Raven's Flight
Page 11
“Once a year, or once every two years. I worked in Barcelona, too, for a few years.” I paused for a second. “Look,” I told him, “We should start with the cases, or else time will fly by.” I was also thinking of my stomach, and how long I would last until lunch.
He smiled. “Don’t you want to know where I’m from?” He was leaning on his side against the couch, a little playful, his eyes twinkling. That was a characteristic typical of Frenchmen, I noted. It was a clue that confirmed what I had been thinking about recently.
I looked directly at him. “I know where you’re from.”
He looked at me incredulously. “How would you know? Have you, what do you call it, cyberstalked me?” He was still smiling. Damn his attractive smile. It was more difficult to think about studying now. And damn the fact that I wouldn’t get involved with him. I didn’t need another Middle Eastern man hounding me. I would have to admire Tarek from afar.
“I figured that out without cyberstalking you, don’t worry.” That was a true statement, I noted. I had in fact cyberstalked him, but hadn’t really found anything. I had been thinking about where he was from and had narrowed it down to a pretty educated guess.
“Your father is French and your mother is Lebanese,” I began. His eyes widened and he looked impressed again.
He didn’t say anything so I continued. “It’s not that hard to figure out. Your last name is French. You are obviously,” I made a waving gesture with my hand from top to bottom, “of Middle Eastern descent. You’re about—,” I took a wild guess, “Twenty-eight years old. You may have been born in Lebanon.” I was thinking out loud now. “But I’m guessing your parents either met in France or met in Lebanon and then left at some point. You were born in France around 1980 or 1981, but you spoke Arabic at home, at least with your mother.” His eyes widened further, and I felt that I had to explain. I was able to totally nerd out on him, linguistically, that is.
“You speak with a faint French accent, but speaking Arabic requires the production of several different sounds. Native Arabic speakers are usually able to pick up other languages with ease, without a really strong accent. Native French speakers, who don’t speak other languages, unless they’re really gifted, always speak foreign languages with a really heavy French accent.” I paused, sizing up what he thought of my diatribe at this point. I wasn’t sure. “So I’ll say that you grew up in France, speaking French with your father and Arabic with your mother, but came to the US with your family when you were . . . about . . . thirteen years old.”
“Fifteen,” he corrected.
“Close enough.” I smiled, a genuine smile. In fact, I felt that it was the first genuine smile I had ever given him.
He was still sizing me up. “That’s impressive.”
“I told you; I’m not a freaking moron.” I smiled again. I tempered my cursing a little bit because I had the feeling that he didn’t like it, not that I cared about what he liked.
“But how did you know that my mother was from Lebanon? She could have been from another Arabic-speaking country.”
“That was just a good guess,” I admitted. “Lebanon is the most liberal of the Middle Eastern countries. If your mother married a non-Arab, her family is probably Christian or very liberal Muslims, likely from Lebanon. Lebanon is also a former French colony. French is still taught there, even today. France sent their military over during the war, so it makes sense that your father met your mother there. Likewise, if your mother’s family fled Lebanon before your mother met your father, it makes sense that they would go to France, where they spoke the language and could get visas. So which was it?”
“They met in Lebanon,” he answered without missing a beat.
“So your father was French military?”
Tarek nodded.
“Very interesting,” I said, meaning it. It was also incredibly romantic, how his parents met, I surprised myself by thinking.
“But you’re wrong about one other thing,” he said then.
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms. “What would that be?”
“I’m twenty-nine years old, not twenty-eight,” he smiled.
“That’s irrelevant.” I paused, looking at him. I couldn’t help smiling again, another genuine smile. He seemed to relax a little bit more.
“So are we done with introductions now and can we please start studying?”
“Sure.” His grin was from ear to ear. “Since you said ‘please.’ ”
My initial impression about him after our first conversation, when he had asked me to study with him, had been correct. He was intelligent, sharp and quick-witted. I found myself trying to stay two to three steps ahead of him in my analysis of the cases. He had actually done the reading, too, and had prepared notes. That was exactly how I studied. I said as much.
“Oh my God,” I said, grinning in spite of myself and shaking my head.
“What?” Tarek asked.
“I think you study exactly like I do.”
“Really?” He was smiling now too.
“Yeah, I—everyone thinks I’m crazy because I try to read the cases beforehand, and then take notes on the important stuff, the rules and how the cases are differentiated from other cases that apply the same rules, and then take notes in class, and then go over my class notes and my reading notes to make sure my outlines are as all-encompassing as possible.”
Tarek nodded, seemingly impressed. But I wasn’t sure if he really was impressed or if he was humoring me.
“I usually take notes when I read too,” he said. “Not too detailed, just the main points, like you said.” He paused. “You have time to do all that with a full-time job?”
I didn’t bother asking him how he knew I had a full-time job. He saw me in class in my work clothes and must have seen my work placard hanging around my neck, that ubiquitous Washington, DC accessory. Besides, I had already told him that I worked as a translator.
