Salem saw her at 5:17 a.m., before the sun had turned the sand into a hot frying pan. At first he took it for a mirage, something light and irregular, crawling between the dunes. The camel wheezed, refusing to go any closer. Salem dismounted, holding the edge of his keffiyeh against the wind with his hand, and walked on foot.
Woman, white woman in the Rup Elkhali desert, 47 km from the nearest road. She crawled, neither walked nor wandered. She crawled, scooping up sand with her hands, which were more like bird feet. The dirty cloth, the remains of something that had once been clothing, barely covered the body, which was all angles and protruding bones.
“Hey!” – Salem shouted in Arabic, then in English. “Hey, stop!” She didn’t stop, she continued to crawl, muttering something. The same word, over and over again, like a broken record. Please, please, please. Salem caught up with her in three steps and sat down next to her.
When he touched her shoulder, she flinched as if he had given her an electric shock. She rolled over onto her back, covering her face with her hands. And that sound, a thin, animal whine, made him recoil. Quiet, quiet. He raised his palms. I won’t offend you. He has seen a lot in his 53 years in the desert. lost tourists, smugglers who died of thirst, a private plane that once crashed, but never like this.
Her ankles were ringed with crimson scars, even, deep, clearly from metal. As she turned, trying to crawl away, he saw her back. 23 scars. He counted them later in the hospital when he gave his testimony. parallel neat stripes. Some are old and white, some are barely healed. Some people did this systematically, regularly, over a long period of time.
You are welcome! – She exhaled, looking at him with eyes in which there was nothing human left. Please do . Not Salem slowly took out the flask, unscrewed the lid, took a sip himself to show that it was not poison, and handed it to her. She looked at the water as if she didn’t understand what it was. Then she grabbed the flask with both hands and began to drink, greedily choking and gagging.
Water flowed down my chin and neck, mixing with sand and tears. Salem didn’t take it away. Let when she finished, he carefully lifted her up. She weighed less than a sack of rice, and he carried her to the camel. She did n’t resist, she just grabbed his shirt and repeated her word. The only word she had left. Please do.
At the Nizva hospital, the doctor said: 38 kg with a height of 174, third degree dehydration, multiple old fractures. On the inside of the left thigh there is a brand, burnt Arabic script, property. She came to her senses on the third day. The first thing I said in English was what year is it? 2024, the nurse replied. The woman closed her eyes.
A tear rolled down her cheek. 847 days, she whispered. I counted. Her name was Tereza Nováková, 24 years old, a student at the Faculty of Journalism in Brno. 847 days ago, she smiled into her phone camera on Charles Bridge, the golden sunset playing in her chestnut hair. To understand how she ended up 6,000 km from home with a brand on her hip, you need to go back to one Instagram like, one message with a blue verification checkmark, one word: you are beautiful.
2 years and 4 months ago. Brno, Czech Republic, November 2021. November rain pounded the window of the coffee shop near Orloj, and Tereza Novakova wiped the already clean counter for the hundredth time that shift . Monday. Three visitors in the last hour. I was so bored that I wanted to howl.
Terry, stop torturing the bar counter. Petra threw the wet probe into the corner and plopped down on a high chair. Make me a cappuccino, a large one, with caramel and complaints about life. Teresa smiled. Petra was the only reason she had n’t gone crazy in this city yet. Complaints are free. Caramel 10 crowns on top.
Robbery. While the milk hissed with steam, Teresa looked at the gray sky outside the window. Gray houses, gray people in gray coats, gray life. Are you dreaming again? Petra caught her gaze. Do you know what I read yesterday? Teresa placed a cup of Burj Khalifa in front of her friend . 828 m.
Can you imagine, the architect was inspired by the Hyminocalis flower, a desert flower. They took something fragile and built the tallest building in the world out of it. And here I am making cappuccino in a city where the tallest building is an 11th-century cathedral. Petra took a sip of coffee. You could go after graduation.
With what money? Teresa smiled bitterly. Mom can barely pay the rent. Father, she’s not finished. There was no need. Her father left when she was 12. He just packed his suitcase and disappeared. No alimony, no birthday calls, nothing. Okay, Petra got her phone out, enough of being sad. Show your Instagram. You posted a photo from Vienna yesterday.
