Fatima's Baby

By Nicolai Andreyevich

In the year 2022, 60-year-old Fatima is a barren, aging Muslima. Her cruel husband, Azzam is senior imam at the East London Mosque, the largest in England. Fatima carries the disfiguring scars from his abuse.

Despite having four wives, Azzam is still desperate for a male heir. One wife has been stoned for her sins; the others are to him, but cattle. Fatima is worthless and expendable in his eyes, so she is chosen to go to the Celebration in Jerusalem. If she dies, there is no loss. There, he tells her, she will conceive a son by receiving The Gift, promised by the mysterious and powerful creature known as The One.

Fatima is shocked when she finds herself young and, yes, pregnant. With this realization comes a new kind of horror. She knows that the punishment for adultery is stoning, and Azzam always says that there must be punishment.

No longer fearing for her own well-being, Fatima now fears for the fate of her child. She has Azzam to contend with, but also his brother, Hassana man who used to rape her cruelly until Azzam punished her with scalding water. Although, blessed by the One, Fatima feels helpless to protect her baby. After all, she is just a woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524604431

Nicolai Andreyevich

Nicolai Andreyevich, orphaned as an infant in Kaliningrad, was adopted by one of the Russian Mafia’s most feared crime bosses at the age of two. His penetrating brown eyes irresistible to the man he resembled and who claimed to be his father. Fourteen years later, young Nicolai was forced to flee his opulent world after a violent coup left his family bleeding on the marble floor of their villa in Sochi. He was raised by his father’s mistress, who took diamonds and cash from the house safe after the attack and used forged passports to elude those who sought to eliminate the heir to his father’s throne. Nicolai studied in Israel, under an assumed name, and when a Palestinian rocket attack killed this woman, whom he had loved, and wounded him on the streets of Ashkelon, he took what was left of the family wealth, boarded a ship, and sailed to Aruba. His love for the island has grown through the years and is clearly demonstrated in his work.

Book preview

JERUSALEM

MONDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 26, 2022

F atima quickly covered her head with the soft white towel as servants of The One dried her naked rejuvenated body and helped her dress. The servants were female, thank Allah. She looked around her and saw beautiful naked women everywhere, white towels rubbing wet skin, robes flying around them like white doves fluttering in the morning mist. Some of the women were dried by men!

The horrifying thought shook her, but she knew it should not. The spirit of The One filled the vast arena tonight. She felt it, and tonight, this was his night. There could be no sin in doing the will of God. She knew he was Allah, Subhanahu wa Ta’ala, and tonight, tonight, The One was her husband and Adam was his prophet. Salla Llahu ‘alayni wa sallam. It must be true. It was the only explanation that made sense to her.

She smiled and looked down at her perfect breasts. She pressed her fingers against the firmness of youth, after all these years. She pushed her hands downward to her belly, the tight scar that had wrapped around her waist like a steel band cutting off her breath and her bowels, the burns from the boiling water Azzam had thrown on her as she lay in the floor bleeding after her last miscarriage so many years ago, were gone. She caressed smooth soft skin; where, before, hard ridges of numbness had replaced the wet agony of the burns. She allowed her hands to drift between her legs and gingerly, she touched it. It was there!

Adam, his prophet, Salla Llahu ‘alayni wa sallam, had replaced what had been torn from her body when she was only a little girl and she knew it was there, even before she touched it, because tonight, for the first time in her life, she had exploded with joy as he filled her with his seed. Subhanallah.

Shivering, she placed her moist palms on her flat abdomen. She could almost feel the miracle, the gift, she knew, by faith; she had received at the hand of this beautiful stranger, a man, yes, but more. Her mind raced as fast as her youthful heart.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the warm humid air which filled this holy city. It blanketed Jerusalem like a lover, radiating a sensual heat. It was the palpable presence of The One. Somehow, she just knew.

