by Hasan Namir
“Of course I do.”
“I’ve always wondered what other promises you made to our father,” I say.
Mohammed’s smile disappears. “Better get back to your wife,” he says.
After the wedding celebrations have ended, Jameela and I depart. We have a hotel room for the night. I sit on the bed, across from her; she is still in her wedding dress. She waits for me to say something, but I cannot speak. Finally she stands up and turns her back to me.
“Can you unzip my dress?” she asks, but still I am speechless. She turns and asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry,” I reply, then get up and unzip her dress. She lets it drop to the floor and kicks it aside. I look away as she unhooks her bra. I excuse myself and go to the washroom. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my nervousness. I am trapped … I don’t want to be here. Oh god, what can I do? Looking up, I see Gabriel fluttering near the ceiling.
“Is this what you want?” he asks.
I close my eyes and Sammy appears before me. Unzipping and pulling down my pants, I hold my penis in my hand and begin to pump it. I’m just about to cum when Jameela startles me with a knock on the door.
“Ramy, are you okay?” I unlock the door. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry. The anticipation … It just happened.”
“Oh.”
“I’m very sorry.”
She walks away and I quickly tidy myself up and follow her. “I don’t … want to hurt you, Jameela,” I say.
“Ramy, it’s a work in progress,” she says as she puts on her nightgown. She gets into bed and turns her back to me.
I sit down in a chair nearby, thinking about what just happened. I wake up early in the morning, only to realize I had fallen asleep on the chair. Jameela is sleeping peacefully. I hesitate, then undress and crawl beneath the blankets next to her.
Gabriel has returned to visit. He descends from the ceiling, transforming again into the handsome man of Lot. We both know the routine well by now. I disrobe and lay down on the bed and the young man joins me. Many blissful minutes later, he transforms back to Gabriel.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, then disappears.
At the dressing table, I trim new hairs from my freshly shorn face and pick up the tube of pink lipstick and trace it carefully onto my lips. I then smudge some on my cheeks and blend it in. Now, looking at myself in the mirror, I am perfect. I am malikat jamal Iraq. Inevitably, there is a knock at the door, interrupting my fantasy.
“Ramy is here to see you again,” my wife says.
“Tell him to come up here.”
Shams says quietly through the door, “Please, not in our room, Ammar.”
“It’s fine. Let him come up,” I say as I continue to admire myself in the mirror.
At the foot of the stairs, I stare at the religious images on the walls; they seem to be mocking me. I am drawn to a family photo of the sheikh dressed in the traditional white gown, the dishdasha of an Islamic holy man. His son Jaffar stands between him and his wife, who is covered head to toe in a burka. Only her eyes and hands are visible.
I turn around and face the sheikh’s wife. “He will see you upstairs,” she says, her voice sullen. As I turn to go up the staircase, she reaches out to my pat my arm, but retreats. A Muslim woman must not touch a man who is not her husband or a close relation.
“Will you please talk some sense into Ammar?” she says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He insists that he has retired from the mosque and refuses to leave our room.”
“Oh … I didn’t know. I will try,” I tell her.
I open the door for Ramy, and we embrace. “It’s been a long time,” I say. “You are a married man now.”
“Yes,” he says. “And you, where have you been?”
“Here,” I say, gesturing toward the bedroom. “Where I belong.”
I sit on a chair, then notice the smears of pink on his face.
“What’s going on?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. “Your wife is worried about you.”
“She’s always worried.” He stands back from the dressing table, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
“How’s your wife?” he asks.
“She’s pregnant now. We’re going to have a son.”
He looks directly at me. “You seem happy.”
“I am. I’ve always wanted to have a child.”
“Really? You never told me this before.” He turns back to the mirror and stares at himself.
“My son … gives me hope.”
“Hope? Look at me. I already have a son, and I’m …” He stops and turns around to face me. There is nothing I can say to him, nothing I can do for him or for his understandably worried wife.
“Goodbye, Sheikh Ammar,” I say as I get up to leave. I pat his shoulder and kiss his cheek. He says, “I take it you’re going to name your child after me.”
I smile. “No, I’m sorry, I’ve already chosen the name. It’s Sammy.”
After Ramy has left, I am alone again with my thoughts. As I look at myself in the mirror, I hear someone call my name. I turn around and see Shams standing before me. Looking at her, I am reminded of our wedding day, when I was able to look into her eyes closely for the first time. I felt calm and at peace. I feel the same now as I look at her radiant gaze.
“Ammar,” she whispers. I can see the tears forming in her eyes. She knows my truth.
“Shams, I’m sorry … so sorry,” I say.
I pull her into my arms as I recall Allah’s promise for those that will be rewarded Paradise: “And they will be given to drink a cup of wine whose mixture is of ginger from a fountain within Paradise named Salsabeel. There will circulate among them young boys made eternal. When you see them, you would think them as beautiful as scattered pearls. And when you look there in Paradise, you will see pleasure and great dominion.”
“God Almighty has spoken the truth.”
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank the following: First and foremost, God, for always supporting and pointing me in the right direction. I want to thank my family: Baba, Mama, Rand, and Mays, for their unconditional love and support. I’m very lucky to have an amazing family whom I love so much. I also want to thank my dear friend Hasheem Hakeem, who has been supportive from the very beginning. I want to thank my friends, my chosen family, whom I love and appreciate. Writers, no matter how big or small they are, are always affected by other writers and artists in one way or another. I’m no different. So many people have inspired me throughout my journey. I have been especially influenced by the stories of the oppressed and silenced. It’s the voices of these people who inspired me to write God in Pink. I hope that the people in my home country, Iraq, see a better future and that someday everyone will be accepted, no matter what their religion, colour, or sexuality.
In the past few years, major changes have taken place in my life, in which I lost so much. At the same time, I gained much too. I am thankful for all the love and support, and I hope that one day I will be fully accepted by the people whom I love dearly. I want to thank my writing teachers, Jordan Scott and Jacqueline Turner, who have helped me with my novel. I also want to thank all my classmates in my creative writing classes at Simon Fraser University for helping me workshop my novel.
I want to sincerely thank Brian Lam for agreeing to publish my novel and shedding light on the topic. I also want to thank Brian, Susan Safyan, and Linda Field, my amazing editors, for helping me throughout the editorial process. Also, thanks to all the wonderful staff of Arsenal Pulp Press—Gerilee McBride, Cynara Geissler, and Robert Ballantyne—for everything that they have done for me and for the novel.
And finally, this novel is for my “Sammy,” Tarnpal Singh Khare, the love of my life. My soulmate. Ahibak hayati.
PHOTO: Bijan Dharas
Hasan Namir was born in Iraq in 1987 and came to Canada at a young age. He graduated from Simon Fraser University with a BA in
English. He lives in Vancouver.