Teresa opened the app. 2,847 subscribers. Photos from budget trips around Europe. Vienna, Krakow, Berlin. All by buses, all with overnight stays in churches. But this is not visible in the photographs. In the photographs she looked like she was living the good life. “13 likes,” Petra read. Not bad.
Oh look, some guy wrote ” hottie with fire.” Tomasz from the parallel group. I don’t answer him. Why? Teresa shrugged. Uninteresting. Terry. Petra looked at her seriously. Do you understand that you are waiting for a prince on a white horse in the 21st century? Not a prince, she just fell silent, choosing her words. Just something more.
Everything here is so predictable: studying, working, marrying Tomasz, having children, growing old. I want something special to happen to me. She returned home in the evening. Small apartment on the outskirts of Brno. Third floor without elevator. Ivan’s mother was already asleep. Tomorrow she has a shift at the hospital at 6:00 a.m.
A nurse with thirty years of experience. Hands that smell like antiseptic, a back that hurts every evening. Teresa walked quietly into her room. There is a poster of Zahadit on the wall. There are textbooks on the history of architecture on the table . There is an unfinished course project on the laptop screen.
She lay down on her bed and opened Instagram. I flipped through them mindlessly: Other people’s lives, other people’s journeys, other people’s happiness. 22:47. Notification. Khalid Al-Rashid has subscribed to you. Teresa clicked on the profile and the world stopped. A yacht in the Azure Sea, a white falcon on a leather glove, a Lamborghini the color of molten gold.
Geolocations Dubai, Monaco, Maldives. 200,000 subscribers. Blue check mark about verification. A young Arab man with a perfect smile looked at her from the screen. She scrolled through the photographs. Here he is against the backdrop of the Burj Khalifa, the very building she had been dreaming about this afternoon.
Here he is on the roof of a skyscraper, and all of Dubai lies at his feet. Here he is, in a white suit, at some ceremony next to people who looked very important. Why did he follow me? 2,847 subscribers, photos from budget hostels. Nobody. She had to close the application. She should have thought about it. This is weird. Instead, Teresa clicked subscribe in response and smiled into the darkness of the room.
Something special was finally beginning. The first message arrived after 3 days. Teresa had already managed to almost forget about the subscription. She checked his profile only four times: in the morning, at lunch, in the evening, and before bed. Just out of curiosity. Your photo on Charles Bridge is the best thing I’ve seen this month.
Did you choose the angle yourself? She reread the message seven times. No, hi, beautiful, I don’t want to meet you. The question is about architecture, about its choice, about what it did, and not what it looked like. Her fingers trembled as she typed her reply. Yes, I study the history of architecture. This view shows the Gothic tower in the context of the embankment’s façades.
I sent it and found it. Too clever. Too much. The answer came within a minute. Finally someone who sees buildings and doesn’t just photograph them. You know the works of Zakhkhodi Hadit. Teresa stared at the screen. On the wall behind her hung a poster of Zahekhod. Coincidence. It’s just a coincidence. 3 months. 93 days of daily messages.
Teresa kept count. First by accident, then on purpose. Every morning good morning star. Every evening good night dreamer. Halit turned out to be perfect. He listened, he really listened. When she complained about rude customers at the coffee shop, he didn’t say, “Quit your job.” He asked why she chose this particular coffee shop.
When she talked about her course project, he sent links to articles on Islamic architecture. When she mentioned that her father left when she was 12, he wrote, “A man who abandons his family doesn’t deserve to be called a man.” My father taught me: “Honor is responsibility.” The first video call took place in December. Teresa got ready for 2 hours.
Makeup, light, angle. She hated herself for it and prepared anyway. He turned out to be even more beautiful than in the photo. Dark eyes, a soft accent, a snow-white smile against the backdrop of a panoramic window overlooking Dubai at night. “You are even more beautiful than I imagined,” he said. She blushed like a schoolgirl.
Your apartment? He smiled. Small but cozy. You deserve better, Teresa. It’s temporary, she answered quickly. While I’m studying. Of course you are made for great things. The parcel arrived in January. DHL courier, Apple box. Inside the iPhone 13 Pro and a card with Arabic characters. Your old phone takes terrible photos.
The world needs to see you at your best. This is a small thing for a friend. Hicks. 1,200 dollars. A small thing, Teresa. Mom stood in the ditch. A small thing, Teresa. Mom stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at the box. What is this? A gift from a friend. From which friend? Teresa felt her chest tighten.
