The dark gives way to morning light. When I wake, I look around and can’t find Rami. My heart sinks. Startled, I rise to my feet and put on my bathrobe. Opening the door, I peer down the hallway and expect to see him coming out of the bathroom but the door is wide open and it’s dark; the hallway is empty. I close the door and stand in my room alone. My bare feet are cold on the hardwood floor. I look at my watch and get ready for work.
Throughout the day, I keep glancing at the wall clock, eager for my shift to come to an end. I replay my lovemaking with Rami. Feel his body against mine, our hands entwined, sticky, sweaty palms, and how I shuddered inside him, felt my soul slipping into his, becoming one for a brief second, then pulling apart, flushed, separate human beings again. The desire, the pleasure, the ache. The longing. I feel it right now. This terrible longing. Lost in my memories, I don’t hear Salem walking toward me and standing beside me.
“I don’t like you hanging out with my nephew. It’s not right.”
Dazed, confused, I wonder how he knows about us. I turn and look at him, then mumble, “We’re not hanging out together. Who told you that?”
“I’m not stupid, Amir. Just because I’m not university educated like you doesn’t make me an idiot. I have eyes. I see what’s going on.”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about," I stutter.
“He came home last night smiling like a fool. He said he had spent some time with you.”
I finally confess. “Yes, that’s true. We talked about politics, our lives. That’s all.”
“You don’t need to know about our lives!” he bellows suddenly. “I made a big mistake inviting you into my home.” The other cooks turn and look, their whispered voices carry over the fans and frying pans. What’s the commotion? I hear someone ask.
“We didn’t talk about your life," I reiterate. “What does my friendship with Rami have to do with you, Salem?”
“He’s my nephew! He’s only twenty-four! Naïve and stupid.”
“He’s not stupid!” I yell back.
“Leave him alone. Or there will be trouble," Salem warns. “You don’t know me, Amir, I can be a real bastard.”
“No kidding," I egg him on.
“Listen, you queer! Don’t mess with me and my family!” He grabs me by the shirt. The other cooks now rush toward us and pull him away from me.
“Calm down, Salem," one of them insists. “Calm down.” He drags him away.
Salem points his finger at me and shouts, “Leave him alone! You’re asking for trouble. He’s not a queer.”
I look down and start washing a dish, but my fingers can’t stop shaking; it slips in my grip and shatters on the floor. You’re trouble, I hear my mother’s voice travelling over the mountains and across the seas. I bend down and pick up the broken pieces. I flinch, and a stream of crimson pours down my thumb.
When I get back to my place, Rami is there reading one of my books. He puts the book down and rushes toward me when he sees my bandaged thumb. “Ya shoobek? What happen to hand?” he asks. He looks worried.
“Nothing. I broke a plate at work.” I try to smile but the nerves around my mouth freeze.
“Let me have a look," he says in proper Arabic, not the slang of the two languages we know. He holds my thumb in between his fingers. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“A little, but I’ll be okay. Got a few stitches but nothing came apart!” I laugh now.
“It’s not funny, Amir. Sit down and rest. Let me make you some dinner.”
“If you insist," I say, eager to taste his culinary skills.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He fluffs up the pillows and pulls back the sheets of the bed, then helps me out of my shoes and guides me to the mattress, tucking me in as if I were his child.
“Shukran ya Babba," I tease.
“Smart ass," he says in English.
“New word?”
“Aywa, smart ass – someone like be sar-cass-tick.” He sounds the words out, then points at me. “Inta smart ass!”
“Now who’s the smart ass?”
As he leaves the room, he bends slightly and smacks his behind for my benefit. He speaks in Arabic once more. “Be back in a while. Be prepared to taste heaven.”
“Or hell!” I call out.
He peers over the edge of the door and croons, “Smart ass!”
An hour later, Rami comes back into the room with a tray of steaming food. A stew of baked shrimp bathed in olive oil, hot peppers, garlic and crabs cooked and stuffed with chili drifts in the air when he places the plates on the small table. Walking over to him, I bend down and take a whiff of the food. “Smells great!” I exclaim.
