Seed

by Harlan Ruud

  Next to me, I hear a man whispering:

  'Bismallah a rahman a rahim.'

  I open m eyes and look at him without moving my head. He is about my age, with a slender build, pale skin, and short, curly black hair. Facing the wall, his legs spread, he looks down, trimming his pubic hair with a small pair of scissors.

  Across from me, nearly invisible in the steam, I see a hairy-backed man wearing red jockey shorts, pouring a metal bucket of water over his head. The cold water splashes me as it hits the floor.

  Leaning my head against the stone wall, I look up into the shadowed, rolling clouds of steam. As the sweat begins to form, then roll down my back and chest and belly, I uncross my legs and rest my elbows on my knees; my hands hand limp. Soon, my boxer shorts are soaked and sweat drips slowly from my fingertips.

  I close my eyes, thinking about Maggie, about my father, about everything that needs to be done upon returning to America. I think of a choreographer I once knew, briefly. I think of Jonathan and Baby and YaYa. He said he would meet me here, and I wonder if he will come.

  A naked man walks by, steps on my toes, and continues walking. An extremely old man, bearded, gaunt, hunchbacked, walks slowly by. In his hand is a wet towel that he drags along the floor. Behind him is a boy of twelve or thirteen, carrying a bar of soap and a pocket knife. Next to me, on the opposite side of the man trimming his pubic hair, I notice YaYa; he sits quietly, looking at me.

  'When the hell did you get here?' I whisper, leaning toward him.

  'When did I get here?' he replies, also whispering. 'Motherfucker, I came in with you.'

  Laughing softly, nearly inaudibly, I lower my head, looking down at the wet, stone floor between my legs.

  'Brother, brother,' YaYa whispers, 'you need to get a grip.'

  'Forget Pip?' I reply, looking up at him. 'Who the hell is Pip?'

  YaYa raises a fist to his mouth, attempting to stifle a laugh.

  'I said you need to get a grip,' he says, looking at me. 'Now be quiet; you'll get us both kicked out of here.'

  My head still lowered, I close my eyes.

  'Did you bring any soap?' I ask.

  Feeling something touch my thigh, I open my eyes; in YaYa's hand is an unused bar of white soap.

  'Thanks,' I whisper, raising my hand taking the soap.

  Struggling to my feet, I put my free hand on YaYa's shoulder and whisper:

  'C'mon, help me.'

  Shuffling into the adjacent room, stepping over several men lying prone on the floor, I stand next to a group of men hovering next to one of the two rusted metal taps that jut from the stone wall.

  On the floor next to the tap is an empty plastic bucket. I turn on the tap, filling the bucket with water, and ask YaYa to pour it over my back and head.

  'Yes, Massa,' he replies, picking up the bucket and slowly pouring the nearly scalding water over my head. As he does this, I lather my body with soap.

  Refilling the bucket, YaYa again slowly pours it over my head. Once I'm completely rinsed, I step aside.

  'Your turn,' I say, squatting next to the tap and filling it again with water. As I do this, I notice suddenly that he is naked. 'You're supposed to wear underwear in a hammam, YaYa,' I say, standing, then pouring the water slowly over his head and shoulders.

  'I've seen a few guys without any,' he replies, shrugging, as he lathers the soap across his chest.

  I close my eyes.

  Suddenly, the bucket slips from my hands and falls to the floor. Opening my eyes, I pick up the bucket and again fill it with water.

  Once done, YaYa and I return to the previous room. Our places have been taken, and we turn and walk through the steam into another, less crowded room. Finding space, we sit on the floor, resting our backs against the wall. Silently, we each stare into the shadows, lost in our private thoughts.

  The shifting mass of men drift in and out of the clouds of steam. Some sit; some stand; some kneel. A small boy, no older than five, runs by; a man I presume to be his father chases after him.

  I turn to look at YaYa. His eyes are closed. He leans forward, head bowed, with his hands resting on his outstretched legs. Fastened with a white ribbon, his dreadlocks hang wet across his shoulders and chest.

  Glancing between his legs, I look at the shadowed outline of his penis, then close my eyes.

  I do not go with Maggie to the bus depot for Jonathan's arrival. Instead, I jog along the beach, stopping occasionally, lost in thought. It is a cool day, windy, and the sky is overcast.