She didn’t want this conversation. We met online. He is a businessman from Dubai. Ivana slowly sank into the chair. Her hands, red from the antiseptic and with swollen veins, lay on the table. Show me his profile. Teresa showed. Mom alistala silently. Yachts, cars, falcons, blue check mark. It’s too good to be true, she said finally.
Mom, I’m serious. Why is a millionaire from Dubai writing to a girl from Brno? What does he need? Maybe he just likes me? Teresa, listen to me. I have been working in a hospital for 30 years . I saw what happens when you saw Brno? Teresa snatched the phone. Have you seen this apartment, this life, this grayness? You’ve never been anywhere.
Nobody has ever given you anything. And now you want me to be the same? Ivana recoiled as if she had been struck. I want you to be safe. I want to be happy. These are different things. In February, a Gu bag arrived for $2,500. I saw you and thought about you. Teresa called Petra. He’s real, she breathed out. He is absolutely real.
We call each other every day. He knows about my coursework, about my mom, about everything. What if he really is a prince? Petra giggled. This happens. I read it. He is not a prince, just a businessman. But he, Petra, he sees me, you understand? Not my photos, of me. Do you love him? Teresa fell silent.
I have n’t met him in person yet. Well then, let’s meet. The offer came on February 23. Come to Dubai. I’ll show you real architecture. Burj Khalifa, Museum of the Future, Opera House. I’ll pay for everything. You deserve to see a world that is worthy of you. Teresa looked at the message.
something inside whispered: “Too fast, too generous, too much.” “She drowned out that voice. Yes,” she wrote. On March 1st the courier brought an envelope. Business class ticket Prague, Dubai. 4,700 dollars. Don’t tell anyone the exact date. A surprise for mom. Bring her gifts from there. I will meet you in person. I am waiting. X.
Teresa took the ticket in her hands. On March 8, a week later, she was supposed to show it to her mother. She had to tell Petra. Instead, she hid the ticket under the mattresses and smiled. The prince was waiting for her in a fairy tale, and fairy tales always end well. March 8th. Teresa woke up at 4:00 a.m.
, 2 hours before her alarm. I lay in the darkness, listening to my mother’s breathing behind the wall and felt my heart pounding somewhere in my throat today. She stood up silently, pulled out the ticket from under the mattress, already wrinkled from the number of times she had reread it, and ran her finger over the letters business class, Prague, Dubai.
At 5:30 she left a note on the kitchen table. Mom went to Petra’s dacha for a few days . I’ll take a break from the session. Don’t call, the connection is bad. I love. T. The lie came easy. Too easy. Vaclav Havel Airport was aglow with morning light. Teresa had never been to a business lounge. Leather chair, free champagne, silence instead of the noise of the economy terminal.
She sat by the window, looked at the plane and thought: “Here it is, another life.” The phone vibrated every half hour. Already at the airport. Are you worried? Don’t be afraid, I’m waiting. She answered in monosyllables. My fingers were shaking. 7 hours in the air. Teresa didn’t sleep for a minute.
I looked out the window as Europe gave way to the sea, and the sea to the desert. A flight attendant with perfect makeup offered drinks. The neighbor in an expensive suit was working on a laptop. “I’m here,” Teresa thought. “I’m really here.” When the plane touched the ground, she began to cry. Dubai airport hit her in the face with air conditioning, Arabic script on the signs, and crowds of people in white clothes.
Teresa went through passport control with stiff legs. and saw him. Khalit stood behind the fence in a light suit with a bouquet of white roses. Higher than in the video, more beautiful. His smile was the same as on the screen, warm, a little shy. Theresa. He said her name as if it were something precious. Halit. He hugged her.
Carefully, almost weightlessly. He smelled of expensive perfume and something else she didn’t know the name of. “Welcome to my world,” he whispered. A limousine. A real white limousine with leather seats and a minibar. Teresa looked out the sunroof at the skyscrapers rushing past and couldn’t believe her eyes. The Burj Khalifa rose from the horizon.
The same one from her laptop wallpaper. Do you like it? Khalid sat next to her, not touching her, keeping his distance. Gentleman, this is incredible. This is just the beginning. The Burj Al Arab Hotel. A sail of glass and steel. A room on the forty- second floor with a view of the Persian Gulf. Teresa stood in the middle of the room.
