At first, I think it’s the leg of the table but then Rami says in broken English, “I forgot not stretch leg. I hit your foot. I got long leg.”
“Legs, cousin," Neveen corrects. “I have long legs.”
“My French good. My English so-so. Ana behfam inglize okay but speak it hard," Rami says quietly. “I studying English. I lives here now. I want talk Canada languages. I want learn English. Neveen learn me.”
“Teach, cousin.”
“Teach," Rami repeats. “Ma bikhi inglize good.”
“No, no, you speak it well enough," I lie, scooping up some taboulleh with a piece of lettuce.
“You teach me talk good English? Uncle Salem say you talk good English. We talk English together. You lear… oh, teach me.”
“Yeah, I’ll help you," I reply, not sure why I’m making this promise. But then I remember how difficult it was to start fresh in a new country and I was fortunate to speak English. I suddenly feel sad for Rami who doesn’t have a strong grasp of the language. “I’ll teach you. My English is okay.”
Salem pipes up, “Don’t be modest, Amir. You’re the best English speaker at the restaurant.” He stops and gives his wife a scowl. “Go get some more hommus. The bowl is almost empty.” Like a well-trained animal, she rises from her seat and returns in a few seconds with more hommus. Then he faces me again, softening his tone. “I don’t know why you’re still at the restaurant after all these years. You should go back to school, Amir.”
Rubbing my hands together now, I say, “It’s not that easy. I have bills to pay. I need to work.”
“But not as a dishwasher. You have a lot of potential.”
I feel my throat tighten. I hate washing dishes but I know my degrees are worthless here. Sighing, I finally reply, “Shukran.” And stuff more food into my open mouth.
After dinner, I follow the men into the living room where Salem lights up a hookah and puffs on the tube, then exhales a long line of smoke. The smell of apple cider fills the air. From hand to hand, mouth-to-mouth, we share a smoke together. When Rami finishes his turn and slips the tube into my hands, his fingers touch mine. I meet his gaze then look down quickly. Too quickly. My fingers shake as I accept his offering and I pray he can’t see them tremble. I inhale the tobacco slowly, then hold it in until little fog-like lines slip through the space between my lips. We sit like that for a long time, talking a bit about politics in the Middle East and wondering if there will ever be peace. I pass the tube to Salem who doesn’t take a puff right away but instead says, “Amir, how old are you?” We converse in Arabic.
“Almost thirty. My birthday is next week.”
“Do you have plans? We should celebrate your birthday.” At that moment his wife enters the room and places bowls of pistachios and walnuts on the coffee table. “We’re going to throw Amir a birthday party next week. You can make us dinner.” She nods and rushes away. I lean back on the sofa and peer into the kitchen and see her at the sink, her shoulders rounded inwards.
I reply, “You’ve been very gracious. I don’t want to intrude on your family.”
“No trouble at all. My wife loves to cook. That’s her job. It keeps her busy. If she didn’t have me around, her life would be very boring. I give her life purpose.”
I say nothing, just stare at his wife who is now wiping a rag across the counter, her mouth straining as if she wants to argue back but she doesn’t, only keeps cleaning the kitchen.
Changing the topic, Salem asks, “Why aren’t you married yet? You should be married by now. Married with children. I can help you find a nice Middle Eastern girl. I know many.”
Rami suddenly laughs and says in Arabic, “My uncle is always trying to set me up.”
“Yes, you should be married too, Rami. You’re twenty-four. My nephew is too picky. I bring him several girls and he can’t seem to choose between them.”
“Uncle, that’s because I want them all! Why settle for one?” He winks at me and I smile back.
“Okay, enough talk about women. Let’s smoke.” He takes a long drag, the living room clouds with apple-cider tobacco.
