A face like the moon

by Mina Athanassious

  “It’s a Dodge,” the man said without a hint of gruff in his voice. Still, the boy knew it would come.

  “Dodge Aries.”

  “I like it,” the boy said, making sure not to say too much.

  His father turned the key in the ignition. The boy heard the engine squelch for breath until it caught power and roared awake with an uneven rumble.

  “She needs a little bit of love, but she works,” his dad said.

  The boy nodded. A silence fell between them.

  Tino heard the dull moan of the tires every time his father turned the wheel. He examined the fake wood panels that ran across the dash intersected by old metal knobs that controlled the radio and volume and air conditioning and heat. The car smelled like cigarette smoke. He felt every bump and pothole in the road. He spotted a lighter in a narrow cubby underneath the air conditioner. His dad probably bought one for his shisha.

  “You know this is not Egypt. You can’t be beating people you don’t agree with in this country,” his father said, his words angrier then his tone.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “So you beat him pretty good huh?”

  Tino looked over at his dad who sat with his cheeks bunched suppressing a smile.

  “Yeah.”

  “With your boot.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he cried?”

  “Yes.”

  The man chuckled.

  “That’s horrible. Next time something bad happens, I want you to tell the teacher.”

  The boy scratched his head.

  “You don’t sound like you care,” he said.

  “I have to care.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your mom would’ve cared.”

  Tino shut his eyes at his father’s words and leaned back. He pulled his hat down to cover his ears and thought of Christina.

  “She used to be so annoying with her morality, that woman. Did she ever tell you how we met?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “We met at a church soup kitchen. St. John the Compassionate. I didn’t wanna be there but I was fresh out of university and mama needed to get me married. She said there were some pretty girls there and they were good girls. I went so she would get off my case. And I saw Yasmine there. She was sitting with some homeless folk, eating and talking with them. And I saw those blue eyes Tino and I’m telling you, I was in love. I had to sit at that table, I had no choice. I just wanted to look at her a little. So I smiled and introduced myself. Pulled up a seat across from her between a fat guy and a skinny guy. They both smelled like garbage. And there I was faking a smile and talking to these people like they meant something to me, waiting for her to jump in so I could talk to her a little. But she barely talked. All she did was eat and smile and listen.

  “So the guy beside me, the fat guy. I guess he believed my act because he started opening up to me. Told me he once had a wife and kids. They talk when they think you care, those people. He was an engineer apparently. Doing pretty good in life. Until one day he comes home early. Opens up the door to his bedroom and sees his wife on the bed with a blanket over her naked body, and another man running towards the closet. I think the fat man picked up a book or something and attacked the other guy, but the other guy was too big and he beat him unconscious. He woke up on his back. His wife had taken the baby and ran. He never saw her or his child again. Hit the bottle hard and lost everything.

  “Anyway, so he’s telling that story, and I look over at your mom, her eyes wide and blue, and she stared at the man and just sat there. A fork in her hand. Said nothing. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He wasn’t looking at her. He never took his eyes off his food.”

  Tino’s father’s face sobered and straightened and stared at the road like he was watching the broken lines of his life pass underneath him. All he could do was keep moving.

  “And then she speaks. I’ll never forget her words.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘I’ll pray you see your kid again.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s all she needed to say. That fat man blubbered like a baby at her words. He tried to hide it by eating his food as he cried. At the time, I thought he looked so stupid. Like a sad grazing hippo.”

  The man laughed.

  “But you know, I got to thinking. Any woman who could sit down with the dirtiest people, eat with them despite their smell, talk to them and call them friends. Any woman who could see the humanity in a person that everyone else sees as trash, there’s something special about that woman. I knew I needed to get to know her. And we got married,” his father said and slapped his knee and smiled.

  The boy held his head over his lap.

  “She loved people,” his father said. “She loved you most of all.”

  Tino held his tears, not daring to wink. He picked up his dad’s lighter from the cubby and flicked at the sparkwheel and pushed down on the fork trying to distract himself from the memory of a past life that swore to destroy him if he lost himself in it.

  The lighter spat sparks that died on birth. He tried many times but a flame wouldn’t catch. Strange. He’d seen his father do it a million times. It looked so easy when he did, but it wouldn’t work for Tino.

  “You gotta press hard and fast,” his dad said.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Come on boy. You’ve seen me do it a million times. How are you gonna light up a shisha for me when I’m old and dying?”

  The boy spotted red and blue alternating lights in his sideview mirror. A cop car pulled from behind him to the left lane next to his father. The officer rolled down his window. James’s father smiled and waved and pointed to the side of the road. Tino’s father breathed, shook his head and pulled to the shoulder and stopped.

  The officer parked behind the boy and his father. He stepped out of the vehicle and approached the driver’s side with a smooth clean step. Tino’s father rolled down his window.

  “Constable Wang, Peel Regional Police,” the officer said pointing to his nametag on his coat. License and registration.”

  “Yes ser,” his father said and pulled out the registration for his car and his international driver’s license.

