Alligator and Other Stories

by Dima Alzayat

  When the president sent to Lina another script and asked her to read it and speak to him once she had, and when the assistant confirmed that this was indeed the test she had awaited, she knew she would neither read the script nor meet with the president. Instead she worked to expand the distance between them, by refusing to cover for the assistant when she was able, and by taking different routes to and from the various parts of the office. When she witnessed candidates being led to meet with the president, and the assistant voiced to her his disappointment at her failure to aggressively pursue the position, Lina felt compelled to tell the assistant why this was, in the hope that he would, despite his shortcomings, and because he had at one time championed her hiring, understand the gravity of her situation. She watched the assistant, at first, appear remorseful, then become impressed by the knowledge that the president, who was known to the assistant as having once been a man desired by many women, was still capable of such actions. Finally, the assistant advised her of what she already knew, that she should seek another job, where possible, and put the incident behind her. Watching the assistant, Lina’s fretfulness dissipated, and she began to see that she was not intended to succeed on terms other than the ones now spread out before her. She wondered if perhaps this path had been, despite her oblivion, clearly signposted, and whether if she had only looked down and around, instead of directly ahead, she might have seen the signs. Of this, however, she was to remain unconvinced, and she became increasingly sure the signs, while present, were never meant to be seen.

  After the president hired a new assistant and promoted his old one, and after it became widely known, throughout the office, that his desires were freshly set on a young woman recently hired within the department, and that this woman returned his favor, he stopped by Lina’s desk and voiced his displeasure at her lack of effort. She had not read the script he had sent, nor spoken to him about it, and he could see now, he said, that he had been erroneous in thinking she was ready for such a role. Several weeks later, when Lina entered the president’s office and sat down, and told him directly and calmly of her plans to leave the company, he frowned then scowled from behind his desk, and she watched his well-groomed poise give way to a clean hate she recognized, and which she would see again many times in her life. She was making a terrible mistake, he said, and was burning a bridge in an industry in which an act such as hers was impermissible and permanent. During the tirade, Lina felt scared and uncertain, and did her best to appear calm, and said only that she was prepared to endure the consequences of her actions. This silenced him. As she rose to leave, he spoke one final time, to remind her that he was not to blame, and that he had done nothing wrong. He waited for her to repeat these words, and she did.

  It was many years later, as Lina watched on television the owner of the company, accused of rape and abuse and harassment and misconduct by eighty women, turn himself in on charges pertaining to just two, that she was reminded of what she, in her youth, had experienced and felt. She did not find the news interesting or enlightening, and she was not intrigued by what might transpire between the law and the owner, who, on account of his wealth, was able to negotiate the precise terms of his arrest and bail. Even the half- and whole-hearted appeals of employees and former employees who claimed ignorance or innocence, she found tiresome, their musings inconsequential to the affected women, and the lives they led, or had hoped to lead prior to their encounters with the owner, who took from them, and of them. The women, she knew, once the excitement settled, would be the ones made to pay.

  She thought of the night in the room of that expensive hotel, on that well-known boulevard, of how it had spun, of the young woman who had spun with it, and all her aspirations and desires. She became aware of the vigilance with which the young woman had put aside and away and moderated and maintained her knowledge of that night, and for that, Lina allowed herself to grieve. She yearned to reach into the memory of that room and pluck from it the young woman, to show her there were many ways to live a life, that many had not been taught to her, that she had been set down upon a path designed to ensnare her while keeping her reaching for an apex, a triumph of some kind, which would never come, and that this was by plan, not chance. But more than that, she longed to tell the young woman to carry fire, soon and often, to tell the others, and to set alight everything she saw, to waste no time burning all her bridges down.

  IN THE LAND OF KAN’AN

  Hayya ‘ala s-salah. Hayya ‘ala ‘l-falah. Farid answers the call. Stands between two men who connect him to a row of two dozen others, to fourteen centuries of millions more. All facing al-Baytu l-ʿAtīq: the Primordial House, home of the Black Stone. A stone whiter than milk when it fell from Paradise only to be turned as dark as night by the sons of Adam and their sins.