“Tastes even greater. Sit down, habibi," he says in Arabic. “Let’s enjoy this feast.”
We make love again, the taste of his meal still on my lips, traces of cinnamon and allspice on his belly. His fingers comb through my hair. I look up and stare at his face. His eyes close tight as he groans and falls back on the mattress. I slide back up and rest my head on his chest and gaze at him. He raises his head and smiles. “Inta give good blowjob.”
“Shukran.”
“Now you?”
“Maybe later.” I lie on my back. After a while, I whisper, “Rami, we can’t keep hiding our relationship from your uncle.”
With his breathing returning, he says, “I know.”
“Today at work he told me to stop hanging out with you. Said I’m trouble.”
Sitting up, Rami laughs, “Everyone think you trouble even your mom.”
I nod vigorously.
With a shadow appearing on his face, he asks, “My uncle do this to you?” His hand lightly touches my bandaged thumb.
I laugh. “No, no. I cut myself on a broken plate.”
“Really?”
“Of course! Why would I lie about that? Your uncle isn’t dangerous, is he?” I say jokingly, but Rami doesn’t laugh.
“He have temper. Be careful, ya habibi.”
We don’t speak for a while. I close my eyes and drift to sleep only to be awakened a few seconds later.
“Amir, you think it okay to tell my uncle?” he asks in his halting English.
I sit up and trace the worry lines around his mouth, eyes. “We can’t keep going on like this. We have to tell him.”
The next morning, we get up and dress quietly. I watch Rami slip on his pants and shirt, his fingers slightly shaking. The morning light shows how worried he is; there are dark circles under his eyes. He catches me glancing at him and gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. And I wonder if it’s wise after all to speak with Salem about our relationship. I imagine Rami’s uncle greeting us with punches to the face and ribs. But I’m almost certain that speaking with Salem will make things better. I look down at my watch. We have enough time to speak with him before my shift. I put on my jacket and race down the stairs with Rami following me. We walk quickly down the street, the flaps of our jackets touching.
Twenty-two
WHEN AMIR RETURNS TO campus, he’s surprised by the soldiers at the doors, their machine guns grasped in front of their chests, their black boots caked with dried mud. On his way here, he had walked through the carnage of another explosion. Streets, once wide, were narrow from crumbled stones scattered in large piles. When he tilted his head back and gazed at some buildings, he saw windows blown out, loose wires and stones teetering over edges, held by broken rods. He swore he could hear whimpers from under the rubble but he couldn’t be certain; there was too much going on around him, sirens blasting, families crying for their lost or dead loved ones. Dogs wandered around, sniffing here and there. At one point, Amir stumbled on a metal rod and came crashing down onto the ground. When he finally lifted himself up, he saw a child hopping from boulder to boulder, waving his arms frantically over his tiny head and shouting, “Mama! Babba!” He couldn’t have been more than seven. Amir tried to calm him down but the boy looked at him through glazed eyes and kept shouting. Then he pushed Amir back and ran away,
still crying out for his parents. Amir sat down for a second, lowered his head. He couldn’t bear to witness any more destruction. The smell of burnt flesh and diesel assaulted his nose. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rose from the boulder and sprinted through the chaos and destruction.
Finally in his room, Amir collapses on the bed. He doesn’t even bother taking off his shoes nor his clothes. A thin layer of dust covers his exposed skin, jeans and sweater. Turning to his side, he stares out the small window and sees the sun shining bright. He leaps out of the bed and presses his hands against the glass window frame. The sun pours rays on his downcast face.
