by Roxane Gay
The night of their big fight in her apartment, after her date, Rahad sat up, watching his daughter sleep. The couch faced her bed, and the lights of the iron-and-fog city streamed in through gauze-thin curtains, so that he could watch her chest rise and fall. He followed its rhythms like a slow song, a ritual he had invented when she was a girl, in the days after her mother died and he worried that his daughter, too, would simply neglect to wake up one morning. Yasmine thought he had no dreams, but he had big dreams. He didn’t escape the daily terrors of working in Tehran’s creative underground to live a dull life, to be a clone of everyone else, to freely relinquish all imagination. Maybe Yasmine thought he was a disappointment to his own father, but she knew nothing of the old man. He had named him Rahad. Rahad, traveler. Rahad, a musical note.
He was glad he hadn’t confessed to needing her address—the driver’s license would sort itself, as small things always do.
In the afternoon Yasmine called. Surely her neighbor had seen him linger outside her door, knocking and waiting. But she only said, “Got anything new for me?”
He was already on his feet, unzipping his leather bag. “I stumbled onto an old man in Kenya who’s been singing in the same village for fifty years. The Internet has put up five pages for him—lots of respect from the world. Let me see what I have here.” He rifled through his bag for effect; he had already chosen the four songs he would send her. He added in English, “Poor Baba joon would roll in grave knowing we listen to Kenyan man . . . He would roll right onto antique sitar he should have left to me.”
Yasmine laughed. “Baba joon, stop that silly bazi,” she said, her code since childhood that he should continue. “The Internet isn’t a person.” He imagined her head thrown back, scratching the spot on her chin where she had a careless habit of resting her pencil tip. Ever since grade school, she wondered aloud where the spot came from, and to this day she thought it was a mole. He loved dreamy, distracted Yasmine; not the eyeliner tech jockey, but a girl who was human and original and full of absurdities.
“If Internet is not person,” he said in English, “then why you work for him?”
She giggled. He recalled that on the day the Internet had put up his websites, the ones honoring his career, he went to a café, ordered an espresso, and read every page, nostalgia quickening and stinging his heart. Did Yasmine remember those glorious days? Apparently the Internet did. He marveled at this vital force in the world, one that hadn’t existed when his dying father had lamented his legacy, pleading, Who will play my songs? Here, two decades later, was an answer from the cosmos, an unseen deity that recognizes you, remembers you, commemorates you when your daughter won’t.
“Do you notice ever how much time is spent just in logistical doing?” Wyatt asked. They were in the Laundromat down the street from the Y, and he was carefully folding his Statue of Liberty T-shirt, which, by Rahad’s count, was one of twelve America-themed shirts he owned, every last one permanently soaked in imitation Acqua di Giò. In Rahad’s two weeks at this YMCA, Wyatt had visited every day. They had held four kitchenette jam sessions, with steadily growing attendance. Last time they even had a singer, a graying Vietnamese woman with a reedy voice like a parakeet. Often, Rahad had heard her crying in her room, her voice unmistakable. But that day, she had wandered into the kitchenette at the first sounds of music and sat on a stool, unmoving. With faraway eyes she watched Rahad play a classic Viguen tune, then she simply started to sing in her own tongue, stumbling now and then to follow the music, creating something broken and lovely. The heroin addict scavenging for food in the cupboards stopped muttering and turned to listen. Wyatt grinned with sad pleasure and quieted the rhythm of his bucket to make room for her small voice.
“I notice that, yes,” said Rahad, as he packed the last of his own shirts into a mesh bag. “You try to live simple and free but you still need place to do washing, place to cook food, to rinse a dish. Is all automatic in old life, but now just being awake takes up all the time.” Each morning Rahad locked his door and carried all his toiletries and towel back and forth to the shared bathroom. He undressed in his room, put on his clean clothes, and hung them up on a hook near his shower stall, hoping they wouldn’t be stolen. He carried his bowl and spoon to the kitchen for every meal, washed them immediately after eating, and carried them back. No food was safe there, and he had no fridge, so he ate in diners often and shopped daily based on that morning’s cravings. If he still had a car, he would keep his cash and papers in the trunk along with a cooler of water—a relief in summer, but mostly an excuse to fetch cash from the car without drawing attention. It seemed that something vital, a certain dignity perhaps, was lost in all this carrying of things.