“I try. I don’t have much else to do, anyway.” I smiled a little.
“So you’re in the part-time program then?”
“Uh, yes, but that’s a misnomer. My friend and I call it the ‘evening program.’ Because the ‘part-time’ students,” using air quotes for ‘part time,’ “only take one less class than the full-time students.”
“Wow, that’s—impressive.” He paused. “It’s a lot.”
I shrugged. “I like to be busy.”
I was hungry and took out a bag of frutos secos. I offered some to Tarek and he took some, thanking me.
Frutos secos was an interesting term, I pondered for a moment. It was the Castilian Spanish term for “trail mix,” but the Spanish always translated it as “dried fruits,” which wasn’t accurate, since it was made up of nuts, raisins and other varied snacks, which perhaps included, but not necessarily, some actual bits of dried fruit. But “dried fruits” was a poor translation. It was an illustration of how you couldn’t translate everything literally.
“What are you thinking about?” Tarek asked me then.
“Nothing,” I shrugged.
“Oh, you looked like you were thinking about something.”
I shook my head, a little unnerved.
“Are you on a journal too?” Tarek asked me, shaking me out of my thoughts.
Ah, the law school journals and the associated hierarchy that came with them. Everyone, or almost everyone, aspired to be on “Law Review,” the university’s main law journal. Being on a journal meant that you spent most of your time checking citations and doing other similar tasks. It was a huge time suck. It did, however, mean that you got to write a “note,” that is, an article, which was usually published. The publication was certainly a feather in your cap. A ‘lesser’ journal was good too. All law firm recruiters, and all recruiters in general, thought it a positive thing for a student to be on a journal.
“No.” I smiled all of a sudden. “I’m too old for that shit. Checking citations and doing grunt work.” I paused. “What about you? What journal
are you on?”
“I’m not on one. I transferred so I can’t be on one.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. I couldn’t tell if he was glad or disappointed that he wasn’t on a journal. I figured that if he was half as ambitious as I was, he was somewhat disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to put that on his resume.
“I think you should consider yourself lucky. Someone as intelligent as you should not waste your time with it.”
He didn’t say anything. I reconsidered what I had just said. “I’m not saying that people on journals aren’t intelligent,” I explained. “But it’s mostly menial work, and I’m not sure how intellectually stimulating it is, other than writing the note. I mean—for people who went to law school right after undergrad and haven’t really worked, it’s a great thing to have on their resume.” I didn’t want to come off as snobby. Then I wondered why I cared about how I appeared to this man.
“Oh, I agree,” he said then. “I was just surprised that you called me intelligent.” He smiled, piercing me with his eyes.
My cheeks were suddenly hot. Oh my God, I had referred to him as intelligent. With my light skin, I knew my cheeks were probably really red by now.
But I played it down. I leaned back nonchalantly. “You know that.”
“Know what?”
“You know that I think you’re intelligent. Because I would never agree to study with someone who wasn’t.”
He smiled again.
I looked at my watch. It was 12:45.
“Can we do one more hour?” I asked him.
“Sure.”
“Do you mind if we do Property?” I loved our Crim Pro class, but I needed more help with Property, not that I would ever tell him that.
“Whatever you want.” He smiled.
Whatever I want. I smiled inwardly.
“Well, I want a lot of things.” Wait, what? Why would I say that?
“Well, which of those things can I help you with?” He said immediately. His smile appeared flirtatious now.
OK, I would put an end to this.
“Right now, with adverse possession.” I smiled outwardly now.
“OK,” Tarek said.
I’d like to adversely possess him, I thought. Then I giggled at my own lame joke.
“What’s so funny?” Tarek asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Like I said, adverse possession.”
We were packing up to leave. “Did you drive here?” I asked Tarek.
“No, I took the metro.”
I was surprised. “But there’s always track work on the metro on the weekends. And this weekend there aren’t any parades or roadblocks or anything. It’s easier to drive.”
“Yes, but my car is at the mechanic. Hopefully, I can pick it up tomorrow.”
“Your BMW?”
“Yes, it’s about twelve years old. My uncle bought a new car recently and he gave me that one so I would have a car when I came here.”
I suddenly remembered my comment last Thursday about him owning a BMW. I felt bad.
We picked up our stuff and began to walk toward the main door.
“So where did you transfer from?”
“I was in Miami.” He told me the name of the school.
“So why come to DC? I mean, that school is a really good one. And besides, you can’t beat the weather down there.”
“I wanted to be in DC. I thought I might want to do something involved with politics.”
Oh, great. I thought. One of those people.
“I’m sorry to tell you, but you can’t be president since you’re a naturalized citizen.”
“I know.” He looked at me, and then realized that I was suppressing a smile. “Oh, you’re joking.”
“Well, yes, but that’s also a true statement. It’s in the Constitution. Maybe you haven’t read it. I have a copy at home I can lend you.”
