Lala Rosa Girls

Lala Rosa is a lively hair salon in urban Rotterdam. Amidst the chaos of fuming hairdryers, loud music and endless cups of coffee, Souad and Layla expertly wield their scissors. Hatim, the charming owner of the place, comes and goes as he pleases. Other men are not allowed in the salon, except as a topic for gossip. At Lala Rosa, women are able to reveal their true selves and cut loose. One day Hatim introduces the girls to F’dila, their new colleague. She has come to Rotterdam with the same desires as many: dreams of romance and money. Souad and Layla don’t realize how far F’dila will go to get exactly what she wants. To secure their own future, the girls must go beyond what they thought possible.

 

Lala Rosa Girls is as hilarious and fun as it is dark and moving. Underneath the desperate measures the young women resort to, is a deep-rooted need to establish their own place in the world and to be accepted for who they are. Their struggle is one that many readers, in many different environments, will be able to relate to.

Chapter 1 – F’dila

Real women smell of garlic

Is it the intimacy that takes Hatim back to his childhood or is it my smell? Is the secret of our attraction merely a scent? ­‘F’dila, the women in my village smell exactly like you,’ ­Hatim says. In time, all female sweat will smell like sour Swiss cheese.

In our village in the countryside in the mountains of North Africa, we washed once a week. It was mostly on Sunday and I went to the bathhouse with the girls next-door, which was fun. The bath we took was so extensive that it took the rest of the afternoon to recover. They kept refilling the large tub with boiling water so the temperature was always nice. We sat on rickety wooden stools, splashing large amounts of water over our heads with a bucket. This ritual in itself took hours. The bathing was followed by a treatment with sabon el beldi, a natural soap made of olive pits that would purify the skin and open the pores. With a pumice stone we then scrubbed off the mix of butyric acid and dead skin cells, that had accumulated on our skin all week – I remember feeling layers of dead skin rolling off my body. After exfoliating, we washed and combed our hair with shampoo, a fine-tooth comb and lots of hot water. In our village, those nit combs pass for regular ones – because, really, you can’t get all the muck out of your hair with a brush and a little shampoo, right? Once we had exfoliated the top layer of our skin and smoothed our hair, it was time for the ghassoul-mineral clay from the Atlas Mountains, applied as a mask on our hair and our skin. It made us feel even cleaner and we shone as if we’d dipped ourselves in olive oil. Finally, we washed our hair with shampoo again. The final phase was one last and symbolic round with the soap – this too took at least an hour.

It’s all very different with those trollops these days. They shower each day, but never longer than three minutes. Imagine how those skin cells keep accumulating! They dye their hair yellow as saffron and cover themselves in clouds of perfume. Then you only have yourself to blame, I think, when your husband cheats on you and leaves you for a country girl like myself.

Shit-for-brains! Every single one of them. One day I will show them what I’m capable of. I am that poor village girl who will teach them a trick or two. They’ll all be dead jealous, particularly all the people from my village. I will never forget how they were cheering when I left town! ‘Village witch’ they called me, and ‘voodoo-terrorist’. I’ll never be able to forget that. Once I have my papers, I’ll build a proper life. I’ll buy a luxurious apartment and drive around in the latest Mercedes S-Class. Boubker has promised me one, but first I have to learn how to drive. How hard can it be, when all you have to do is follow the road?

I’m wearing my linen skirt as it’s a special occasion and I want to make a good impression on Hatim. It’s a very wide thing, which could easily be turned into a tent. The pockets are large, so I can put the blow-drier in them as well as the other things a hairdresser needs.

As of today, I shall be a real hairdresser! I’m quite proud of it. I’ve been dreaming of this since I was a young girl and moved away from our mountain village, to live with my aunt in the big city. As I had no further education than primary school, I worked as a housekeeper for various people. The jobs gave me a lot of freedom at a young age, because I was making my own money.

One thing I have always known for sure, though: one day I will be either a hairdresser or a wedding stylist. Cutting and dyeing hair or doing make-up for brides – that will be my future. This is my first day as a hairdresser. Honestly, how hard can it be, when all you have to do is cut?