“For damn sure, my friend,” said Wyatt, nodding and shaking his head at the same time. “That is a true. A big, big true. You empty out, and life refills itself with shit.”
“Then suddenly you’re in your car with all your clothes like an avareh,” Rahad joked. Wyatt laughed at this Farsi word they now shared. Vagrant. Itinerant. Drifter.
“And sons don’t see this,” said Wyatt, suddenly sad. Wyatt, Rahad now knew, had a grown son in Houston, an engineer and family man. “They see only what you don’t do. They say you do nothing. They don’t see the thousand CV papers you sent to this director and that director, the ten thousand doors you knocked on. You think, ‘I must get these things quick.’ Only you can’t control the getting.”
“Your English is improving, sahib,” said Rahad, hoping to cheer up his friend.
After a moment Wyatt returned to his usual happy tone, his singsong affectation, which by now Rahad was convinced had a purpose, even if it was buried too deep even for Wyatt to know. Was he a DC native as he claimed, or a new immigrant as he seemed? He never spoke of India, avoiding the topic and insisting that he was American born. Yet the posturing was comically pronounced. Rahad didn’t ask what demon made the man muddle his past. When asked about such things, he had long known, most people lie, and even if they aim for honesty, they only ever hit near the mark. “World is no respect,” said Wyatt, “until nosy neighbor sees you have own oven. Now you can make sandwich, now you’re OK. Now only—not before—they come to say, ‘If ever something is needful, you must ask.’ Funny backward business.” He chuckled and flung his laundry bag over his shoulder.
For three weeks, Rahad watched the Vietnamese woman drag herself in and out of the kitchenette, her loneliness like iron boots. Late in the second week, after a night of sharing music, she had left a pot of spiced soup outside his door. He found out from Wyatt that she had lived there for years, received food stamps, and always found someone to whom she might offer her soup. She spent her days reading her own diaries in the local mall and carefully sorting through mail from Publishers Clearing House. Her downturned eyes and drooping eyelids, like wilted petals, made Rahad want to have a drink with someone new, to talk.
In the local library’s computer cluster, he joined a dating website for older singles. He uploaded a photo of himself from three years before, holding his sitar, not quite smiling, but not looking grim either. All in all, he thought the photo captured his personality and mood. In his description he wrote:
Iranian music man, 54, seeking liberal musical woman with educated children. I can cook Iranian food. I can play all music. I will be kind. I have a little money.
That should capture it, and it seemed savvy, too; Yasmine had warned him that the Internet was full of people looking for free money. He read the profile to Wyatt, who gave several hearty nods before becoming distracted by an email from his son.
The first woman who caught Rahad’s eye was a pretty, fifty-something widow named Susan. She had bright blue eyes, a gray bob, and one front tooth that overlapped the other as if in fifty years she hadn’t thought to fix it, a quality that reminded him of his late wife. But before he could write to her, he had his first message. At the chime of the messenger, Wyatt rolled his chair toward Rahad and began reading over his shoulder.
/> “Aha, a beauteous one,” he said. “Do one thing, scoot your chair. Read, read.”
Rahad shifted over. The message was from a thirty-year-old woman with fire-red hair, posing in a small orange skirt beside an enormous pool. It said:
Hello sweetie. How is your day going and wats going on with you? Your profile much attracted me and I believe we can work something out between each other. I’m Elizabeth, 30 years old, from Carolina, much looking for man of my life. You have such a beautiful spirit, and you are so handsome. Tell me about yourself. What do you do? Write me at [email protected]
“Oh my goodness,” said Wyatt, “I am pissing myself. You caught such a good catch so quick into it! Say to her she looks like angel of light fallen from firmament.”