Gold, marble, silk, and she was afraid to breathe. Make yourself comfortable. Khalit smiled from the door. Take a rest from the journey. Dinner in the evening, I’ll pick you up at 8:00. He left. Teresa fell onto the bed and laughed. 3 days. 3 days of pure crystal happiness. The Museum of the Future – a silver Torus hovering over the city.
Zaha Hadit was inspired by this very movement, Khalid said. And Teresa wrote in her notebook. Dinner on the roof, the city beneath her feet, the stars above her head. You’re more beautiful than in the photo, he said, and she blushed. Shopping in Dubai, like, choose whatever you want. She chose modestly. He added more.
Khalid didn’t touch her even once. He kissed her hand goodbye and that was it. “Why?” she asked on the third evening. ” Because you deserve respect,” he answered. “You’re not like the others.” On the fourth day, everything changed. Teresa, I want you to meet someone. They were sitting in the hotel restaurant.
Breakfast, fresh fruit, croissants, coffee that cost more than her weekly salary. With whom? With my uncle. He hesitated. He did a lot for me. He practically raised me. His opinion is important to me. Meeting the family, Teresa thought. This is serious, of course. The uncle showed up in an hour.
An elderly man in immaculate white robes. A face as if carved from stone. Dark eyes, attentive, appraising. Abdullah al-Mahri, Khalid introduced. The old man did not smile, looked at Teresa for a long time, scrutinizingly, then nodded briefly, barely noticeable, to Khalid. Beautiful, he said in English. Pure.
Something in his voice made Teresa shudder. I need your passport. Day five. Khalid spoke casually, pouring tea in her room. Why? Hotel check-in. Formality. They asked for the original for a copy. Teresa took her passport out of her bag. “Don’t give it to me,” something whispered inside. She gave it to him. And Halit’s phone smiled. I’ll put it on charge while we’re at dinner.
Yours is dead. The battery showed 60%. It’s not expensive. Halit gently took the phone from her hands. Trust me. On the sixth day, he said: “U Uncles have a villa in the desert. It’s more beautiful there than here. Quiet, you will see the real stars. Teresa remained silent. Something was wrong.
She felt it like a chill on the back of her neck, like a shadow at the edge of her vision. But every time I tried to grab hold of this something , it slipped away. My passport is already there, I sent it by courier. Take the phone to Willie’s, the connection is better there . She wanted to say no. Instead she said okay. Seventh day.
200 km along the highway that goes into the sand. Teresa watched Dubai disappear in the rearview mirror. Skyscrapers melted in Mariwa. Then they disappeared completely. Only the desert, only the sun, only the car rushing into nowhere. The villa grew out of the sand. White walls, blind windows, high fence. The gate opened automatically and closed behind them with a dull clang.
Teresa turned around. Halit. His face changed. The smile disappeared. The eyes became empty, indifferent. He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, as if she were a thing. “Come out,” he said. The voice is alien, cold. “What’s going on, Halit? What? The car door opened from the outside.
Two men in black, their hands on her shoulders. Roughly, painfully. Halit! He was already leaving without turning around. An uncle in white stood on the porch . Sheikh Abdullah al-Mahri looked at her as if she were a picture in a frame, as if she were a purchase. “Welcome to my home,” he said. Teresa screamed.
Her scream was drowned in the hot air. “You are my new pearl,” the sheikh smiled. “Number seven.” Teresa did not immediately understand what it meant. The men in black dragged her across the courtyard past a fountain with dead water, past palm trees that looked like sentries. She screamed until her voice broke, then wheezed, then fell silent. No one answered.
A corridor, white walls, identical doors, numbered in gold 1 2 3. A door with the number seven opened. She was pushed inside. The room was small. A narrow bed with an iron frame, a bucket in the corner. A high-barred window, walls of bare concrete, painted white. The door slammed. The click of the lock.
Teresa rushed to the door, pounding her fists until her knuckles were stained red. Please let this mistake out. I am a Czech citizen, I have a license. Silence. Only her breathing, only the beating of her heart in her ears. She slid down the door to the floor and began to cry. How much time had passed? An hour, two days.
Teresa didn’t know. The light behind the bars didn’t change. White, merciless, artificial. Then the door opened. A woman entered, dark, thin, with dull eyes. She was wearing something like a hospital gown, gray, shapeless. A thin metal collar around her neck. “Yasmin,” she said in English. Her voice a whisper.