  Hearing someone behind me, I glance over my shoulder, continuing to jog. No one is there. I stop and turn toward the ocean. I stretch from side to side, then bend forward, my legs straight, and touch the wet sand. Rising, I bring my feet together and, counting aloud, do two hundred jumping jacks.

  After I've finished, I again bend forward and touch the sand with the palms of my hands. In this position, I slowly count from one to twenty, then rise, looking out across the calm blue water. Far in the distance, I see several small wooden fishing boats.

  In one of the boats, I see someone standing, waving. I watch the figure, curious, and wave in return.

  Returning to the hotel, I see YaYa at one of the cafés outdoor tables. Huddled over, pen in hand, he writes quickly on a yellow pad of legal paper. Not wanting to interrupt his work, I enter the hotel without greeting him.

  After showering, I return to my room and begin to dress. From the room next to mine, I hear what sounds like a small dog barking. Standing still, my underwear in my hand, I look at the crack, bluish-white wall that separates the two rooms. Abruptly, the barking stops.

  Was it a dog? I wonder, slipping on my underwear.

  Noticing a plastic bottle of lotion on the shelf above the sink, I slip off my underwear and cover my entire body, from skull to sole, with lotion, massaging it into my skin with firm, circular strokes. As I do this, I feel a large, callused hand touch my back. I ignore it. Finished, I again slip on my underwear, then wash my hands.

  In my underwear, I stretch across the bed, fold my hands on my belly, and close my eyes. I am suddenly, inexplicably, depressed.

  Turning on my side, resting my hands between my thighs, I count backwards from one hundred, stopping at thirty-seven. Opening my eyes, I stare at the wall and count aloud back up to one hundred.

  Later that afternoon, Maggie returns to find me in bed, still in my underwear, sleeping. Closing the door behind her, she crawls into bed and puts her arm around my chest.

  'Where's John-boy?' I ask, turning slowly in the bed to face her.

  'In his room,' she replies, 'taking a shower.'

  'He has his own shower?'

  She giggles, kissing me on the chin. She smells, I think, like a cucumber.

  'And a terrace,' she says, smiling at me.

  'A life of luxury, huh?'

  'Well, he wanted to stay in my room but I told him he couldn't. Then he was convinced I was staying in your room, and he wouldn't believe otherwise. So I told him to fuck off – and I left. But I told him we'd meet him for dinner. Do you mind?'

  'He's not going to beat me up,' I ask, 'is he?'

  She giggles.

  'Well, don't worry,' she says, 'I'll protect you.'

  'Please do,' I reply, leaning forward and running my tongue between her lips, opening them.

  Though she insists I get out of bed, I manage with little effort to convince her to take off her panties and sit with her legs spread on my chest.

  'I missed it,' I whisper, staring between her smooth, dark thighs.

  'I'm sure you did,' she replies, looking down at me as she puts one hand on either side of my face.

  Later that evening, Maggie, Jonathan, and I return to our restaurant of choice. YaYa was invited, but explained that he was too busy writing. He would, perhaps, meet us later.

  Though the evening begins pleasantly, with the three of us eating, drinking, and talking as friends, I soon notice, when watching Jonathan, a slight uneasiness, even anger. Occasi
onally, he will look at me, and at Maggie, from narrowed, suspicious eyes; his words, however, remain polite, friendly, even humorous.

  Rolling the sleeves of his pale blue, button-down shirt to his elbows, as if he's about to fight, he tells us of his time alone in Tangier, and of his plans for Maggie and himself in Paris. Maggie frowns, but remains silent.

  He reminds me of a polo player or television anchorman: the photogenic, clean-shaven face, bright blue eyes, and perfect teeth.

  'You had Abderahim very worried,' he says, looking at me. 'He was positive you were crazy.'

  'Yes, well,' I reply, slightly embarrassed, 'he's quite perceptive, isn't he?'

  'So, you are crazy, then?' Jonathan says, smiling at me as if I am a waiter and he is the customer.

  'Indeed, I am,' I reply. 'Didn't Maggie tell you?'

  'Well,' he says, chuckling, 'she told me you killed your father.'

  Maggie turns to me, but I do not look at her.

  'That first night,' I hear her say, 'I told him. But that was before I really –'

  Ignoring her, I take a sip of wine and watch Jonathan.