It was easy to find a job in the big city. I was relieved to become the live-in housemaid with a family and leave my aunt. She was meddlesome and reported everything I did to my family and neighbors in the village.

My room, a sort of attic, was above the storage room and was nicely decorated. There was a bed, a television, a wardrobe with mirrored doors and a sink. The floor was covered with a floral carpet. Much better than the cold, hard floors at my aunt’s place and the dry sheepskin I slept on as my aunt kept the luxurious bed to herself. The couple I worked for encouraged me to take as much from the pantry as I liked, but I was obliged to eat in the kitchen – it had to be clear that I was not part of the family. I was also expected not to interfere with the children. That was not part of my duties. And so, there was hardly any contact with the children. I did not mind at all. I take an interest in a great many things, but not in children.

I could use the shower whenever I wanted. A huge luxury; hot water came pouring out. I was not used to that. At home we had to heat the water on a gas burner or, worse, a pile of burning branches or charcoal. The people I worked for were wealthy. They had a beautiful villa. Both worked as professors at the University. I thought they were posh, just like their friends and relatives visiting them. Their children were so well-behaved that I often wondered if they were entirely sane. I had not seen anything like it in my life. The children in our village clambered on roofs, had mud smudges on their cheeks and pebbles in their hair. Sometimes I believed the children of these professors were possessed by ghosts, so I just steered clear of them as much as I could.

People visiting the professors were always dressed in djellabas made of the finest silk. They wore matching high heels, custom made, and carried the most gorgeous handbags. Even the women who wore a hijab, like I do, all looked extremely beautiful. Deep in my heart, I hated them. Who did they think they were? I had anything but warm feelings for Mrs Professor too – I detested her. The bitch probably felt the same about me. Each morning, she sat in front of the mirror in her bedroom to do up her hair and put on a lot of make-up. She was just a teacher, but she thought she was Her Majesty the queen. She used a lot of expensive perfume. Such a pungent smell! For no good reason I slipped the bottle of Givenchy in my apron pocket one day. I took it with me to the Netherlands – as a keepsake you might say – and to use it on very special occasions, such as this one.

She bossed me around, that hag. Each morning she dictated my duties for the day. What was she thinking? That I was one of her students? I had to sweep, scrub the walls and mop the floors. The mistress wanted a spotless house each and every day. ‘The neighbors might come for tea later.’ I can still hear her say it. I had to do the laundry, shop at the grocery store and pre-cut the vegetables so everything was ready when she came home and started cooking. That woman would make the weirdest dishes! I often didn’t like half of them. As for her husband… I mean: what man wants to eat stuffed roulade in slices, as if he were in a restaurant? Tajine with dates and crepes… Ridiculous! If he’d been my husband, he would have been served proper food; split peas with lots of olive oil! And for dessert, I would have made fat-filled, home-baked oil bread and a glass of tea so sickly-sweet the enamel would pop off his teeth. That’s what men like!

Every day, to keep my culinary skills up to standard, I watched a fancy-schmancy cooking program on television. I scribbled each recipe in the notebook I had kept from primary school. Did that lipstick cow really think she was the only one who knew how to make crepes? I would trump her with my truffle couscous. She was teaching at university, but I would show her who, between the two of us, was the professor in the kitchen.

I hated her so much that I fantasized about hurting her. I would go to the healer. He would give me something terrible to stir in her food, so first she would shut up and then she would slowly crumble like old concrete. Who would be in charge of this place then?

I regularly practiced black magic. I tied knots in cloth and blew on them; a ritual to get Mrs Professor stuck in her life. I had learned this in my village, where I secretly watched a woman who was very skilled at it. One day I caught her feeding her husband donkey ears to dumb him down – mercilessly cut from an animal in the village.

