Syrian Wives

By Anna Halabi

Provocative. Hilarious. Endearing.
Another collection of amusing stories by Anna Halabi.
Syrian Wives is the sequel to her debut collection Syrian Brides. The stories and characters in this collection are inspired by her personal experiences, as well as those of her relatives and friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Halabi
• Release date: Mar 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201754778

Anna Halabi

Anna Halabi was born and raised in Aleppo, Syria. She immigrated to Europe in 1999 to pursue her university studies. She currently lives with her family in Germany. Syrian Brides and Syrian Wives are two of her short story collections. The plots and characters in this collection were inspired by her personal experiences, as well as those of her family and friends.

Book preview

For my son,

my morning star

~  ~

Blackmailing The Wife

A Wife In The Newspaper

The Wife’s Wishes

Fat Wife, Thin Wife

The Wife And Her Daughters

The Husband’s Lawyer

The Wife’s Job

A Wife And Mother

The Wife’s Guest

The Prenup

Five Divorces

The Wrong Wife

Letter To The Reader

About The Author

If you steal, steal a camel,

and if you love, love the moon.

Blackmailing the Wife

Rula sat down on the large yellow couch in the living room to enjoy her afternoon cup of coffee. The maid, Fatima, had just left. The house was clean, dinner was ready and the groceries for the next day were ordered.

She leaned back and gazed out the window with a dreamy look in her eyes when she was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. She got up and hurried to the front door.

Did you forget something, Fatima? she asked as she swung the door open.

To her surprise, an elderly woman was standing on the doorsill. She was wearing a white headscarf and a battered black coat. Her wrinkled brown face forced a smile but there was something menacing in her eyes that gave her away.

Sorry, Rula apologized. She blushed and covered her embarrassed smile with her hand. I thought you were someone else.

"No worries, Ikhti[1]," replied the old woman.

"What can I do for you, Khaleh[2]?" Rula asked. She slowly started closing the door, suspicious of the stranger.

What? You don’t recognize me? asked the intruder. It’s me, Um Ahmad.

No, please excuse me, but I don’t know who you are, said Rula. I think you got the wrong address.

"Aren’t you Anseh[3] Rula, daughter of Nasseem Fasuliyeh?"

Yes, I am, confirmed Rula.

Eh, then it’s the right address, insisted the old woman.

She forced the door open with one hand and pushed the lady of the house aside with the other. She marched into the vast entrance hall and glanced up at the crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling. She smacked her lips and smirked.

I’m definitely in the right house, she mumbled to herself. She turned on her heels to face the dumbfounded Rula.

Come, let’s go make ourselves comfortable and I’ll help jog your memory, announced Um Ahmad. She made her way to the living room with Rula at her heels.

"How have you been, Anseh Rula? she asked. I see you’ve married into money. What a beautiful villa! I’d say about 500 square meters. At least!"

"Thank you. Allah is generous," said Rula still standing in the doorway. She frowned at Um Ahmad who had already peeled off her coat and veil. The old woman sank into the large blue couch and kicked off her shoes. She swerved her feet up onto the coffee table and quickly covered the holes in her smelly socks with her coat.

"Pour me some of that coffee, Anseh Rula, she said. What are you waiting for? Do I really have to teach you hospitality towards your guests?"

Rula cringed and reluctantly walked over to the cupboard in the corner of the room. She fetched a cup and saucer for her uninvited guest. The hostess returned to fill it with the hot black brew from the pot on the marble top coffee table and handed it to Um Ahmad.

I see you’ve got crystal chandeliers in every room, said the elderly lady and pointed to the ornate lamp above her head. "Not like in my little one-room apartment. I have a naked light bulb hanging from a thin cord at my place. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t envy you. May Allah protect you from the envious eye. But this place is definitely an upgrade from your parents’ dump in Bab Al Neirab[4]."