  He stares down past hands folded one over the other resting on his rounded belly. Eyes trace blue lines that intertwine to form the octagons and hexagons and other -agons woven through the crimson wool beneath his bare feet.

  Allahu-akbar. Forward he leans. Palms on knees, back forming a ninety-degree angle with bent legs, stiff joints. The recitations turn and tumble in his mind like old acquaintances. Glory to my Lord, the Most Magnificent. Repeat and repeat.

  Allahu-akbar. Up for a moment and then back down. All the way down this time. The carpet is rough against his forehead, its scent heavy and stale. He fills his lungs. Glory to my Lord, the Most High, the Most Praiseworthy. Inhales again and drinks the sweet mustiness like a newborn takes its mother’s milk, all-filling, all-fulfilling. When he exhales, he can feel the breath leave his lungs, exit his mouth, but it does not blend into the air around him. Just lifts and hovers above his head, waiting to be reclaimed.

  Allahu-akbar. And up and down again and two more times until he is sitting, staring at the feet of the man in front of him. The soles of the feet yellowed. The skin dry, cracked.

  **

  That night, you lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling. Listen to Amina’s heavy breathing. You kick off the quilt, leave only the sheet. Pull both up. Kick both off. Amina mumbles and turns toward you, her eyelids closed. On her face a clear gel mask has cooled and dried. You reach out and let your fingers graze its hard, smooth surface.

  She opens an eye. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Say Bismallah. Bismallah.’ She turns over and pulls the quilt up to her chin. You wait for the first soft snore before you grab the khakis and navy sweater off the armchair and head downstairs. The moonlight cuts into the living room in streaks and you dress in a strip of darkness.

  It’s almost midnight and the street is silent. House and lawn connect to house and lawn. Glowing jack-o’-lanterns stare from their porches and stoops. Witches laugh and goblins glare as you get in your car.

  Your hands steer you north on San Vicente, turn you right onto Santa Monica. Neon lights in purple, red and green. Fiesta Cantina, Rage, The Abbey. Lines wrap around street corners. Small groups walk from bar to club. Thin boys in bright tight T-shirts and stonewashed jeans tucked into leather high-tops. Men with silver hair don blazers over white V-necks that plunge deep toward sculpted chests. Broad shoulders in sequin dresses and bright blond wigs; strappy sandals lift frames of statuesque proportions.

  The car vibrates to the rumble of heavy bass. You roll down the window and the beat booms into the car, pulses inside you. Thump thump thump. You stop at a red light. As people cross, their conversations fill your ears. You pretend they’re speaking to you. Let’s go to Fubar. No, long lines. Let’s go to Akbar. No, too far. Besides, everyone there has a beard. I don’t want my dick scratched up by some lumberjack. Laughter.

  A young woman walks in impossibly high heels. She’s flanked by two tall men whose arms link hers, helping her balance on spikes of leather and plastic. One of the men is thirty, thirty-five. He has a trimmed mustache, wide shoulders and a narrow waist. The muscles of his thighs strain against tight blue jeans. You trace the inseams up to their meet
ing place, haughty and defiant. Drag your eyes back up and they meet the girl’s. She looks right at you and smirks. You let your eyes glide to the stoplight and stare at the red sphere.

  You roll up the window as you head south on Fairfax and west on Olympic. Turn onto one street and then the next. You pull into the driveway, turn off the ignition and rest your head back as the engine cools. Bismallah, la ilaha ill allah. Your legs ache and your eyelids grow heavy as you pull yourself out of the car.

  When you open the front door Amina’s dark shape on the sofa jolts you awake. You say, ‘I couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk.’ She stares at the keys in your hand. ‘I mean, I went for a drive.’ Astaghfar allah.

  **

  The first time you took him in your mouth, you were certain you would be struck dead. That baked clay would rain down from the sky and smash your skull into dust. Indeed in that are signs for those who discern. But in and out he went, veins throbbing with vigor, until liquid tasting of salt and metal spread its warmth and coated your teeth. So thick you had to wipe your tongue on your sleeve.