Before long, I began to suspect that my victim, Mrs Professor, was carrying a very strong anti-voodoo amulet. Obviously, the frequent blow attempts and double knots were not working. After some deliberation, I decided to give in to my true feelings and take it one step further. On my next day off, I scooped one of the mistress’ sanitary napkins out of the trash can on the patio. The bin had been broiling in the blistering sun all morning. I really had to dig deep into the grunge – it was disgusting, what a mess, I was in it up to my elbows – but the hard work paid off in the end. That same afternoon I took the bloodied napkin to the healer. After a very long wait (there were at least twenty people before me) I was allowed to enter.

I explained what I wanted and then the doctor mixed the blood from the sanitary napkin in an amulet with human bone and lots of other things. At least, that was what he claimed. I had heard that this doctor had undisputed superpowers. My girlfriends said he could turn water into ice. If I’d have had the money, I would have asked him to show his skill to me right then and there.

The doctor told me to bury the amulet in a child’s grave. That was a problem; the nearest cemetery was miles away from my workplace. I would never be able to go there unnoticed. I had another few days off two weeks from now, but that would be far too long of a wait. I decided to bury the amulet at night. Not long before I had met a tramp in the city center. He was a simpleton, one of those bums who dream of one day owning a villa with a pool and an Audi, but now spend their entire day smoking, sniffing glue and squandering the little money they have. I asked him to accompany me to the cemetery for a small fee.

In the dead of night, while everyone was fast asleep, I left the house, armed with a flashlight. There was no sign of life anywhere – apart from a pair of eyes suddenly lighting up. I was scared stiff and thought I had run into a ghost, but quickly discovered that it was just a cat.

The light of my flashlight was reflected in the eyes of the beast that followed me to the cemetery.

I met the bum on the outskirts of town. He threw stones at the cat.

‘Stop it,’ I whispered. ‘What if it’s a djinn… You don’t want to get into a fight with ghosts, do you?’ He looked at me incredulously and then said ‘There is no bigger ghost than you.’

The journey seemed endless. In the dark, I tripped over stones and nearly sprained my ankle. If only my assistant had a car, but he was too big a failure for that. Moreover, he seemed too tired to exchange a single word with me.

Once we arrived at the cemetery, we quickly found a child’s grave. It had a small tombstone with a number engraved on it. The tidiness and the fresh plants showed someone had visited the grave quite recently. I told my companion to dig a hole – I myself preferred to keep my nails clean.

‘F’dila, this is really a big sin!’ He tried to protest, but when I reminded him of his fee he started digging with his bare hands, still grumbling that voodoo is a ticket straight to hell. Well, that was one thing I could do without.

‘Shut up,’ I said, ‘it’ll be light soon!’ Idiot. I have been wearing a hijab, long skirts covering my ankles and a very neat apron since I was twelve. I can hardly become more pious, can I?

The visit to the healer had cost a lot of my savings – money that was actually reserved for my mother who had stayed behind in our village and had become severely ill, but my expenses and great efforts began to pay off after just a few days.

One morning not long after the night at the cemetery, I noticed that Mrs Professor was not commanding me in her usual way. On the contrary, I found her in bed, racked with pain! She lay there like a sick rabbit, with barely anything left of her radiance and intellectual respectability. She complained about stitches in her abdomen and cramps which, according to her, were worse than contractions. She was groaning with pain. I was almost tempted to put a sock in her mouth. I can’t stand people wailing like that – even if they are sick.

In the following days, the mistress vomited a lot — so much so it seemed her organs would shoot out of her throat. Perhaps this inconvenience was caused by the powder the doctor had given me to put in her food. It was made from dried hyena brains, among other things.

Weeks later, the pain in her stomach still hadn’t gone. The mistress had stopped having her period. She lost weight. After eight weeks, no more was left of her left but a skeleton covered with skin. From the side she looked like the broom handle I swept the floors with each day. Scary blisters appeared on her lips. There was no other way to put it; that doctor had done an excellent job.

