by Karen Hill
Half an hour later, they hurried down the street towards Ruby’s flat, with only the footsteps of a few people starting off to work disturbing the stillness of the morning. Every few steps they stopped, enveloping each other, exploring each other’s mouths, slowly mimicking the whirling dance of a few hours earlier, crushed so close that they could inhale the scent of the sex billowing up between them.
They stayed in bed for three days. Each morning, Ruby called in sick, going out only to buy börek and kebabs. They sat naked on the floor and ate greedily, licking crumbs from the other’s chins, Ruby giggling wildly, slapping frantically at Issam’s hand as his fingers roamed deep inside her. Their sex was heady, fogged up by the endless joints they smoked before and after. He liked to make love side by side; he would let his hands wash over her body, describing colour and shapes as he savoured the silky skin beneath his fingers.
“You are my canvas,” he would whisper.
When they weren’t making love, he talked of how men had to discover the female within them, of how he wanted to express this in his painting, for that was what he did when he wasn’t working at Babanussa.
They continued to see each other regularly. In the following months their best times were spent dancing late at night at Satchmo’s, a discotheque across the street from Babanussa. There the dance floor became their playground, where they twirled and teased, dancing to the sounds of Miriam Makeba and Nina Simone, oblivious to the people around them. When they were too enervated to dance any longer, they would slink back to Babanussa and sip coffee, talking to Ali until their bodies begged for the sweet release that only sex and sleep would bring.
Ruby became a regular at Babanussa, ducking into the kitchen to watch how Ali used a couscousière and made ful and falafel. For each plate of ful, they would mash cooked fava beans with garlic, onion, tahini and olive oil, adding cumin, coriander, cardamom and lemon juice to taste. The beans would be spread out on a plate and then topped with finely chopped tomato, feta cheese and parsley and drizzled with more oil. It was served with Turkish bread, much thicker than a pita. They would rip off pieces of bread and dip it into the ful. It was simple but sublime. The cooked chickpeas that they used to make falafel were ground up in a meat grinder along with onions, garlic and lots of parsley. Then Ali added cumin, baking soda and an egg before frying them. They were never too oily—crunchy on the outside, soft and flavourful on the inside. He made a sauce with yogurt, tahini and lemon juice to serve on top. One thing was for sure: you would never go hungry at Babanussa.
Issam’s voice rang out from her phone almost every day, wanting to do things and go places. But Ruby liked having time on her own and with her friends, without a man around, and Issam let her breathe in and breathe out. He let her move where she wanted, when she wanted, catching her only when she was ready to return. They took in movies at the repertory cinemas as often as they could. He talked to her about the greats of African cinema, taught her about people she had never heard of before. She had never been this comfortable with a man.
Then one day he told her that he was married. “I have a German wife but we don’t live together anymore. Most importantly, I have a son, Magdi.”
Ruby was floored. “What do you mean, you’re married? Where is she? How long have you been apart?”
Issam explained that they had met in Portugal and had come to Berlin to get married four years ago. His son was three and a half years old. He said they just didn’t get along anymore, that he couldn’t stand living with her and so he left.
Ruby was not impressed. “You mean you left her alone with your child? Where is he? Where are they?”
He said that they were in Berlin, and that he visited his son frequently. “In fact, I’d like to know if I can bring him to your place sometime soon. Maybe he could stay there with us for a while. What do you think?”
Ruby stuttered her agreement, but in truth she didn’t like the questions that were beginning to surge. She felt caught in turmoil, because she knew she was falling in love with Issam. She wondered at her reaction, and this new-found love of hers gave her a little more understanding of Werner and his misgivings.
Issam would often play tricks on her at night, constructing grotesque creatures out of brooms, hats and pillows that would leer out of a corner of the darkened bathroom, forcing her to shriek when she went in to wash off the sticky milk that still clung to her thighs hours after their lovemaking. Late at night when there were no more games to play, no more stories to tell, no more smiles spreading over the horizon that was his face, she watched him secretly. She recognized the weariness that spilled out of him. She lay listening to this wind breathe its tired barcarole over her bones, calling to her.
