Amir doesn’t go to his next class, doesn’t go back home either. He makes his way to the fish market, wanders down the food stalls and stares at the dead fish, their eyes wide open, their scales glistening with seawater. He stands a few feet away and briefly listens to a customer barter with a vendor. “Ya sharmout," the vendor shrieks, “you’re robbing me blind! I can’t even afford to buy new clothes for my children when you want something for nothing.” The vendor, with a scraggily greyish-black beard and skin that is tough and suntanned, stuffs some sardines into a plastic bag and flings it across at the customer, who throws some liras on the table and shuffles away with a smirk on his face. Amir watches this with interest but then he grows bored and turns his attention to the distant horizon. He shields his eyes with his hands from the blinding sun and hurries across the busy strip beside the beach, his knapsack bumping on his slender back.
When he reaches the beach, he races to the large rocks by the seashore, climbs atop one and pulls out a book from his bag. The Old Man and the Sea. He loves this book. Loves Manolin, the boy who shows such compassion to the old man. For a while, he sits there reading, but then strong waves push against the rocks, making saltwater splash onto his face and the worn pages of the book, one that had once belonged to his cousin until he gave it to Amir. Closing the paperback, Amir carefully places it inside his bag and looks across at the sea, gazing at its waves that rise quickly then suddenly slow down in a steady flow. A calmness surrounds him and he longs for something other than the life he’s presently living. He stays on this rock until dusk paints the sea violet.
Purplish streaks of dusk follow him as he drags himself back to the apartment. When he opens the door, he hears his mother shouting something about cooking a meal and cleaning after having spent hours at a typewriter, typing correspondence for the lawyers she works for. Amir walks into the living room, tosses his bag on the floor and sinks on the sofa next to his father, who is enthralled with a Lebanese soap opera, while his wife curses, “I slave away all day in a dark, gloomy law office to return to a small, crowded apartment where I have to cook and clean for two sons and a husband who can’t do anything for themselves. God forbid, you lift a finger to help with the dishes! Men! Fucking Lebanese men!”
Amir gets up from the sofa, kicks his brother’s toy trucks, and Naji looks up at him and yells, but Amir ignores him and heads into the kitchen, where he rolls up his sleeves, stands at the sink and begins to wash a plate. His mother rushes over and rams him aside, pulling the soapy dish out of his hands. “You don’t know how to wash them. Get out! Go back and watch TV with your father. You’re more trouble than help.”
“But, Mama, you said…” he starts, then gives up. “Okay.” He wanders back into the living room, slumps on the couch again and stares blankly at the screen. His father continues to ignore him while two lovers embrace in the backdrop of a crumbling city.
Minutes later, there is a knock at the door. Amir grasps the cushion of the sofa seat, his fingers hold on so tightly that when he finally lets go, they hurt. He hopes it’s not Walid. Frozen in place, he doesn’t know what to do: get up or stay seated. He does nothing. Eyes open wide when his father swings the door open and says cheerfully, “Hello, Mr. Labaki! How are you? How’s the wife?”
Amir hears Mr. Labaki’s soft-spoken voice from the living room answering his father’s questions and he takes a deep breath and feels his stomach and shoulder muscles relaxing. Within minutes, his mother is at the front door too, greeting the teacher, inviting him inside; they speak in hushed whispers in the kitchen. Tiptoeing over there, Amir peers over the ledge but then ducks back when his mother glances in that direction. He leans over again and tries to listen. He hears Mr. Labaki asking if Amir is experiencing any difficulties at home or in the neighbourhood.
“Of course not," Amir’s mother proclaims. “He has everything he could ask for here. There are no troubles at home. He doesn’t have to lift a finger. My husband and I spoil our children. They are the world to us.”
Amir sees his father nod in agreement.
“I understand, Mrs. Radi," Mr. Labaki says gently. “I only ask because Amir had a bit of a…” he stops and tries to find the right words. “He was very upset today and I’m concerned.”
“What do you mean by ‘upset’? Did he start yelling in class?” his mother asks. Amir peers over the edge a little closer and notices his mother’s mouth purse in a tight line.
