly, gazing down at her glass. The long dark hair had come down, half-curtaining her face. When she looked up, she said: "After what happened in the meeting. Yes, it's time for me to talk." She smiled slightly. "After all, you are a psychiatrist."

"Tell me, Tamina."

"I was fortunate, in a way. The cities can be better. I went to good schools; there are few women who did. Do you know the Kurdistan Democratic Party? My father was involved, very involved. He was an intellectual man, not a fighter. You have heard of 'honor killings'—everyone has, now..."

Bell nodded.

"A woman has to know here place. Her father, her brothers, her husband, her husband's family—all of these men own a piece of her. Any of them can decide to beat her, have her stoned, killed. Hundreds of woman are slain, killed by their sons, their younger brothers. All it takes is an accusation, a little argument, and independent decision. The world knows this now; but even 10, 15 years ago, that was not so. A son burns his mother. Her husband's family stone a wife. At least I escaped all that.

"My father had advanced ideas. Equality. Socialism. Nationhood or at least autonomy for the Kurdish nation."

The second round of drinks had come. She picked up hers and drained half of it. "Women's bodies are found with a nose cut off. Beaten to death. Shot. Suffocated with a bag. The perpetrators are men, 'her' men—the men in her life. For them to be arrested is rare; back then, almost unknown."

"But your parents sent you to school, protected you? They wanted you to have more than that?"

"Much more. My father was in politics, Kurdish nationhood, liberation. A real Kurd. He even believed in Kurdish unity, that political factions must join forces. He preached that, when Saddam turned on us in spring 1991, after the cease fire. I had been graduated from the University of Mosul almost on the day in March when the Iraqi gas-bombed Halabja, which we call 'Hillebje.' Maybe 5000 died immediately. My father may have been killed that way or the Republican Guard got him. We never knew."

"Did you escape through Iran?"

"Oh, much later. A lifetime later. First, I fought. Because of what my father had been, they permitted it—a woman. But the odds were terrible. This was before the No Fly Zone, the 36th parallel, our big chance. We were crushed. Baath Party soldiers were everywhere. This was the feared Kurdish resistance; we might finish the job Mr. Bush had begun." She put her hands on the table, palms up, staring at him.

"Well, Iraqi intelligence had my address, I suppose. I think they followed my little brother, Dawud, when he came with a message. I had decided to die before I could be captured, of course; we all had.

"But it didn't work that way."

"My God," muttered Bell. "Iraqi intelligence interrogated you?"

"Interrogated me? Oh..." she shook her head. Slowly, she crossed her arms over her breasts and began to rub her bare arms as though the room had become cold. "Interrogation is what we say happened to the poor Kurdish women in Turkey—the ones who hadn't done anything but sign a petition for teaching Kurdish language in the schools. Or talked with a fellow student who might be a member of the People's Labor Party. That was interrogation."

She studied his face. "You know, the Kurdish woman is just a plaything of men. In Iraq, in Turkey. When you are a Kurd woman arrested in Turkey for signing a petition you get raped, beaten. Perhaps your breasts are burned. Things get shoved up you till blood flows. You cry for water and get fresh piss in your face. You've read all this, of course. There was a report in the Turkish newspaper Milliyet about what three different international organizations discovered."

"Listen," said Bell, "this is not why I asked you to meet."

She shrugged. "All of that happened to me maybe in the first few days. Just my usual

interrogation by Iraqi intelligence. I don't remember how many men had me. Of course, I cried, yes, and I begged. But in between, I became angry. Once I told them off. This I can bear, I thought. This was interrogation. Why call it torture? The goal is not the single-minded infliction of unimaginable agony. Humiliation, degradation, are mixed in. When it began..." she gestured behind her, "somewhere back there, I was a virgin. For a Kurdish girl, what they did to me was unthinkable. But torture? That came later."

"Stop, now" said Bell. "Stop. I understand."

"Will I have a shrieking fit, right here? Do you think? You could revive me with Canadian Club. This afternoon, when I was yelling on the couch, did I use bad words? Because when they were softening me up, during the interrogation, there were such words I was forced to say. When they brought in another woman..."