It was December and yet so warm, her naked skin, even after the baths, remained comfortable and she had never been comfortable naked before. She was changed, and it was not just her physical body. She was not sure, in what way, but nonetheless, she knew she was not the 60 year old barren scarred woman who had entered this holy place a few hours before, her face swollen and bruised and her back aching from the last beating she had endured at the hand of her aged husband, Azzam, his warning not to enjoy this process, intended only to result in a male heir. She had been afraid and ashamed, almost to the point of running away.

Thank God she had not run. Thank Allah. Subhanahu wa Ta’ala. But now the cold hand of fear was creeping back into her heart. She stood motionless, unable to take a breath, while the lovely servants, clad in thin white linen shirts and slacks, finished dressing her. The shadow of the heavy burqa fell like the night, darkening her world and she was afraid.

She was afraid to return to the home where she was more slave than wife, abused and defiled by her husband, who kept her prisoner in his flat. She feared, not just for herself, but for her unborn baby. Azzam was a jealous man.

Azzam had said, this was what he wanted, but she knew he would blame her for his impotence and curse the baby that was not of his seed. Oh, why had she consented to do this, but in fact she had not been asked, she had been told, and as always, she did as she was told, and as always, she bore the punishment. It was her station in life, she was just a woman, and for women, there was no other way. She bowed her head, lowered her gaze to her sandaled feet and resolved to take her punishment.

Allahu Akbar, she whispered.

But, tonight she had met Allah, Subhanahu wa Ta’ala, and she was just a woman. He touched her, a woman. She was sure of it. It was a brief encounter, but in her heart it was a wedding.

Her god and the father of her miraculously conceived child was the disciple, Adam, who sat at the right hand of The One. His bright green eyes, his face, like an angel, she smiled, behind the screen of her burqa, as she recalled how her shameless eyes had devoured every inch of his tall perfect body, so strong and yet his touch was so gentle. He cared about her. She was sure of it. She felt it. She knew it

The moment he entered her… the burning ecstasy, the flood of lava flowing from him, filling her, over filling her. He held her so tight, she could not move, she could not breathe. She could not resist, even if she had wanted to, so she submitted, of course, it was all she knew, but this night, in his embrace… it was all she wanted.

She felt she would burst, perhaps ignite, explode, but she did not and when he withdrew, she cried, Do not leave me.

He answered her in her mind, his lips never moved. He said, I will be with you always.

That memory, that priceless treasure, no one could steal from her, she vowed to keep it locked in her heart forever. Alhamdulillah.

She hoped Azzam would be pleased. So many years and no children had blessed their marriage. Yes, she was sure, Azzam would be pleased. He had to be.

This is what he wanted. She lightly touched her cheek, where before the bruise from his gnarled hand had ached, the swelling, the pain, gone with the wrinkles, a miracle. She pulled away the hood of her burqa, an act of apostasy, she thought, almost laughing, but caught herself before any sound could come from her upturned pale lips, and made a less confining hijab from her scarf. Now she could breathe and see. She would replace the burqa before she saw Azzam. He would never know.

She surveyed the massive arena, the space as wide as the Iraqi desert. The endless lines of naked, barren, older women that had formed before the baptismal pools of Holy Water were thinning out, as the blessed night was drawing to a close. The sun would be up in an hour or so, she thought. Now, rejuvenated, pregnant bodies worked to dress and begin the journey back to their own homes. There were a few others here tonight wearing a khimar, but not many.

Her layers of soft cloth, so familiar, but now so heavy, smothered her in this tropical air. She fluffed the dress, breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. Subhanallah, she whispered. She thanked the servants, took her small rolling bag and joined the crowd of newly gifted women funneling toward the exits in the rear of the great arena, converted tonight for this special purpose. The Great Celebration, The One had called it.

Her heart was so full, never before had she felt such happiness and she was young, a girl again. Her steps were light, effortless, like her breathing. Surely, Azzam would be very pleased indeed.

The other women who had received the gift, now glowing, young and beautiful, shuffled out of the arena toward the high speed train. There were many, many women. Fatima could only guess, thousands, tens of thousands, but the herd moved quickly and efficiently.