And Mr Professor? He drove the Mrs Professor everywhere to find a doctor who could cure her. The entire family even went to Paris for a few days to visit one there, but it was all in vain. No doctor knew how to treat her. No one had an explanation for her symptoms, not one examination led to anything. Mrs Professor had called in sick at university. She no longer put up her hair and she no longer sprayed clouds of perfume on her neck. Instead, she turned into something resembling a dry piece of fruit, shriveling and moldering more each day – even hungry vermin would not touch her.

In my carefully detailed plans, there was one thing I hadn’t taken into account; now that the mistress was at home, she needed care, she could no longer cook, no longer mind the children and she no longer took them to the day care center.

The new situation brought about an enormous amount of work; I was busier than ever! Normally all my work was done by seven o’clock. I was only expected to wash the evening meal dishes late at night. In between there was plenty of time to go into town with my friends – in the summer we dressed up, hoping to catch ourselves an emigrant on a family visit. From the first day my mistress got sick, I worked overtime – she did pay me for it, but I hated all the extra work.

The tension in the villa rose day by day. The children were bored and noisy and the mistress gave everyone sleepless nights with her moaning. To make her suffer a little more I told her, when she was sitting on the edge of her bed, that one of the maids across the street had mentioned that the husband of a sick woman nearby was planning to divorce his wife. He thought she was too ill and was therefore looking for a new, young woman. ‘But fortunately, things between you and your husband are fine, aren’t they?’ I asked with a vicious little smile at the end of my story.

Every day I brought her some ‘news’ that I had thought up the night before. She bought it all! I loved the effect of my gossip: it was like hot oil on a fire. The arguments between Mr and Mrs Professor became more and more intense and the lamentations grew longer. While I peeled the potatoes, the mistress sat at my kitchen table crying. I feigned genuine interest, always curious about all the ins and outs, and the next day I would come up with a rumor that would increase her anxiety even more. How is it possible that someone responding this naively to my tricks can be a professor? I outsmarted those supposedly intelligent people on all fronts!

One day I decided that the time had come to make my move. ‘This is the moment,’ I told myself in the mirror. After all, I knew how to seduce and satisfy a man… That’s one thing you learn growing up in a village. The strangest things happened when girls and women went to the well on the outskirts of town late in the evening or at night. It was dark, you saw no one and no one saw you. In the day time everyone pretended nothing ever happened.

I was not troubled by guilt towards my victim. Mrs Professor was highly educated and made enough money to support two entire villages. She didn’t need a husband at all. I, however, did – and I would be best off with a rich man. Age and looks did not matter to me; I was and still am willing to marry any man with enough money to make my dreams come true. And if I tire of him, we’ll just get a divorce, right? At least then I’ll have a claim to half of his property. Mr Professor had an attractive fortune and for that reason alone was a man after my heart. The villa was an excellent home for me. Sometimes I completely lost myself in fantasies of redecorating it after our wedding party. I had already drawn up a list of wedding guests and had the best wedding stylist in mind to do my clothes and my hair. We would do the whole wedding all over again in my old village with the same stylist and wedding band. After the party, Mr Professor and I would drive back to my villa in his Mercedes. The only one keeping my fantasy from becoming real was Mrs Professor. And she, as I was pleased to establish, was now very seriously ill indeed.

I did feel sorry for the mister sometimes. He had to live with an unhealthy woman. A woman who has something wrong with her is at the bottom of the social ladder. As are women who cannot have children. They are compared to fruit trees that bear no fruit. Such trees, as far as I’m concerned, can be cut down without mercy.

I thought Mr Professor was a poor thing. That man deserved a woman, a real woman. One like me, really. I don’t mean to brag, but in many respects I am preferable to other women. I wear a hijab, I often sit with a rosary in my hand, I am very good at boiling potatoes and I knead oil bread like no other. I can slaughter a chicken or rabbit if I have to and if they offer me a cow and a slaughter knife, I will not hesitate to cut that animal’s throat too. In fact, I am willing to quarter it and turn it into the most delicious dishes on the very same day. A woman who is a professor is not a real woman, is she? Real women smell of butyric acid, onions and garlic.

One night I made my move. I dressed in see-through pajamas – with nothing underneath. The transparency, as I’d checked in the mirror, was perfect. I had not washed, I smelled of fresh sweat and I was wearing my most beautiful headscarf.

