Oftentimes, Amir would stare past the owner’s shoulders and watch some young soldiers at a table in the corner of the small café pop olives into their mouths while their machine guns rested against the stone wall beside their chairs. They were regulars and appeared relaxed, sitting back and chatting about things other than politics; they mostly talked about women. And Amir sighed and realized he was different from these men with crew cuts and black army boots. He didn’t talk about girls, hadn’t yet kissed one or held her hand, didn’t even imagine doing so. There was one person he thought about kissing but he knew this was impossible. Mr. Labaki would never kiss him nor love Amir the way he wanted. It was a boyish crush. And he hated himself for having it. He should’ve been falling for the female teachers like Madame Haddad with her wavy black hair and large eyes covered with violet and pink eye shadow.
Now he slouches on the bus and thinks he spots his elementary teacher wandering on the beach, but it’s too early and he knows Mr. Labaki has other responsibilities that leave very little time for him to take a morning stroll. When Amir graduated from elementary school, Mr. Labaki had actually kissed him on both cheeks. He kissed everyone. But Amir had taken it as a sign that maybe, just maybe, his teacher could love him. But he was married. His wife was in a wheelchair. He rushed home every day after school to tend to her needs. He was quite the devoted husband. They never had children so his class had become his adopted children. Amir found this all out when he saw him last year at the marketplace. Now at seventeen, he knows this crush would never amount to anything; he was only a student to him and nothing more. When the bus finally stops, Amir rises to his feet and walks past the elderly couple who look down right away. He tips his head to the bus driver and walks confidently across the sand to the shore, his runners already absorbing seawater.
He runs along the shore until he reaches his favourite spot of boulders, hoists himself up and sits down, gazing at the sea, its waves moving calmly. He feels his body quiver from the wind but then he bites his lips gently and commands himself to remain still. He stares at the sea for a long time, thinking about his life and how he doesn’t want to live here, doesn’t want to be with his family and the memory and pain of his rape. He knows it won’t be easy for him to forget about what happened to him but also knows that if he were to leave that apartment building, leave the life he has there, then maybe he could move forward. Just then, he leans over and watches the sea rise from the gusting wind. When he lets his thoughts return to that day on his parents’ bed, Walid thrusting deep inside him, he feels it was his fault, his fault for having feelings for other boys, his fault for letting Walid inside the apartment when his parents weren’t there. It was his fault. He lowers his head in his hands and cries. But then he wipes his eyes and stares down at the sea once more and knows he could bury these shameful feelings here. Toss them in the water where they’d be swallowed by fish or become entangled in seaweed. Leaning, leaning over, he almost wants to fall in and let the sea bury him. Instead, he flings off his running shoes, lets them tumble onto the sand and stands up and dives into the cold water. There is no time for him to brace for either the coldness or the strong waves that threaten to take him under, but he’s a strong swimmer, he knows he won’t die in the sea, not today.
When he resurfaces on the shore, he shivers and rubs his hands over his body, trying to warm himself. His limp penis is noticeable in his wet boxers and his cheeks redden when two men emerge from behind the boulders, staring down at Amir’s crotch area, then smiling at each other in that knowing way lovers look at one another when sharing a secret. Sitting back atop the boulders, Amir watches the men walk together, their hands almost touching. He wonders if they are gay but has no time to ponder this further because a bomb thunders and the rock he sits on shakes, almost tossing him back into the water. With quick movements, he makes it across the street. Another bomb explodes, pushes him and the two men to the ground. Amir covers his head from falling debris and crawls on the cobblestone, finding safety in an alley, where he peers over the edge of the stone wall and sees a few vendors, crushed under blown-up boulders and dirt. Embers burn around them, an effigy of crushed vegetables and fruit, dead fish and people. One woman’s splayed feet are covered in blood, one foot still wearing a red high heel and the other cut and bleeding a dark ruby, nothing like the bright hue of her shoes. She doesn’t move. Amir wants to rush over and help her but he freezes, afraid that if he stands up, another bomb might blow off his limbs. He remains still, hidden in the alleyway, while the sky suddenly weeps rain.
