He withdraws and returns to his work area, where he takes a knife and plunges it into a roast.
On my way to the washroom, I cut through the restaurant and spot Rami sitting at a table with Mirah. She’s throwing her head back in her annoying laughter and Rami looks at her in the longing way he’d gazed at me the first time we met at Salem’s dining room table; he appears to have a deep admiration for her. But when he sees me, his face grows serious. He glances at me but then turns away quickly when Mirah follows his gaze. “Oh, Amir," she says, her voice dropping. “Good to see you again. It’s been a long time.” She reaches across the table and rests her hand on top of Rami’s. I look at them holding hands but then Rami pulls his away and tucks them both under the table. “Rami, you remember Amir, don’t you?”
He nods, avoiding my eyes.
“Nice to see you both," I say coldly, then hurry to the washroom.
A few minutes later, while I’m washing my hands, Rami walks inside and leans against one of the sinks and says in Arabic, “It’s all an act. I’m only with her to please my uncle.” He reaches across to touch my arm but I draw back. “You’re the one I like, ya habibi.”
“Don’t," I say, trying to control the tremor in my voice. “Don’t lie to me.”
He tells me that he’s not lying, that he’s simply appeasing his uncle so he won’t suspect anything is happening between us. I almost believe him but then I remember the adoration on his face when he was speaking with Mirah. “It’s all right, Rami. Keep dating Mirah. You make a cute couple.”
Now pulling me into his body, he kisses me hard on the lips. I bite him and he winces back in pain. But this doesn’t stop him, he grabs me by the waist and pulls me closer to him. “I want you, badi yek, not Mirah," he reassures me, breathing hard. I barely struggle this time and let his tongue push inside my mouth. I grind my hipbones into his. Our genitals rub against each other so hard that it’s almost painful. I feel his erection. I want to fuck him right now. But just then, Salem walks into the bathroom. We pull away quickly, then turn on the faucets and stick our hands under the running water. We’re both panting.
“What’s going on?” Salem hollers, grabbing Rami’s shoulder and swinging him around. Water splashes on both Salem and me. He pins Rami against the wall. “What the fuck is going on here?” He glares at Rami’s bulging crotch and presses him harder on the wall. I try to push Salem away but he shoves me so hard that I fall against the urinals. And in a matter of minutes, the owner and some of the cooks are standing in the restroom, pulling Salem away from his nephew.
The owner shouts, “Halaas! Enough! This is a place of business, not your house. Leave your problems at home. Don’t bring them into my restaurant! You’re embarrassing me! The customers can hear you all the way out the front door.”
Salem finally gives up and covers his face with his hands. As I push past everyone and hover by the kitchen door, my eyes linger on Rami, who is now standing outside the washroom. I give him a weak smile before he grabs Mirah’s hand and pulls her up. I hear her ask him about all the commotion but he doesn’t answer her. I swing open the door and pick up a plate and scrub it like I’ve never scrubbed it before.
When Salem returns to the kitchen, his shoulders are slack and his eyes appear red and I wonder if he’s been crying, but then he flings on his coat and storms out the back door.
Hours later, I swing open the back door. Wet snow lands on my face as I make my way out of the restaurant. I don’t bother with my usual “good night” to the cooks, who mock me, the word queer sprinkled as freely as the spices they throw on the meals. Bastards, I think. I dig my hands deep in my pockets and hurry along, past the shawarma stand. The vendor waves at me and I nod my head but don’t take my hands out of my pockets. I quicken my pace.
I continue walking along the path where I had met Rami alone for the first time. The snow is melting and branches are sprouting green buds. I walk some more, almost expecting that Rami will appear but he doesn’t. I slip on the gloves he gave me because there is still a crispness in the air. In my bones, I feel winter’s last attempt at not dying and giving into spring. But I know there is no way to stop another season from coming. I sigh and wish Rami would come to me. I look down at my watch and wait.
But he doesn’t appear. I run on my way home. When I walk inside my room, I strip off my clothes and crawl under my sheets. As I drift to sleep, I toss and turn and feel Salem’s large hands tightening around my neck.
