Copyright © Sonia Saikaley and Quattro Books Inc., 2012
The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise stored in an electronic retrieval system without the prior consent (as applicable) of the individual author or the designer, is an infringement of the copyright law.
The publication of The Lebanese Dishwasher has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.
Cover design: Diane Mascherin
Cover image: John Romano
Author's photograph: Nora Nesrallah
Typography: Grey Wolf Typography
Editor: Luciano Iacobelli
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Saikaley, Sonia
The Lebanese dishwasher / Sonia Saikaley.
Issued also in electronic format.
ISBN 978-1-926802-82-4 ISBN EPUB 978-1-926802-83-1
I. Title.
PS8637. A4495L42 2012 C813'.6 C2012-900348-4
Published by Quattro Books Inc.
89 Pinewood Avenue
Toronto, Ontario, M6C 2V2
www.quattrobooks.ca
For my family
One
“YALLAH," MY BOSS SHOUTS, swinging open the kitchen door and placing a few orders with the cooks. “You’re too slow, Amir. Faster. Wash those dishes faster. Yallah.” I plunge my hands deep into the hot water. I hate washing dishes. It makes me think of home. Not that I ever did this mundane task when I lived there. My mother took care of that. Took care of all those domesticated things. I guess you can say we weren’t a progressive Lebanese family, but is there such a thing? Maybe. But not my family. This foamy dishwater, for some strange reason, reminds me of the sea, and how I’d dive off a cliff and swim with all the strength my arms could muster, the white waves pushing against me.
As I wash the dishes, one by one, lathering soapsuds, polishing each plate as if it were a shiny pearl in the Mediterranean Sea, I close my eyes and see men wearing Speedos, chests and legs covered with hair. We’re Lebanese after all. I look down at my open-collared shirt and see a bush. I’ve thought about waxing my chest but it sounds too painful and I don’t mind the hair. It gives me character. Character. My boss shoots a look of disapproval at me, shaking his head, as he returns to the eating area. With the swinging door wide open, I look past him and watch the characters flitting in and out of this restaurant. Most of the patrons are Middle Eastern middle-aged men with round bellies and loud, abrupt voices.
I got this job about five years ago. The first job I had since I moved to Canada. The only job. It’s not that I haven’t tried to find something more meaningful; it’s just that it’s been difficult. Sighing, I look down and rub the rag across the dish in my left hand and try to remember a time since I’ve arrived here in which I found life meaningful. But I can’t think of any such moments. Now as I wash the dishes, I think dishwashing suits me. Five fucking years. Five years of soapsuds and sweaty armpits. Old cooks who’ve been here longer than me, who grunt out orders but won’t say ‘good morning’ or ‘good night’. This is meaningless work but it’s enough to pay for my room, shared bathroom and kitchen. And I guess it’s better than the alternative.
I slam a dish hard into the water, almost hoping it’ll break so I’ll get fired. Anger pulsates through my body until I’m shaking. I scrub harder and faster, glance across at the wall clock and realize that my shift is almost over. Dry hands and cold temperatures await me but I’d rather be outside in the frigid cold than in here with the steam of the water rising like a hot spring. When I lived in Lebanon, I’d sometimes take a bus to the small towns on the outskirts of Beirut and find a cave where I’d sneak in and listen to the spring water pour between ragged rocks. Bending down, I’d cup some water in my hands and drink it like that; it cooled my dry mouth. I suddenly laugh out loud. Me and water! Water. Water always seems to surround me. My destiny since birth, since conception I suppose. Wading, pushing, kicking in my mother’s uterus. I still remember Mama telling me how I kept her up most nights, jabbing her womb, pushing against her diaphragm, her bladder. You were a troubled child, she said scornfully, even before you entered this crazy world. I take one last look at the clock and lift my hands out of the scorching water, wipe them on a rag and put on my coat.