Four
THE LIVING ROOM CLOUDS with tobacco while Amir’s father and his guests pass the snake-like tube around, each man taking a puff or two then relinquishing the tube to the next guy. Leaning against the kitchen doorway, Amir watches and listens to the men. His mother and brother are visiting his grandparents. He listens to his father speak and smiles at how his strong voice carries across the room, demanding respect and quiet from those around him. “We were coming home from the beach when it went off. No matter how many times I’ve felt a bomb, I can’t seem to get used to them. At first, I thought my family and I were going to be killed…” Amir’s father stops and calls out to his son. “Amir, come here.” With his shoulders sagging, he crosses the room and sits on the arm of the sofa, next to his father, who squeezes the back of his neck but lets go when the tube reaches his hands again. He takes a puff. After, he holds the tip to Amir’s mouth; he inhales a little too much until he finds himself coughing. The men laugh. His father pats his back. “Slowly, puff on it slowly, like the first time you kiss a girl. You do it gently, slowly.” The men laugh some more.
One man leans his elbows on his knees and asks, “Amir, have you kissed a girl yet?”
The boy’s shoulders tense and he doesn’t answer right away. “No," he finally mumbles.
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“Old enough to kiss, I think. Find yourself a nice girl and kiss her. Slow and gentle. Like your Babba said.”
His father laughs then his face turns serious. “I heard on the news that twenty people were killed by the car bomb. I’m just thankful that my family wasn’t part of that number. It’s horrible what’s become of our home.”
“Do you really think we can still call it that?”
“No matter how divided and broken our country is, it’s still our home," Amir’s father asserts. Amir stares at his father’s face and sees the lines around his eyes deepen. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. “Amir, can you get that?”
He leaps off the arm of the couch and races to the door, then pulls it open; the man he had bumped into the other day stands in front of him. “Oh, hello. It’s you. Standing straight and not falling into people," he chuckles and Amir likes his laugh. Deep and rich.
He wants to hear it again, so he tries to say something clever. “Come in. The men are smoking and talking about women and politics.”
The man laughs again. Amir wishes he had a tape recorder so he could replay this laughter over and over. “I don’t think women and politics go together. Maybe women and cooking. Women and children. Women and fuc…” he stops and stares at Amir who is no longer smiling. He clears his throat. “What’s your name?”
“Amir.”
“Ah, prince.”
Amir nods vigorously and grins. “You know that?”
“Yes, I know many things. Amir, is your father home?”
“Yes. I’ll get him. Please wait a second," he answers, remembering his manners.
Within seconds, Amir’s father is at the door, shaking the man’s hand.
“I’m Walid," the man says. “I just moved in next door.” He nods his head in that direction.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Ziyad and this is my son Amir," Amir’s father says, resting his hands on his son’s shoulders.
“Sorry to trouble you, but could I borrow a screwdriver? I can’t seem to find my tools. They might’ve got lost in the move," says Walid, smiling.
Amir’s father instructs him to get the tool. After a couple of minutes, he returns and passes the screwdriver into Walid’s hands, and the man’s fingers touch his. Amir quickly looks at the wall. There is a sudden pressure down there, a tugging against his underwear and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare look at the man, who Amir imagines is staring at the bulge growing in his blue underwear. Finally Walid thanks Amir’s father and leaves,
saying a quick goodbye to Amir too. Taking deep breaths, Amir feels himself relax. He heads into his bedroom and closes the door softly behind him.
Pants crumpled on the floor, blue underwear around his ankles, he falls back on the mattress, his fingers wrap around his penis, then his hand moves up and down. He thinks of Walid, his mop of dark hair falling around his strong forehead, the stubble along his cheeks. Breath hurrying, semen spurts out all over his thighs. Groans escape from his pursed lips, then deep-throated cries. He turns onto his belly, buries his face in his pillow. He knows this isn’t normal. He should be thinking of kissing girls, the tips of his fingers circling their budding breasts, not masturbating while thinking of a man. Turning and staring up at the ceiling, he wipes his eyes and listens to the loud voices of the men in the living room as they speak over each other. What if they happen to walk in on him, grasping his cock in his hands, and whispering Walid’s name as if he were reciting a love poem? He knows he should be imagining girls, not boys, and certainly not men. He bites his lower lip. Then he slowly gets up from the bed, cleans himself and slips his clothes back on.