Ruby and Issam raced each other from the subway to Café Babanussa. Laughing and out of breath, they flung open the doors and stepped into what had become a little corner of Africa for Ruby. They were hungry and ready to order lunch. It wasn’t often that they found themselves there midday, and the place was almost empty. Ali was behind the counter, wisps of grey hair framing his face. On the other side sat a man on a stool. Plump, with trousers that were slightly frayed at the bottom and a plain, beige cardigan, he looked to be in his mid-fifties. Listening to his accent, Ruby thought he might be South African, but was unsure. He stopped talking and took his fill of her, his muddy brown eyes gazing up and down. Issam went to the counter to order some falafel, and Ruby sat down at a nearby table. She didn’t like eating sitting on a stool.
Ali introduced Issam and Ruby to his friend. “This is Winston, Winston Mbeki, an old friend. We studied together in Moscow.”
Winston looked point-blank at Ruby and asked, “Eh, where are you from?”
Ruby gave her usual perfunctory reply.
“Miss, if you don’t mind, tell me what you are.” His voice had taken on a harsh tone, and his once full lips were tightened into a tenuous smile.
“What—what do you mean?” asked Ruby.
“Exactly what I said. What are you?”
Ruby glanced around for help and squirmed in her seat. “I’m Black,” she stammered. “Well, my father’s Black and my mother’s white.”
“I didn’t ask you about your parents. This is the problem with people like you. Diluting the race and then not admitting to your own colour.”
“I said I’m Black. What do you mean, diluting the race?”
“People like you, mixed-race babies, turning the world into an unfortunate shade of grey. What do you know about blackness, really?”
Ruby chewed her lip in sullen silence. “I was raised by a Black parent, one who taught me to be aware of my forebears and their contributions. I am surrounded by Black people here most of the time, my boyfriend is African and I will eventually choose to have a Black child. And my skin colour doesn’t make me any less Black. That’s the external stuff, but that’s gonna have to be good enough for you.”
“A Black child, eh? That would make you feel better, I guess.”
Ruby wanted to smack the sarcasm right off his lips. “My child will never have to suffer such an inane line of questions from the likes of you. Nobody will ask ‘What is she?’”
“Ah, so you are choosing allegiances. Black over white . . .”
“Yes, I am.”
Ali interrupted. “Enough. Ruby, you should know that in Sudan we are many, many different colours. Babanussa is a town in the heart of Sudan, and if you came to visit me there, as I hope you will one day, people would accept you as their sister just as you are.”
Issam added, “Don’t listen to Winston. You know everybody here sees you as Black and as one of the crowd.”
Ruby was murmuring to herself, “I am Black, I am Black, I’m Black.” She felt grateful for having been accepted into the club. The feeling of belonging to one race, as opposed to none, empowered her.
Soon Issam started begging Ruby to let him move in. He was roaming, staying with different friends night after night, and he couldn’t see why they couldn’t just
live together. Ruby was scared.
She called Emma the next day to sound her out. “Issam wants to move in with me. I don’t know what to do. I’m not used to sharing my space with someone. What do you think?”
“I think you practically live together already. Seriously, he’s a sweet guy. He’s really good with people at the café. He’s got a job and he’s an artist. What more could you want? What are you afraid of?”
“Well, it’s pretty soon after the debacle with Werner. Even we didn’t really live together most of the time. That saved me, too—having my own place. Where would I have gone, otherwise? So I wonder, what if it doesn’t work out?”
“You can’t always be wondering ‘what if?’ I know you really care for him a lot. You two fit together well. Go for it.”
Later that day Ruby sat talking with Issam.
“Ruby, I’m not asking you to marry me. You won’t have to worry about me—I cook, I clean, I look after myself. You know I have my friends, you have yours. We won’t be together all the time.”
Ruby looked at his sunny, smiling face and melted. She felt nervous about the situation, but he was a very easygoing man, and that might make it easier to get along on a daily basis. She cared so much for him that she couldn’t turn him down. She’d have to trust that it would work out.
Issam was busy cooking in Ruby’s kitchen with two Sudanese friends. They had the door closed and were singing loudly to some music on the cassette deck. But the singing was broken up by Issam’s constant coughing. His son, Magdi, came tearing out of the bedroom at the far end of the apartment.