“Quitting time!” I shout at the cooks but they don’t look up. “Good night bastards," I whisper under my breath before pushing open the back door and walking through the parking lot. Graffiti is splattered on the stucco. Some Arabic words. For one second, the black, thick strokes almost make me feel that I’m still in Beirut dodging bullets and broken glass. Suddenly the restaurant door opens and one of the old cooks calls out my name. I turn around.
“Yeah, did I forget to wash a dish?” I ask abruptly.
Salem walks towards me and places his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t forget to come over to my place around seven. My wife has been slaving away in the kitchen.”
“Oh, yeah," I say softly. “I’ll be there. Don’t you cook at home?” I ask, looking into Salem’s deep-set eyes. He’s in his mid-fifties, round belly, but tall and broad-shouldered. I imagine he must’ve been quite handsome when he was younger with his full lips and long eyelashes. Now his broad shoulders droop and his long lashes are secondary to the dark circles under his eyes.
He laughs, squeezing my shoulders hard. “No, no. That’s woman’s work. My wife does all the cooking at home.”
“The cleaning, dishwashing and laundry too, I bet.”
“Of course! So, I’ll see you around seven?”
I nod and watch Salem enter the kitchen again, the smell of shish kabobs and fried kibbee balls wafting through the early evening air.
The vendor shaves off the seasoned meat from the rotisserie, the large knife in his hand moves quickly over the slab of chicken. Then he places these shaved pieces on pita bread, covers the meat with vegetables, squirts some garlic sauce and wraps it together before handing it to me. I thank the man, who goes on to serve the next person in line. I devour the chicken shawarma. I know I should be saving my appetite for later but I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. The restaurant sometimes lets me eat there for free but I always feel like a second-class citizen hidden in the kitchen, away from the regular customers. Even when I’d offer to pay, my boss would tell me to stay in the kitchen, that the tables are reserved for patrons. But I want to pay, that makes me a customer, I’d bark back. This only got me more dish duty. I guess Mama was right. I am trouble.
On the way home, I finish the last bite of the sandwich, garlic sauce drips down my chin, which I wipe with a crumpled napkin, and then I toss it and the wrapper into my neighbour’s trash can. When I unlock the front door, Denise greets me with a kiss. Denise is the other tenant in the house. We’ve been seeing each other for about five months. When I first met her, she said she loved Middle Eastern men. She grabs my hand and pulls me upstairs. I don’t even have time to remove my boots. She pushes me on the bed and undoes my pants. The springs of my old mattress creak with each movement. With my coat still on, she moves on top of me so fast that I groan and come in a matter of minutes. “Thanks, my Arabian prince!” she teases, blowing me a farewell kiss, already at the door. When she found out that my name means ‘prince’, she started calling me ‘Arabian prince’. My Arabian prince. But I’m not a prince. Far from it, I think.
I lift my head up and moan, “You shouldn’t love me. I’m trouble.”
She rushes back in and gives me another kiss on the mouth. I am ready to go again but she only looks down at my engorged cock and whispers, “Who said you’re trouble?”
“My mother.
”
“Well, she’s wrong. You’re handsome. Look at those big, brown eyes and curly hair. An Arabian prince!” She glances at my penis again and sighs, “Sorry, but I have to go to work. Maybe we can have a play date later on.”
“I’ll be home late. I promised one of the old cooks that I’d go to his place for dinner.” I laugh and peer down, “Don’t worry. My hand will take care of this.” I gyrate my hips.
“Naughty. On second thought, your Mom is right. You’re trouble.”
I grab a pillow and throw it in her direction. But she’s already out the bedroom door. “Have fun tonight. I’ll see you later.” I listen to her gentle footsteps fade away. Then I get up and walk to the bathroom. I glance at my face, rubbing the stubble on my chin before I strip off my clothes and slip into the shower.
When I return to my room, my flesh is still warm from the hot water and I’m almost tempted to crawl under the covers of my bed and sleep, just for a few minutes, but I know if I do this, I’ll fall into a deep sleep and won’t wake up in time for Salem’s dinner party, so I focus on getting dressed, slipping on a pair of navy dress pants and a grey sweater. My body is sluggish as I put on my coat and tie a scarf around my neck. I walk slowly down the hallway but then quicken my pace and take the front steps down two at a time.