  He was older. You were seventeen. They called him Mukhannath, Manyak, Lut, Shaz. The scar on his face ran from eyebrow to ear. His white jeans too big, held up by a belt studded with silver. Scuffed black loafers. Shoulder-length unwashed hair. A common sight on the streets of Cairo. All-around peddler. Nighttime hustler. That day, he was unloading bootleg videos. Saturday Night Fever, Rocky, Jaws, Star Wars. You held out money for Taxi Driver as he stared you down.

  ‘That is one sick fuck.’ You watched his mouth move and wondered what the stubble on his chin felt like. Became aware of a seed lying dormant in your lungs, placed there by the same hand that sent storms of sulfur to destroy the twin cities. Astaghfar allah.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The film. It’s about one sick fuck.’ You pretended to contemplate the tape in your hand even though its sleeve was blank, unlabeled. ‘I have more,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’ You hesitated long enough for him to hear the air catch in your throat. ‘It’s late now. It’s fine. Come with me.’

  You followed him through one cobblestone hara after the next, each narrower than the last. Past nightwomen in black lace and old men sharing bottles of watered-down zibib, milky white and smelling of fermented anise. The occasional needle passed from hand to hand to arm. Ahlan, ya manyouk, they greeted him. Ignored you. He fished a dinar from his pocket and handed it to a man leaning against a garbage bin in silence. Stopped to bellow a verse of Umm Kulthum with a girl who had narrow ribs and a mountainous voice.

  Finally you were alone. Behind a shuttered butcher shop your mother used to send you to for liver. You leaned against the cold steel, felt the seed lodge itself into a crevice in your lungs and grow into a bulb waiting to be fed. He leaned toward you and his breath, warm and peppery, caused the bulb, now the size of your fist, to sprout shoots into the hollow of your throat. Grow stalks that reached and climbed toward your mouth and threatened to choke you in their search for air.

  He stepped back and lit a cigarette. Held it out to you. ‘No one comes here, relax.’ The smoke you inhaled forced the stalks to shrivel and recede. He smiled at the coughs that followed. ‘The first time is the hardest. After that, it gets so you need it.’

  You turned toward the alley’s mouth. Tried to convince yourself you had come for a movie, began to retrace your steps. He grabbed the cigarette, took a puff and flicked it to the ground, and although he was not much larger than you were, pinned you against the cool metal of the shutters. The stalks thickened and reached higher this time, past your throat and into your mouth, sprouted leaves and buds eager to bloom. He looked down and smiled. You had betrayed yourself. He reached down and caressed you and for a moment you felt only calm because you knew you couldn’t choke on the petals falling on your tongue.

  **

  When Lot said, ‘These are my daughters – they are more pure for you,’ he spoke of all the girls in the town, not just his own. This was his advice to boys like you: marriage is the solution. That and salah. Salah and du’a’. Pray and supplicate. And above all, repent. Repent, repent, repent. For the ultimate transgression is the unwillingness to feel sorrow for your sins.

  **

  Farid wakes up next to a suitcase lying open on the bed. It takes him a moment in the gray light to make out Amina emerging from the walk-in closet with a sweater and a pair of boots in her arms.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She lays the sweater on the bed and begins to tuck in the sleeves. ‘Packing. My flight leaves at noon. Sarah is picking me up.’

  Terror tinged with excitement runs through his veins as he watches her fold the sweater once, twice. He sits up, leans against the headboard. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To a crafts convention. I told you.’

  A drip of disappointment gives way to a stream of relief. He sinks back into the pillows. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘It’s just one night. I’ll be back tomorrow.’ She places the sweater and boots in the case and zips it shut. He watches her adjust her hair in the mirror and wants to tell her she looks beautiful, that the wrinkles around her eyes only make her more so.

  She catches his stare and walks over to him, touches her hand to his. He leans up and pulls her toward him and lightly kisses her cheek. Her closed lips ease into a smile as she moves away, straightens her back. ‘Don’t stay cooped up here while I’m gone. Go see a movie. Take a walk. Do something nice for yourself, Farid.’ Her eyes now look like his mother’s. All knowing. All merciful.

