by Derek Hayes
“I’ll just be five more minutes, Max,” Nadia says.
Chris is suddenly walking down the hall to where I’m standing in the main entrance, but I cut him off. “Could you go back and wait in the living room?”
“What? I just have to get my bag.”
I put my hand on his shoulder, and say, “We’re never going to get out of here. Just go back to the other room, okay.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go away.”
Looking embarrassed, Chris says, “Okay. Have a nice time.” He retreats and I hear him drop to the sofa.
Nadia emerges from our bedroom wearing eyeliner, nylons and slender knee-high leather boots. She looks into the kitchen and then peers down the hallway that leads to the living room.
“Chris is watching television.”
“Oh, right.” She picks up her purse and says, “See you later, Chris.”
“I’m so sorry I’m in an awful mood, Max,” Nadia says. “I’m no fun tonight.”
I rub the stubble on my head. “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s understandable that you’re sad.”
With Nadia picking at her asparagus, I drift off. That fucker, Chris, is becoming her confidant. What’s more is he’s irrevocably stolen my chance to act in this way. I’d love to make her feel better, but she doesn’t even want to be here. She can’t reconcile that while she’s out having dinner with me her grandfather is sick and in danger of dying. What do I do?
“What are you thinking about?”
“This is what I think, honey — I’m going to order some coffee and dessert for us, all right?” I look around the restaurant. A man and woman, formally dressed, are sitting three tables down from us. The guy, about five years older than me, has just bought his date a rose from someone who has wandered into Palermo’s from the street. “You see that man and woman,” I say quietly. “I know for a fact they aren’t getting it on. You want to know how I know? He’s been so incredibly, pathetically polite to her. He just bought her a rose. He poured her water, for Christ’s sake. You might say that this is nice, right, but I know it isn’t getting him anywhere. There’s no way he’s sleeping with her. If he were, he wouldn’t be trying so hard. He wouldn’t be talking so much. He’s been going on now for three minutes, not making eye contact, barely coming up for air, thinking this is the night, this is the night! But it ain’t gonna happen.” I fold my arms imperiously. “Just shows you that I am the king at understanding the human animal. That’s why you’re with me, right, honey?” I say this last bit less assuredly and am glad to hear Nadia giggle, though a half second too late.
“You’re definitely gifted, Max,” she says. “Can we head home soon?”
She isn’t keen to talk. That’s okay. During my long recklessly unwarranted appraisal of the other couple’s relationship which, now that I think about it, is probably far healthier than ours, a liberating thought popped into my head. Could it be that Chris is out of her league? I mean, look at her. There are blemishes on her cheeks. She’s about three inches taller than he is. And she’s awkward and far too thin. Maybe I can point this out sometime. Give him a heads up.
I am glad to see that my adversary is in his room. Nadia turns on Late Night with David Letterman. We sit on the sofa and I feel good about myself again.
But now he’s here with a toothbrush in his mouth, brushing and trying to talk at the same time. His words muffled, he says, “This is not going to do. Letterman is a bit of a sod, don’t you think? Now Leno is a real comedian if you ask me. Let’s have a go at that, shall we?” He changes the channel to The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
“What makes you think you can just grab the remote and do that?” Nadia says.
Chris affects a British accent, “Oh come on luv. Let’s give the lad five minutes. If I can show you in five minutes that Leno is the more talented, well, could we say that you have been converted?”
Nadia, still irritated, says, “Okay. Five minutes.”
We watch The Tonight Show and Chris highlights the funnier parts of Leno’s routine. Nadia makes a sad effort to be contrary.
“If I can get you to agree that Leno is better than Letterman,” Chris says, “you have to do my dishes for a week.”
“Okay, but after we watch Leno,” she says, “we’ll watch Letterman for a while and if I can get you to agree that Letterman is better you have to, oh let me see . . . you have to call me ‘your majesty’ for a week.”
“Even in public?”
“Especially in public.”
“All right. You’ve got a bet.”