"How do you know I used to live in Bab Al Neirab?" Rula exclaimed. Her big brown eyes popped out of their sockets. Her eyebrows sprung up to her hairline and her forehead crumpled in worried wrinkles. She sat on the edge of the couch and leaned forward, anxious for answers.

So, you still didn’t recognize me? asked Um Ahmad. "Think back to your old neighborhood. About fifteen years ago, you used to come to my grocery store to buy Sinalco Cola. I would refill the brew into a plastic bag because you never brought the bottles back. And you used to eat that rotten Dakka[5]. You’d sprinkle that stuff on your hand and lick it off like a rabid dog. You children were all so disgusting back then. Like little devils."

Ah, yes, Um Ahmad, of course. It was such a long time ago, said Rula, somewhat relieved. Well, it was nice seeing you again.

She got up to usher her to the door.

Sit down, ordered Um Ahmad. I haven’t finished my coffee yet.

She took a loud sip from her cup and eyed the nervous young woman.

I’m sure you didn’t forget Rami, she said.

What about Rami? asked Rula. The worried wrinkles on her forehead returned.

You used to write each other love letters as teenagers and give them to me for safekeeping so your parents wouldn’t find out, said Um Ahmad. Her eyebrows danced and there was a twinkle in her eyes

Tell me, Um Ahmad, said Rula. What made you think of me after all these years and what is it that you want from me exactly?

"What can I say, my dear Anseh Rula. We tend to think of our old friends when times are tough. I had to close my store. It went bankrupt after my husband, Abu Ahmad, passed away. May Allah have mercy on his soul. There is a barbershop in there now. Strange men walking in and out, with shiny hair and short beards."

Get to the point, Um Ahmad, urged Rula, obviously annoyed with her chatty guest.

Anyway, I heard from my neighbors that you were doing well. Financially, that is. And I thought you would surely be inclined to help an old neighbor. After all, I used to sell you things on loan back in the day. Back when you weren’t swimming in gold.

Rula frowned. She had been expecting the greed to flash its fangs eventually, like many false friends had shown their true colors after her wedding.

And how much do you want? she asked.

Only five thousand Liras. As a loan from one old friend to another, said Um Ahmad.

I’ll give you five hundred, said Rula bluntly.

Five hundred?! No, that’s far too little, exclaimed Um Ahmad. She clicked her tongue in disagreement. "I deserve at least a thousand Liras for every day I spent looking for you. You won’t believe how many doors I’ve had to knock on and how many hands I kissed for some clues about your new whereabouts. Who would have thought that you ended up here in a villa in New Shahba[6] on the other side of town?"

She looked out the window at the pompous fountain in the rose garden. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth twitched into a disgusted frown.

Five thousand is too much, Um Ahmad, protested Rula. If a beggar chased after me on the street, I’d give him five Liras. Maybe ten if he was particularly annoying.

How dare you? yelled Um Ahmad. I am not a beggar. And besides, it’s not that much for a lady like you. You probably spend more on dinner in a fancy restaurant. Or are you afraid your husband will find out about your former lover?

That’s it. You’ve crossed the line, Rula said firmly. She got up and pointed to the door. I would like you to leave.

No, I’m staying here until I get my money, insisted Um Ahmad. And I changed my mind. I want twenty thousand now.

Twenty thousand? You just said you wanted five! Rula squeaked. Her voice suddenly sounded feeble and desperate.

The five thousand were a loan. The twenty thousand are for these, explained Um Ahmad. She pulled out a handful of papers from her handbag.

"And what are those, by Allah?" asked Rula, dreading the response.

Those are the love letters you and Rami sent each other twenty years ago, sneered the old lady.

Give me those! yelled Rula. They’re private. They’re none of your business!

She lurched for them, but Um Ahmad quickly hid them behind her back.

No, I’m going to wait for your husband to come home, said Um Ahmad. I’m sure that he’ll pay a good price for these cheesy letters.

She raised one eyebrow and leafed through them. Slowly. Deliberately.  

"They’re written in your handwriting and they’re dripping of romance and