It went exactly as planned – as if I was acting in a play I had directed myself. I had just entered the kitchen when the mister walked in – as he often did in the evening, to pour himself a soda. In my pajamas I leaned forward in a seductive pose, pretending to scrub a stain off the floor. Gosh, I was good. I really enjoyed playing this game.

I heard him gasp. He held his breath in his throat, the way you hold a fly in your fist. I looked up, smiled modestly and bashfully played with my cleaning cloth. Yes, I have another specialty: like no other I have the gift to let my eyes tell men what I want them to do. I got up, looked him in the eye and lured him into the pantry. I had barely started massaging his member when Mr Professor came. I was not really impressed by what he produced. Were those children actually his? The Professor walked out of the pantry with his head hanging low and I left for my room, intensely happy with my first victory.

My triumph, however, was short-lived. The next day the mistress got a visit from friends who persuaded her to see a medicine man. ‘This is taking way too long. This smells fishy,’ I heard them crow. It had gradually become a habit that I listened in on conversations between the mistress and her friends, just as I always searched their bags. One always had chewing gum and a comb in her bag, and never more money than a hundred Dirham. How can someone be so posh and still only carry a hundred? Shortly afterwards my mistress, the bitch, visited a medicine man. My chances of marrying her wealthy husband were gone in an instant. All up in smoke! Within a week she had completely recovered. Her husband, whom I had stood in the pantry with just one week before, personally threw me out of the house. I shouted to the mistress that her husband had ‘deflowered me!’, but that cry for help was ridiculed. No one believed me. And when I scratched up my face with my fingernails in pure despair and went to report abuse at the nearest police station, my case was treated with a lot of suspicion. Mr and Mrs Professor also came to tell their story and they brought witnesses. This was enough reason for the police not to register my report and instead show me the door with a warning. I briefly considered suing Mr Professor for rape, but quickly dismissed that idea as nonsensical.

In the following weeks, I spent day and night cursing the fact that I had failed to get Mr Professor to knock me up. It all turned out so different than I had scripted. I was convinced that in that case the Professor would have left his wife for a future with me. My big wedding in my village with a Mercedes and a wedding stylist… I had come so close to my goal, but all my dreams were destroyed in one fell swoop.

And now I’m here… In the Netherlands, in Rotterdam, with no papers. I am not sure what is worse; that I am illegal here or that I still don’t own a villa and Mercedes?

‘Every day is a new opportunity,’ I tell myself as I look into the mirror. But this time it must not go wrong. This time I will take it slowly. First, I want to make Hatim completely mine and then you’ll see that he will marry me. And the wedding in my village will take place after all, and after the party, they will all be waving at me, the happy bride. There will be no more gossiping about me. Married means married. And no one will have anything to say about me ever again. Everyone will respect me. I will finally have a husband. I will finally be a person with papers.

With great care, I wrap my headscarf tightly around my head; a little too tight, but it does look nicer. I smooth my white blouse with my tense fingers. It has an old-fashioned French collar and fits well on my worn-out skirt. I pick up my apron from the oak table Boubker bought from our Indonesian neighbor. Hatim and I are meeting in a cafe, but I decide to wear my apron anyway. It’s not just any old apron, but one made of fine cotton. The border is decorated with embroidered orange and green buttercups. I slip my wallet into the front pocket, and also the fake ID card that Boubker, the sweetheart, has arranged for me via his friend Jaap. I’m not too fond of Jaap: his breath smells disgusting because of all the coffee he drinks and all the cigarettes he smokes. Actually, Boubker himself smells like a moldy ashtray.

I spray a dash of Givenchy on my headscarf, put on my coat, grab my bag and leave the house.