“Don’t scream anymore, it will be worse.” Where am I? What is this place? Yasmin sat down next to her. She smelled of something bitter, sweat, fear, something else. The sheikh’s grief. She said it casually, like a store or a hospital. You are number seven. I am number three. 4 years here. 4 years. Teresa felt the floor giving way from under her feet. No, no, they will be looking for me.
My mother. Everyone says so. I will write to the embassy, I will call. With what? Teresa stopped short. Phone, passport, everything is with Khalid. It’s all a lie. How much she couldn’t say. How many of us are here? 11 from eight countries. Yesmin counted on her fingers. Morocco, Russia, Ukraine, Philippines, Ethiopia, Moldova, Thailand. Now the Czech Republic.
11 women, 11 stories, 11 doors with gold numbers. How? How to get out? Yasmin lifted her shirt. On her back there were scars, like the marks of a whip. Parallel, neat, like lines in a notebook. Number five tried Natalia Russian. Yasmin’s voice trembled. Now she has no face. Acid. Teresa covered her mouth with her hand.
The rules, – continued Yasmin. Remember. Wake up at five, lights out at 11, meals twice a day, rice and water. Do not look the owner in the eyes , do not speak until asked, do not cry loudly. And what if there is a punishment? The door opened again. One of the men in black threw a gray shirt on the floor, the same as Yesmin’s. Change.
Accent – short words. The owner wants to see you in an hour. The door closed. Yesmin looked at Yesmin with something like pity or envy of those who do not yet know. “The first night is the worst,” she said. “Then you get used to it.” “I don’t want to get used to it.” Yesmin almost smiled. No one wants to.
She got up, went to the door, turned around. When will he be Don’t fight back, it will be over soon. And take care of your back. The scars on your back are bearable. The scars on your face. She didn’t finish . The door closed. Teresa was left alone. She was holding a gray shirt. There was a desert outside the window. 4,000 km approved.
It was an eternity to her mother . She remembered the last message Iva had sent. Petra had a bad connection at the dacha. Mom didn’t even know where to look for her. No one knew. Teresa pressed the shirt to her face and screamed into it silently, so they wouldn’t hear. They’ll be here in an hour. In an hour, what Yasmin hadn’t said out loud will begin.
In an hour, she’ll find out why Natalia has no face. Number seven, she thought. My name is number seven. Footsteps were heard somewhere in the hallway . They were getting closer. The door opened. Teresa didn’t have time to get up. She was lifted by the hair. Pain shot through her skull. She screamed, but the scream was cut off when She was dragged down the corridor.
White walls, white floor, white ceiling, everything white, like in a hospital or a morgue. She was pushed into a room, silk cushions on the floor, a low table with fruit, incense, a sweet, nauseating smell. Sheikh Abdullah was sitting on the cushions, legs crossed, a black stone rosary in his hand. “Number seven,” he said.
His voice was soft, almost paternal. Come here. Teresa didn’t move. A blow from behind in the back between the shoulder blades. She fell to her knees. “Come here,” the sheikh repeated. She crawled on her knees along the marble floor, stopping a meter from him. He reached out and stroked her cheek, slowly, appraisingly. “European skin,” he said.
“Soft, do you know how much I paid for you ?” Teresa was silent. 40,000 dollars. He smiled. You are an investment, and investments should generate income. His hand slid lower on the neck, on the collarbone. Teresa jerked. A blow. She didn’t understand where it came from. On the right, on the left. Just a flash of pain, and she was already lying on the floor. There was blood in her mouth.
Rule number one, the sheikh said without raising his voice. Never pull away. That night, Teresa learned what Ismin meant. Don’t resist, he’ll finish faster. She resisted, he didn’t finish quickly. Morning came at 5:00 with the clang of iron and a scream in Arabic. Teresa was lying on the floor of her room. Her gray shirt was torn. There was a dull, throbbing pain between her legs.
There were bruises on her ribs from the blows. The door opened. Rise. She stood up. Every movement was like broken glass inside. There were already others standing in the hallway. 11 women in gray shirts, 11 pairs of empty eyes. Ismin found her with a glance, nodded slightly. You survived. The routine was simple. 5:00 in the morning, Wake up.