  **

  Cairo to Los Angeles. You were one of many in the great Arab Brain Drain. Graduate college and get a job in Emreeka and with it, a wife. Given a selection of four or five to choose from upon arrival. Your father made some calls, your mother arranged the details. ‘It is a blessing to marry, Farid. The rhythms of marriage make everything else easier,’ she promised.

  On your wedding night, Amina changed into a slip made of satin and sat beside you on the bed. Pulled hairpins from an elaborate bun until strand by strand, loose curls fell to her shoulders as you lay shaking beneath the covers. She leaned over you and held your face between her palms and kissed your cheeks. Placed her head on your shoulder and held your hand in hers for an hour and when she finally spoke, her voice was kind. ‘I’m glad it’s the first time for both of us. It is your first time, Farid, isn’t it?’

  And so it was. It is He who creates human beings from liquid, then makes them kin by blood and marriage. She took your hand and placed it on her full breast, the nipple growing hard beneath your fingertips. You stared at it, imagined that one day your son would suck life from that nipple. She pulled your face closer, moved your hand down, over a slender waist and a soft stomach. Your fingers slid farther down still, toward the patch of hair reaching up to greet them, but lingered only briefly, circled her hips and grabbed her from behind. She let out a nervous laugh as you moved on top of her, brought your face next to hers, closed your eyes and sought the streets of Cairo.

  **

  Farid remains in bed until he hears Sarah’s car pull out of the driveway. In his robe he walks to the kitchen and sets the kettle on the burner. Twists the knob to the left until it clicks once, twice. Blue and orange flames shoot up. He watches the narrow plumes reach for the teapot, a hint of yellow visible in their centers. They are steady in their aim, intent on making the kettle scream.

  He pulls out a chair and sits, stares at Amina’s business guides and manuals on how to mold clay pots and make jewelry, quilt blankets and build birdhouses. The shrill whistle of hot steam jars him to attention and he rushes to the burner to quiet the sound. Pours the boiling water into a mug with a ready teabag and carries it to the living room. He draws open the drapes, letting in the ashen morning light, and after turning on the television, switches the channel to the news and mutes the sound. He walks over to the mantel and looks at the Qur’an, thick and leather bound, but does not touch it. Sets down his mug and leaves the room.

>   In the bathroom now, he rolls up his sleeves and turns on the sink faucet. Bismallah. He washes each hand three times, starting with the right. Cups his palms and fills them, pours the water into his mouth and gargles, spits. Repeat and repeat. Cleans his nose, splashes his face, returns to his arms but washes them all the way to the elbows this time. Repeat twice. Runs his wet hands over his head, around his ears. Turns off the faucet and walks to the bathtub, adjusts the knob until the water runs warm. Dips in one foot at a time. Repeat and repeat. Lifts his right index finger. Ash-hadu an la ilaha illa-llah.

  In the dim light he sits on the sofa and rests the closed book on his lap. His fingers trace the grooves of words etched in gold into the green leather cover. Without aim, he flips the pages, allowing the book to guide him. Inside, the letters curve into one another, long melodious vowels and short crisp consonants. The harakats marked between the lines, miniature ornaments of sound, ensure a singular pronunciation. Together, the movements on the page interlace into a filigree of words too intricate to be imitated, too elegant to have been made by man. As Farid reads, his lips linger on each sound, savoring it before it leaves his tongue. Verses more evocative than poetry, more distilled than prose. A euphony belonging to no land, floating in the ether between Paradise and earth.

  **

  Later that afternoon Farid drives, through the flats of Beverly Hills, up Crescent and down Rodeo. He keeps to the residential streets, avoids the persistent gridlock of the main roads. His phone rings and Mazen’s name appears on the screen. He slips on an earpiece and presses a button to answer.

  ‘Mazen.’

  ‘Hi, Baba,’ the voice booms in Farid’s ear. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good, good, habibi. How are you? Are you still studying for exams?’ Farid hears muffled voices in the background. Laughter.