Twenty
WHEN AMIR RETURNS TO his grandparents’ house, he’s exhausted from the three-hour mountain trek. He greets his grandparents then excuses himself and retires to the guest room. He almost misses the cot as he falls onto it because his legs are weak and he seems to have lost some balance. But as soon as his head meets the pillow, he drifts to sleep.
Two hours later, he wakes up to the sound of his mother’s voice. He feels he’s still dreaming but knows he’s not when Naji rushes into the room and flings himself on top of him. They wrestle each other. Amir is much stronger than his younger brother, so he manages to pin him with his knees. Only when their mother rushes in and pulls Amir by the collar do they stop fooling around. She slaps him across the head. He curls his shoulders inward when she strikes again. “Enough with these childish games! Beirut is falling to pieces and you think it’s funny to wrestle your brother. Amir, you’re twenty-four yet you still behave like a child!”
Amir says nothing. He tucks in his shirt and walks past his mother. When he enters the living room, his father is leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, speaking in hushed tones with Amir’s grandfather. “There have been so many shortages of food and fuel. The divide between East and West Beirut is only getting bigger. I’m afraid for us to leave the apartment because I think someone might kidnap us. Many Christians are being kidnapped, tortured. My neighbour’s daughter was taken on her way from school. She’s only fourteen. They can’t find her. We’ve organized a search team but she can’t be found. We’ve even snuck into West Beirut to see if she’s there but no luck. It’s feared that she’s been raped and murdered.” Amir’s father now rubs his forehead in frustration.
Amir watches his grandfather’s wrinkled hand pat his father’s balding head; his shoulders rise up and down. He’s crying. Amir leans against the wall, presses his hands on it. And he wonders if his father would’ve cried like this for him if he knew Amir had been raped too. Finally, his father raises his head and stares across at Amir, who is still hugging the wall. “Amir," he calls out, waving his hand toward him. “Come here. I was so worried you had returned to campus. We have to stay here for a while until things settle down again.”
“But I have midterms in another week," Amir protests, sitting on the sofa across from his father.
“They’ll have to be postponed. It’s not safe.”
At this point, his mother returns along with Naji and sits on the sofa beside Amir, Naji between them. His grandmother carries a tray in her shaky hands. Amir rises and takes it from her, serves everyone some coffee and ma’amoul. Icing sugar dusts the corners of their mouths while they take generous bites into the shortbread pastry filled with walnuts.
For two weeks, Amir shares his cot with his brother Naji who always jabs his elbow in Amir’s face. He can’t wait to return to his small dorm room. His grandparents’ house is filled with his mother’s bellowing voice and her bickering with everyone, including her own parents. As soon as he finishes his breakfast, Amir slips out the front door and goes for a walk. Sometimes Naji joins him but for the most part he’s alone. He walks to the mainstreet, feeling the unevenness of the cobblestones under his worn leather shoes. Wooden doors of small shops open to another business day. Merchants pull out food stalls of figs, olives and nuts. Peering inside one of the shops, Amir witnesses an artisan melting a gold nugget and turning it into a small necklace. He walks to another store that sells silver jewellery and a man rushes out and clasps a thick silver chain around his neck. “Looks good on you.
You buy, no?”
“No, sorry," Amir says, removing the piece of jewellery and shuffling off to another place. A smell wafts out of a tiny café: oven-baked cheese bread. Amir stands at the counter and orders one along with a cup of Turkish coffee and takes a seat at a small table. While he eats, he watches people stroll along the cobble streets and it feels as if there isn’t a war in this country. The stone buildings are sturdy here, not one mark of war on them. Their red roofs appear picturesque. A small town hidden behind large mountains. No one would suspect that a war was taking place if they sat here, enjoying some food and sipping warm coffee. The buildings are not decayed or decorated with bullet holes. For one moment, Amir feels he’s in a foreign country, maybe in a small café along a narrow Parisian street, but when he looks up and sees his mother and father, Naji trailing behind, he knows he’s still in Lebanon. She tugs on his ear and yells, “Why are you eating outside? Don’t I feed you enough?” She lifts the piece of cheese bread in her hands then lets it fall back on the plate. Amir doesn’t touch it again. He shoves back his chair; it screeches on the ceramic floor and the owner gives him a scowl. Following his family, he walks out of the café. His mother trips on the cobblestone road and nearly tumbles to the ground but she clutches onto her husband’s back and prevents the fall. Her heel is broken. She curses. Naji nudges Amir and the boys begin to laugh until their mother turns and glares at them. But as soon as she turns around and continues walking lopsided, they let out their laughter, which is drowned out by a passing aircraft.