“Daddy, are you okay?”
“Just fine, son, just fine.”
Their meal was quieter than usual that night, even though this was Magdi’s first visit. She enjoyed seeing him running and exploring the apartment, but she wasn’t sure if she’d feel the same way after a few days. Ruby was beginning to worry about Issam’s health. He had been coughing a lot and seemed worn down. But he, in his usual way, tried to make light of everything. They sat in a circle on the floor, with several plates resting on the newspapers scattered before them. Dipping pieces of crusty white flatbread into the spicy-hot shatta and then alternately into the bean, meat and salad dishes, they talked about friends, about Babanussa.
Ruby couldn’t look up from her plate, except to glare at Issam when he fussed at Magdi for the third time to eat his dinner. She carried the empty dishes back down the hall to the kitchen. She stacked them on the small counter, looked at the sink, sighed and returned to the living room. Issam said goodbye to their other friends and went off to bed with Magdi. Ruby followed an hour later.
Ruby undressed quickly and threw on an old T-shirt that had been slung carelessly over the back of a wooden chair. She went over to feel the tiles of the oven that reached to the ceiling, a rectangular ceramic tower. They were hot now. She grabbed the iron rod that was leaning up against the oven and bent down to scrape the ashes and clear the grid to let air pass to the hot coals that lay on it. The coals were glowing brightly, so she shut the larger of the two small iron doors, turning the knob tightly. She pulled over a metal pail that was already half filled with orange-coloured ash. Using a small shovel, she lifted ash and hot embers carefully into the pail, so as not to send the filthy dust flying into her face. She replaced the lid, screwed the bottom door shut and stood up fully, smoothing her hands out over her T-shirt to wipe off any dust.
Issam was lying next to Magdi on one of the mattresses that lay on the floor. Ruby bent down and picked up Magdi and carried him over to the other mattress a few metres away and covered him up. As Ruby crawled into bed, Issam rolled over towards her. The cat poked its head out from some corner, waiting impatiently for its nightly round of games with Ruby. Issam shooed it away. Then he started coughing. He couldn’t seem to stop himself, and as he pulled his hand away from his mouth Ruby could see that there was blood on his hand.
“Issam, you’re coughing up blood. You need to see a doctor right away!”
“Yes, I know. I don’t think it’s serious. Maybe I tore something in my throat.”
“No, I insist. You must see a doctor this week. Promise me you will.”
Issam nodded and then said, “Come here.” Then, pulling the T-shirt up over her head, he said, “Let’s take this thing off.” Her large breasts flopped lazily on top of each other as she lay on her side, facing him. Issam pulled at her nipples for a moment and then kissed her neck, her ears and her cheek. Then he pulled away and cupped her chin in his hand. Shaking his head, he said “No, don’t cry. I’m okay.”
But through the night his cough worsened. Ruby felt his forehead and he was steaming hot. She spent the next hour or so carefully wrapping cold, damp towels around his calves to help bring down his fever. After a long while he dozed off. She stared at the ceiling for half an hour before falling asleep, wondering what could be wrong.
In the morning, when she got up to leave for work, Issam, half-asleep, was stretched out on their bed, arms folded over his face. Saffron threads of light squeezed through the slats in the blinds and zigzagged across his dusky body.
All day long at the institute typing letters, filing papers, deflecting her boss’s assuming leer, doing the shitty secretarial work that her friends thought was a pretty good job for a Black chick from America, all bloody day long Ruby had worried about Issam.
She hadn’t seen him for two days, not since he had been coughing up blood that night at her apartment. She recalled the image of him curled up with his son on the bed in her back room and how hot and dry his skin had been in the night. The next morning he had still been asleep when she rolled off the mattress and knelt on the floor. Magdi’s tiny hand lay splayed across his father’s dreadlocks, like a spider web on the white sheet. He had crawled back into the bed with them. Ruby was learning to like the kid and wished he would come to visit them more often. She had covered Issam and the boy with a cotton duvet. Later that day she got a call from their friend Ali that Issam had been admitted to hospital. The doctors said it was tuberculosis.