Outside on the street, Boubker is waiting for me with a burning cigarette between his lips. ‘Hurry up or you will be late,’ he calls impatiently as soon as he sees me. I quickly wrap my coat around me, tugging at the belt around my waist until it’s really tight. Boubker must not see me wearing the apron over my clothes. If he gets wind of that, he will instantly send me back upstairs and order me to take it off immediately. It annoys him when I wear an apron. ‘What idiot wears an apron when they go out?’ He says. ‘If you are so intent on wearing it, do so inside. Then at least you create the impression of doing some chores.’

Boubker and I are not married, but we do live like a married couple. He firmly refuses to arrange papers for me. I don’t know why, but he once vowed never to do that for anyone and sticks to that decision. It’s fine by me. Boubker is courteous. When I get in his car, he holds the door for me and when we sit down to eat, he slides the chair under my buttocks. As long as I have a roof over my head and a guy who feeds, dresses and protects me, I am more than pleased. Especially now that I’m getting a job as a hairdresser and my childhood dreams are coming true. How can I complain?

I can barely keep up with Boubker’s rushed steps. What a strange man he is, you can never be sure whether he’s cheerful or grumpy. With him, this can change per minute, so I’m often walking on egg shells.

We hurry across the Erasmus Bridge. There is a strong wind and we are walking straight against it.

As long as I can keep up with Boubker, he won’t turn around and grumble at me for walking too slowly. And he won’t see the apron. Poor Boubker; he has no idea why I’m wearing that thing. And he never will.

‘It’s over there, on that side.’ Boubker shows me the way with an outstretched arm. We have to pass the traffic light and then turn right.

After passing a large intersection, we enter a narrow street where there’s roadwork. Why did we not come by car? Boubker can be so weird sometimes.

We arrive at the cafe-restaurant where I’m meeting Hatim. You must go through a revolving door to enter. That’s quite shabby, I think. I much prefer electric sliding doors, they are classier than one of these stiff revolving doors that is far too narrow. We walk past the reception. The heat from the kitchen hits us in the face.

‘Have you been struck by lightning, is that it?’ Boubker freezes right in the middle of the cafe-restaurant and starts growling at me without any mercy. He has seen my apron. Now what? I can hardly tell him that I want to impress Hatim.

‘You ah-calf,’ Boubker says in slang. ‘Ah-you could have come rolling out of the mountains like this. The stones still stick to your feet. Ah-calf… Do you not see… Do you not see that this is too moronic for words? This is a place where decent people come. Old Dutch ladies come here, businessmen… Ah-are you really this stupid?’

I think that’s enough. ‘Boubker’, I say, ‘shut up and stay out of women’s business.’

‘Alright, but if you go around looking this ridiculous, I don’t want to be seen with you. And certainly not in Hotel New York. If my colleagues would see me with you like this…’ and he mutters on. His grumbling does not go unnoticed. Astonished and angry looks come our way. Imagine: a burly, stern looking Moroccan man walking in front of his veiled wife, stamping his feet while she meekly follows him. The picture perfectly corresponds with the idea Dutch people have of Moroccans. If only they knew what it’s really like! Although… those who value prejudices will continue to believe in them. Muslim women do nothing but slave away in the kitchen and obediently follow their husbands. No truth can beat that, these people here are so naive. Losers…

I let my head sink a little deeper and pull up my shoulders. I wrap my arms around myself like a frightened bird and from underneath my eyebrows, as suppressed as possible, I look at all the Dutch grannies and businessmen sitting here. My fingers disappear – oh, what a sorry sight this must be – in the pockets of my apron. After all, you never know if there is a rich Dutch man here who wants to free me from my oppressed state. The one condition is that he’s willing to arrange papers for me and marry me in my old village – and we are most definitely not going on a honeymoon by plane, but by car. After all, you cannot park an airplane at the front door for everyone to see. That apron is fantastic and I am brilliant. I should get an Oscar for best actress! I will blow all those actresses over, with their toothpick bodies and overpriced dresses. Not bad for a farm girl in an apron!

Boubker is impatiently tapping the table with a coaster. The waiter is ignoring us, not for the first time. I saw his gaze slide over my apron. If he could, he would have ripped it off me and pushed it into Boubker’s face. And he would have shouted: ‘This is not how we treat our women in the Netherlands, you hear me!’ Oh well, all men are losers. All women too, actually. And it doesn’t matter where they’re from. I rise above them all… I rise above everyone.