When they return to his grandparents’ house, Amir notices suitcases by the door. He turns to his father, who says it’s time to head back to Beirut. “You’re coming home with us, Amir," he demands.
“I need to go to school, Babba," he says, his voice almost pleading.
They argue and his mother intervenes with a slap across Amir’s head. “Stop being so difficult! It’s not safe for you to live alone anymore.”
“But I’m not alone. There are hundreds of students who live on campus.”
“A perfect target for a bomb," his father explains. “I’m not risking your life for another year of school. You already have one degree. You don’t need to complete your Master’s.”
After a long pause, Amir says forcefully, “I’m going back to my dorm. You can’t control my life anymore.”
His father doesn’t challenge him, only stares at him one more time, his eyes resigned, and quiets his wife as she opens her mouth in protest. “He’s right. He’s no longer a child. Yallah, let’s go.”
Amir stands aside while his family picks up their suitcases and carries them to the waiting taxicab.
Twenty-one
IT’S BEEN A FEW weeks since the incident in the restaurant’s restroom. Rami steps out of a taxicab and greets me on my porch. We decide to go for a walk. It’s late in the evening and the sidewalks are slushy from melting snow. When we get to a bench, we sit and rest for a while. Rami pulls out a cigarette and takes a long drag on it. He stretches his arm out and squeezes my hand. He says in Arabic, “I’m sorry I haven’t come earlier but I thought we needed some space. My uncle has calmed down a little bit and he thinks I’m dating Mirah, though she knows that we are only friends. I told her that’s all I can be to her.”
“And she understands?”
“I guess. She said her parents are strict and, well, she’s met another man but he’s not Palestinian. She tells her parents that she’s out with me when in reality she’s out with this French guy named Luc. It works for the both of us.”
I frown. “How old are we? I can’t believe we have to sneak around.”
Nodding to me, he sighs and says, “The only way for now, I’m afraid.” He stands up and I rise too and follow him down the dimly lit pathway.
An hour later, we make it back to my place. We stand in front of my house face-to-face. Anxiously, I take Rami’s hand and lead him inside, up the stairs and into my room. I cast a glance at him while he removes his clothes and folds them neatly on my chair. Then he undoes my shirt, my pants and we stand in front of each other, naked, open. I have an urge to put my clothes back on but, by this time, Rami is kissing my mouth, my neck, his hands on my waist, pushing me into his chest. Lips upon lips, we stumble onto the bed. He turns me on my stomach and my face is on the mattress. I take short, quick breaths. I feel the tip of his penis on my buttocks and when he’s about to push himself inside me, I roll over on my back and sit up, inch away, clutching my knees to my chest. “Too fast?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready yet. I can’t…”
He gently caresses my face and softly kisses my cheeks. He speaks in our slang language. “No worry. It okay. Nem, ya habibi.” He undoes the covers. I slide under them, close my eyes and sleep like Rami gently said. I feel his warm body next to mine. For the first time in a long while, I fall into a deep, restful sleep.
When I wake up the next morning, I glance over and Rami is still asleep, the morning light pouring onto his handsome face, stubble on his cheeks. I gaze at him for a long time. Sitting cross-legged in bed, I listen to his breathing, his chest rising up and down slowly, peacefully. Under my covers, in my bed, he looks at home. Slowly, I rise and tiptoe across the room. I slip on my pants and a clean shirt. Then I search for a piece of scrap paper, quietly, so as not to wake him from his slumber. At last, I find a sheet, scribble a quick note, and leave it on the chair where he had placed his clothes. From the doorway, I sadly glance back at Rami. I don’t want to leave him. I feel a heaviness in my chest. But I know I can’t stay. I have to go. I step back and heave an audible sigh. The dirty dishes await.
