“Come on Adam, you can’t be serious. He offered you fifty for a touch.”
“That’s right, fair enough!” We laughed it out.
I got Islam’s number from her phone, assuring her that I’d deal with him. I watched her disappear through the elevator before I called the fucking douche.
“Hello,” I spoke English.
“Allo”
“This is Islam, right?” I queried.
“Yes, I am Islam.”
“Good for you!”
“What?”
“Listen to me, you piece of shit…”
“What?!”
“Just listen, ass-face. Don’t speak!”
“What? Why you say? Who are you?”
“Listen, just listen! I am a friend of Jennifer’s.” I only got his attention after saying her name. He then stopped mumbling some English curse words.
I continued, “So now that I’ve got your attention, just listen! I saw your message…”
“I didn’t…”
“No, you did. I didn’t say that you could open your anus mouth. I don’t know what century you come from, but here in this one, women are not bought with money…”
“I didn’t…”
“Stop,” I sighed impatiently, “just stop fucking talking. I have an offer; you think about and let me know what say you. Say, I give ten ringgits and I get a blow job in return. No teeth…”
“You say shit, you fucking Nigerian Nigger.”
I had no idea how he could’ve mistaken my accent for a Nigerian. In a severe tone, I continued, “You fucking racist smug…”
“You fight?!”
“What? Sure!”
“Tomorrow at 12.00 p.m. by UPS’s mosque…”
“Sure!”
He just hung up the phone. I didn’t think I would find him there. I walked toward the mosque, the closest I’ve been to a place of worship in years. A tall guy was standing a bit far from the mosque’s gate. “Islam,” I pointed at him. “Yes,” he anxiously replied. I rushed to him and stopped close, facing him. Without a word, I found the back of my hand bitch-slapping him. I knew that I took him by surprise which gave me the alpha dog’s edge. I couldn’t make out his face, was it anger, fear, or just simple, plain confusion? Quickly, I spun my hand and raised my arm. In response he took a step back. It could’ve been just his subconscious mind that forced that sort of cowardly impulsive reaction. He trembled, falling on the ground. Staring down at him I put a finger in my nostril. Looking him in the eyes I harangued, “Dare you talk to her, dare you whisper her name, or even look at her; I’ll fuck you up.” I left Islam sitting on his ass, scared shitless. I assured Jennifer that he wouldn’t get in her way anymore, without telling her a thing about our encounter.
The next day I asked her out to town. This time, it was only the two us. I knew that I desired her, but my intentions were purely platonic. We strolled for hours around Georgetown. We talked culture, politics, and art. She talked about her parents and brother’s fiancé. To most of it, I listened. I asked a few questions, keeping her entertained. Foremost, I struggled to keep her on topic; her. We ended up in an Italian joint of my choosing. I could tell that Jennifer didn’t like it. I figured, it was a little bit pricy for the both of us, and I couldn’t afford her favourite white wine. She seemed a little flirtatious walking through the narrow allies by Love Lane. She kept giving me hints of interest. She smiled and elbowed me to look at couples. She laughed at my sarcastic jokes. She even held my hand. On my part, I pretended that I didn’t notice. On our way back, she apologised for dressing so casual. I assured her that it was fine. That night she messaged me, “Thank you. I needed to get out. I really enjoyed our time out. Let’s do it again tomorrow.”
The next day we went to the beach. We walked through the tent-like night market. It was full of pirated DVDs. The counterfeit handbags and watches shouted, “We are poor imitations, we are fake, don’t buy us!” We both hated it. She wanted to take some seafood. She picked a food court by the beach. I don’t know what had got into her; she looked a bit out of it. When I sat by her side she requested that I move a bit further. I thought, I might’ve misread the signals. I kept my cool, telling myself that it was just a platonic, friendly night out. I figured, we should head back home after dinner. Before I could make any suggestions she asked me if there were any nice bars, by the beach and far from the crowd. I knew of a place called Bora Bora which fitted the bill. At the bar, we picked a table on the sand with an enchanting panoramic ocean view. She talked about her friends, her mother’s former job in the military, and her brother’s work in Japan. Mostly though, she explained how much she had missed out on living, having to work her ass off so she could support her brother’s studies and the back-breaking cost of her father’s surgical operations. Although I had already liked her prior to this new understanding, hearing her tales, I felt a deeper connection. I made a few sarcastic remarks, but for the most of the night I listened.