What is keeping Hatim? I’m starting to get thirsty and the waiter just won’t come. Boubker has given up, he will not be served by this waiter. For several minutes Boubker has been ignoring everything that is going on around him. He seems crushed that I’m wearing an apron to this meeting. There are always just two options with Boubker. Either he gives in, or he loses it.

Boubker was once a wealthy man. Unfortunately I didn’t know him at the time. He ran a fiberglass company, had his own staff and made a lot of money with this business.

He emigrated to the Netherlands with his parents when he was seven and his life proceeded like any other from there. He worked hard, smoked, got into running and he went out with friends once every two weeks. Apparently he never had any problems. No one really knows why one day he simply lost it. Some people thought it was because of politics, which he followed closely via radio and television. He still does. I often tell him it’s much better to watch Moroccan television via the satellite dish. ‘It will cheer you up.’ I myself follow a great soap opera and I also love the live glamor concerts from Lebanon. No bullshit about migrants, immigrants and descendants of immigrants on Moroccan television. Not that it affects me, I couldn’t care less. But that’s not the case with Boubker. He feels hurt by the way he’s being treated in the society that he is part of. ‘It’s a waste of time,’ I keep telling him, ‘to worry about that. They don’t want you if your hair is black and that will never change.’ Jaap, Boubker’s friend, thinks it’s ‘very upsetting’ when I say that. I ignore him, because Jaap knows perfectly well that I’m right: they don’t want you if your hair is black.

The story goes that one day Boubker withdrew all his money from the bank, climbed on the roof of an office in the city center and scattered hundreds of banknotes in the air. It was a madhouse. People are said to have parked their cars in the middle of the road where they got out to gather the money. Young people did not know what was happening to them. Boubker never saw one cent of his money again. On the wall of that office building he chalked in large white letters: ‘It’s done now, so leave me alone.’ At least that’s what they say.

I don’t know why Boubker stays with me or why he has allowed me into his life in the first place. If I’m being honest, I have to admit that he’s far too good to me. See, he could easily have hooked one of those pretty chicks with saffron hair and lots of perfume. One who can’t cook, works in an office and drives a small Mazda. He probably lacks courage and zest for life: he’s still on medication and regularly sees a doctor. He goes to work every day and the rest of the time he just sees me and Jaap. He doesn’t give a shit about anything else.

From the window here in Hotel New York, you can see the swirling water of the Maas river. Further down I see Hatim come in via the side entrance. When he casually sways the swing door open, he brings in a strong gust of wind. Hatim greets us briefly and sits down at our table. A few minutes later, he and Boubker – who have not met each other before – are in deep conversation. Hatim has not even bothered to look at me. Tsk-tsk. As if I don’t exist.

Only yesterday I sent Hatim a picture of my naked bosom, but now I wonder if it impressed him at all. Instead of just thanking me with a wink, he argues with the waiter, because he is not being served quickly enough.

‘Or do you not serve Moroccans? In that case I’ll just go somewhere else.’

‘No sir. As you can see, it’s very busy,’ the waiter explains. He takes a gasp of air and is about to add something else when Hatim beats him to it.

‘Well, pour me something strong then. Whatever you have. And what do you want?’, he says, turning to me. For a moment, we lock eyes. There’s a naughty twinkling in his. So he is impressed by my message.

‘Fanta Orange,’ I answer with a smile.

Hatim’s eyes glide over my apron like a wet sponge. They take in my entire body.

‘Make it an orange soda… and a small ice cream for the lady,’ he tells the waiter.

‘A small ice cream?’ the waiter asks, a little surprised. ‘Alright, I have noted one scoop of ice cream.’

I feel embarrassed, but Boubker is completely unaware.

Then the job interview starts.

‘So, you will come and work in my hair salon?’ Hatim asks.