“She is same age like Yasmine,” said Rahad, trying to hide his shock for Wyatt’s sake. “Why she ask what I do? I already say music man.”
“Who gives the fucks?” said Wyatt, who seemed on the verge of ripping out his own beard. “Maybe she’s being busy fighting men off with stick! Write her.”
Rahad kicked away Wyatt’s chair and replied:
Hello young lady. Why you are writing the old men? I am from Iran with daughter your age. You are very kind. Good luck finding man of life.—Rahad
“Oh, you fool!” Wyatt slapped both hands on his face and leaned back in his chair. “You big, big Iranian fool. I cannot be enduring this not one small bit. I cannot.”
Two minutes later, Elizabeth wrote again:
Rahad, what a nice name. I can see you are very soulful. I’m so much glad you wrote back. In your answer I can see you could be the kind of person I can spend my life with. Age is nothing. Love is all that matters. I am Liz, and I’m 30 from Carolina, but I have degree from Harvard. I need older man to keep me intellectually satisfied. You seem like a good man. What do you do? Please write me at [email protected]
“Oh holy gods, she is not giving up, this one,” said Wyatt. “Write to her that she is a flower. Say, ‘World has no first-class creation better than beautiful woman.’”
Rahad batted away his friend’s hand, which was dancing between Rahad’s nose and the computer screen. He had to admit, he felt encouraged by the attention. As a young man in Iran, he had enjoyed the attention of many women. He had fans. Now, he took a moment to reread Elizabeth’s words before he replied: “I am musician from Iran.” Succumbing to a tinge of vanity, he added:
I was famous there in old days. Is very impressive that you go to Harvard. What you study? My daughter is your age and she goes there for university! She is Eliot House and computer science. You are same year maybe? You know her? What house? She is Yasmine Sokouti.
“Excellent response,” said Wyatt with a smack of his lips. “You wised up very much. First-class message.”
Moments later, his computer pinged: “Rahad, I see online that you have nice history in Iranian music.” Here Wyatt interrupted. “What she is meaning?” he said, his bunched fingers in Rahad’s face as if he were offering him a plum. “Do one thing, be googling yourself for me right now, right this second.” Rahad waved away the request and continued reading:
I won’t lie, I thought you were some scammer. But I didn’t have enough trust. You must have trust too. Asking me about what year and what I studied and if I know your daughter shows no trust. I so much wish you would believe when I say so about Harvard. Now I am not sure if I wish to read back from you, unless you are serious about finding a Trusting, Loving, Cherishing, Mutual relationship based on TRUST.
“Ohhh. Crazy, crazy bitch,” whispered Wyatt. “Was too good from beginning.”
Rahad laughed. “We are too much the dreamers, Wyatt joon.”
“Maybe she’s not fully, totally crazy in real life,” muttered Wyatt, leaning on his hand as he continued staring at Elizabeth’s photo.
Rahad shook his head. “When Yasmine says word trust a hundred times in one talk, is because she lies by skin of teeth. And no mention that real Harvard people wear details on forehead like war paint.” He typed Elizabeth’s email address into a search engine that Yasmine had shown him. “Shame,” he muttered. “Is on list of scam.”
He logged out of the computer and gathered his things while Wyatt cursed their luck. “What cluster of fucks. Bitches always have surprise in sleeves, I tell you.”
“What if tonight we cook our own food?” said Rahad, suddenly eager to eat a Persian meal again. “Maybe we cook a nice kabob or a stew with rice.”
“Oh yes,” said Wyatt. “They have best Punjabi food in DC. We make with DC method, uses more turmeric than cumin, much nicer.”
