Women from a Kingdom Far Far Away - Part 2


If interested in Part 1, click here.

I pulled out a handkerchief to blow my nose. "Flu?" she asked me, her English accent being peculiar. "No”, I decided not to lie, "I’ve been crying.” Her gesture was equivalent to a question mark, mouth half open, an eyebrow barely raised, inviting me to keep on talking. "My mother-in-law died during the conference; I loved her; I knew of her death in the middle of the conference but have not been able to internalize it. I was just worried about the fact that my husband was alone with our children when this happened". Her expression of intrigued interest softened into a look of tenderness. "My mother also died two months ago", she said; "How many children do you have?” I told her about Emiliano and Leandro, fifteen and nine years of age respectively, and her expression turned into surprise. She said: "Your face is very sweet, like the one of a newly wedded wife, or even a single woman; I would have never suspected you have had children for so many years." Perhaps the life of a Muslim married woman's face leaves more marks than the life of a Western one. At least more than the life of a married middle class Uruguayan woman, in this blessed minuscule country which is -I have come to understand after watching the world news for years- something close to paradise. She says her name is Nazia; I tell her my name is Helena. "Helena ... Helena" she thinks aloud. Surely my name sounds like the West, a symbol of that other half of the world from where so many legends must come to her as come to us from the East. No wonder the literary work that inaugurated culture and education in values ​​in our Western tradition has as its starting point the kidnapping of a woman with the same name as me. But she doesn’t seem to find the reference in her mind. She only hears its echoes, like some kind of reminiscence. I am in no mood to explain it, so I remain silent, facing the street.
Minutes later another woman joins us, older than Nazia, prettier and more elegant. Nazia is short in stature, wide hips, and eyes sad as a rainy Sunday. This new woman brings her black eyes lit by an indomitable spirit; she wears a pink dress, delicately embroidered down to her feet. She looks at me straight in the eye. Her look is not hostile, but very frank, even uncomfortably inquiring. A piercing decorates the side of her nose, a silver sheen on her darkened skin, as if it was the first star in the sky at dusk. She looks at Nazia, and interrogates her in a language I completely ignore. Later I learn it is Urdu, the national language in Pakistan. Nazia looks at me, points at me, I suppose they are talking about me. Both are from Pakistan; they have shared the hotel room during the conference and together return to their homeland. The beautiful, older, confident-looking one is called Uzma. She shakes my hand as a greeting. Where do I come from? Never mind, she can barely repeat "Uruguay", she is not interested in football, thanks to which these days we were making headlines in the world (we had just beaten South Africa in the World Cup). I could have come from Alaska or Madagascar… Such a little country, lost in a huge world, just does not matter. I know Pakistan because it is usually in the news, but I would have never heard about it otherwise. In fact, I have the impression that we come from different galaxies. But only for a while.

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