Thirteen
UNDER THE MOONLIGHT, I walk to Salem’s house. Earlier in the day, he’d invited me over for dessert and coffee and I didn’t want to go, but then the chance of seeing Rami again made me change my mind. I hurry along the snowy streets, pull the collar of my coat closer to my neck. I’m wearing the leather gloves that Rami gave me and suddenly feel guilty that I didn’t choose to wear the ones from Denise. Biting my lower lip, I try not to think about the pained look on her face if she knew I’d chosen these gloves over her fleece pair. And I abruptly stop a block away from Salem’s and look around. What am I doing? I think to myself. I have a girlfriend, someone who loves me, someone I can be happy with. A gust of wind blows through my coat. I stand on the side of the road and glance back and forth like someone lost. And in a way I am, I think. Then I realize it’s a mistake to be here. I step back and head in the opposite direction, away from Salem’s.
When I return home, I sluggishly climb up the porch steps. A tiredness pounds my legs and I have an urge to head to bed even though it’s only eight in the evening. As I unlock the front door, I spot Denise in the living room; she gets up from the sofa and approaches me. Rather quickly, I remove the gloves and stuff them into my pocket before she can notice them. “Hey, my Arabian prince, that was a quick dessert.”
“I changed my mind. Thought I’d come home and sleep early. I’m feeling a bit tired," I murmur.
We head upstairs together and undress quietly. Lying in bed now, we don’t make love. In a matter of minutes, I’m fast asleep.
The next day I’m at work, quietly, washing the dishes, trying not to splash water all over the sink. Sometimes my hands act out angrily, diving into the water, crashing against the plates until pain surges through my fingers and up my arms. In my mind I try to recite some Langston Hughes or Walt Whitman but the loud voices of the cooks always drown out those words the way the dishwater drowns my spirit every time I step into this restaurant and begin my workday. Lost in my thoughts I don’t hear someone stand beside me, and when he speaks I startle. “Amir, what happened to you? We waited for you but you never showed up," Salem says roughly.
I turn and look at him. He smells of sweat and strong cologne. His salt and pepper hair is slicked back and his strong forehead is shining from the heat of the kitchen and frying pans. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling very well.”
“You should’ve called me. I had someone I wanted you to meet. A nice Middle Eastern girl.”
I clear my throat. “I told you I have a girlfriend. I’m not interested in meeting anyone.”
“Well, it turned out okay. I introduced her to my nephew instead.”
Rami. My lips purse together.
“Why don’t you come over next week? You must miss your mother’s home-cooked meals, no?”
I nod, keep my gaze on the dish in my hands. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come over for dinner again. Will Rami be there?”
“Maybe, if he’s not too busy with his new girlfriend.” Salem laughs then walks away, leaving me to my dishwashing duty.
I smash another dish against the hot water and drench the front of my shirt. I glance at the clock and want to smash it too; its hands barely move.
The following week, I sit across from Rami. A dark-haired woman named Mirah sits next to him. Her face is heavily powdered with makeup. She’s in her early twenties and she laughs a lot, too much, and it’s that annoying kind of laughter that could drive someone crazy, but Rami smiles and pretends to like it. I know he’s pretending because he keeps glancing at me and his foot sometimes touches mine under the table. I pretend not to notice but there is something about this man who keeps giving me stares while sitting next to an attractive albeit annoying girl who flirts with him, squeezing his arm every now and then and leaning in so close that it seems that she might kiss him. I look down when Mirah does this and my cheeks burn. When I glance up, I see Salem studying me and I give him a small smile but he doesn’t smile back. I eat dinner quietly while Mirah tells everyone about her day. She works for the government, got the job from a family friend. I watch Rami lean his elbows on the table and cup his head in his hands as if listening intently to her every word. After a while, we finish up our meal and I offer to help with the dishes, but Salem’s wife refuses, shoos me into the living room where everyone now sits.
