The Lebanese Dishwasher

by Sonia Saikaley

  I rub my sore arm.

  He talks quietly, telling Rami that he should come back home. Forget this whole thing. “You won’t be happy with Amir. He’s a bum. He doesn’t even have a job. He was a lousy dishwasher. You could do a lot better. I’ll help you find a wife. You don’t want to be gay. Everyone is laughing at you. They think it’s a big joke and it is. It’s not normal, Rami. Please," he begs, “please come home. I promise not to hurt you.”

  Rami looks between me and his uncle. Then finally says, in a quavering voice, “I can’t, uncle. I love Amir. I want to be with him. I don’t care if people are talking about me. Let them talk all they want.”

  “Rami is righ…” I say but Salem interrupts me.

  “Shut up! You fucking ruined my family.” Salem reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handgun. He waves it inches away from my face. My eyes open wide. Rami steps between us and lifts his uncle’s hand towards the ceiling but Salem loosens Rami’s grip and punches him in the gut and he tumbles to the floor, grasping his belly. I kneel next to Rami. Then there’s a blast. I turn around, see Salem, bent over his knees, his back rising up and down. The gun lies a few inches beside him. As I go to stand, my legs feel weak. I stumble towards the sofa and rest my hand just below my left shoulder. When I look down, my right palm is covered with blood. I scream. I squeeze my arms over my chest, my shirt is soaked in crimson. I reach out for Rami before I collapse on the hardwood floor.

  The paramedics push the stretcher quickly through the sliding glass doors. I open my eyes now, lick my dry lips and open my mouth but no words come out. I turn my head and see Rami beside me, his face complicated with worry. I hear him say in Arabic, “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.” And I’m not sure if this is intended for himself or me. His olive skin pales and I know things might not be all right. I try to lift my head up but can’t. The paramedic motions for me to lie back. “Mr. Radi, don’t move. Just lie still and rest.” Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and try to remember what just happened. There was a gun, a shot, Salem bent over on the floor. In a matter of minutes, the paramedics push the stretcher past another set of doors. The last thing I remember before heading into an operating room is Rami leaning against a wall, praying.

  When I awake from the general anaesthetic, Rami rises from the chair next to my bed and holds my hand. I mumble something but the words are incoherent. “Don’t speak, ya habibi," Rami whispers. “Nem.” I nod, close my eyes and sleep.

  Over the course of the night, I drift into a deep sleep only to be awakened by the nurses, checking my vitals. Every time I open my eyes, I see Rami in the room, either sitting on a chair or staring out the window then turning around quickly as soon as a nurse appears. “He be okay, right?” he asks the nurse.

  “The bullet came close to his heart. Your friend is very lucky to be alive," the nurse says before leaving the room.

  Rami leans in and plants a kiss on my forehead; his lips feel moist against my burning skin. “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault," I mumble in a daze. “Your uncle doesn’t care much for me.”

  He laughs. “He no like me either.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Rami looks away and stares at nothing for a while. Then he returns his gaze. “You be okay. Everything be okay," he says once, then repeats it like a chant. I nod slowly. Then fall asleep again.

  During the weeks that follow, Rami and I spend time in my room or on the porch of our rooming house. He tends to my needs and helps me recover from my wound. The scar close to my heart heals nicely while the leaves of the trees lining my neighbourhood turn emerald. When I am able to take care of myself, Rami returns to his government job and I spend the hours reading. I take out a letter I recently received and read it silently in my mind. My mouth lifts in a smile. From the swinging chair I lounge on, I stare across at the trees and feel a light breeze blowing through them. It’s late afternoon. The sky is clear and the air is warm. I stuff the formal letter into its envelope and fold it, then put it in my pocket. Resting my hands on my lap, I close my eyes.

  I dream about Beirut. I feel the salty, misty air of the sea against my cheeks. I am sitting in a busy beachside restaurant eating fish. The noise from the adjacent traffic rises but I notice a waiter turn up the stereo system so that music drowns out the zooming Mercedes. Looking down at my meal, I lick my lips because the fish tastes as fresh as if it had just been pulled out of the sea. Saltiness gathers at the corners of my mouth and I lick them again. As I’m lifting another piece to my lips, I glance at my reflection in the walled mirrors of the place. I am a child, wearing a baseball cap and striped T-shirt. No one is at the table with me. When the waiter hands me the bill, I reach into my pockets but they are empty. I tell the waiter that I don’t have any money. He swears, pulls me by the collar and pushes me into the kitchen. The shouts of the cooks and the smells of baked and fried food float around me. “Here," he grunts, handing me an apron. I tie it twice around my small waist. “Wash," he orders. I stare at the pile of dirty dishes and shrug my shoulders. I pick one up and lather it with soap.