“No, no, nothing like that. He was crying.”
“At his age," Amir’s father interjects, shaking his head in disgust.
“Maybe it’s girl troubles," says his mother.
His father agrees. “That must be it.”
“He probably has a crush on some girl and she doesn’t feel the same way. You know how adolescent boys can be.”
Amir spots Mr. Labaki and his father nodding simultaneously.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you.” A chair scrapes on the floor and Amir races back to the living room. He glances up at Mr. Labaki as he stands at the front entrance again but then looks down at his hands when the teacher makes eye contact.
“Good night, Mr. Labaki. Please say hello to your wife for us," Amir’s father says before closing the door.
As soon as Mr. Labaki’s footsteps have vanished down the hallway, Amir’s mother lunges at him, slapping him across the head. “What were you thinking?”
He covers his head with his arms but she keeps hitting him until his father intervenes. “How could you cry in public? What were you thinking?” she repeats.
“Calm down, Haifa," says Amir’s father. “Leave the boy alone.”
His mother shakes her head in disgust. “We don’t talk about family problems in public and we certainly don’t cry in front of strangers.”
Amir pipes up, “But Mr. Labaki isn’t a stranger. He’s my teacher.”
She raises her hand and Amir flinches. “But he’s not family, is he?”
“He’s better than family!” Amir spits out. “Better than you and Babba any day!” Amir’s mother tries to grab his collar but he pushes her aside; she stumbles down on the sofa.
Racing to the front door, he hears her mutter, “We raised a kalb, a no good dog. No respect at all for his mother. I told you he was trouble, Ziyad.”
“I know," his father agrees quietly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy. He’s nothing like his brother. Look how nicely he plays.” From the doorway, Amir glances at his younger brother, who sits up straight on the floor and sticks his tongue out at him behind their parents’ backs. Turning around, Amir stomps down the hallway heading toward the elevator, ducking at Walid’s door, but then he pauses and decides to take the stairwell. He doesn’t care what happens to him anymore. If he runs into Walid, he hopes the man beats and rapes him so badly this time that when his parents discover his body, they’ll regret the words that just tore out of their mouths. He opens the stairwell door with shaking hands. And for a moment, just an instant, he wishes he were dead.
Eleven
MY HANDS ARE SHAKING so badly when I turn the knob of the bathroom door. I rush inside, lift up the toilet lid and vomit in the bowl. After a few seconds, I lower my head in my hands and cry. I don’t hear the knock at the door. Not at first, but then someone raps it again. “Amir," Rami whispers in Arabic, “f i shay?”
I mumble, “No, nothing’s wrong.” I sit back on the floor cross-legged.
Rami keeps speaking through the door. “Do you need help?”
I almost laugh, realizing how absurd this whole situation is. Here I am in the bathroom and there’s a man outside asking me if I need help. What sort of help could he give me? Hold my cock while I take a piss? And before I can stop myself, I’m laughing.
“Amir, I come in," he says in his broken English. The knob turns and Rami walks inside. He gives me a sad smile when he notices my tear-stained cheeks. “You crying.”
“Laa," I deny, shaking my head. “Tears of laughter," I reply in Arabic, not sure
how to say this phrase in English nor in the mood to explain it to Rami.
He frowns and I know he doesn’t believe me. He puts the toilet lid down and sits on it, his elbows on his knees as he leans towards me. We sit like this for a while. There is no need for conversation. I stare into his eyes and don’t look away this time. I can feel myself growing hard again. I inch back, closer to the tub.
Speaking in Arabic now, he finally asks, “Ya shoobek? Are you upset about turning thirty?”
I shake my head then rise from the floor and rinse my face at the sink. The cool water feels refreshing on my flushed cheeks. Rami hands me a towel. He’s now standing beside me, just a few inches away. I glance at his reflection through the mirror; his face is serious, worried.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to take you home?”
“No, it’s all right. It’s my birthday party. I can’t leave before the cake, right?”