Another season passes through the torn streets of Beirut. It is hot. Sweat soaks through Amir’s cotton shirt as he sits on a crowded bus headed to the mountain villages of Lebanon. When the bus stops in Rashaya, he gets off and makes the long walk through the cobblestone streets until he’s standing in front of his grandparents’ house. His grandfather shouts down to him from the terrace. “Amir, the prince has returned!” he jokes. Finding the energy in spite of the heat, Amir enters the house and takes the steps two at a time and embraces his grandfather. He feels bones jutting underneath his baggy clothes. When they let go, his grandfather strokes his cheeks; his palms are cracked. Amir musters a smile and resists crying at the aged appearance of his grandfather. Three months ago, his cancer had returned, making his grandfather’s potbelly depleted; now his body is small like a child’s. Amir doesn’t expect this. The jaundice yellows his olive skin. When his grandfather stares at him, lifting his toothless mouth into a smile, his sunken eyes wrinkle even more. He leads his grandfather back to the plastic chair and helps him sit down. “You’ve returned for the fig season, Amir," his grandfather says in a cracked voice.
Nodding, Amir asks about his grandmother.
“The old lady went to get some milk from the grocery store. She’ll be back in a few minutes.” Amir stares across at his grandfather and listens to him talk about his childhood, the mischief he’d get into, the snakes and scorpions that could’ve killed him, the first girl he’d ever kissed. “We kissed in a cave. Zeina was a beautiful girl. When we got a little older, I took her to see Sabah sing between the Corinthian columns of Baalbeck. Of course, I had to take her cousin with us too. Zeina’s parents were so strict. She ended up marrying her first cousin. They live in Beirut now. Maybe when you go back there you can look her up for me.” Amir nods and smiles politely. He doesn’t have the heart to remind him that as soon as he returns to Beirut he will be getting ready to leave for Canada. His grandfather knows this but must’ve forgotten, Amir thinks to himself. His grandfather continues telling his stories until Amir’s grandmother shouts from the front hallway that she’s back. Amir excuses himself and runs downstairs to greet her. She embraces him so tightly that he can hardly breathe. But he doesn’t inch away. He lets her hold him tight. And Amir knows he’s loved.
Later on, he walks beside his grandmother into the fig orchard. He squats on the ground to pick the fallen figs while his grandmother bends at the waist to pick them up. They fill two buckets of figs and Amir carries them back for his grandmother. When they enter the house, he sees his grandfather resting on the armchair. His sunken eyes are closed in a nap, the blue glow of the TV on his wrinkled face, but as soon as Amir crosses the hallway, the floorboards creak, waking him up. His grandfather opens his eyes in a startled way.
“Sorry Jido for startling...”
“It’s okay, Amir," his grandfather interrupts.
Over the next few days, Amir watches his grandmother make preserves with the figs. When she’s done, she hands him a bowl and he savours this thick jam with a cup of Turkish coffee. Amir sits back on the chair and feels at peace on this summer day, eating his grandmother’s delicious treats and sipping on a small cup of coffee, even though he knows the rest of the country is experiencing the tremors of bombs. Afterward, they take their cups to the terrace and chat about politics and life in general. His grandfather sits quietly during this discussion, struggling to keep his eyes open. When Amir tells them that he’ll be leaving for Canada soon, his grandmother answers for them both. “We understand, Amir, but we’ll miss you terribly.” She looks at him sadly and he knows it will be a long time before he returns to their home and shares a fig treat and a cup of ahweh with them. He looks down at the tiny cup in his hands and realizes that when he returns home, his grandfather will most likely be dead. And before he can stop himself, he’s crying. His shoulders shake until he feels the weight of someone’s hands on them, squeezing him. He wipes his eyes and looks up and sees his grandfather smiling weakly at him. “You’ll be all right, my boy. You’re smart. You’ll be okay in Canada. And we’ll be okay here. Don’t worry.” Amir sighs, rises from his chair and helps his grandfather to his bedroom.
The following day, he says farewell to his grandparents, and when he turns to wave back at them, he feels sad and he knows he will miss them. He inhales his grandmother’s jasmine scent on his clothes, repeats his grandfather’s words of encouragement in his head. But when he turns the corner, he falls back on the stone wall of a tiny shop, lowers his face in his hands, and weeps again.