On his way through the hallway of his apartment floor, he hears people arguing and almost immediately recognizes the voices of his mother and father, along with another woman’s and man’s. He stops, looks down at his undershirt and boxers; they are dirty and bloodstained. For a while, he stands there, not moving, not doing anything but listening to his mother shout, insisting her son would never do anything as harsh as punching another human being, he’s too decent and kind. And for a second, Amir thinks he hears a hint of pride in her words and he feels he can approach the apartment now; but as soon as he enters it, his mother takes one look at his clothes and lunges at him, slapping him across the head and pushing him on the sofa, next to his father, who doesn’t meet his son’s gaze. Amir’s father sits with his large hands dangling between his open legs and Amir lowers his eyes too but then raises them to see Walid sitting with a smirk on his swollen mouth. His nose is red and puffy too. Nayla is close to him, her hand rests on his thigh, and Fares is on the floor in front of them, playing with a toy car. Walid insists that something must be done about Amir. He says this as if Amir isn’t present. “Have you thought about the military? He’s almost old enough to join now. They’ll teach him some discipline.”
Amir’s mother interrupts, “We know how to discipline our son, Walid. We brought him up well. He’s…”
“You call punching someone brought up well?” Walid scoffs.
Finally, Amir’s father steps in and rises from the couch. “Walid, thanks for bringing this to our attention. We’ll handle it from here.”
Walid takes the hint and stands up too, grasping his wife’s arm, who bends down to pick up Fares. “I hope so. The next time your boy knocks at my door, I won’t be so understanding and accommodating.” He sneers at Amir then walks out of the apartment with his family following behind. Nayla turns and gives Amir a small smile and Amir feels a sort of pity for her then.
But this doesn’t last when his father slides off his leather belt and begins whipping him with it; the strap strikes his bare legs and he winces. “You stupid kalb," his father yells, raising the belt and slashing him across the thighs again until Amir’s legs buckle and he thuds to the floor on his knees. “You think it’s funny to make your family look bad! We’re a decent family. We never had any problems before, until you started making them for us. Your mother is right about you. You’re trouble!”
Amir swallows back the sting of tears. He lifts himself up, but then the belt comes crashing down on his back and he falls to his knees again. When he raises his head, he sees his mother sitting at the dining room table, her eyes narrowing. He crawls towards her and looks up at her, begging to make the beating stop, but she pushes the chair back and heads to the kitchen, where she begins to prepare lunch. Amir smells the fresh scent of parsley and dried mint leaves and hears chopping on the cutting board. His father raises his arm again and the whip of the belt is all Amir can hear now.
Fifteen
ABOVE THE RUSHING TAP water, I hear Salem chopping parsley and tomatoes into tiny pieces. The knife moves quickly and I’m almost afraid he might cut his fingers or lunge at me with that blade as he glares at me. I look away, back at the pile of dirty dishes and try to concentrate on the task at hand. But it’s not easy with Salem only a few feet away. I also wonder where Rami is, what he’s doing at this very moment. I can’t stop thinking about him, about what happened in the bathroom. Squinting, I’m embarrassed that I let him kiss and touc
h me. When I look up, Salem is standing across from me now. He’s shaking his head. “I don’t want you to see my nephew again. Don’t come around my place anymore.”
I say nothing. I scrub a dish, then rinse it. The water splashes on the front of my pants and I curse.
“You should get another job. You’re a lousy dishwasher," he mumbles. Then he returns to the cutting board, picks up the knife again and chops the parsley, flinging tiny pieces in the air.
On the way home, I walk past McGill and stand in front of the campus for a few minutes and wonder if it’s possible to return to school again. Then I continue walking home, my eyes gazing down at the frozen sidewalks. When I arrive at my house and enter my room, I find Denise leaning against the cherrywood headboard of my bed, clutching her knees to her chest. She’s naked. Her dirty blonde hair hangs over her shoulders; strands barely cover her breasts. I hurry towards her and wrap her with my blanket. She is shivering so loudly that I can hear her teeth gnashing together. Throwing off my coat, I crawl under the blanket and embrace her tightly, rubbing my hands along her slender back then arms.
“Your room is fucking cold!” she curses.
“It’s not that cold," I protest. “You’re Canadian, you should be used to this weather," I reply, smiling.