Cold water from a bucket, wash. 10 minutes. 5:30 – cleaning. Teresa received a mop and bucket. Wash the corridors in silence. 8:00 am. First meal. Missrisa. Glass of water, 15 minutes. 9. Work again. Laundry, ironing. Kitchen. Noon. Second meal. Afternoon, waiting. Call. Teresa quickly understood the system.
The sheikh called one or two women every day. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes for the night. Sometimes they returned on their own, sometimes they were brought. On the third day, Teresa saw Natalia. Number five was sitting in the corner of the common room, facing the wall. When she turned around, Teresa was covering her mouth with her hand.
Where her face should have been, there was a mask of scar tissue. Pink, shiny, pulled tight. One eye was cloudy, blind. Her lips were a shapeless slit. “Don’t look,” Esmin whispered. “It hurts her when people look.” For what? She tried to escape in the second month, reached the gate. Teresa turned away. She felt sick. The second month. She’s been here three days.
On the seventh day they called her again, on the twelfth again. On the twentieth, she stopped counting. Her body learned to switch off, to go somewhere far away while this was happening. She looked at the ceiling and thought about Irno, about the coffee shop, about her mother. Ivan’s mother already knows that Teresa isn’t at Petra’s.
She’s already looking, already calling the police. She will find me. This thought was the only thing that kept Teresa afloat. On the thirtieth day, she received her first scar. A thin, leather plaid, a precise, calculated blow. For what? She looked the sheikh in the eyes. Accidentally, for a second. Three blows.
Yasmin then washed the wounds with salt water. It will heal, she said. The first ones always heal. The first ones. On the sixtieth day, Teresa realized she had stopped crying. She simply ran out of tears or The girl from Brno who could cry was gone, now there was only number seven. On the ninetieth day, she heard the guards talking at the door.
One of them, a Filipino named Rashid, was talking on the phone: “Quietly, quietly.” Teresa froze with a mop in her hands. Rashid noticed her gaze, their eyes met. He quickly turned away, but Teresa managed to see. There was no emptiness in his eyes . In his eyes there was fear , the same as hers. That night she lay awake and thought: “Rashid is not the master, Rashid is also a prisoner.
” In a different cage, but a prisoner, and prisoners sometimes help each other. For the first time in three months, Teresa felt something other than pain. A small, dangerous, living hope. Hope is a dangerous thing. Teresa realized this on the 120th day, when Rashid passed her in the hallway and did not look at the 130th, when she tried to talk to him, and he shot back, as if she were contagious.
At 150, she stopped hoping, and then something inside her broke, or maybe learned. Number seven. The guard’s voice, footsteps, the door. Tereza got up from the bunk. Her body moved on its own, smoothly, obediently, without a single thought. Her legs carried her along the corridor, her hands opened doors, her eyes looked at the floor, and she, the real her, was far away in Brno, in the coffee shop at Orloj’s. It smelled of freshly baked goods.
The bell above the door rang. Mom was coming in after her shift. Tired but smiling. She ordered a cappuccino with cinnamon. How are you, sunshine? Fine. Mom, have you lost weight? Eat normally, Mom. Number seven. This way. Tereza turned left. Her body knew the way. 247 steps from the room to the sheikh’s bedroom. She counted them in the first weeks.
Now she didn’t count anything. The door opened. The sheikh Abdullah was sitting on the bed, a black rosary in his hands, his voice soft: “Come.” Teresa approached, and the real her was sitting on the Charles Bridge. Her legs dangled over the water, the sunset painting the Voltava in gold.
Petra laughed next to her, pointing to something on her phone. Look at the sunset. Take a picture of me. Again for Instagram. And what else for? The sheikh’s hands. The smell of his eau de cologne. Heavy, sweet. Pain. Teresa looked at the ceiling. Sunset over the Voltava. Petra’s laughter. The ringing of a tram in the distance. Yesmin noticed it first.
“You’ve changed,” she said one day when they were washing the floors in the hallway. “Your eyes. They’ve become like Natalia’s. To the point of acidity.” Teresa wrung out the rag. What kind? Empty, but not dead. Yasmin was silent for a moment. “As if you’ve learned to leave. Leave? Yes, that’s exactly it.” Tereza had learned to disappear.
Her body remained here, in room number seven, in the corridors of the villa, in the sheikh’s bedroom. But her mind, the real her, lived elsewhere: in memories, in dreams, in an imaginary world where there was no longer. “It’s dangerous,” Yasmin said quietly. “Why?” “Because you could leave and never come back.” Day two hundred.
