Guapa

by Saleem Haddad

  Maj is parked around the corner. When he sees me, he flashes his headlights twice.

  “I’m sorry about tonight,” he says when I get inside. He’s wearing bright red lipstick, and has shaded the area around his eyes in dark kohl to blend out the bruises.

  “I don’t know if I can go on,” I say.

  He shrugs. “You’ll go on.”

  “I’ll go on.” I nod. “And who will take care of us when we get old?”

  He leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “You’re going to take care of me. I don’t know who will take care of you.”

  I chuckle. I am tired and my head hurts. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I know it won’t begin with shame.

  “So what do you want to do?” Maj asks as we begin to drive.

  “I don’t know.” I squeeze the key in my fist. But I do know what I want to do. I want to find my mother, to tell her that it’s okay. That I’m okay. I turn to Maj. “Maybe we should go protest.”

  “Yes, yes. Great idea. Let’s go protest. Against who?”

  “Against everyone. Against everything.”

  “Sounds good,” Maj says. “But first, maybe a drink or two at Guapa.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mom, Dad, Sami, Nadeem, Amal, Mona: Thank you for the love and laughter.

  My agent, Toby Eady, believed in me and the novel, and his encouragement and guidance throughout the process has been invaluable. My editors did wonders with a scrappy manuscript: Judith Gurewich — thank you for challenging me to think more clearly, more deeply, and more honestly; and Anjali Singh, for your early, unwavering belief in this story, your patience, guidance, kindness, and great Skype conversations. Thank you to Keenan McCracken, Lauren Shekari, Yvonne Cárdenas, and everyone else at Other Press for their help along the way.

  I am indebted to Rowan Salim, Adam Barr, Muhammad El-Khairy, and Tim Ludford, who believed in this project from the very first kernel of an idea, and read countless drafts over the years. The four of you are jewels. Many others also took the time to read early drafts and offer detailed, thoughtful, and supportive feedback: Sami Haddad, Michael Round, Atiaf Alwazir, Nada Dalloul, Jamila El-Gizuli, Thoraya El-Rayyes, Raja Farah, Giuseppe Caruso, Ginny Hill, Nina Mufleh, Adrienne E. Treeby, Yazan Al-Saadi, Eliane Mazzawi, Danah Abdulla, Joshua Rogers, Tania Tabar, Yasmeen Tabbaa, Sarah Alhunaidi, and Jehan Bseiso. Djamila Issa, Becky Branford, Joud Abdel Majeid: thank you for opening your homes and hearts to me in Paris, London, and New York. I am grateful to Kalimat magazine for kindly publishing an early excerpt in their April 2014 issue.

  Above all I thank Adam, my best friend and the love of my life. This book would not exist without your love and patience.

  NOTES AND CREDITS

  Song lyrics to Oum Kalthoum’s “Al-Atlal” [The Ruins] were written by Ibrahim Nagy, and adapted from the translation produced by the Arabic Music Translation team (http://​tinyurl.​com/​nogh49).

  The character of the man playing the piano downtown was inspired by Ayham Ahmad, the “Piano Man” of Syria’s besieged Yarmouk refugee camp. I came across a clip of Ayham playing a few years ago and was reduced to tears. I found it impossible not to write a character inspired by him. Ayham’s story, and clips of his music, can be found here: http://​tinyurl.​com/​p9cjfrm