“Ha ha,” he mocked me. “I have read it.”
“Well, sometimes I think a lot of the people in this country haven’t.”
“That may be true,” he agreed, but I wasn’t sure if he was saying that just to agree with me.
“But you would have read it because you’re in the Federalist Society,” I said a bit playfully.
“Yes, that’s right.” Then he added, “I was surprised to see you there.”
“I was surprised to see you there,” I countered.
We were outside. I made an executive decision. Whether it was a bad one or a good one, I couldn’t say.
“Look, can I give you a ride home? I have my car here. It’ll take you forever on the metro with the track work they’re doing.”
He looked at me and seemed to be weighing something in his mind.
“You don’t mind?”
“No. Seriously, I don’t mind.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“It’s OK. My car’s on this block.” I had managed to find a prime parking space.
We walked to my car in silence. I drove a black compact car, easy for jetting around the city. In my true fashion, I had my vocal bumper stickers all over the back, including my NRA sticker and another that read “Proud Conservative.” The Millennials hated them. Most of the ones I knew were intolerant of anyone with views that diverged from their own.
I went directly to the trunk and opened it.
“Here,” I told Tarek, “you can put your stuff in here.”
“Thanks,” he smiled.
We got in the car. “Pentagon City, right?” I asked as I started the car.
“How did you know where I live?”
“I saw you leaving the metro the other night, remember? I assume that’s where you live.”
“Oh, yeah.” He smiled.
“Geez, you make me sound like I’m stalking you,” I said. “Honestly, I have much better things to do with my time.” Then I added, as if an afterthought, “And I have no trouble getting men anyway. I don’t need to stalk them.”
“Oh, really?” He seemed interested.
I shrugged. I pulled out from the parking space and got going.
I could feel electricity in the air; the silence seemed to underscore it.
Tarek touched the crucifix I had hanging from my rearview mirror. It was made of wood; I had bought it in Barcelona a while ago.
Lara had laughed at me about it. “You’re so Latina,” she had said. But I liked having it there.
“You’re Catholic?” Tarek asked me.
“Well, I was raised Catholic. Both my parents are.”
“So you go to church?”
“I go to church regularly.” That was a true statement, but not entirely. I was suppressing a smile.
“If you ever want company, I’ll go with you. I should go more often.”
I was shocked. Was he asking me to go to church with him? What the hell? Sometimes I thought I had this guy figured out, but other times I felt that I was totally off base.
“You’re Catholic?” I didn’t believe him.
“Yes,” he nodded.
Wait, that made some sense, I thought. His French father would most likely have been Catholic, although most French people didn’t really practice as far as I knew.
“So your mother is Christian too?”
“Yes. Some people in her family are Christian, and some are technically Muslim but they don’t really practice.” He looked at me and smiled. “Like you said.”
We sat in silence for a moment or two. I was thinking.
“Well, thanks for the offer, but I only go to church twice a year,” I told him.
“I thought you said you went regularly.”
“I do. I go every Christmas and Easter, regularly.”
I couldn’t help laughing at my lame joke.
“Oh, my God,” he said, looking out the window and shaking his head.
“But I should go more often. Besides, I haven’t been to confession since I was like twelve years old.” I had so much to confess, the priest would probably make me say like five hundred ro
saries. I was dreading it.
“I haven’t been in a long time either,” Tarek said.
There was silence for a couple more moments. I was still trying to figure him out.
Then Tarek spoke. “So are you deliberately provocative?”
I didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”
“All your bumper stickers. It’s like you’re deliberately trying to piss off ninety-nine percent of the population of this city.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, in mock seriousness. “You must have confused me with someone who gives a shit what people think about her.”
Tarek laughed. “Pardon me,” he said, putting his hand to his chest.
“Is that a dealbreaker for you?” I asked then.
“What?”
“My bumper stickers. Are they a dealbreaker?”
“What do you mean?”
Maybe he doesn’t get the slang, I thought.
“Are they a dealbreaker? Are they something that would prevent you from being my friend?” I explained.
“No,” he said definitively. “The contrary, actually.”
“You’re joking.” I didn’t believe him.
“No, I’m not.”
“There’s no way you agree with them.”
“Why not?”
“No one like you would.”
“What do you mean ‘like me’?” His eyebrows were furrowed.
“Well—I mean—” I motioned toward him with my hand, “You’re of Middle Eastern background.”
“So?” He shrugged.
“No one from the Middle East would think like that,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, so you’ve met every person from the Middle East?”
“No, but, not if you believe the media.”
“So you believe everything the media says?” Tarek asked.
“Wait, what?” I was confused. “I’m the one who always says that to Josh, that the media always tells the same old story, that he should branch out and read all kinds of news sources.”
“People need to read everything. No source is objective.”
“I completely agree.” I looked at him.
I was in some alternate universe, with a Middle Eastern man who didn’t believe the mass media, who agreed with my bumper stickers? I expected myself to wake from this dream any second.