Tereza lay on the bed and couldn’t remember her mother’s face. The voice, yes. The smell of her perfume, yes. But the face. It was blurry, like a reflection in water. She closed her eyes, tried to focus. Ivan’s mother, 52, a nurse, a mole on her cheek. Which cheek? Left, right? She couldn’t remember. Panic washed over her. Sharp, alive.
For the first time in months, she felt something. I’m forgetting. I’m forgetting who I am. She sat up in the bed, her hands shaking. My name is Tereza Nováková, I’m 22 years old. I’m from Brno. I studied the history of architecture. I worked at Orloi’s coffee shop . I have a mother, her name is Ivana. What color are her eyes? Teresa could n’t remember.
On the 250th day, Rashid dropped something at her door, small and shiny. Teresa waited until the footsteps died down, then crawled to the crack under the door. A paper clip! An ordinary paper clip. She hid it under the mattress. Her heart was beating so loudly that it seemed the whole house could hear.
Why did he do that? What can I do with a paper clip? The answer came at night: nothing. A paper clip is not a key, not a weapon, not a phone, but it is a sign. Rashid saw her. Rashid remembered that look in the hallway. Rashid was still human, and he wanted her to know it. 300 days, 400, 500. The scars on his back multiplied.
Parallel stripes, neat as lines in a notebook. Teresa stopped them Count after the fifteenth. The brand on her hip healed. Property, Arabic script forever. She no longer tried to talk to Rashid, but sometimes, very rarely, she caught his gaze. And in that gaze there was something like a promise. Wait, it’s not time yet, but the time will come.
On the 630th day, Natalia died. Quietly. In her sleep. She simply didn’t wake up. The guards carried her body out wrapped in a sheet. No one cried, no one spoke of her. Only Yasmin whispered: “She’s gone!” ” Really gone.” Tereza looked at the empty bed in room number five. You can leave and never come back.
That night she lay awake and forced herself to remember. My name is Tereza Novakova, I’m 24 years old. I have a mother. I’ll come home. I’ll come home. I’ll come back. The paper clip under the mattress dug into her back through the thin mattress. Small, sharp, alive. On day 840, Rashid stopped at her door.
“Sewer,” he whispered so quietly that she barely heard. Tomorrow 3:00 a.m. The grate in the laundry room. And he was gone. Tereza did not move, her heart was silent. She had forgotten how to hope, but her fingers, without permission, squeezed the paper clip under the mattress. 7 days. In 7 days 847. She didn’t know why this number seemed important to her, but for the first time in 2 years, number seven was Tereza again.
3:00 a.m. Tereza She lay with her eyes open, counting her heartbeats. 120 per minute. Too fast, too loud. Quiet, they will hear. She rose silently. In 847 days, her body had learned to move like a shadow. A paperclip dug into her palms. A small anchor. The last proof that she was still human. The hallway was empty.
Teresa slid along the wall, counting the doors. Number five. Empty after Natalia. Number three. Yasmin. She stopped. You can’t. You can’t leave her here. Her knuckles touched the door. Three quiet knocks. A code they came up with on the four hundredth day and never used. The door opened. Yesmin stood in the darkness, dressed, ready.
“I knew it,” she whispered. Rashid told me yesterday. Teresa grabbed her hand. Skin and bones, like her own. Together, together. The laundry room smelled of bleach and mold. Rashid waited at the far wall, where the huge washing machines hummed, drowning out sounds around the clock .
In his hands a flashlight and a rusty crowbar. He quickly pointed to the grate in the floor. The pipe leads 3 km to Wada. My brother is at the exit with the car. Teresa looked at the square of darkness. Why? She broke away from her. Why now? Why at all? Rashid did not look up. I have a daughter in Manila. She is 14. His voice cracked. I saw how they brought you.
You were like her, just as alive. He pried the grate with a crowbar. The metal creaked. For 700 days I collected money, bribed the right people, waited for the guards to change to newcomers. The grate moved. Today is the only chance. Esmen was the first to kneel at the edge. “I won’t fit through,” she whispered, looking into the narrow opening. “My shoulders. You’ll get through.
” Teresa squeezed her hand. You’ll get through. Yasmin looked at her. For the first time in four years, there was something other than emptiness in her eyes . If I can’t, don’t stop , run. No, run, Teresa. You have to tell everyone, about all of us. She slipped into the darkness. The pipe stank.