The insistent whir of the electronic typewriter interrupted her reverie. It was past five. Ruby made a quick call to Emma to let her know what was going on and then tidied up her desk and threw on her jacket, hastily pushing knobs of braided black ribbon through frayed buttonholes. She hurried out of the office down winding, carpeted stairs. She waved to the security guard and left the grey maze where for three days of the week she was only “Fräulein Edwards.” She stopped at a corner snack stand to buy two doner kebabs before boarding the U-Bahn. Fifteen minutes later, the subway barrelled into Kurfürstendamm station. She took the stairs two at a time and caught a bus that wound through an endless circuit of downtown traffic, then along wide open avenues bursting with cafés until it reached the edge of the city. Staring wearily out the window, she watched as the tall, gracious buildings of Charlottenburg gave way to tiny houses.
Before she had known Issam, she would never have thought that two bodies could stay so entangled for the whole night, for nights on end. She had been pleased, almost proud, to find this African man with whom to spend her days and nights. Someone who understood why she loved and hated Berlin. Bombed-out shells of once glorious buildings crumbling on the edge of lush, ligneous parks; bicycles flowing past in an unbroken stream; young people playing out their politics riotously on the streets and partying all night with an urgency she had never known; bent, archaic women hissing at children who put their feet on vinyl subway seats; bimonthly visits to the Ausländerpolizei, “the police for foreigners,” who scrutinized their lives with hawklike intensity.
Decrepit yet exquisite, anarchistic and fascist, the city had intoxicated her for years. She was just twenty-one when she arrived in Berlin. Now twenty-four, she had drifted in and out of relationships with men, searching for something. Men who loved the exotic but not-too-dark tint of her skin, the frizzy wave of her hair. Men who sucked at her sweetness like a candy apple and spit out the core. The last one
had been long. Too long. She craved the vibrant feel of blackness around her again. Issam’s soft-spoken assuredness soothed her, anchored her. He understood.
Ruby passed through wrought-iron gates onto the sprawling hospital grounds and walked down a winding path flanked by chestnut trees in pink bloom. Midway down the path was a bench, its paint flaked off to reveal slats of cracked wood. She sat down, still clutching the soggy bag of doner kebabs, still smelling of garlic, tomato and lamb. She couldn’t bring herself to eat one, so she crumpled the bag and tossed it into the garbage can next to the bench. To her right the grounds sloped down to the edge of the lake. She contemplated the water’s jade veneer and the dull, grey concrete jutting out from the far shore. She wondered how many people had tried to escape over the Wall from that point and remembered hearing how mines had been laid out on the floor of the lake. Flinching at the thought, she stood up and followed the path to the front doors of the hospital.
Inside, old men sat around the corridors in wheelchairs. Others were clustered around a door at the far end of the hall, smoking. Ruby felt the eyes of nurses on her back as she passed the reception desk. In Room 19, she found Issam lying on a bed. She sucked her breath in sharply. Tubes sticking out of his chest drained yellowish fluid into a metal pan. Bags filled with clear liquid hung from poles, and another tube was jabbed into his arm. Fighting the urge to turn and leave, she sat down at his side and kissed his cheek. She nestled her head between his chin and shoulder.
His eyes were barely open but he touched her cheek and whispered, “I missed you.” He reached for her hand and held it for a moment. Then, gently, he pulled it under the sheets, moving it with slow, rhythmic strokes around the hollow of his stomach. He was wheezing.
Her hand kept tracing slow circles round and round and she could feel a tingling spread up from her thighs. As she watched her hand draw circles, her head began to spin. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but the words refused to come. Instead, she slid her head just below his chest and rested it there, watching his stomach rise and fall with his breath. She could feel Issam’s fingers running through her hair, down over the nape of her neck. She wondered about Magdi, if he was safe and whether both of them should be tested for TB. Nobody had said anything to her upon entering the hospital. Nobody had asked Issam about his close friends and partners. Again, she wondered if this lackadaisical attitude was part of the racism and xenophobia expressed towards foreigners. They were just left to stew there. She would call her doctor.