The women, now girls, hardly spoke, their minds awash with the incomprehensible miracles that had been wrought upon their aging, infertile bodies. Fatima remembered entering the arena with these women, older women, some much older, many infirm. Now, their canes and walkers littered the parking lot, an unruly English garden planted around the entrances of the arena.

The blackness of night was giving way to the promise of dawn. She thought about praying, but no, she had been in prayer in her heart constantly, since she arrived in Jerusalem yesterday. Her heart had been with God since she stepped off that plane in Tel Aviv. She looked up at the sky. The tall lights of the parking area paled as the orange glow of the sun began this new day.

The doors closed on the train and Fatima reached up to grab the tan leather loop hanging from the white ceiling. The train car was brightly lit, almost too bright. She squinted.

The women stood, bodies pressed against bodies. There were Jews, Muslims, girls with skimpy tank tops and short shorts, clothes she did not remember seeing on the trip to Jerusalem, all touching. She shivered, but in her mind she allowed herself to enjoy the sensual moment. The train started. It accelerated so fast that bodies shifted to the rear. Fatima’s hand flew out and landed on a soft breast, barely concealed by a tank top.

Ana assifah, Fatima said, I’m so sorry.

It’s ok, the tank top girl said, It’s just a boob. She giggled, flashing perfect white teeth.

Fatima rubbed her offending hand on her dress, cleaning the sin from her palm.

The trip to Tel Aviv took only 10 minutes, perhaps less and at the announcement that they were arriving, Fatima clutched the chrome pole next to her and braced for the deceleration. She would keep her hands to herself this time, but the girl’s breast, how soft, how… She shook her head to clear that thought from her spinning mind. Too much had happened tonight, she was not herself.

Women poured from the train, cattle directed by white linen clad servants this way and that. As they walked through the station, the density of bodies gradually diminished. Fatima made her way toward the illuminated sign over a double glass door which read: EXIT 36. That was the one where Hassan, Azzam’s younger brother, would be waiting. She replaced her burqa thrusting her brown eyes back into shadow and stuffed her scarf into her deep pocket.

Azzam had told her where to go, what to do. He told her everything. He had written down everything, every move, every meal, every minute. She reached into the other pocket of her dress and felt the paper between her thumb and fingers, then crumbled his notes into a ball.

She recognized Hassan across the lobby. The knife scar which had taken his right eye and continued to the corner of his mouth, giving him a demonic and permanent grin, was unmistakable. Saeel, his constant companion, an almost pretty young man, stood beside him. Hassan waved his arm in the air when he spotted a few faceless black burqa clad figures in the swirl of color and beauty. Fatima worked her way through the crowd to stand before him.

Fatima? he said. Is this you?

Yes, it is me.

His rough hands flew out, gripping her shoulders in a vise, something he had never dared to do in public. He lifted her burqa and tilted his head to gaze upon her face with his good eye. Fatima gasped, inhaling the demon cloud of tobacco and stale sweat that enveloped him. She choked and tried not to breathe.

You are so young, so beautiful. He caught himself, jerked back his hands and began biting the callous on his left index finger, the one which came back no matter how deeply he gnawed.

Hassan! she said and tried to retreat, but the lobby was packed with a sea of bodies, holding her, trapping her, inches from Hassan’s foul breath. She straightened the black drape, letting it fall over her eyes. It was a welcome barrier between her nose and his stench.

Saeel spit on the airport carpet, his look, one of disgust, or perhaps jealousy, still, Fatima could not help admiring his long black eyelashes and pouty full lips.

She suspected that Hassan preferred young boys, although he had raped her many times. That was before the boiling water had turned him from her, the only blessing of that torment. He had called her a disgusting cow, but at least he had stopped abusing her when Azzam went to his mosque, leaving her at his brother’s mercy, and there was little mercy in him. Now, she feared, he would come to her again.