Teresa crawled on her elbows, scraping her skin on the concrete. Ahead, Esmin’s hoarse breathing. Behind her, silence. Rashid didn’t go with them. I’ll stay, close the grate, buy you time. The darkness was absolute. Tere counted the meters by the abrasions on her knees. 100 m, 200. At the five-hundredth, Esmin stopped. I can’t. Her voice was strange, gurgling.
Her shoulder was stuck. Teresa crawled closer. In the darkness, she felt the sharp protrusion of the pipe and warm, sticky blood. Yesmin, push me hard, I’ll get through. You’ll bleed. Push. Teresa pressed her palms against his back and pushed. Yesmin let out a short, strangled scream. Something crunched, but she squeezed through.
The exit was a narrow crack in the side of a wadi, a dry riverbed. Teresa crawled out first. The night air hit her face, clean, cold, free. She choked on it, like water after thirst. Stars. She forgot there were stars. Help. Yesmin was stuck in the crack. Tresa grabbed her arms and pulled. The maracanka’s shoulder was hanging at an awkward angle.
Dislocation. Blood soaked her gray shirt. Come on, come on, come on. Yesmin slipped out of the pipe and fell onto the sand. “Car,” she croaked. “Where’s the car?” The headlights flashed. 200 meters away. Teresa picked up Ismin and threw her good arm over her shoulder. 38 kg were dragged by 35.
They walked, fell, got up, walked again. Rashid’s brother, a young Filipino with frightened eyes, didn’t ask questions. He drove an old pickup truck through the desert, without roads, without headlights, navigating only by the stars. Ismin was lying in the back seat. Teresa was pressing a scrap of her own shirt on the wound on her shoulder .
“Aman border!” the driver said. 4 o’clock. Teresa looked out the rear window. Darkness. No pursuit. Bye. “Hold on,” she whispered to Ismin. “Hold on. Do you hear me? You will not die in this car. Not after everything.” Ismin opened her eyes. ” Tell me about them.” Her voice was barely audible.
About Natalia, about the girl from Ethiopia who was before you. I’ll tell you about everyone. Promise. I promise. Ismin closed her eyes but continued to breathe. They crossed the border at dawn. Tereza didn’t remember how. She didn’t remember when the car stopped, when someone’s hands lifted Ismin, when someone threw a blanket over her shoulders.
She only remembered a woman’s voice, soft, in English. You are safe. You are in Oman. You are safe. And then, only then, did Tereza cry. For the first time in 780 days. 7 days later, Nizwa hospital. Tereza sat by the window, looking at the mountains. Real mountains. Not white walls, not a barred window under the ceiling.
Yasmin was lying in the next room. The dislocation had been set, the wound had healed. She would live. The door opened. Tereza Novakova. The man in the doorway was tall, tired, graying at the temples. He looked at her as if he had seen a ghost. My name is Martin Svoboda, Chersk police. I have been looking for you for 847 days.
Tereza didn’t move. Your mother? His voice wavered. She’s waiting. She never stopped waiting. Three months later, Prague, a courtroom. Tereza stood in front of the cameras. 23 scars under her blouse, a brand under her skirt. 44 kg, she’d gained six. Next to Yasmin. Next to her mother, squeezing her hand as if she was afraid her daughter would disappear again. My name is Tereza Nováková.
Her voice didn’t waver. I’m 24 years old. For 847 days I was a slave. A number, property. The cameras were clicking, but I survived. And I’ll tell you about Natalia, who didn’t survive, about Ismin, who spent 4 years in captivity, about the girls who are still there. She looked straight into the lens.
It started with a like on Instagram. A message from the prince in a blue checkmark. You are beautiful. The room was silent. Khalid Ali Rashid, real name Farouk Khan, is still at large. Sheikh Abdullah al-Mahri is still at large, but now the whole world knows their names. Mom was crying, and Smin was holding her hand. Detective Svoboda stood against the wall and for the first time in 10 years didn’t feel like a failure.
Epilok. Brno. A year later. Tere walked across Charles Bridge. The same one where she took the photo. The same one the prince asked about. Her phone vibrated. Instagram notification. She wants to add you as a friend. She deleted the app and walked on. To where her mother was waiting for her with hot coffee in a small apartment on the third floor without an elevator, home.