"Stop!" Bell ordered. "This is enough."

She seemed to ignore him. "Actually, I may have had an earlier PTSD episode, Dr. Bell. I'm just recalling it, now. It was at a health club at Duke University. I was the guest of a friend. She was very impressed with my muscles; I'm powerful, for a woman. Anyway, I hooked myself up to a machine—you close your thigh muscles. I used too much weight. I screamed. Not a big scream, a kind of yelp, but people came running. They assured me that the machine had a safety stop; the muscles of the inner thighs could not be wrenched. But it wasn't that. I was flashing back to what they did to me when they had my legs tied apart. Not rape. By then, I was nostalgic for rape."

Bell stretched across the table and seized her wrist. He shook her arm, looking into her eyes. "Look at me, Tamina! Stop! This is enough! You're teaching me a good lesson in prying, yes; but this isn't about that. Is it?" He shook her harder. "Is it?"

She began to weep. Her face dropped onto her arms. Her shoulders were shaking violently, but he heard no sound. She began rocking her head from side to side; her fists were clenched.

Bell stood up quickly and slipped into the chair next to her. He put his arm across her shoulders. "You've never told anyone," he said softly. She shook her head a little faster.

"Never, till now?" She shook her head. He glanced up. Another advantage of Las Vegas. No one was paying much attention. Some poor girl had lost next month's rent check playing roulette. Or used a guaranteed system to try to double what she saved for her daughter's college tuition... Who knew? It was Las Vegas.

They sat together without speaking until Tamina slowly lifted her head. She turned to him. Her lips were slightly parted, her face relaxed; she even managed a slight smile. "My real name is Fadime," she said, "Fadime Rahman. I could get no passport from Iraq, of course. You can get a decent one made in Istanbul."

"But you could have gotten refugee status. A Kurd from Iraq? Fought Saddam. Open and shut case. A hero." He added, "Which you are."

She shook her head sadly. "You don't become a hero by suffering. It is not a choice to be tortured. I would have killed myself at any point, if I had had the chance." She shrugged.

"But, yes, I discovered later that I could apply for political refuge. Mostly, I wanted to get out of Turkey immediately. You have more questions?"

Bell sheepishly shook his head.

"When I said this is the first time...that is true. More than seven years, and you are the first who ever heard. At least part of it. Now, I feel different. Now, a man actually knows that I was torn apart—nothing, no private place not ripped out and pawed. You know this, and yet I haven't died of shame."

He reached over slowly and took her hands in his. "This can be the beginning of the end...well, the end of the very worse of it." Then, they sat again without speaking.

After a time, she smiled, a smile like a light coming on. She said softly, "I can't describe it. But now, at last, it is exciting and beautiful that I am in this city, in America. As though I finally woke up after seven years and I'm in a new place."

"Let it happen, Stay with the feeling a little while. You'll need that energy and that hope of pleasure."

"You know," she said, with a sudden grin, "what if we went to dinner tonight? Dutch treat?" There was excitement in her voice. Her eyes flashed.

Bell shook his head somberly. "I'm afraid not," he said. Tamina drew back from him; she looked at him almost in fear. Bell said, "I know I don't deserve to be able to do anything to redeem myself, but no even letting me buy dinner for you? That's vindictive! Will you be merciful, this once?"

She laughed, delighted. "You gave no quarter, Dr. Bell!"

"Roland. Or 'Rolly,' as I'm afraid some of my friends put it.

"Your plea has been heard, Roland. If dinner is not too expensive." She stood up. "I need 20 minutes, all right? No would go out with his face. Where will you be?"

"The face is quite indescribably beautiful, but I understand. I didn't train I psychiatry for nothing, you know. Come back here, okay?"