  The officer checked the articles handed to him.

  “International eh? Where are you from?”

  “I am Egyptian ser.”

  “Oh, Egypt wow. Guess I should make sure I don’t make any sudden moves eh? Make sure I don’t get blown up,” the officer smirked.

  Tino winced.

  “No ser of course not. I don’t blow up anysing.”

  “You know why I stopped you?”

  “No ser.”

  “One of your taillights is out.”

  “I don’t sink so. I bought zis car today and-”

  “See you people don’t listen. I’m telling you your taillight is out. What is it with you sand niggers? Why can’t you ever co-operate?” the officer smiled with that cold jagged tone he’d heard him use in the principal’s office.

  “You call me negger?”

  “What are you people if you aren’t sand niggers?”

  “Listen to me small eye-”

  The officer pulled his baton from out of his holster and hit it hard against the ridge of Tino’s father’s open window.

  “I’m sorry, did you just call me small eye?”

  “Yes because you call me-”

  “We have rules in this country you know? What you just said, that’s a hate crime. You’re not allowed to be talking about me and my ethnicity in derogatory terms like that. I can write you up right now you know? You’ll have to go to court. Maybe spend a few days in jail. Pay a big fine to this fine country. Is that what you want? You and your violent little nigger son?”

  Tino’s dad contorted his lips and cracked his neck. He breathed and looked down at his son, back to the officer. He rested his head against his seat and stared at the still broken lines that laid on the asphalt
to his side. The boy had never seen his father back off from another man before.

  “I asked is that what you want?”

  “No ser.”

  “You’re a sand nigger right? I want you to admit what you are so we can move forward. Are you a sand nigger?”

  Tino’s father breathed in.

  “Are you a sand nigger?”

  “Yes ser.”

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Say I am a sand nigger.”

  “No please ser-”

  “I’m sorry, did you want me to refer you to the courts for your hate crime?”

  Tino’s father closed his eyes.

  “I am a sand negger,” he mumbled.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t hear you. Say it louder. I am a dirty sand nigger.”

  “I am a sand negger,” his father raised his voice.

  “Say it louder,” the officer commanded. “I can barely hear you.”

  “I am a sand negger!” Tino’s father yelled and sliced the air with his open palms. “I am a dirty sand negger! Is zis what you wanted? I am a sand negger!”

  “Sir you’re becoming belligerent. I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the car.” The officer stepped back and fingered his gun on his holster. He continued to demand Tino’s father step out. He did as the officer said, spitting curses at him in Arabic.

  Tino thought the officer spoke to him as well so he stepped out from the passenger door. He saw the officer push his father up against the car and reach for his cuffs. Tino panicked and wished he could help. He had no one else if his father left. Tino flicked at the sparkwheel on his lighter incessantly in fear and wondered how he could help him.

  The lighter caught flame amongst the cold around him. The flame danced against the breeze, dipping and rising in protest of the cold. Tino stood for a moment mesmerized by the power he held in his tiny hands.

  Restorer of order among chaos. The boy grabbed the suspension form the principal had given him from his pocket and walked towards the police car, it’s passenger window still open. He touched the swaying flame to the tip of the paper and watched it catch fire. The boy felt his heart knock against his ribcage. He tossed the sheet into the front of the cop car.

  The officer caught hold of his handcuffs, jammed his shoulder into Tino’s father’s back and raised the cuffs above the man’s struggling wrists. Tino jumped towards his father and kicked the officer in his shin. He screamed and dropped the cuffs to the floor. Tino ran away from his car and the officer chased him. The boy was fast for a child his age and slipped between Wang’s fingers. A hundred metres out and Wang caught him by the hood and threw him to the ground. Tino scooped a palmful of snow and tossed it at Wang’s face.

  “Officer,” Tino’s father yelled from a short distance. “Your car is on fire!” he smiled.

  Wang stood up and turned around. The flame had grown and consumed the front and back seats of the vehicle. The flame licked at the air to the side of the open window, stealing space across the grey skyline and lighting the dull afternoon alive.

  Wang stood up and stared mouth agape at the sight before him. There it was. Justice for its keeper. Chaos for the promoter of order. Destruction of the crooked foundation that became law and an invitation to rebuild from the bottom up. More than destruction, this was art. This was truth.

  Eat, fire. Eat. Eat the steel and bend it to its shell. Eat the plastic lights that flashed and followed so many men before. Eat the cop. Eat his pride. Eat his dirty smile, his small eyes and narrow vision. Eat his dignity.

  I did what I could mama.

  A FACE LIKE THE MOON

  On a hot day in the village of Koshk in the furthest south, Morqos stood in a cornfield stocking ears of corn with his father under a hanging sun, its light fading into the clouds. The boy, not yet ten, wiped the sweat from his brow on his sleeve and looked over at his father.

  His father was a furry man, hairy everywhere except the crown of his head. A large sweat stain spread from his collar bone down his back as the hours passed. At midday, Morqos saw that his father’s movements slowed, became more cautious as he worked. His face dripped and his head hung low. His breaths grew heavy and short, though he tried to hide his weakness from his son.