A mountain of dishes rises beside the sink, higher and higher as the morning crowd expands from table to table. My lips purse while my fingers scrape dried fried eggs and bacon grease from the plates. It makes me angry to think that my degrees here are worthless pieces of paper, something to decorate my walls and nothing else. I inhale and exhale, remembering Rami and how peaceful he looked in my bed, the stubble on his cheeks almost begging my fingers to caress his beautiful face. Instead, my hands grip dirty dishes. I take another deep breath. When I glance away from the sink, I see Salem, his head bowed, his eyes refusing to acknowledge my presence. This is how it has become. We ignore each other. But I realize that I can change this, I can change everything. I can return to school, find those dreams I once had about being a professor. It’s all in my hands. I know this. I stare hard at the plate in my grip and let it slip out into the soapy water.
On the way home, I stop at a shawarma stand and order two sandwiches, one beef and the other one chicken, hopeful that Rami will still be in my room but uncertain of what he’d prefer. Chicken or beef. I like both. I examine the fattoush. The pieces of pita bread are still crispy and not yet soggy from the tomatoes, lettuce and cucumbers, so I decide to buy it too. Strolling through the streets of Montreal, I glance at the shops with designer clothes and admire two men who walk hand-in-hand, smiling into each other’s faces and speaking in French, a language I also know but rarely speak because all the cooks converse in Arabic and Denise spoke English. One man smiles at me and I look down, hurry my pace and turn the corner. From behind a brick wall, I lean over, and linger for a few minutes watching the men stroll close together, their fingers still entwined. Pressed against the wall, I wonder where they find the courage.
A half hour later, my right hand turns the doorknob while the other one clasps the plastic bag of Lebanese food. The smell of the sandwiches fills my nose and my stomach growls. I’m smiling. When I finally open the door, I look around my room, the smile on my mouth fades. Rami isn’t there. I walk downstairs and put the food in the fridge then take off my jacket. It’s still early, I tell myself. Wait. Be patient. He’ll come, just wait and see. Relax. Back in my room, I grab a book, sit at the windowsill and pull up the window. A warm breeze enters the room and, opening the book of poetry, I begin to recite Langston Hughes into the dusk.
That evening, Rami comes to my
place again. When I open the door, I embrace him tightly then guide him inside. We talk about our day and eat.
“I didn’t know what you’d like so I got us chicken and beef. Which do you prefer?”
“Definitely chicken," he answers in Arabic. I hand him the chicken sandwich. “Which do you like?”
“Either one.”
He looks down at the wrapper and doesn’t undo it yet. “Are you sure? If you like chicken, you can have this.” He hands it back to me and I insist he eat it. “Are you absolutely sure? You’re not just saying that to be nice?” He slowly begins to unwrap it.
“Me nice?” I throw him a playful grin, then undo the wrapper and take a big bite of my sandwich. I talk with my mouth full. “It’s too late. I’ve already started eating it.” But this doesn’t stop Rami, who leans over and takes a mouthful of my sandwich too; a piece of beef hangs from the corner of his lips. I reach over with a napkin and wipe it for him.
“We can share.” He has a wide smile on his face. He lifts a forkful of fattoush into his mouth.
Later on, we make love. When we are done, I can’t stop smiling. I touch Rami’s face and whisper, “That was nice, ya habibi.”
Leaning on his elbow, he gazes into my eyes. “Maf i hada…”
“There’s none, what?” I ask gently.
He tugs on his lower lip and thinks for a few seconds. “Maf i hada as beautiful as you.”
I blink back the tears then muster a smile, reach across and stroke his face again.
After a few minutes, he gets out of bed and sits at the windowsill. I follow his eyes as he stares at the full moon. His rugged features soften in the pale blue light of the moon.
Afterwards, he strolls back to the bed, kneels on the floor, and rests his head on my lap. I stroke his short hair. He climbs on top of the bed again and falls back on the mattress, eyes looking at the ceiling as if contemplating something. I ask him if he’s happy and he rests on his elbow again, bends down and kisses my forehead, then sinks back and closes his eyes. I smile and look out the window, listen to the wind moving in the towering maple trees, whispering, whispering.
The Lebanese Dishwasher Page 11