He suddenly flashes me a smile. “Yes, you’re the birthday boy.” Reaching out, he touches my chin and turns my head towards him and kisses me softly on the cheeks.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I shove him away. “Don’t.”
Clearing his throat, he apologizes and slips out of the bathroom. After a few moments, I follow him out and notice that he’s leaning against the banister, just waiting there. We walk downstairs together, so close, too close, that when we reach the bottom, Salem has a strange look on his face and I wonder if he can see Rami’s kiss imprints on my cheeks.
Everyone is kissing me on the cheeks and wishing me a happy birthday. I thank them, then leave Salem’s house with some presents, a bottle of wine and a plastic container of leftover food. Rami has offered to drive me home and I’m thankful for this because I know it would be tricky to balance the gifts on the glacial Montreal sidewalks. I follow him down the steps. Salem watches us from the porch. I notice a coldness in his eyes but I try to ignore it and slip into the car quietly while Rami rushes to the driver’s side, turns the key in the ignition and starts up the old green Chevy.
When we reach my house, Rami pulls the car to the curb and looks at me with a mischievous grin. Then he begins to sing in English, “Happy birthday you, happy birthday you, happy birthday dear Amir, happy birthday you!”
I clap and shout, “Bravo!”
He takes a little bow. He speaks in Arabic. “Shukran. I’ve been practicing for days. Was it okay? Be honest.”
“It was perfect," I say kindly.
“Shukran. Can I help you with the bags?” he continues in Arabic.
“No, I’m all right.” I look outside and see Denise coming up the road. “There’s Denise. She’ll help me.” I quickly open the door.
“Oh, Denise, yes, your girlfriend," Rami says resentfully.
I lean over and say, “Is everything all right, Rami? You remember Denise, don’t you?”
“Of course.” He waves to Denise then says goodbye and drives away, leaving her and me alone. Grabbing a bag, she helps me carry everything inside.
She glances down at the presents and frowns. “I guess I missed some party.”
“Not really. It wasn’t much of a party without you," I say, now pressing into her body and giving her a quick kiss.
“I have something for you.”
“Really?”
She nods. “It’s in your room.” After I place the leftovers in the fridge, Denise takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs. The house is silent. Ben isn’t watching his usual late-night shows. No one appears to be around. We quietly slip into my room, the moonlight guiding us to my bed.
After we make love, Denise sighs, rises to her feet and tiptoes across the hallway. When she returns, she has a small gift wrapped in silver paper. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your party. But I bought you something.”
I slowly open the package; it’s a pair of dark green fleece gloves. I finger them and frown, set them aside.
Denise continues, “I’m sorry I almost forgot about your birthday. My mother’s been so ill lately. She’s not getting better. It breaks my heart to see her like this. Sometimes it’s hard to get out of bed and keep going.”
I turn and look at her; sadness is in her eyes. “I understand," I say softly, patting her thigh. “Thank you for the gift. You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to. You don’t have a pair.” She inches closer and kisses me on the lips. “Good night, my Arabian prince.”
Yawning, I fall into a deep sleep. I dream about the man who raped me. Walid is on top of me. This time I’m facing him, my mouth isn’t buried in the mattress. Our bellies press together and I’m grinding my hips furiously into his, sweat rather than tears streaming down my cheeks. My body is burning. I feel my skin scorching his. He yells, tries to pull away but I grab his cock and twist it until it comes apart from his body. I get up and stand on the balcony and throw his throbbing, bloodied thing over the metal railing where it hits my mother in the head. She falls to the ground. And shouts, “Amir! You’re trouble!”
I jolt up in bed, laughing hysterically. I look at Denise, who doesn’t stir. After I calm down, I dab the sweat from my forehead with the edge of my sheet. I fall back on the mattress and look out the window. Snow falls lightly. I can’t decide whether to get out of bed or sleep. But in a matter of minutes I’m dreaming again. I dream of Rami. He hands me a Turkish delight, then leans in and licks the white powder from the corners of my open, eager mouth.