He walks closer to the mirror across from his bed and studies his face. He looks normal, he thinks. Boyish. Dark curly hair, kept short, not dishevelled like Walid’s. There’s nothing gay about him, he thinks. He’s seen some men prancing on the beaches, Speedos as tight as a woman’s bikini bottom, their balls barely contained in the spandex material, and he’s even witnessed them kissing other men in a secluded area of the beach, away from the sunbathers, and he remembers how this had made his stomach churn and he had almost felt like puking right in the sand but he kept watching, not turning away even when one man pulled down the other man’s swimsuit and began licking his cock as if it were a popsicle. Wide-eyed, he couldn’t stop looking at the men and he licked his own lips, but after a while, he bent over in the sand and threw up. On weak legs, he raced back to his parents and brother and fell back on his towel, his heart pounding as fast as a musician’s palms on a handheld drum, the picture of the two men still in his mind.
Now he returns to his bed and flings himself on it. He doesn’t want to be like the men on the beach. I’m not a fag, he repeats silently, then says it out loud as though these spoken words would make the statement real. But his voice barely carries across his bedroom and out the window to the full moon. Amir sits up suddenly and walks to the window, leans on the ledge and wishes he could grab the moon and keep it beside him like a nightlight, but he knows this is impossible. Some things are not meant to be. Like him being gay. Like him and Walid. Tiptoeing back to his bed, he slips under the covers, closes his eyes and feels moonlight touch his dark eyelids.
Five
BY THE TIME I step onto the porch and thank Salem for the evening, the moon is glimmering rays through the indigo sky. Salem walks back into the house and I proceed down the freshly snow-covered steps. As I walk, I suddenly stop and look up at the moon and remember how I was so mesmerized by it when I was a child, how I wanted to grab it with my hands and bring it into my bedroom. But that was before I got to know Walid. My legs grow weak. I startle when someone touches my left shoulder. Turning around, I glare at the intruder.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you," Rami says in Arabic.
“No, it’s all right. Did I leave something behind?” I ask, surprised by his presence.
“No, no, I just thought I’d go for a walk. Do you mind if I join you?”
“No. Suit yourself," I now say in English, forgetting I’m with another Arab.
Squinting his eyes, Rami says, “Ana ma befham.”
“Sorry, I forgot that you don’t understand a lot of English," I say, switching back to Arabic.
“Please teach me. I want learn inglize. What mean? Suu…” he concentrates, “Suit your-self.”
“Do what you like.”
“Oh, I try remember this. Please learn me English. Ana badi bikhi good English like you.”
I smile at his eagerness and say, “I’ll teach you.” We then continue walking.
I run down a set of stairs leading to a pathway and tie my scarf tighter around my neck, bracing for the cold. Shivering, I hurry down the path, eyes pasted on the icy ground. I look at Rami, who walks quickly too, trying to keep up with my pace, his breath hurried. When I reach the corner, I take a right and walk down some more steps. Silence and darkness surrounds us. The city lights are dim in this area, reminding me of those cobblestone alleyways from a Charles Dickens novel with men on towering stilts lighting candles. But no men or women are around us. We are utterly alone. I pull the collar of my coat closer to my neck and look up from the ground. I suddenly realize that Rami is lagging behind and I stop and watch him walk faster until he slips on the icy sidewalk. And I smile, remembering my first winter in Canada, thinking my worn sneakers from Beirut would be enough to trudge across Montreal streets and how I slipped and landed on my ass. Bruised and sore, I limped home and had to sit on a heating pad for a few days to heal it. I walk towards him, reach out and help him up. “Inta okay?” I ask in Arabic and English.
He nods and brushes some hair from my eyes but I draw back and put my hands in my pockets. I sit down on a bench and cross my arms over my chest, then loosen my grip.
Rami sits down next to me and pulls out a cigarette. The wind blows and he can’t light the butt right away but then I lean over, take the lighter and cup my hands around the cigarette until it flickers with a flame.