She had taken his arm as they left the bar and, unavoidably, walked through the casino to reach the lobby. Bell felt as though he were driving a fire truck with horns and sirens blaring. Every male head turned to look after then. Tamina—Fadime—had changed into a cream-colored dress with a swooping neckline. Her shoulders were bare, her long hair down. Her dark skin and hair looked radiant against the light dress. She had the hips and breasts of generations of women born to walk mountains.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory!" blurted a loud voice. Bell turned to see Alan Sturges coming toward them.

Fadime suddenly looked very shy. She crossed her arms. "Hello, Alan. You've met..."

"Yes, I've met the lucky bastard. What are you two swells doing?"

"Just dinner over at the Paris," said Bell with a grin. "Some of us know how to live it up in Las Vegas."

"So you do! Have I ever seen that dress, Tamina? Let me hasten to emphasize that I approve! I approve!"

She blushed. "I've never had an occasion, I don't think. " Seeing his delighted gaze, she relaxed a little. "No use wearing it under my lab coat."

"There's a little more to this story," he said, nodding wisely. "You can give me the scoop later. Meanwhile, strut your stuff! It's Vegas!"

It was past midnight. The desert at last had conceded a cooling breeze. They had stood enjoying it for almost half an hour on the Italianate bridge over the Bellagio's majestic lake.. The whole lake had seemed to come alive in a dance of soaring geysers and flashing lights keeping time with "Luck, Be A Lady." Fadime's bare arm has pressed against him. Once, she had lightly rested her head against his shoulder, laughing at his zany comments on the spectacle.

Now, they walked slowly toward the hotel's dramatic entrance under its glittering portico. Fadime said, happily, "Well, my new life in America. I have so much I must do."

"Will you be all right tomorrow at the

presentation? Not too tired?"

She stopped and turned to him. "Roland, the energy that I feel, right now—you have no idea! I don't know what I'll do with myself. I guess I have to sleep; the presentation is at 2:30 tomorrow afternoon." She laughed and gave her hair a toss. "Poor Dr. Bell has got Bionic Woman on his hands!" She stood close to him, her shoulders back, looking up.

She was a bit manic, thought Bell—buoyed by her emotional release, by the outrush of cleansing confession hidden so long... It was positive, although she could not know, no one could, what lay ahead if she elected to fully face her hideous demons. For now, she was transported back to a time before evil had crushed innocence. She was yearning to remain there.

Without taking her eyes off his, she snaked her bare arms around him. She pressed herself against him, her breasts swelling between them. Her face looked gravely serious, now, her eyebrows knitted in consternation. She said, "Roland, I am 33 years old and I have no idea how to get a man into bed."

He bent forward go give her a long, slow kiss. She returned it with frantic strength. Before they finished, she was grinding her hips against him and breathing in deep sighs. Bell grabbed her arm and started for the banks of revolving doors. Inside, they walked through what seemed acres of dinging, grinding, coughing slot machines, a factory floor of flashing lights and a thousand competing little atolls of dissonant sound. It was easy not to talk.

Bell flashed his room card at the security officer as they entered the banks of elevators. He asked, gently, "We'll want to go to your room, Fadime?"

"Of course! What woman can be away from her bathroom at a time like this?"

"Understood, I..."

The scream that began in her throat was muffled as she shoved her face against her chest. She seized his arm so hard that he felt her nails through his jacket. When he looked down in shocked bewilderment, he saw that she was screaming, her mouth pressed against him, her face distorted. Her whole body was trembling. He felt her weight sag against him and grabbed her.

"What is it?" he cried. "Fadime, is it happening again?"

The elevator door had slid open. A knot of people exited. Some glanced at Bell and Fadime; for the most part, though, they kept walking. Good old Las Vegas, thought Bell. He could feel Fadime struggling for self-control. She turned her head once, quickly, to glance at the elevator, empty now. "What is it?" he asked. Then, more urgently, "What is the matter, Fadime?"

In response, she only seized his arm and dragged him into the elevator. A couple entered after them. Fadime's face was streaked with tears and her lips were trembling, but she stood looking straight ahead. Suddenly, she darted forward and punched the number of her floor. She glanced at him with a crooked smile. "Almost forgot."