I sit across from Rami and Mirah, next to Salem. Mirah chats more about her job, the boredom of it, the gossip she hears, and I want to leave but I don’t because Rami is gazing at me, not Mirah, even though she’s squeezing his thigh now. After a few minutes, I excuse myself and head upstairs to the bathroom. As I turn the knob, I glimpse Rami climbing up the steps. We don’t say anything to each other as he stands beside me. He puts his hand on top of mine, turns the knob and pushes the door open. I fumble to find the switch, and as soon as we’re inside the bathroom, he presses me up against the wall and kisses me. Hungrily, painfully. I don’t push him away, but open my mouth and let his tongue entwine with mine. Rami then puts my hand on his penis and through his pants, he moves my hand back and forth until he’s groaning. His left hand gropes my penis. But I step away from him and stumble over to the small window where I clutch the ledge, my breathing laboured, heavy. “We shouldn’t be doing this," I mumble, not turning to face him. Snowflakes fall through the dim streetlights.
Rami stands behind me and speaks in his halting English. “It okay. What we do okay. No hurt nobody. Ana bahebbek. Bet’ hebnee, no?”
I don’t tell him that I like him too. He’s so close that my body begins to tremble and I’m afraid that if I turn, we might kiss again. Suddenly I hear footsteps fast approaching. I turn and watch Rami tiptoe to the door and press his ear against it.
“Don’t move," he warns in Arabic. “I think it’s my uncle.”
I almost laugh and say, “How do you know?”
“He has heavy footsteps like those.”
“Amir," Salem says through the door. “Have you seen Rami?”
I swallow hard. Rami inches forward and nudges my shoulder. “Answer him," he whispers.
“No, Salem. I thought he was with you and the others.”
“No, he seems to have disappeared. Mirah is on her way out and she wants to say goodbye to him.”
Rami flushes the toilet, then turns on the faucet of the sink. He motions out the window, pinches his thumb and index finger together and lifts them to his lips. “Maybe he’s outside smoking," I say.
Salem laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. That nephew of mine can’t be without his cigarettes. I’ll check. Thanks. By the way, are you all right? You’ve been in there for quite some time. I hope your stomach isn’t still bothering you.”
Biting my lower lip, I try to suppress my nervous laughter. “No, no. I’ll be out in a second. See you downstairs.”
We listen for his fading footsteps. Before opening the door, Rami plants a quick kiss on my mouth. I try not to kiss him back but my lips pucker just the same.
When we return to the living room, Rami two steps behind me, Salem glares at him. “Where were you? Mirah wanted to say goodbye and you just vanished! She’s already left. You could’ve walked her to her car. Like a real gentleman. How do you expect to keep a girlfriend if you don’t show her any respect?”
Rami answers in an unsteady voice, “Like the way you show auntie respect?”
Salem leaps at him and slaps him across the face. Right in front of me. When Salem raises his hand again, I step between them. “It wasn’t Rami’s fault, Salem. He was upstairs with me," I finally confess.
“Doing what?”
“Just talking.”
“In the bathroom?”
I clear my throat. “No, in the bedroom," I lie and wonder if this sounds worse.
“Why?”
“Why what?” I ask and look at Rami who remains silent, head bowed. “We were only talking. It’s not like we were doing anything wrong.” I let out a deep guttural laugh that makes Salem purse his lips.
Rami suddenly sa
ys, “I’m not interested in Mirah. There’s no point in us seeing each other again. She’s not my type.”
“What’s your type?” Salem asks scornfully. “Is this your type?” He points to me, his finger quivering in anger.
Rami doesn’t answer him.
“Answer me!”
Still no reply. Lurching his head back and looking up at the ceiling, suddenly frantically slapping his hands on his forehead, Salem shouts, “Get out, Amir! Get the fuck out of my house. The other cooks were right. You’re a fucking queer and now you want to make my nephew one.” He grips me by the collar and shoves me out the front door. I slip on a patch of ice as I race down the steps, fumbling with my coat, trying to get it on. I look back and see Salem sink down on a patio chair and hang his head between his legs. Rami is standing at the doorway, his head angled up slightly, trying to look at me, but then he glances down. Ashamed, I turn away and run past the towering trees, their branches drooping with heavy, wet snow.