I stand up and say, “You do realize that your bet is inane. Quality is completely subjective. There are no objective measures that you can use to see who has the better show.” I look at both of them but don’t get any reaction. “If one of you should concede that the other’s guy is better, then I am going to puke because it would just be kind of . . . well, stupid.”
“I’d agree with you,” Chris says. “If it weren’t that Leno is so obviously more talented than Letterman. You can see for yourself, Max.”
“Oh God!”
“I plan to mess every dish in the house. Make Indian curries with the mixer — and bake lots of desserts this week. We’re talking about every dish for one week, right?”
“Every dish,” Nadia says.
I am relieved to see that she is looking at me with sadness and concern. I put on my coat, open the door and without saying goodbye, step into the cold night. I walk to Sarah’s Pub, where I try to recall the fifteen-minute walk but can’t — I haven’t been aware of my surroundings. I sit down at the bar, order a pint and when it comes, I drink it quickly. I can think about only one thing: when I left, were they both sitting on the sofa or was one of them on the loveseat? I have a second pint, and try to rewind the events of the night in an effort to mull over Chris’s culpability. He has flirted with her, but he isn’t trying to make her like him. His effortlessness, in fact, is what’s so infuriating. He’s not overtly seducing her, but his personality and looks are enough for this to occur. He’s got to have an awareness of this on some level. This is why I despise the fucker, Petey.
You’re twice the man he is, Max.
I beckon the bartender. “My girlfriend is at home watching television with one of my buddies from college.”
“Maybe you should get back there,” he says.
At a table not far from the bar is a group of four guys about my age, who are less sporty and more technology-driven types. They chat about their jobs and people. They rib each other a little but they do so good-naturedly. I feel an affinity to these guys. I even think of asking if I can join them. This is impossible, of course, because I have to think about Nadia and Chris again, and at some point I have to get back there to ensure that they aren’t doing it on the sofa. A toxic, lacerating feeling grows in my stomach. I’m normally not the jealous type. I’m actually a very funny person. I’m interesting too. Which isn’t to say that I’m funny or interesting or at peace with myself right now. But this isn’t me. My thinking right now, my point of view, my being has been compromised. Mostly by events out of my control. For this reason the person I thought I was isn’t the person I am now. But I’d like to think the person I thought I was is who I am. I’ve been living in these three dimensions: X, Y, and Z. The other Max, the one I thought I was, exists in some other universe with dimensions — say R, S, and T. I’d love to get back to that universe. How do I get there? I know this sounds strange, but I think an awareness of this displacement — this otherness — gets me part way there. I’ve just got to make it the rest of the way. So far, my plan has been to stay the course. This means leaving the pub, returning to 77 Midland Ave., ignoring that there is a problem, and having faith that this will blow over. That Chris’ll move out. Is this how I get back to that other universe? I don’t know. Do you follow me, Petey?
Not sure what you’re on about, bro’.
The idea of going home makes me feel wretched. Why do I have to
go back? I could try to travel through some sort of singularity, or I could just move to another place. I laugh out loud and look around to see if anybody thinks I am crazy.
At two o’clock, the bartender asks me to leave. I walk around the neighbourhood for an hour. In the cool air, and in the darkness — the streets are dimly lit on this side street — I decide on a new course of action. A new plan. In my head I compose the note that I will leave for them before I depart for good. I only go back to our house when I’ve got something witty and yet honest that’ll leave them thinking about me for months to come. I go into our room where I quietly pack some of my clothing and belongings in a large suitcase. Nadia’s sleeping deeply. At four o’clock in the morning I get a crayon, scarlet-red, and write the note. I tape it on the refrigerator next to some photos of Nadia and me at Camp Skyhawk.
I read the letter out loud.