Hassan enjoyed hurting her, not the sex. He enjoyed hurting women in general. He reveled in his self appointed role as the leader of the Sharia Patrol in their Muslim predominate borough in East London. He boasted of beating women mostly, sometimes homosexuals, and anyone who did not meet his standards of modesty. He lost his eye when he attacked a prostitute early in his jihad only to be met by the blade of her pimp.

Hassan had run, she heard. He claimed to have killed the pimp, but it was not on the news, the news she was permitted to watch anyway. Who knew the truth and of what significance was the truth in any case. In her world the truth was what Azzam and Hassan said it was.

Hassan refused to ride the shuttle with the troublesome women. He hated to spend money for a limo, but it was Azzam’s money, Ashokrulillah. He took Fatima’s bag and handed it to the driver to put in the trunk with the others.

Fatima bent to enter the black limo. Azzam’s fourth wife, Buthayna, was already nestled in the back seat; a girl of 15, a beauty Fatima had envied and bristled with jealousy when her aged husband had presented her, but a year ago. She had said nothing. Now, the girl was heavy with child, Hassan’s child, her face bloated from gluttony, her beauty faded.

Buthayna reached up, pulled away Fatima’s burqa and looked into the face of her rejuvenated sister wife. It’s true, what they say.

Buthayna’s black eyes were wide with amazement. She pulled her niqab down below her nose, something she did whenever she could. She hated the thing and refused to wear the burqa.

Fatima knew she would learn to wear it once the baby was born and if it was a girl. Allah, Subhanahu wa Ta’ala, help her.

Yes, the gift has made me young again.

And your back pain? You jumped into the car like a gazelle.

I have no more pain; even the scars from my burns are gone. It is a miracle of God.

And you are with child?

Yes.

Allahu Akbar.

HE WOULD KILL HER

T he flight was delayed. Hassan was angry. He was always angry. He and Saeel disappeared for an hour in the bathroom. Buthayna left to find food, someplace where there were women to take her order. Fatima sat at the gate with the carry-on bags. It was a long day.

The plane touched down in Heathrow four hours later. Fatima had not rested or slept. The whole trip she worried, she prayed without ceasing. What would Azzam say? What would he do? She reached up under her burqa and touched her face again, rubbing the perfect brown skin where the purple bruise had pained her, the swelling gone by the touch of God. Her heart raced, her palms were wet.

She jumped at the ding that sounded as the plane came to a stop and the lights in the cabin blazed through the screen in front of her eyes.

Come, come, Hassan said. He held out his hand and Fatima took it.

She stood. Her seatbelt had never been fastened. She hadn’t traveled much, but she remembered, before The One, travel had been so regimented: security, seat belts, pat downs by uniformed women dressed like men. Now this trip had been so easy.

Come! Hassan said, more emphatically. He motioned for Buthayna, as he stood in the isle, blocking the passengers behind. He glared at the women as Fatima and Buthayna pulled their khimars around them and shuffled toward the open hatch.

The steward offered his hand to Buthayna, but she refused to touch an unrelated male, as she should, and waddled on down the ramp toward the main terminal carrying packages from her shopping trip in Tel Aviv. Fatima held her arm once they got to the open boarding area, the ramp was so narrow and Buthayna was so wide.

Where is Azzam? Fatima asked as they waited in baggage claim.

Not coming, Hassan said. He kept his good eye on the conveyor belt burdened with black and red bags. He started when he saw Buthayna’s big gold bag push through the clear plastic strips which covered the mouth of the baggage contraption, separating the light from the dark behind. He knew some of the men who worked back there, men who the Ayatollah could depend upon, even to the death. He smiled his sinister smile and heaved Buthayna’s monster to the carpet. Saeel, take this.

What? Saeel said and pruned his face.

Do it, Hassan spit at him and Saeel reluctantly gripped the handle of the bag.

The corner of Buthayna’s smile slipped out from behind her niqab and she covered her mouth with her hand. She knew Saeel was smart. He had been to college and he thought he was better than everyone else. Smarter maybe, but today he was pulling her bag.

Fatima pulled her small bag from the belt and kept her gaze fixed upon the floor. Hassan drug his carry on and the group made their way through the crowded airport to the big automatic glass doors which led to the street.