When I return home, I rush into my room and undress quietly. I am alone. Denise isn’t around and I don’t bother tiptoeing across the hall to see if she’s in her bedroom. Within minutes, I’m under the covers, shivering from the coolness creeping through the poorly-insulated windows. I think about my hand on Rami’s penis, his hand on mine. His uncle’s accusing words. I feel tears gather in my eyes and I swallow, trying to stop them, but they come anyway like the freezing rain now tapping the windowpane.
Later on, there is a knock at the door, low, almost undetectable that I think I’ve imagined it. I stifle my tears and listen. Another knock. Then Denise’s voice. “Amir, are you all right? It’s not like you to lock the door. Can I come in?” There is longing in her voice. I pretend not to hear it but it’s there. “Please," she pleads. “I could use some company tonight.” I don’t get out of bed but instead pull the cover over my head. “My Arabian prince," she coos like a mother to her child. “Open the door.” I don’t move. I can’t open the door for Denise. I don’t want any company tonight. Denise knocks louder now, once, twice, then finally gives up. I listen to her footsteps creep back into her room and imagine her thin shoulders sagging. I whisper in the stark room, “Don’t love me. I’m trouble.”
The next morning I wake up and slip across the hallway to Denise’s room. I turn the knob and enter the room. Denise is sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at a photograph in her hands. When she looks up and sees me, she puts the picture down and says, “You’re a bastard.” She wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands.
I rest next to her and squeeze her shoulder, feeling like some kind of impostor. I can feel the bones jutting beneath her thin nightgown. I look down and see her vanilla nipples harden and I stop touching her. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you care?” she croaks. “I needed you last night.”
“I’m sorry," I sigh. “I was preoccupied.”
“That’s the problem with you, Amir. You’re always self-absorbed.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Yeah, you can be a selfish prick sometimes.”
“Well," I smile. “Sometimes. But I don’t know about self-absorbed.”
“I thought you loved me.”
I hesitate then answer, “I do.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I wasn’t feeling well last night.”
“I could’ve made you a bowl of soup," she says, giving me a sad smile.
“You know how to cook?” I joke.
She hits me playfully across the chest. Wiping her eyes some more, she sighs and says, “My mother died last night.”
“I’m sorry," I say, squeezing her shoulder again. “Were you with her?”
“No, I missed her by five minutes. I can’t believe I missed her by five fucking minutes," she curses, then puts her face in her hands. Her back heaves up and down. I squeeze harder.
“She knew you were there, Denise. She could feel your presence.”
She looks at me and says, “I’m not so sure.”
I wasn’t sure either but I thought she needed to hear these words. “I’m so sorry," I repeat.
Pushing me away, she gets up and walks to the door and opens it, her red eyes glaring at me. “Now you’re sorry! I needed you last night. Get out, Amir.”
Looking down, I walk out of her room and into my own. With the morning light pouring in, I get ready for work. My shoulders cringe at the thought of facing Salem and piles of dirty dishes and I wonder which is worse. On my way out, I stand at Denise’s door and stare at it for a while before I hurry down the stairs and out of the house.
Fourteen
AMIR’S PARENTS AND BROTHER are asleep. It’s early morning and the light is slowly pouring into the apartment windows but the hallway is still dark. The electricity has gone out again. Three times in less than two days. The conflict outside enters indoors with these frequent blackouts. Blown up power lines in the aftermath of another bomb, another downpour of bullets. In a pair of boxer shorts, an undershirt and runners, Amir stands in front of Walid’s apartment door; the dark wood is scraped from pieces of furniture being hauled in and out every time a tenant arrives and leaves. Walid has been the longest renter to occupy this apartment. Five years. Amir is now seventeen. He rubs his hands over his cheeks. Stubble scrapes his palms. He is tall now, taller than his father and his shoulders have broadened in width. Dark long curls fall around his face; he lifts his hands to push the strands behind his ears but then stops midway, remembering this is Walid’s gesture. Hours and hours, days and days, weeks and weeks, years and years, Amir tries not to remember things about Walid but he can’t stop these thoughts from flooding his memory. He feels cracked open, vulnerable, but the feeling is fleeting.