“Smart ass. Outside, maybe, but certainly not indoors. That’s the miracle of central heating, my Arabian prince.”
Grinning widely, I say, “Are you still upset with me?”
“No," she murmurs. Undoing my belt buckle, I feel her fingers tugging at my pants, unzipping them. Pulling away from my warm embrace, she slides down my body, takes me in her mouth. I groan softly. I close my eyes and Rami appears to me.
Later on, she glides up my body and kisses me on the mouth. I hold her a while longer in my arms before she gets out of bed, bends down and gathers her clothes from the floor. I watch her dress.
“My mother’s funeral is tomorrow. Will you come?”
“Of course," I reply, now sitting up. “What time is it?”
“10: 30 a.m.”
“Oh, I have to work the early shift.”
“Whatever. I knew you wouldn’t come," she cries.
I pull up my pants and stand in front of her. “I’m sorry. I’ll call in sick tomorrow. I’ll be there.”
She buries her face in my chest and sniffles. “Thank you.”
You shouldn’t love me, I want to tell her, but only draw her closer to me, and feel her heart thumping against my own.
The next day I stand in a pew at the back of the church and listen to the eulogy Denise gives for her mother. Denise wears a black slim dress, her shoulders, covered with a grey shawl, sag and her voice quivers but she manages to make it through without crying. When it is over, I stand outside. I slip on my gloves, my thoughts briefly turn to Rami, and I wait for the family to emerge from the church. I give my condolences. Denise gently caresses my face. I have no time to hide my hands but she doesn’t notice the leather gloves anyway. I feel my cheeks redden with shame. I stand on the curb of the sidewalk as the charcoal limousine follows the hearse carrying Denise’s mother on her final journey.
I walk home and think about my own journey. How I had finally left my parents and my life in Lebanon and headed to Montreal alone. Although my aunt sponsored me, we have rarely spoken since she had a fight with my father. A family feud. Fighting. That’s what us Arabs are good at. We’re so passionate, we can’t even make love without having a good fight first, I think. Makeup sex. I now wonder if Rami has this in his newly acquired vocabulary. He’s young with a fresh perspective, something I used to have but lost. I wonder where it went. I wonder if this optimism is somewhere between the dirty dishes, countless job interviews and failed relationships. When I walk up the front porch of my house, I stand there for a while and look at my neighbourhood. Towering maple trees line the narrow streets, their branches still naked, and I picture leaves emerging in a month or two. I look across at the homes with Montreal’s winding steps and pity those who have to carefully make their way down them during a winter storm of freezing rain and heavy snow. I look down at the wooden, even steps of my place and laugh because this was one of the reasons I had chosen to live here, besides the cheap rent. I didn’t want to fall and break my back during those long winters. I imagine my mother cursing in Arabic when I’d arrive back in Beirut, an invalid. “You’re trouble. You’ve always been trouble. From day one.”
With my shoulders dropping, I turn and walk inside.
Once inside, I hear voices in the living room. A man with a thick Arabic accent is conversing, and when I enter the room, there is Rami chatting with Ben. His long legs are spread apart and his arms are relaxed on top of the sofa. As soon as he sees me, he stands up quickly and says, “Marhaba, Amir, I in neighbourhood and come say hello.”
I usher him into the kitchen. With my arms crossed over my chest, my coat still on, I say abruptly, “What are you doing here?”
“I tell you. I come visit. I walk in neighbourhood and I remember where you live.”
“You shouldn’t be here. I have a girlfriend. I’m not gay. I’m sorry… you have to go.”
Rami’s face crumples and he looks like he’s about to cry. I want to reach across and comfort him but don’t. I lean over the doorway to the living room and watch Ben, who is staring intently at the TV.
Rami opens his mouth, his lips quivering, and says slowly in his broken English, “I sorry. Ana go. Ana make mistake. It wrong ana come here. Sorry.”
I look away and wish he’d speak in Arabic with me but I don’t have the heart to tell him this; I know he’s trying hard to learn English and there is something special about this private language we share.
“I make mistake. I sorry. Ana asef," he apologizes again.
“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry.” And as he passes by me, I grab his wrist and guide him upstairs, still holding onto him, until we’re in my room. I look at Rami again and say, my voice cracking, “Don’t go.”