When Rahad finished packing his bag, he saw that Wyatt had googled his name and was shaking his head at the photos on one of the three big websites dedicated to Rahad’s work. Wyatt clicked on a snapshot of Rahad with his head hung, cradling his favorite sitar, the instrument mostly obscured by his longish black hair. Rahad remembered that night and that photo. Yasmine had taken it from atop the shoulders of a distant uncle during Rahad’s final concert in Tehran, just before they left the country. “I cannot read these Farsi writings, bro, but you are being modest before. Very modest.”
“Internet does what it wants with informations,” said Rahad, trying not to smile.
They strolled to a local discount market. In the produce aisle, Wyatt rushed ahead to find this and that, while Rahad checked items off a list. “Look at sea of onions people throw to floor,” Wyatt groaned, craning his neck to see under the vegetable racks.
Rahad asked, “Do you think perhaps I am more Internet savvy after today?”
“Back in slum this is big, big crime!” said Wyatt to the onions. He added quickly, “Back in slum of DC.” Rahad just stared at his list. “Oh yes, yes,” Wyatt finally replied. “For sure. We thwarted lady romance scammer right in her tracks. Or maybe we have turned down super-delicious young redhead with Harvard degree. Either way, we most definitely did not do something not savvy. So, well done, sir.”
The next morning, Wyatt brought him naan from his sink again, and Rahad offered him a story—an even trade in both their cultures. He told his neighbor about his broken computer, the sleepless nights he had spent on Yas’s couch. He told Wyatt about the Thanksgivings Yasmine had spent as a guest of her friends or classmates, and about the famous ustad Sokouti and his palatial home wrapped around a Moroccan-style courtyard. He described the wash pool shaded by persimmon and plum trees, the vines that trimmed the high walls, the array of shapely string instruments lined up against the brick, tall or dainty or rotund, like bandmates waiting to play, and the pretty maid washing spoons and bowls and kitchen towels among the goldfish. In summer days, his baba joon walked around the garden in loose pants and a large straw hat, picking sour plums from the trees, sucking them through his gray moustache and shaking his head with pleasure. He was a large man with a full face and a wrestler’s gait, but gentle, always humming, and his house was full of delicious smells and sitar music. Lost now, all that.
Wyatt murmured, “American children always are wanting more.”
Later in the week, Wyatt waved two bus passes like they were winning lottery tickets and announced that they were going to New York. Rahad accepted, and when Wyatt told him to bring his sitar, he shrugged—his sitar was always with him. Maybe Yasmine had time for a coffee. He left her a message at work. At the bus stop, he sat quietly, hands on knees. Wyatt chatted on, almost to himself. “In DC, you know, they are putting fake bus bench outside old folks’ home. Very realistic. You know why? So Alzheimer folks don’t get on real bus thinking they are going to who knows where. Is that not brilliant? Sometimes I am sitting here, and I am thinking, Maybe I finally made it to Alzheimer bus bench. Maybe I am ninety, imagining myself sitting here with you, new friend, Irani music man, but really I am sitting next to a toy sign made of flimsy paper.”
In Times Square, though the stench of piss and car exhaust and roadside hot dogs sickened Rahad, he followed dutifully behind his friend, clutching his sitar a littl
e closer each time someone bumped into him. They stopped at a loud corner near a subway stop and Wyatt turned. “You will be playing here.”
Rahad laughed. Then he saw that his friend was serious.
“Who knows who will be walking by and hearing you,” said Wyatt, eyes alight. “Internet is nothing: this is the absolute very center of New York! You play. You get discovered. Done and dusted.”
What harm could come of it? Rahad thought. He situated himself on a YMCA blanket his friend had brought, took out his sitar, and though the sounds of taxis, tourists, vendors, and fellow architects of harebrained stunts drowned him out, he began to enjoy the adventure. He could now say that he had played in Times Square. What Tehrani musician could say that? Maybe the Internet would catch wind of it and post a photo. Briefly the world felt as it had in his younger days, when he strummed and others snapped photos of him that would appear in unknown parts of the city.