Now flexing his biceps, he feels strong. There was a time when he used to duck past this door but now he strolls by it, shoulders stiff and straight. Raising his clenched fist, he knocks on the door, rather loudly. Steps back and waits. No one comes to it. Moving forward, he raps his knuckles once more, even louder this time. After a few minutes, Amir hears someone’s feet shuffling across the floor and he hopes it’s not Walid’s wife. She is a calm, well-mannered woman who greets him every morning on his way out to school. Walid married her about four years ago. Her name is Nayla. She is twenty-nine. Amir thinks she’s beautiful when she lifts her lips into a wide smile. And he wonders how she ever married an asshole like Walid. Does she know what her husband did to him? Amir contemplates now. Would she still be married to him? Would she still make love to him knowing what he did to Amir when he was only a child? But then Amir rubs his hands together and knows Nayla wouldn’t believe him, she’d side with her husband, the father of her child, a little boy named Fares. When the door finally flings open, Amir is jolted from his thoughts.
Walid reaches across and pulls Amir by the shirt. “What the fuck do you want?” Walid snaps.
Amir smells his morning breath, something between garlic and tobacco, and he shoves Walid away and glares across at him. He stands in his pyjamas, his shoulder-length hair dishevelled, his cheeks sporting a full beard, grey patches in abundance. His face looks crumpled and his shoulders droop. He seems to have aged since that day, Amir thinks. He almost feels sorry for him, standing there in his tattered pyjamas and, for one moment, he’s ready to turn around and leave him alone, but the image of Walid pumping furiously inside him makes him raise his fist and punch the man until he stumbles back against the half-open door and falls on the floor. Kicking the door wide open now, Amir bends over Walid and punches him several times. Walid winces and cries out, lifting his arms to protect his face, but this doesn’t stop Amir’s blows; he keeps jabbing the man with his fists until there is blood flowing out of Walid’s nostrils, splattering on Amir’s shirt, and then suddenly Amir jerks around and sees Fares standing behind him, hovering by the living room doorway, clutching a teddy bear in his small hands.
The boy starts to cry for his mother, who now rushes out of the bedroom in a thin
nightgown, her hair also messy and her face as crumpled as her husband’s. She takes the boy into her arms, then looks between her husband and Amir, her eyes opening wide. “Amir, what are you doing?” she yells, now placing the boy down and kneeling next to Walid. “Get out! Get the hell out of our place before I call the police!”
Frozen, Amir doesn’t move. Nayla gets up from her knees and smashes her fists against his chest and pushes him out. A few inches from his face, she shrieks, “Get out, ya sharmout!” Amir wipes spit from his face. And he suddenly feels sad that he made this mild-mannered woman so angry. He mumbles a quick apology then scrambles down the stairwell, still wearing his boxer shorts and undershirt.
He catches a bus to the beach. The bus driver gives him strange glances at his attire and the crimson spots on his white undershirt, and Amir crosses his arms and his legs as if this could hide the fact that he’s wearing his underwear in public. He looks around the bus; it’s nearly empty except for an elderly couple who whisper something he can’t hear and look away quickly when Amir makes eye contact. Turning, he stares out the window. The shops are still closed and the fish market is almost deserted with the exception of a few early riser shoppers trying to get the freshest fish for lunch or dinner. When the bus turns onto a strip along the seaside, he sits up straight and takes a deep breath. Through the open windows, the smell of sea salt filters in and while the bus passes a small bakery, the scent of flatbread covered with cumin seed and thyme wafts in too. Amir’s stomach growls. He’s almost tempted to get off the bus and buy a zahter for breakfast. But he doesn’t. He keeps staring out the window and remembers, before the rape, how he’d go with his father, just the two of them, and share a Lebanese breakfast of freshly baked zahter from a stone oven and a cup of ahweh. He was too young for coffee but his father let him take quick sips from his mug while he discussed politics with the owner.
The Lebanese Dishwasher Page 7