Two
AMIR LOOKS OUT HIS bedroom window. It is dusk in Beirut and the sky appears calm, not clouded with debris and smoke. There are no sirens, no exploding bombs. Now slipping past his mother in the kitchen and out the apartment, Amir opens the door to the stairwell. Running down the steps two at a time, he stumbles on one and falls into the path of a man climbing up the stairs. His small hands grip onto the man’s waist and accidentally brush against the man’s crotch. The man pushes Amir away and shouts, “Watch where you’re going!”
Amir blushes, steps aside and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”
The man softens his expression and says, “It’s okay.” He has a mop of dark hair, long strands he pushes behind his ears. He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. There are grey streaks around his temple. Reaching his hand out, he rests it on Amir’s shoulder. “Next time be careful when you’re walking down these cement steps. You can really hurt someone and yourself too.”
The young boy smiles but then he hears his mother’s voice from the top of the stairs and he frowns. “Amir! Get back up here! Where do you think you’re going? It’s almost dinnertime.”
His shoulders tense but then relax when the man squeezes, leans into his face and whispers, “You should go home.”
“I know.”
“Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.” Amir waves and the man returns his farewell. When he reaches the top, he peers over and sees the man still staring at him. Amir waves again, hesitantly this time.
Entering the apartment, his mother greets him with a slap. “How many times have I told you not to talk to strangers?”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I ran into the man, so I was apologizing to him. That’s all. I was only saying sorry.”
She slaps him again; he winces and rubs the sting away with his palm.
“How many times have I told you not to run down the damn stairwell? Do you realize how dangerous that can be? You can trip and fall like you did tonight and what if a person isn’t there to catch you? Answer me!”
He jumps back and curls up against the wall but this doesn’t stop his mother from leaning closer to him; he can smell garlic on her breath and he rubs his nose slightly only to have his hand yanked away.
“You can hurt yourself, Amir.” And with sudden tenderness, she guides him into her hips and pats his head until his tears wet her apron. “You make me worry so much. You’re trouble, you know.” She lifts his chin and Amir looks up at her with damp eyes. “You’ve been trouble from day one. You know that, don’t you?”
He nods his head, flicks his tongue over the corners of his lips and tastes saltwater.
The next day, with his parents watching from a blanket on the beach, he dips his body into the sea and tastes sea salt as a wave brushes up to his half-closed mouth. His young brother, Naji, is sitting on the sand with a shovel and bucket. Piles of dirt surround the young boy, six years younger than Amir. He gives his younger brother a big wave and Naji lifts his shovel in salute. But then Amir turns back to the sea and leaps into it again, letting its waves wrap around his body as if they are a pair of hands, strong like those of the man who caught his fall. He can’t stop thinking about him and a certain sadness stings his eyes but he blinks and keeps swimming until he hears his mother holler, “Amir! Don’t go out too far! You’ll drown. Come back!” And for one brief moment, thinking about the man and what it would feel like to touch him down there again, Amir wishes he could drown in this sea, the sea he loves as much as Beirut itself. He knows it’s not right to think about the man in this way. After a while, he swims back to shore and holds his brother’s hand and walks towards his mother. She grasps the blanket between her fingers and flings it in the air, showering the boys with pebbles of sand.