“Shukran.” He takes a long puff and blows out a line of smoke from his full lips, which I stare at for a long time then turn away when he spots me looking at him.
“How long you lives in Montreal?” he asks with a thick Arabic accent. “We bikhi… talk English, okay?”
“Sure. I’ve been here five years. And you?”
“Two year. I fresh off boat!” He laughs.
I smile.
“You nice smile.”
I close my mouth in a tight line. “Shoo?”
“Nothing. Sorry, my inglize no good. Inta smart. Inta bikhi good English. You help me. We talk English. You be my teacher. Uncle Salem say you two degree. You be uni…” he stops.
It is obvious to me that English is difficult for him. I give him a sad smile then help him out. “University.”
“Aywa, uni-ver-city," he enunciates slowly. “You be uni-ver-city pro-fes-soore. Maybe someday. My uncle say inta very smart.”
I laugh in spite of myself.
Rami opens his mouth and starts, “You got po… pot…” He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs, then stops as if he can’t come up with the right English word. “You got po-ten…”
“Speak in Arabic, Rami, it’s easier for you," I say, frowning.
He starts again, his eyebrows pressing together. “You got po-ten-ta…”
I roll my eyes. “Just say it in Arabic.”
He uncrosses his arms and throws his hands in the air. “But, ana ayiz…”
“What do you need?” I ask impatiently.
“Ana ayiz bikhi inglize. I lives in Canada, not Gaza. This my home now. Ana ayiz English.”
I nod and say, “Ana befham.”
“Thank you for understanding," Rami finally says in Arabic. Then tries again. “You talk good English. Ana ayiz learn too.”
The lines around my mouth soften. “Okay. Go on.”
“My uncle say you got po-ten-tial.” He takes a deep breath and he looks worn from the effort.
“Potential?” I repeat.
“Yeah, you know," he starts in English, but then blinks and switches to Arabic. “Possibility.”
“I know what it means," I mumble. “Your uncle doesn’t know shit," I say too quickly, then immediately regret my words when Rami lowers his eyes. I playfully nudge him on the arm with my elbow but he still remains silent. “Listen, I don’t know shit. I don’t have potential. I’m just a dishwasher. I’ve been here for five years. I came to this country with big hopes like you. Fresh off the boat with a suitcase packed with dream
s and memories. I’m university educated and working as a dishwasher. I wanted more but it just never happened. The dreams shrivelled like dried figs; they didn’t even taste good like the ones we have back home!” I say, trying to laugh. Rami doesn’t smile, only stares at me in the eyes. “And the memories, well, the memories...” I look vacantly at the distant moon then put my head in my hands and sigh.
Finally, he rests his hand on my thigh. I flinch. He lifts his hand away, continues in Arabic. “I’m sorry you feel so discouraged.”
I don’t say anything for a while, just look into the distance. The moon hovers in the dark sky, bright; its light shines on the cement path, black ice shimmers and I have an urge to stand up and slide across it with my arms outstretched asking this man to join me. Two Arabs on ice. I laugh at this possibility.
“What’s so funny?” Rami asks, throwing his half-finished butt on the ground.
“Do you like to skate?”
“What?”
“You know, skate, like on ice.”
“Are you fucking crazy? I’m Arab. We don’t skate," he says in a serious voice. But then his full lips lift into a big smile. “You want to go skating? Now?”
“Sure. I know a great place.”
He rises from the bench. I don’t move. “Yallah. Show me this great place.”
We walk in silence. The wind has grown in strength. But we keep trudging forward until we reach the lake. Of course, when I get there, I realize that we don’t have any skates. “I’m sorry," I say. “How can we skate without skates?”
“Use your imagination, my friend.” He speaks in Arabic. Rami holds out his hand. I don’t take it right away but when I do, I feel warmth through his glove. I frown then let go quickly and shove my hands into my pockets. “Where are your gloves?”
“I’m a dishwasher, remember?”
“So? You can’t afford gloves? I’ll bring you a pair next time.”
The Lebanese Dishwasher Page 2