I know you guys want to sleep together. Why not just go ahead and do it? You have my blessing. Have many children. I don’t care. I have a new life or at least I am going to have a new life with new friends that support me. I have released myself from this existence. (And don’t tell me you don’t know what I am talking about.) I am not bitter at all. Start a family if you want. — Max
Their reaction to this candid assessment of our living arrangement might in fact inhibit them from sleeping together. I giggle. My blessing might restrain them from further flirtation. My note might repel Nadia and cause Chris to become self-conscious. In fact, the very spark of their relationship from day one was lit by my insecurities and, with me gone, who knows? I’m out of here. Am I making a mistake, Petey?
Sometimes a guy needs his freedom, Max.
I put next month’s rent in an envelope on the counter. I call a taxi and then quietly lug my suitcase down the driveway. I want to set off quickly before Chris or Nadia wakes up and sees me. Before I leave, I think: What if she doesn’t fancy Chris?
It doesn’t matter. If she really wants me she can come after me. But what about my furniture: the soiled sofa and loveseat, the television, the dishes and books that have accumulated in our house? I dismiss the thought. I’ll be back in the house within a month and all will return to normal, the way things were before Chris moved in with us.
I cross the street to the taxi and get in. From the corner of my eye I see that Chris’s light is on in his bedroom and I hear a rattling noise inside the house. The toxic, lacerating feeling returns to my stomach. While the taxi pulls away from the street I wonder: Is she in there? Is she in there with him right now?
AN EMPTY TANK OF GAS
IZZIE AND I SAT IN THE LIVING room, smoking and talking. I was slouching in my reclining chair, my legs resting on a coffee table. Candles glowed near my feet. I got up and gazed out the window at the concrete buildings surrounding our apartment. It was raining, so Izzie was reluctant to take me outside to explore the neighbourhood, Moda. Two weeks ago, Izzie had picked me up at the airport, and brought me back here, though not without incident. In a queue for the dolmuş, right next to the Blue Mosque, which looks curiously like the Rogers Centre in Toronto, I got in a shoving match with a young Turk who’d nudged ahead of us in line, my thinking being that no one took advantage of someone from Sarnia, Ontario. Izzie spoke to him in the native tongue and calmed him down until it came time for us to board the dolmuş. The shoving match resumed between him and me — with only two seats available, the boy unwisely thought he could snag Izzie’s seat.
Seda, a young woman with large brazen eyes, walked, hips swaying, into the living room. Her friends were giggling as they made manti, folding dough around meat, at the kitchen table. The right side of her mouth curled towards her nose and in a singsong voice she said, “The tank of gas is empty, Izzie.” She stalled on the “z” when she said his name.
Izzie lugged the empty propane tank out the door. Twenty minutes later he came back dripping wet. The fifty-pound metal tank banged against his knees. His tiny belly levered some of the weight and his taut wrists supported the rest. He set the tank up. Seda brushed the hair out of her eyes, took a towel and rubbed her Australian boyfriend’s head and face. She joined her friends at the table and after a few seconds called: “Izzie, could you please get us an ashtray?” The women all laughed loudly.
I sat down on the sofa from where I could see them. After Izzie set the ashtray on a placemat, all five feet two inches of him was pushed from the arms of one woman to the next. The three women painted his fingernails, painted red circles on his cheeks and used eyeliner to draw a false moustache so that he looked like Charlie Chaplin.
“You look like a clown,” I said.
Seda pouted. “You don’t like Izzie’s makeup, Brian?”
I pushed up my lips. “Not really.”
“I draw on Izzie means he is mine. Am I right, Izzie?”
“Sure, love.” Izzie rolled his eyes. “They’re just having fun, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you draw on her?” I said.
Seda turned up the Yeni Ufuklar CD five decibels, so that Izzie and I couldn’t have a decent conversation. We got up to leave. Just as I was going through the doorway Seda smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you a Turkish girlfriend, Brian.”