Rami smiles. Flinging off my coat and removing his, I push him onto the bed. There is urgency to my movements. I only hesitate once when I unzip his jeans and pull them down, tug on his underwear and gaze at his penis, already hard, quivering in anticipation. I’m not sure what to do, so Rami takes my hand and rests it on his cock. My fingers wrap around it and Rami moves my hand up, down, up again, down again, again and again. I watch his face tighten, his neck craning, his mouth straining. His eyes are half-closed; he’s moaning now. I feel myself grow hard. Finally, he shudders and I move away, crawl to the edge of the bed, staring down at my hand, the hand that held another man’s cock a few seconds ago. Wiping it on the end of my sheet, I retch. I feel the bed shift and Rami kneels towards me but I push him away. He calls out my name but I ignore him and race out of the room.
In the bathroom, I scrub my hands with a bar of soap, scrub so hard that my knuckles are red and sore. I can’t look at myself in the mirror so I stare into the sink while the drain swallows the soapsuds. After several minutes, I sit on the edge of the tub, turn on the faucet and let a rush of water mask the sobs that escape from my throat.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, my tear-stained face pink from the steam of the running water, Denise walks into the hallway. She touches my flat belly, resting her hand there for a while before she leans in and kisses me on the mouth. “Thank you for coming to my mother’s funeral. It meant a lot to me.” She’s about to open the door to my room but I guide her in the other direction, towards her own room.
She gives me a strange look. “What’s wrong? I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Before I can stop her, she swings the door open to my place, and I step back, lean against the wall, hands clasped together as if in prayer, hoping Rami isn’t still there.
But when she enters the room, there is no sign of Rami. No sign that, only fifteen minutes ago, he’d been on the bed; it’s perfectly made, not one crease. Almost so perfect that Denise notices. She turns and gives me a wide grin. “When did yo
u start making your bed?”
I laugh, and before I can stop her, Denise is pushing me on the mattress, taking off my clothes. I want to stop her. It just doesn’t feel right lying with her now, but I kiss her back, push myself inside her. Later, I turn to my side and stare out the window while Denise traces my back. Moonlight fills my room and I imagine Denise’s imprints glowing on my skin.
Sometime during the middle of the night, I am startled awake. I hear something, but I’m not sure what it is. I look down and see that Denise is still asleep, curled to the side, her longish hair spread on the pillowcase. Slowly I slide out of the bed, slip on some clothes, tiptoe across the room and make my way downstairs. It’s dark. The TV glow vanished in the moonlight. There is a tap at the door. I look at the wall clock. It’s a little after midnight. Who could be knocking at this time, I wonder. When I peer through the peephole, I see the back of someone with a short crew cut and my stomach tightens. I feel something rise within me and I feel like I’m going to collapse. The person knocks again. I look in the peephole once more. It’s Rami. Returned. Like an unopened letter. I stare at him. He looks sad, I think, and I suddenly feel pity for him out there in the cold on my porch while my girlfriend sleeps quietly upstairs. With my forehead pressed against the door now, I hope he’ll go away but he knocks again.
Straightening my posture, I open the door and pull Rami inside, put my index finger on my mouth to hush him. I motion for him to follow me into the kitchen. I find a small pot and begin to boil some water. I ask him if he likes Turkish coffee and he nods. We don’t talk much. I watch him as he rubs his hands warm. He has the smell of cold on the woollen scarf that he slowly tucks into the sleeve of his winter coat. I don’t question why he’s wandering my neighbourhood at this time of night. He tells me he misplaced his keys and wondered if they were here. I turn and see an unfamiliar set on the counter. I rise and get them, dangle them in the air, and he reaches out for the key chain, then shoves it in his pocket. I sit down again. There is something good about sitting across from this man, but also uneasy. I think I hear a creak on the upper level of the house and I’m almost tempted to push Rami out the door. But he’s looking down at his hands, still rubbing them. His eyebrows are a bit wet from fallen snowflakes and his lips are chapped. He bites them then stops and looks across at me. “I’m sorry, Rami," I finally say. “I don’t know why I did what I did. We can’t do this anymore. We should stop before it goes any further. I have a girlfriend.”
The Lebanese Dishwasher Page 8