When they reached her door, Fadime fumbled in her pursue for her room card and, when she found it, had to steady her right hand with her left to push in and withdraw the card. The door swung open. She stepped in and turned to Bell, who stood in the hall. Her faced seemed a blend of tension, embarrassment, and desire. She managed a little laugh. "Do you dare to enter a dark room with a crazy woman, Roland?"

He came and put his arms around her. He said, "There will be time for all this, you know, Fadime. I'm not much of a mover. This is likely to be the best offer I ever get—by far. Nothing has to happen tonight. That's what I want you to know."

She said, simply, "Yes, it has to happen tonight, Roland. For me, it does. For me, there is no waiting." She turned and walked into the room. Bell followed her, closing and locking the door. When she turned and saw him, the tension melted from her face and her smile almost recaptured the moments on the bridge. She did a little parody of a vamp as she came to him, took hold of his tie, and pulled him to a chair. She shoved him down and bent to the mini-bar. Selecting a little bottle of Dewar's, which he had ordered in the bar, she poured it and handed it to him.

"I've learned this much, anyway." He bowed his acknowledgment.

"Now I have to repair the damage," she said. "I'll be right out. Don't go! Music?"

He shook his head.

"Okay," she said. Suddenly, she bent and seized his hair, pulling his face to hers for a kiss. When they finished, he drew a breath and said, "That will hold me."

When she came out, he started to rise. "No," she said. "Stay. This is something I have to do. It has tormented me for nine years. I can't

pretend it doesn't exist." She came and stood before him, only a dozen feet away, and gazed at him. She had removed her shoes and stockings. Looking at him, she reached back and unzipped the dress. She shrugged it off her shoulders. Bell saw that she had removed her brassiere. Under the dress, she was naked. She slowly pulled down the dress, pausing when she had exposed her breasts.

"There are these," she said, her gaze never wavering from his. He nodded. Now, she pushed the dress down over her hips and let it slide to the floor. Like the canvas of a Renaissance Master with a few bullet holes through it, a canvas the vandals also had slashed with a knife. He felt his heart pounding; his face was flushed. What he felt was pure rage that made him ball his fists. He took a long breath; that is not what she needed. For Fadime his rage, at this moment, was irrelevant. She was watching him with a look of patient acceptance, allowing him to react and know his feelings. She stood before him, shoulders back, the very full, high breasts slightly thrusting, the nipples rigid.

He stood up and undressed as simply, undramatically as he would in his own room, tossing the clothes onto the chair. When he dipped to push down his underwear, his back was to her. He tossed the underwear onto the pile of clothes and turned to her.

Fadime looked down at his body with no attempt at subtlety. Only then did she smile. She was the scientist satisfied only with hard evidence.

When she saw it, she came and pressed her body against him. As they kissed, she reached down to reassure herself, again. The evidence had become unmistakably solid.

When their lips parted, she whispered. "Whatever happens tomorrow, or ever, tonight you have given me back my life."

When the brilliant Las Vegas sun touched Bell's face and woke him, the first thing he heard was Fadime in the bathroom. He glanced at the clock radio: 9:45 a.m. It didn't surprise him. He remembered seeing 3:30 a.m. just before Fadime murmured, "Now I believe that a man can desire me," and rolled over to sleep. Bell had slept like a 42-year-old man who had just made love three times.

When she came from the bathroom, Bell expected to see a radiant young woman, smiling at what they had discovered in each other, perhaps ready to tease awake passion once more. Instead, she seemed sad, subdued. She crossed the room and stood in the wash of white light from the windows, lifting her arms, examining her nude body. She asked, "Do you think plastic surgery could do anything around my nipples? They never tired of tormenting me, there." But Bell heard no life in her voice, and, before he could reply, she said, with a sigh, "It doesn't matter."

She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing out the window toward the far blue hills. Without looking at him, she said, "Roland, I can deliver my presentation this afternoon, but it could blow up right in my face, and then, in a month, every department of neurology in America would know about it. I'm scared to death."