Twelve
AMIR STUFFS A CHERRY Turkish delight into his open mouth. He wipes the white powder off with the back of his right hand then flops down on the sofa and switches on the TV. He flips through the channels but there is nothing on but the news. It’s a hot afternoon, the apartment is sweltering because the electricity has just turned on after being cut off most of the morning. The air conditioner is buzzing as if it might shut down again. Sweat slides down Amir’s stomach. Tilting his head back, he sees his mother rummaging through the front closet until she pulls out a blanket. It’s pale blue and tattered. She calls out, “Yallah, everyone. We’re going to the beach. It’s too damn hot here and I can’t take it anymore.” Lifting himself up on his elbows, Amir peers across the living room and sees his brother Naji race out of his bedroom with his swim shorts already on. “Amir, where are you? We’re going to head out now. Get ready," his mother says.
“I’m not going. I’m not feeling well," Amir calls out, flopping back on the sofa.
His mother now approaches him and bends over, resting her hand on his forehead. “Amir, you don’t have a fever. Does your stomach hurt?”
He doesn’t answer her.
“Amir, are you okay?” she asks gently.
My ass hurts! My ass! Amir wants to shout. You didn’t even ask why I was jamming a knife in your mattress. You didn’t even think to ask! But Amir doesn’t answer her questions of concern, only brushes her hand away and runs into his room, then slams the door shut.
From there, he can hear his father comforting her. “Haifa, it’s all right. He’s a teenager. Almost fifteen! You can’t baby him forever.” Then Amir listens in his room for their fading footsteps. After, he rushes to the balcony and watches them walk together – his mother, father and brother, smiling at each other and almost forgetting about him until his mother turns around and glances up towards the apartment. He ducks out of the way, returns to his room and falls back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Minutes later, he closes his eyes and falls asleep. He dreams about Walid. He’s thrusting violently inside Amir, breaking every part of his small body. Throughout the whole ordeal, the boy prays silently to God to make it stop but the man keeps jabbing his cock in his rectum, harder, faster. He drools on the sheets, almost chokes on his spit. He prays again. But God doesn’t listen. Maybe he can’t hear Amir over the car bombs and dying people of this beautiful but torn city called Beirut. He’s being raped on his parents’ bed, a place where they consummate their relationship over and over. Even after arguments about money and about their sons they r
etire to this room and make love. They argue mostly about me, Amir thinks. Because he’s trouble, as his mother continually says. The bedsprings creak. Walid keeps moving. He’s groaning too. And Amir wonders if it’ll ever stop. When he was younger, he remembers hearing these sounds late at night and after the rape he knew what made them. His mother’s and father’s bodies pressed together. His father’s cock inside his mother. Sometimes he’d hear moans escaping his mother’s throat and he’d want to rush inside their bedroom and see if she was okay but he never did. Afraid he’d get in more trouble. He’d imagine her shouting, “Get out of here! You’re trouble and always will be. Get out, kalb.” Dog. He feels like a dirty dog. Like the ones he’s seen wandering the crumbled streets of Beirut. Emaciated. Filthy. Searching for days or weeks for their owners who lie under the ruins of an explosion. At last Walid quakes and falls on Amir’s back, the man’s hot breath on the nape of the boy’s neck. He remembers staring across at the wall and seeing Walid’s shadow on top of his. Now Amir startles and wakes suddenly.
He gets out of bed and walks to the balcony, where he tips against the railing. The sky is clear today; it is not laden with smoke or clouds. Then he leans a bit more until his upper body is so close over the edge that if he wanted to, he could do a somersault and land on the roof of a parked car. Sometimes he has these moments in which death seems the only way for him to escape the nightmares, the thumping sound of the headboard against the bedroom wall, Walid’s cock splitting his rectum until he shuddered and Amir cried like a lamb between a butcher’s hands. Now he closes his eyes and covers his ears; he doesn’t want to hear the sound of slaughter. Seconds later, he opens his eyes, slumps on a plastic chair, lowers his head in his hands and prays that someday he’ll leave this place and all the memories that keep him awake rather than letting him have a night full of sweet dreams and moonlight.
The Lebanese Dishwasher Page 6
