We were driving, as usual, when he told me.

My brother died, he said.

I’m so sorry, Ahmed, I replied. {I knew that he knew a thing or two about death already.}

He was my only brother, he said. And now that he’s died, he’s left me his wives -- his three wives. And all their children.

You have to take care of them? I asked.

Yes, he said. I think I have to marry the wives.

But you’re already married, I offered.

Yes, he said. But what can I do? They’re my responsibility. And I’m allowed to have four wives.

I didn’t say anything then and he continued.

Wife #1, Hoda, she’s a kind woman. She says I shouldn’t feel that I have to marry her. But maybe I should. Wife #2, Nehad, she’s a very good woman, very polite. Even my own wife says that she doesn’t mind if I marry Nehad. Wife #3, Fouzia, she’s very loud, very pushy, a troublemaker. She’s Palestinian and so you know how they are.

The phone rang then. Ahmed looked at the number, his hand on the steering wheel. It’s my wife, he said. She calls me all day, asking me if I am going to marry these women.

You’re not answering? I asked.

No, he said. I don’t know what to tell her.

The phone rang again. Ahmed looked at the number. It’s Fouzia, the fast talking Palestinian one I told you about, he said. She’s a problem! She’s making me crazy! He exclaimed. If I marry Fouzia, my life is going to be hell!

He let the phone ring until it stopped.

He was quiet. And then he said, Did I tell you….Did I tell you that Fouzia is beautiful? Very beautiful. You know how those Palestinian women are – that beauty they have.

We were at a red light when he picked up the phone and punched in a number.

Who are you calling? I asked.

I’m calling Fouzia, he said. And then he smiled a small smile.