He drags his sandalled feet along the beach behind his parents and brother until he reaches his father’s beige Mercedes. When he slips into it, the earth begins to shake. He sees his father’s face complicate with worry and knows something is wrong because his father rarely looks so serious; he’s always smiling, well, for the most part, Amir thinks. “A car bomb," he whispers to his wife, but Amir hears and turns around to see flames shooting up toward the blue sky. He hears shouts and cries too. Quickly, his father starts the car and presses his foot on the accelerator. They drive fast through the streets, past the carnage of mangled, burning metal, past other vehicles that also swerve and, for one second, Amir thinks his father might slam into something but he doesn’t. He keeps driving fast but then slows down when they reach an area desecrated with fallen buildings and blown up roads. Amir scrabbles up so he’s looking out the back window; he sees bodies under broken cobblestone. One appears to be small like his own and he hears someone cry and realizes it’s a child’s voice. Then he feels his mother’s hands tug on the back of his shirt, pulling him away. “Sit, Amir," she commands as though he’s a dog. But he remains kneeling on the back seat, the worn cushion rough against his bare knees. Only when his mother grabs his hair and pulls him back does he obey her. Hands clasped on his lap, he closes his eyes and imagines the man he’d met yesterday patting his hair back in place.
Three
THROUGH THE REFLECTION OF a parked car’s window, I bend over and pat down my hair, tousled by the wind. I straighten up and glance at Salem’s residence. It’s a two storey-house with a spacious front porch and red-shingled roof, something that reminds me of my grandparents’ home in Lebanon. As soon as I stand at the front door, I notice a window slightly open even though it’s below freezing and I can smell garlic and allspice. Before I can knock, the door flings open and Salem greets me with a kiss on both cheeks. “Ahlan!” he says in Arabic. Welcome. He rests his hands on my upper back and guides me into the living room where two teenagers sit watching television. “This is Amir. He works with me. He’s the dishwasher.” I cringe, don’t want to be reminded about my lousy job. “Say hello," he demands to his children.
The boy, who looks like he’s about seventeen, glances briefly away from an episode of The Cosby Show and mumbles hello while the girl gets up from the sofa and says with a wide-open grin, “I’m Neveen and that’s my brother Boulos.”
I reply, “Nice to meet you.”
Salem leads me to a sofa where I sit down and stare vacantly at the TV. Salem takes a seat next to me and asks in Arabic, “Do you understand all of my Arabic? The dialect is not too difficult, is it?”
I shake my head. “I understand most of the words.”
“My wife has made us a feast. Do you like fish?”
“Love it.”
“You know my brother was a fisherman in Gaza.”
“He doesn’t fish anymore?”
Salem looks down at
his hands and fidgets. “No, he…”
A woman in her late forties walks into the living room. Her dark hair is tied back in a bun and her face is covered with makeup, violet and pink eyeshadow streaks her eyelids and a dark shade of purple lipstick colours her full lips. “Amir, I’m Salem’s wife. Dinner’s ready everyone.” She doesn’t say her first name. Just Salem’s wife.
I stare at Salem and notice a wide grin forming on his mouth. He slaps my back and whispers, “She knows her place and who’s boss.”
I don’t reply nor smile, just enter the dining area, which is larger than my rented room.
Sitting at the table, I swallow the food as if I hadn’t just eaten a shawarma earlier and it’s as delicious as Salem had claimed. Several dishes of maza: taboulleh, hommus, baba ghanoush, olives and the main courses: stuffed grape leaves, fish and skewers of beef and chicken cover the large table. I don’t know where to begin. I haven’t had this sort of meal since leaving my homeland. As we are eating, the front door opens and I hear someone making his or her way down the hallway and into the dining room. When I look up, my mouth stuffed with pita bread and hommus, I notice a young man, with large dark eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee, cross the room and greet me with a smile as stunning as the food. He looks like he’s in his mid-twenties. Tall, broad-shouldered with a dark crew cut. He reaches across the table and extends his right hand. “Marhaba, ismee Rami. I’m Salem’s nephew. Nice to meet you.” He speaks in Arabic.
“Likewise," I say, talking with my mouth full. He holds my hand longer than usual and I pull away, my cheeks suddenly turning pink when I see Neveen staring at us. Looking down, I don’t watch Rami while he takes a seat across from me and scoops food into his plate. But when I look up again, he’s staring directly at me, smiling. I fidget and move my feet and hit something underneath.
The Lebanese Dishwasher Page 1