  'And you believed her?' I ask.

  'Well,' he replies, 'I believe that you said it to her.'

  'But do you believe I did it?'

  'I don't know you well enough to say. It's possible. But I doubt if someone who actually did such a thing would go around telling strangers. Either way, to say such a thing, true or not, is rather crazy.'

  'If I did it,' I say, 'but didn't tell anyone about it, would I still be crazy?''

  'Marvin Gay killed his son,' Jonathan replies. 'Was he crazy?'

  'Marvin Gaye didn't kill his son,' Maggie says. 'He was killed by his father.'

  'I know,' Jonathan says. 'There was a junior and a senior; Marvin Gay, without the e, killed his son, Marvin Gaye, with the e. He added the e himself. Senior killed junior. It was the –'

  'Okay,' Maggie interrupts, 'we get the picture.'

  'Well,' Jonathan asks me, 'was he crazy?'

  'I have no idea,' I answer. 'Maybe he just got to the gun first.'

  'Perhaps,' Jonathan says.

  'If I did do it,' I ask, 'and could prove it, what would you do?'

  'What could I do?'

  'Make a citizen's arrest,' I reply.

  Maggie giggles.

  'Who would care here in Morocco?' he asks.

  'Well,' I reply, 'when you get back to the States, you could find someone, I'm sure, who would care.'

  'Well,' he says, smiling, 'if the police ever come looking for me, I'll tell them what I know. Otherwise, your secret is safe with me.'

  'Good, I wouldn’t want to have to kill you, too.'

  Maggie laughs; Jonathan does not. Instead, he takes a drink of wine, his eyes fixed on me, and smiles.

  'I wouldn't want that, either,' he replies.

  The three of us are silent, watching one another.

  'Well,' Maggie eventually says, 'there are certainly a lot of people I'd like to kill.'

  Jonathan looks at her, frowning; he is certain, I can tell, that she is referring to him.

  'I don't know if I'd be able to stab them,' she continues, 'or strangle them. But I'd be able to shoot them, that's for sure. And I could probably run them over with a car, or poison them, but if I poisoned them, I wouldn't want to have to watch them die, you know?'

  She lights a cigarette, looking over Jonathan's shoulder.

  'I could kill my father,' she says, glancing at me. 'I could kill my oldest brother, Norbert, too, and I could kill the Pope. I could kill Steven Spielberg and – and Oprah Winfrey. I could kill the noisy bitch who lives in the apartment next to mine. I could kill, you know, I could walk into a bank and shoot every last one of the tellers.'

  Jonathan and I sit silently, listening to Maggie.

  'Who else could I kill?' she continues. 'There are a few teachers from where I went to school that I could kill. Mr. Collis. Mrs. Zyla. Mrs. Tompkins. The principal. What was his name? He's be the first one I'd kill. I might even be able to strangle him.'

  'That's quite a list,' Jonathan remarks. 'Did you smoke a joint before we came here?'

  'No, asshole, I didn't,' she lies, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing the smoke in his face.

  'Who could you kill?' I ask Jonathan, watching him fan the smoke with his hand, frowning.

  'Oh, please!' Maggie exclaims. 'He couldn't kill anyone.'

  Jonathan looks at her.

  'That's not a bad thing, Maggie,' he says.

  'Yes,' she replies, 'it is. I could never trust a man who was incapable of killing.'

  'Killing what?' Jonathan asks.

  'Another man,' she replies.

  'Are you serious?' she asks. 'Well, you must not trust me, then.'

  'Let me put it this way, Jonathan,' she says. 'I don't trust you. I think you could possibly kill a man, so that's not the reason. But just because I couldn't trust a man incapable of killing doesn't mean I trust every man who is capable of it.'

  'You don't trust me?' Jonathan asks, apparently offended.

  'I'm not talking about murder for the sake of murder,' Maggie says, ignoring Jonathan's question. 'I'm talking about – about a variety of circumstances in which the death of one man, or woman, would result in a substantial benefit to others.

  Listening to her, I am drawn to the elaborate necklace around her neck. Made of pine nuts, silver beads, and porcupine quills, it catches the reflection of the candle flame, glittering as she moves in her seat.

  'I thought you were against capital punishment,' Jonathan offers.