  “Hot day,” he muttered to Morqos.

  The boy looked up at his father and nodded as he peeled the skin off an ear of corn.

  “And they say tomorrow’s gonna be worse. Can you believe that?”

  Morqos rubbed his palm on his closed eye and shrugged.

  “What’s a matter with you boy?” his father asked. “You need to speak. People call me father of the dumb boy because you barely speak a word.”

  The boy opened up his sack and threw a piece of corn in. His father’s words were too dull, too tired. He’d heard them so many times before. Still, the boy hated disappointing him.

  “It’s hot,” Morqos said. “And I’m thirsty.”

  His father coughed and rubbed a cloth from his pocket to his face.

  “Me too,” he said pointing at the wooden gate. A tin bucket sat beneath it. “Go get water. Go quick,” he mumbled. “The quicker you come, the more corn we pick.”

  Morqos was waiting for him to ask. He ran to the gate, picked up the bucket and marched towards the well at the north side of the village. The well lay between Koshk and Abu-Sandal, the neighbouring village. Morqos used to go all the time with his mother in better days.

  The boy knew his father would be angry if he took long, so he paced, swinging his bucket from side to side, and watched the clouds move towards the end of the world. He wondered how far they fell when they reached the tip. He imagined the clouds smashing into so many pieces as they hit the ground, slivers of white and fluff everywhere.

  Can clouds smash into slivers? Morqos had to rethink the scene after realizing puffy things couldn’t be shattered. Maybe they dented. That made more sense – round things dent. Like the head of Morqos’ baby brother when his young cousin dropped the boy. Morqos found it strange that the only thing that could stop his brother’s crying was the event that killed him.

  He remembered his mother screaming something from the mouth of an injured donkey, pushing her niece off her little boy, and crying and praying, begging God he could breathe. Morqos ran towards her and peered over her shoulder at his baby brother’s smashed head. He looked almost the same as before the fall, but now he was deformed. His face lost all movement. The little boy’s dead eyes looked above him at the ceiling as if he saw through it. Morqos wanted to help him, tried to reach for the dent in his head. His mother pushed him off before he got close. Cuddling the boy at her breast didn’t bring him back to life. His cousin ran out of the house as quick as she could with wet eyes.

  Morqos didn’t know his brother well. He might have even hated him when he was alive, he wasn’t sure. But he worked hard to hold his tears in that day. He walked out of his shack and towards the clothesline where a wet towel hung to dry. He unclipped the towel, rested his back against the wall of his home, and slid down to the ground with the towel over his head. He sat and breathed in. He didn’t talk much after that day.

  Before the accident, his mother used to walk to the well with him all the time. He missed the mother who once taught him. She disappeared into the turquoise walls in his shack after the accident, no more present then the chair she sat on as she worked and prayed and cried.

  Morqos spotted the well in the distance. Grey and made of jagged flat stones plastered together, it stood three feet above the ground – slightly shorter than the boy himself. A hook hung on a rope connected to a pulley swung gently in the wind above the well. Patches of grass amid scattered mulberry trees spread around the stacked stones. The well stood wrapped in the shadow of a huge sycamore tree. And under the sycamore, a girl in an orange headscarf sat on the ledge of the well, trying to connect a bucket to the hook.

  A thin ray of light peeked through the shade and expanded as it reached her and rested on her sh
oulders. She was young, maybe in her mid teens. Short and skinny and dark-eyed. Her lips were thick, open just slightly, revealing the gap between her front teeth, too white for her tanned skin. But her face, round and still and calm and lit like the moon.

  He approached the girl with his bucket, watching her lower the pulley, slowly. She had time. She looked down into the well as the bucket descended. Morqos heard the tin hit the water and watched the woman wriggle the rope.

  She stared into the well and swung the rope from side to side. Morqos stared into the shimmering black water. He watched the girl’s bucket move from end to end, stone to stone. It wouldn’t overturn. He looked up at her. The girl needed help – he needed to speak. Otherwise he’d never get back to the cornfields.

  “You have to catch the edge of the bucket on the tip of a stone or something,” Morqos said. “Or it won’t feed into the water.”

  The girl looked over at the little boy as if she’d just noticed him, a knot of skin between her furrowed brows, thin and rounded like waning crescents.

  “Have you done this before little boy?” she asked with a quiet condescension.

  “I learned from mama,” Morqos said. “I used to put a rock in the bucket but that only made it harder to tip. I couldn’t lift one heavy enough to make it sink. Then mama told me to use the stone’s edges. It works.”

  The girl looked down into the water, licked her lips, and relaxed her brow. The knot of skin disappeared into her forehead. She nodded and looked back at Morqos and held the rope towards him.

  “Show me,” she said.

  He grabbed the rope from her hands and guided the bucket towards a sharp rock. It caught against its edge and turned into the water. The bucket sank deeper and deeper as he twirled the rope. The boy smiled and handed it back to the girl.