“We’ll have to find a lawyer,” Abdo explains, somewhat at a loss.

A lawyer-but what for? Of what use is a court if it can’t even grant divorces on the spot? I couldn’t care less about being an exceptional case. Laws are for helping people, yes or no? These judges seem very nice, but do they realize that if I go home without any guarantee, my husband will come get me and the torture will start all over again? No, I don’t want to go home.

“I want to get divorced!”

I frown fiercely to show I mean it.

The sound of my own voice makes me jump. I must have raised my voice too loud-or is it these big white walls that make everything echo?

“We’ll find a solution, we’ll find a solution,” Mohammad al-Ghazi murmurs, straightening his turban.

But he has more than one cause for concern: the clock has just struck two in the afternoon, when offices close. Today is Wednesday, and the Muslim weekend is about to begin. The courthouse will not reopen before Saturday. I realize that they, too, are worried about my going back home, after what they’ve just heard.

“It’s out of the question, her going home. And who knows what might happen to her if she wanders the streets alone,” continues Mohammad al-Ghazi.

Abdo has an idea: Why couldn’t I take refuge at his house? He still can’t get over my story and is willing to do anything to tear me from the grip of my husband. But he must quickly withdraw his offer when he remembers that his wife and children have gone to the country for a few days, leaving him on his own. Our Islamic traditions stipulate that a woman must not be left alone with a man who is not her mahram, her close blood relative.

What to do?

A third judge, Abdel Wahed, finally volunteers his help. His family is at home, and they have room to take me in. I’m saved, at least for the moment. He, too, has a mustache, but he is more stocky than Abdo. His wire-rimmed glasses make him look very serious, and he’s quite imposing in his suit. I hardly dare speak to him. But I pull myself together; it’s better to overcome my shyness than to go home. And besides, what reassures me is that he seems like a real papa, who takes good care of his children. Not like mine.

His big car is comfortable and perfectly clean. There is even cool air coming out of little vents, which tickles my face. It’s nice. I barely open my mouth during the ride. I’m not sure whether it’s from timidity, uneasiness, or because, finally, I feel all right with these grown-ups taking care of me.

“You’re a very brave girl,” says Abdel Wahed, breaking the silence. “Bravo! Don’t worry-you have the right to demand a divorce. Other girls before you have had the same problems, but unfortunately they didn’t dare talk about them. We’ll do everything we can to protect you. And we will never allow you to be sent back to your husband, never. That’s a promise.”

My lips curve into a little crescent moon. It’s been so long since I smiled.

“Perhaps you don’t realize it yet,” adds the judge, “but you’re an exceptional girl.”

I blush.

When we arrive at his house, Abdel Wahed hurries to introduce me to his wife, Saba, and to his children. Shima, their daughter, must be three or four years younger than I am. In her bedroom she has lots of Fulla dolls, a Middle Eastern version of the American Barbie with blond hair that all the little girls in Yemen dream about.

“You poor thing,” says Shima. “Haram! It’s not fair!”

In Islam, anything forbidden and punishable by divine law is haram, so the child’s indignant reaction is only natural: Shima’s mother has explained to her that a bad man has beaten me. Shima frowns, imitating an adult scolding someone. I’m touched by her sympathy. With a smile of complicity, she motions for me to come away and play with her, then takes me by the hand.

As for the four boys, they’re busy watching cartoons. There are two televisions in this house-what luxury!

“Please feel right at home,” Saba says to me in a soft and welcoming voice.

So this is what family life is. I’d been so scared that I would seem like a freak to them, but they have quickly adopted me, and I am quite at ease. They make me feel that I can tell them everything without being judged. Without being punished. That evening, sitting cross-legged in the living room, is the first time that I have the strength to tell my story.

February 2008

With Mona, I’d lose all track of time while strolling along Hayle Avenue. Sometimes we pressed our noses so long against the front window of our favorite shop that the evening clothes disappeared behind the steamed-up glass. The white wedding dress on a plastic mannequin always caught my fancy. A dress for a lady! And what a contrast with all those women in the street, draped from head to toe in black.

“Insha’Allah, God willing, you’ll have one like this the day of your wedding,” Mona would whisper, her sparkling eyes framed by the niqab that covered the rest of her face whenever she left the house.

Mona rarely smiled. Fate had not smiled on her with a joyous wedding. Married in a hurry, she’d had to make do with a blue dress, and aside from that detail, she was always evasive about the circumstances of her marriage. Ever since her husband had abruptly disappeared to who knows where, it had become a closed subject. I imagined he was traveling somewhere, far away from Yemen, but I was careful not to ask a single question. If I did, Mona would simply murmur that all she wanted for me was that I be happy and wind up with an affectionate and respectful husband.

I would never have imagined that my wedding day would arrive so quickly.

And anyway, I didn’t have a really clear idea of what marriage was. To me, it was a big celebration most of all, with lots of presents, and chocolate, and jewelry. A new house, a new life! A few years earlier, I’d attended various celebrations held for some distant boy and girl cousins, where there was music and dancing. Beneath their baltos, their long black coats, the women were elegantly dressed. Their faces were exquisitely made up, their tresses smoothed by the hairdresser, like the pictures on bottles of shampoo, with little butterfly barrettes in the bangs of the most coquettish girls. I always had great fun at those parties. I remember the henna decorations on the hands and arms of the young brides, with designs like flowers. It was so beautiful, the henna. And I would think, One day I’ll have henna on my hands, too.

The news came out of nowhere. When Aba informed me that my turn had come, I didn’t really understand. At first I felt almost relieved, as if marriage were an escape hatch, because life at home had become impossible. Aba had never been able to find full-time employment after losing his street-sweeper job, so we were always late with the rent, and the landlord regularly threatened to evict us.

To save money, Omma now cooked only rice and vegetable stews. She had begun teaching me how to help her with the household duties. We baked shafout, a kind of large pancake slathered with yogurt flavored with garlic and onion, and bint al-sahn, a delicious dessert prepared with honey. When my father brought home enough money, Omma would send one of my brothers out to buy a chicken she would cook for Friday, the Muslim holy day. Red meat? Forget it-too expensive. In fact, I hadn’t had any fatah, beef stew, since my first-ever meal in a restaurant, where some cousins had invited us to celebrate Eid. We’d even been allowed to drink some “Bebsi,” a black soda from America. And when we left the restaurant, a waiter sprinkled the grown-ups’ hands with perfume-and mine, too! It smelled wonderful.