  'I am,' she replies, 'wholeheartedly. What I'm talking about is bigger than revenge. Bigger than – you know, there's this misperception that we, black people, are violent, but if were even half as violent as white folks believe, they'd all be dead. Piles of bodies, everywhere.'

  I look at her face.

  Instead, I think, we kill each other.

  'It would be a whole different world,' she says, 'if we had done what we were justified to do.'

  She looks at me, then at Jonathan.

  'Malcolm knew the score,' she continues. 'The ballot or the bullet. By any means necessary. There can be no revolution without bloodshed.'

  'He disavowed many of his beliefs before he died,' Jonathan says.

  'He expanded many of his beliefs,' Maggie says. 'There's a difference.'

  Jonathan shrugs, looking down at the table as if somehow embarrassed.

  'The problem with this world,' Maggie says, 'is that all the wrong people have been doing the killing.'

  'That should tell you something about killing,' Jonathan replies.

  'Maybe,' Maggie agrees. 'But it also tells me just as much about those who aren't doing it.'

  'And what is that?' Jonathan asks. 'That we're cowards?'

  'Some of us but not all of us. My only point, dear Jonathan, is that this world would be a better place to live if some of us could learn how to shoot a gun.'

  'You can be very unlikable sometimes, Maggie,' Jonathan says. 'Do you know that?'

  He shakes his head in disgust.

  'Oh, Johnny,' Maggie says, reaching across the table and touching his cheek, 'don't be so hateful. I'm just playing with you.'

  'And now you double-clutch,' he says.

  'I'm not double-clutching,' she replies. 'I'm just trying to look at certain things from different perspectives. I could kill someone, but I doubt if I ever would. I'm a coward, too.'

  Maggie looks at me and winks.

  'Well,' Jonathan says, looking up, 'I guess there's a few people I could kill.'

  'There you go,' Maggie replies, laughing heartily. 'Good for you!'

  As we continue talking, I notice that Jonathan is no longer uneasy. Maggie's attention and humor, it seems, have somehow calmed him.

  Still, I occasionally notice the two of them looking at one another as if in collusion: a raised eyebrow or sudden shift of attention, lowered eyelids, a slight smile or frown. More than once, Jo
nathan begins to say something but, glancing at Maggie, abruptly stops.

  Listening to them talk, I look up at the door and watch as an older black gentleman walks in and, after talking briefly with the waiter, is seated at a nearby table.

  The man is tall and thin, very dark, wearing a white two-piece suit, white shirt, and bright green tie. His hair is cropped close to his head, perfectly silver. There is an elegance, a sophistication, to his demeanor and dress that reminds me of a professor or, perhaps, a political dignitary.

  If he is a teacher, I wonder, what would he teach: literature, perhaps French literature, or philosophy?

  'Who, my dear, are you staring at?' I hear Maggie ask. She looks at me, then around the crowded restaurant.

  'That man by the door,' I reply. 'The ambassador.'

  'Ambassador?'

  Jonathan turns, looking behind him. As he does this, I notice a small, round sore, like a fresh burn, at the nape of his neck.

  'The guy with the green tie?' he asks. 'He's an ambassador? To where?'

  'Well,' I reply, staring at his neck, 'I don't know if he's an ambassador. I was just trying to imagine what his story was – is.'

  'Why?' Jonathan asks, turning forward in his seat and looking at me. As he turns, the sore at the nape of his neck becomes hidden behind his collar. Wondering briefly of its origin, I look at his face.

  'I don't know,' I reply. 'It's – it's not too often I see a man in an all-white suit and bright green tie.'

  'Very elegant,' Maggie says, drinking from her glass of wine. 'He's gorgeous.'

  'Gorgeous?' Jonathan asks.

  'Yes,' she replies, 'gorgeous. He has to be African; Westerners are too ashamed of themselves to dress so – so gorgeously. Except for American Indians, of course. Is there any traditional dress more beautiful than theirs? There isn't. It almost makes me cry when I think of how beautiful it is.'

  'What about the Dutch?' I ask.

  Maggie leans back in her chair, laughing.

  'With their little wooden shoes,' she says, giggling. 'And Pippi Longstocking braids!'

  'Do you remember,' Jonathan begins, 'when we were –'

  Suddenly, looking at Maggie, he stops.