‘If you want me to, yes, please.’ I can barely speak the words and I turn my face away. I play my role of humble servant girl perfectly.

‘Alright. I’ll show you the salon later. Ladies only, you know that, don’t you?’ He glances sideways at Boubker. ‘No men allowed. So you’ll have to introduce yourself.’ Again he turns to Boubker. ‘What is your plan?’ he asks.

‘You go, my shift starts soon,’ he replies softly. He has left his tea untouched.

‘When she’s done at the hair salon, she will call me and I’ll take her back home. Or one of the ladies,’ Hatim says. It seems intended as a reassurance. I say I could take the tram back home.

‘No,’ says Hatim. ‘You are picked up and brought home. When we are given something to look after, we handle it with care.’ He winks at Boubker, but he does not respond.

After Hatim has paid, I walk with him to the parking lot where the wind hits us in the face. Hatim, unlike Boubker, doesn’t seem uncomfortable about my apron. I like it when a man stands by his woman and is not obsessed with what people may or may not think of her. For the first time in my life I step into Hatim’s sports car. The upholstery shines beautifully and inside is a wonderful smell of vanilla. Would all expensive cars be like this? Oh, I can’t wait to get my driver’s license. And this Hatim, what an incredibly nice man he is.

‘Hang on a second,’ Hatim shouts, pressing his mobile phone firmly to his ear. ‘Souad… Souad…’ He taps his screen again. When the other side answers, he yells: ‘Souad! Are you at work? Good, listen! I’m coming by with a new hairdresser. She’s coming to work in the salon with you! Do you hear me? Can you turn the music down!’

A pause. Then he starts again, quieter this time. ‘Yes, she’s coming to work in the salon. Make sure you treat her well. She’s my cousin and she’s going through a rough time. Do you hear me Souad? No, you will be treating her well.’

I push back comfortably against the seat. The view across the water is actually beautiful here… I can be pleased. The first step has been taken. Onward to step two: making sure, in the most subtle way, that Hatim’s wife, owner of the salon, disappears from the scene. Then Hatim will arrange my papers. He will have to divorce his wife first and put the salon Lala Rosa in my name. Then I will sell the business and with the proceeds I shall buy the latest Mercedes as well as a villa in my village and I will celebrate with the biggest ever wedding… A wedding my fellow villagers will never forget. And then we’ll see who still dares to call me ‘village witch’. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I will start looking for a healer, who is just as good as the one I visited before. The sorcerer that will make my dreams come true.

‘Nice app message yesterday.’ Hatim says it with a grin. Then he starts to drive slowly across the parking lot. The car is of such high quality that you don’t even feel the uncomfortable bumps underneath your butt… It’s as if we’re driving over butter.

‘I am so embarrassed,’ I lie. ‘That nude photo was meant for Boubker. Really, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Why?’ Hatim asks with surprise, ‘Do send me such pictures more often, beautiful.’

Hatim reduces speed and parks his car on the side of the road. ‘You know F’dila,’ he says, ‘I want to tell you something.’ He suddenly sounds very serious. ‘You remind me of my childhood, my mother and my sisters when I was young… Your modesty, your bashfulness, your beautiful apron. It all makes me so emotional. You really move me with your appearance. I don’t know anyone like you.’ He gently caresses my cheek. ‘You are so pure.’

I smile shyly. Oh, Hatim, if only you knew. ‘Tell me when you want me…’

Hatim’s finger firmly brushes my lips and disappears into my mouth.

‘Fasten your seat belt,’ he orders.

When we hit the road at full speed, I am certain. Today a new time has come. As of today anything is possible.

Where to buy

Lala Rosa Girls is available as book and as ebook.

About the author

Najoua Martin (1976) is a Dutch novelist of Moroccan descent. She was born and raised in Rotterdam, where she studied Business and Law. Najoua is the author of El Weswes, the Secret Life of Young Women and Fantasma. Lala Rosa Girls, was a great success both as a novel and a theater adaptation. Najoua is currently rewriting Lala Rosa Girls for the screen. She and her family divide their time between Amsterdam and New England.