Twenty-three
I SIT BESIDE RAMI on the large sofa in the living room of Salem’s home, surrounded by his wife, son and daughter.
“Everyone is talking about us…” Salem trails off and glances across at Rami but ignores me. Rami doesn’t meet his gaze; he stares vacantly out the window. Several children are playing street hockey. Salem clears his throat, then continues, still ignoring me and looking at Rami, who stares down at his hands now. “Ya sharmout," he curses. “You bring this into our family. Shame on you!”
“He’s not a slut," I mumble. Salem casts a look of disgust at me. He nervously taps his right foot on the floor.
After a few seconds, he sits still and says, “What you have together is sick. It’s not normal, Rami.” He leans across, touches Rami’s knee and says gently, “It’s not too late to forget the whole thing. Go out and find a nice Middle Eastern girl. There are plenty who want you. You’re not an ugly boy.”
“He’s not a boy," I correct Salem. “He’s a man.”
Salem smiles unevenly and rubs his hands together. Then he hollers, “Yes, he’s a man! And you’re a man. It’s not fucking normal for two men to be together.” Neveen and Boulos sit quietly on the couch beside their mother. “You’ve corrupted my nephew. You’ve made him gay.”
I squeeze Rami’s hand and notice Salem glaring down at our entwined hands. I assert, “We love each other.”
“He deserves a wife and children. Not you. Not this sickness you’re giving him," Salem finally says.
I say bitterly, “Being queer is not contagious.” I get up and turn to Rami. “Come on, let’s go. It was a mistake coming here.”
Rami rises.
Salem suddenly leaps up and grabs onto Rami’s wrist. “Don’t you dare leave with this fucking queer! I’m your uncle! If your father were still alive, he’d be so ashamed of you," he shouts, tightening his grip.
The others lower their eyes.
“Let him go!” I say, struggling to loosen his grip on Rami.
“Uncle, let me go," Rami says in a quiet, unsteady voice. A few seconds later, Salem obeys and lets his hand fall to his side.
Rami rubs his wrist.
Salem slumps down on the sofa again and clasps his head. “We need to talk alone, Rami. Stay. We have to try to work this out.”
“Yallah, Rami," I say, almost pleading, now standing on the porch.
He looks at me and whispers in Arabic, “I need to talk to my uncle. Let me try to make things better with my family. They’re all I got here.”
“What about me?” I ask, rather harshly.
“You know what I mean, Amir. Don’t be upset. We’re only going to talk.”
“Do whatever you want.” I rush down the steps and briefly turn to see Salem standing on the porch now with a large smirk on his face. He pats Rami’s arm and gu
ides him back into the house.
As I walk on the street towards the restaurant, I look down at my watch and realize I’m an hour late. My thumb is still sore. I now wonder if I should’ve come into work at all. How am I going to wash the dishes with one hand? Before I can contemplate this, the owner calls out my name from the back door, which he holds open for me. I walk inside. He asks me about my thumb and I tell him it’s a little sore.
“Can you still work?”
“I think so," I lie.
My boss doesn’t say anything for a while, just rubs his moustache. He has a thick moustache and he has a habit of curling it with his huge fingers when he’s nervous. I try not to focus on his moustache but I can’t help but notice how much he’s twirling it.
I finally say, “Is everything all right?”
“Salem says you’re trouble.”
Here we go again, I think. “I come into work every day even when I’m not feeling well. I don’t take a full lunch hour. I don’t complain. I work. I work hard.”
He raises his right hand in the air, palm facing me. “I know. But the other cooks don’t feel…” He clears his throat. “Salem and the others don’t feel comfortable working with you. They’ve been here for years. Customers love their cooking. I can’t afford for the cooks to be unhappy. I rely on them.”
“And me? I’m dispensable?” I say scornfully.
Frowning, my boss says, “What’s this word? Speak easy English, Amir. I’m not as smart as you are.” He looks down and plays with his moustache some more.
The Lebanese Dishwasher Page 12