  When I wake up, I laugh at this dream. Rami now stands on the porch and faces me. “What so funny?”

  “I had a dream that I was forced to wash dishes in a Beirut restaurant.”

  He sits on the wicker chair across from me. “Sound like nightmare. You hate wash dish. Was food in restaurant good?”

  “Delicious. Fish that melts in your mouth.” We say nothing for a while. Then I ask Rami, “Do you miss the sea?”

  “Yeah. We got St. Lawrence River but not same.” Now he speaks in his mother tongue. “But I miss my father more than the ocean. Sometimes I wonder how my life would’ve turned out if I hadn’t lost my father when I was so young. I never had any male figure I could look up to. I had Salem but look at what he has done. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You couldn’t have known he’d do something crazy.”

  “And now he’ll go to jail and his family will always blame me.” He sighs and turns away from me.

  I reach across and pat his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, you know. He’s the one who pulled the trigger, not you.”

  “But if I hadn’t brought shame onto my family.”

  “Shame?” I almost scream. “Our love isn’t shameful, Rami. I know it’ll take a while for some people to accept us, but we can’t reject ourselves because of someone else’s ignorance. We can’t keep hiding who we are.”

  His lips lift in a sad smile and he doesn’t say anything for a while. “You know what?” he finally says, continuing in Arabic.

  I shake my head.

  “Let’s go out for a walk. Are you up to it?”

  “I’m up to anything at this point. I’m getting a bit bored sitting around here.”

  We walk until we reach the riverbank. Dense trees surround us. The area is secluded except for a few seagulls. I turn and look at the waves of the St. Lawrence River moving calmly in the light breeze. We stand there silently watching the river. After a few minutes, I pull out the letter from my pocket. Rami reads it carefully, his eyebrows press together in concentration. He lifts his hands to his mouth, then slaps them against his thighs, excited by the news. “Congratulations! You get in! I happy for you, Amir!”

  I smile and say, “I wasn’t sure I’d get into McGill because I applied late but I guess there are benefits to being a ‘mature’ student!”

  “Mabrouk," Rami says, congratulating me again. He squeezes my shoulders. “You dream be professoor come true, ana feel it.”

  Then we sit cross-legged on the ground and gaze at the horizon. After a while, Rami rises to his feet and strips off his clothes.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, arching my left eyebrow.

  He gives me a mischievous grin. “Ana badi take dip. Do you have cow-raa-ge jump nay-kid in river?” He carefully pronounces the words.

  “Yeah," I say, after a long pause. I remove my clothes. The setting sun lights the horizon. S
mall waves brush onto the shore, onto our bare feet. He smiles and holds out his hand. I grasp it and we race towards the river. The water shimmers gold and pink as we plunge into it.

  Acknowledgements

  I am very grateful to Quattro Books and the Ken Klonsky Novella Contest for giving my novella a supportive home. My sincere thanks to Luciano Iacobelli for his wonderful suggestions and insightful comments. Thanks to Allan Briesmaster for his thorough reading. Gratitude to the Humber School for Writers and the editors I have worked with over the years. Many thanks to Gillian Harding-Russell, Mark McCawley and Anar Ali, who generously read the manuscript. Thanks to my dear family and friends, near and far, for their encouragement. A special thanks to Lynne McLeod, who always believed, Darlene Miller, who said it would happen, and Michelle Doody, who encouraged when I was discouraged. Shukran ya Joe. Thanks to Nora, who snapped many photographs until we found the right one. To my mother and late father, thank you for sharing your memories of the old country. And, finally, my love and gratitude to my sisters, who taught me to never give up.

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  The Panic Button by Koom Kankesan

  Shrinking Violets by Heidi Greco

  Grace by Vanessa Smith

  Break Me by Tom Reynolds

  Retina Green by Reinhard Filter

  Gaze by Keith Cadieux

  Tobacco Wars by Paul Seesequasis

  The Sea by Amela Marin

  Real Gone by Jim Christy

  A Gardener on the Moon by Carole Giangrande

  Good Evening, Central Laundromat by Jason Heroux

  Of All the Ways To Die by Brenda Niskala

  The Cousin by John Calabro

  Harbour View by Binnie Brennan

  The Extraordinary Event of Pia H. by Nicola Vulpe

  A Pleasant Vertigo by Egidio Coccimiglio

  Wit in Love by Sky Gilbert

  The Adventures of Micah Mushmelon by Michael Wex

  Room Tone by Gale Zoë Garnett