What she didn’t know was that I had the girl problem covered. I’d only been here for a few days and I’d already taken one of the English Fast secretaries for a test drive. Also, the owner of English Fast, Nazif Bey, had given me the Koç Bank account, eighteen women in an Intermediate class, all single, all looking at me as if I were the pop singer, Tarkan. I had the pick of the litter, so just the other day, I cornered Gülsev by the second floor washroom, put my hand on hers, lifted her delicate fingers under my tight Molson Export T-shirt and got her to feel my chest. The next day in class we were studying the present continuous tense. When it was her turn to think of an example, Gülsev went up to the board and wrote, Are you having a girlfriend? I had to ignore this though — didn’t want the runners-up to be jealous, right? Blame it on eyes-wide-open exuberance. I was a man who had, before coming here, exclusively dated Wendy, the foul-mouthed, hockey-haired, junior high dropout. I was overwhelmed by the new stimuli. I was in a country whose women were sultry, nicely tarted up, not cynical or suspicious, but sweet. I’d found a system that had proven so far to be foolproof. I got lovely Gülsev to meet me here at the apartment when Izzie and Seda were out, and made it impossible for the dark-skinned, big-eyed bank clerk to turn cold by taking off my shirt, completely inappropriate, but who was going to tell. Inşallah. Gülsev must have thought that I was acting typically. She covered up my half-naked body with what was at her disposal, in this case her own, and well . . .
I came home one night, walked into the kitchen. The sink was filled with dishes. Eggplant was splattered on the floor and walls. I wrote a note and placed it on their bedroom door.
Seda,
Don’t mean to sound like a nag after you have been so nice to me but cockroaches are going to eat the food off the dishes if we don’t clean them.
Brian
In the morning I was drowsing on the sofa when Seda emerged from their room bleary-eyed, wearing silk pyjamas. She said, “Izzie promised to clean.”
“Izzie didn’t make the mess.”
“Don’t worry, Brian.” She lingered on the “ee” sound in worry. She went back to the bedroom. She came back in a spring dress and said, “Tell him I’ll be back in an hour.”
After she left, I moved to the patio and watched her flit down the steps and around the corner. I found a bottle of liquid soap under the sink, filled a bucket with water and began scrubbing the caked appliances and the tile on the walls. Izzie came home with bread and cheese. He asked where Seda was. I whipped some suds on the floor and pointed to the door. I said, “She left. Cockroaches are going to get at these dirty plates, Izzie.”
“You’re absolutely right, Brian,” Izzie said. “I’ll have a word with her when she gets back.”
She didn’t come back that night or the next. Izzie
, in his grey sweatpants, curled up with a magazine on the sofa. His eyes were fixed on the table in front of him.
He lay there for two days except for intermittent smoke breaks on the balcony. When she came back, he sprang to his feet. “Come in here,” he said, in a way that made me want to cheer. She went into their bedroom.
“Give her a healthy tongue lashing,” I said. Head down, he entered their room. I’m sad to say that the only tongue-lashing I heard through our thin walls was from Seda.
The next evening Izzie and I smoked cigarettes on the balcony. Three storeys below a man pulled a wagon and chanted. He dropped the cart and collected some pans from a veiled elderly lady.
“What did you do when you were in Australia?” I said.
“I was a chef at a number of lower-end restaurants,” Izzie said. “The work was all right but I didn’t like the hours. I lived with a woman for ten years. I didn’t fancy her much, so I quit my job, broke off with her and got a charter flight to Turkey.”
Izzie smiled at me, stubbed out his cigarette and said, “This place is all right. You’ll get used to the people. They’re just like us — they work, and relax on the weekend just like us.” He breathed an excessive amount of air through his nose and said, “Even the smell in the air — the diesel from the buses mixed with the mosquito insecticide. You’ll get used to it. That smell makes me giddy.”
One sunny morning I followed Izzie outside to explore a part of the city. The little Australian bounced up the narrow streets of Taksim. He ignored the aggressive young males. We dropped into mosques and teahouses. At the market, he spewed Turkish at the busy owner. He came away with armfuls of bread, fruit and vegetables. He was charming with the people in the market and confident with the language. Only on the odd occasion would he search his mind for the exact word that he wanted to use. A Turk with a moustache stepped in front of us and said in broken English, “Do you want some of this jewelry?”