Hassan and Saeel walked ahead, the women behind, toward the taxi stand. There were a few cars waiting and a very short line.

We’re taking a taxi? Buthayna asked.

Yes, Hassan said. He didn’t turn and kept walking until he reached the taxi.

She turned to Fatima with a questioning look in her eyes, all that shown behind her niqab. Fatima said nothing, but handed her bag to Saeel and climbed into the minivan through the side door. She squeezed into the third row back seat and scooted over to make room for Buthayna, who plopped beside her. Saeel sat behind the driver and Hassan sat in the front. The driver rolled his window down as Hassan’s stench threatened to asphyxiate him. The cold air blew into the car.

Take us to the East London Mosque, Hassan said to the driver in Arabic, and close that window.

We’re going to the mosque? Fatima asked.

Hassan put his left arm around the driver’s seat and turned to look at the troublesome women.

Yes, Ayatollah Obama himself wishes to greet all those who received this so called gift. It is even rumored that he may pardon you from your sin of adultery.

Can he do that?

Only Allah can do that. Buthayna said.

Silence whore! Hassam said and raised his hand to strike the girl. She leaned away, out of range. His left eye narrowed, his white scarred eye closed, he inhaled, taking all the air from the taxi, then slowly lowered his hand. The Ayatollah is Allah.

The empty blackness of Hassan’s good eye burned into Buthayna.

Fatima thought she saw a wisp of smoke rise from the girl’s niqab.

Aiii! Buthayna turned away from her brother in law and buried her face in Fatima’s shoulder. Fatima covered the girl’s head with her hand.

There will be no menstruation today, Saeel leaned forward and said to Hassan. He turned from Hassan and looked at the women. He wore a cruel smile, one Fatima had seen so many times before. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

No, the whores are pregnant, Hassan replied. He chuckled and coughed a wet cough. He rolled down his window and spit then rolled it back up.

Their voices were faint whispers, but Fatima’s ears were so sensitive since her rejuvenation, she heard every word. Yes, she said to herself, I am home.

They rode in silence the 45 minutes it took to battle traffic to East London. The population was much less than before, many had left to find better lives in the depopulated regions, even the Middle East, but surprisingly, many Muslims had remained. The whole area was Muslim now, the infidels, were afraid to even drive through, she had been told. Her nephew, Hassan’s son, was a leader in his father’s Sharia patrol, keeping the law the infidels did not recognize. Before the patrols women flaunted their uncovered heads, wore short sleeves, shorts, exposed naked skin, men and women touched, even men walked hand in hand with men. Now, if they were so bold, they would face punishment, of course. Azzam had said. Her nephew, Muhammad had shown her video he had taken on his phone of hooded men in orange shirts beating women, and sometimes men, who did not behave as they should.

If they knew what she had done in Jerusalem… She shuddered to think of it, but they would know. It had been on television, the whole naked orgy. She took a deep breath and released it. Would they stone her? That was the punishment for adultery. But, Azzam had sent her for that purpose. He sent her and he was Imam. Surely he would protect her from punishment, she hoped. She rubbed her flat belly, where she knew, a child was forming, Adam’s child, Allah’s child. Subhanahu wa Ta’ala.

The voice of the muezzin, broadcast from the unseen minaret, pierced the stale air of the taxi. Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar. Lailaha ill Allah, and the voice fell silent.

Even if there were no call to prayer, Fatima could see the red light of the setting sun announcing Maghrib, the evening prayer. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was impure! She must remove the najasat of Adam’s semen from her body and make Ghusl before entering the mosque or she would surely burn in hell. She was the wife of Azzam, the Imam of the mosque. She would bring shame upon him. He would kill her.

STONED

T he taxi pulled in front of the East London Mosque, the largest in England, Azzam often told her. Hassan got out and gave Saeel some money. Take the luggage and Buthayna back to the flat, he said. We will be here for Allah knows how long purifying this whore.

Buthayna looked at Fatima. Her eyes were