I noticed Jennifer studying my face. I thought, there might be something wrong. Maybe she was buzzed by something at the restaurant. She muttered, “Adam!”
“What is it Jennifer?’ I asked.
She hunched, sighing. I guess it took her some courage to articulate herself saying, “I would love you if you were Korean!”
I was all, “What!” Except, I didn’t say a word, it was all in my head. I’d never used that word; it always sounded so foreign, unnatural. Coming from my mouth, it would have been more fake than the fucked-up counterfeits of that night market. Jennifer was saying something but I was so consumed, drifting in and out of memories of former affairs. Here I was hearing the word; except I was not Korean. Denied love! I realised that I had no chance whatsoever.
**********
I recalled previous affairs, “I am afraid to tell you that I am in love with you and you’re too stupid to realise my love,” Veronica had whispered after our quarrel. Back in Syria, Seba who I hadn’t even touched, muttered, “I am terrified! I think I love you.” Even my Iranian booty call had once said, “I cannot be open about my love to an Arab.” I’d never once heard a plain, I love you.
**********
I just waited for Jennifer to get bored and call it a night. Instead, she wanted to sit on the sand, right by the water. It was quite far from the bar. We just sat there, gazing at the ocean. She wore this gracious smile. I suddenly became aware of her studying my face. It was a look I couldn’t fathom. There was something about it that urged me to place my hand over hers. For in that enduring look, I found the courage to move my hand to rub her thigh so roughly and without caution. Our mouths were too close; I inhaled the air out of her soft lips. We kissed! She tasted different than any other women. And that taste made it all worthwhile.
**********
The next time was a thing of magic. For in the only divine ritual of mankind, your past, present, future, who you are, and who you aspire to be are altogether captured in that which is only natural. On top of her, I was her only true god and I was her only connection to creation. Beneath her, I was a faithful worshipper, for she was my only true god. She was the prey; she was the predator. I was her loyal follower; I was her only leading figure. She had possession of me; she was all mine. For she was a mysterious god; I was an uncertain subject whose faith was the only means of filling her desires. This divine paradox was the bridge to mirror our souls. The reflections of two flawless gods strengthened our conviction, lengthening the journey of our utmost gentleness and aggression toward the fulfilling sweetness of its inevitable destination. We were there but not quite; embracing our moaning gods; ready to cast the most satisfying feeling known to us, yet denying it. My supernatural ability to repress the inescapable was derived from the incomprehensible logic of my faith. Our resolve to deny our submission to the climax of pleasure and joy was weakened by the limits of our evolved species. Stronger than my ancestors from the animal kingdom, I fought for a bigger window of time in heaven until my animal started to take over.
I knew she couldn’t see her reflection all the time. She lost sight of it once and wanted a second glimpse. As her worshipper, I obeyed. Then, god wanted more and I couldn’t halt the prayers until seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and touching her commanded me. My vision went blurry, but I resisted. I fought it, but then the reflection almost disappeared. I fought so fiercely against my animal and defeated him, seeing a clearer, yet still cloudy reflection. My struggle won, over my battles against my human, seeing the reflection of both gods; me and her. At last, on her third signal, my animal took possession becoming a starving monster, readying his fangs to prey. In that very moment, I was a god, a man, and an animal, inflicting indescribable, breathless pleasure, announcing the end of our night-time mass.
The night before, at least the early part of it, had been catastrophic. I had exclaimed, “My life is so fucking complicated. I am afraid that I will disappoint you, hurt you. I have a miserable life, things you wouldn’t begin to understand…” Without a word, she dressed herself and opened the door. I tried to follow her and explain myself but she insisted that I leave her alone. I was surprised when she called the next day. “Adam, are you married? Do you have kids?” she asked. I went, “No, what, why…” She interjected, “Get us some dinner. I am coming over for the night. There is nothing we cannot work out.”
I told her about the war, the family, the misfortunes, and my shortcomings. I explained everything. I showed her the skeletons in my closet. She wasn’t scared easily. Her answer was, “I am a grown women and I can decide on my own. I have a mind of my own. I accept you and want to be with you.”
Jennifer's friends tried to influence her with their poisonous opinions. We survived Caroline’s offer of finding her a better man from Korea. We went through Jasmine’s doubts of the “malicious intentions” of Arab men. With her, I overcame my emotional shortcomings; I learnt how to show affection. We took care of each other. Actually, she took care of me in ways I couldn’t have ever imagined. Throughout I often reminded her of my situation and my responsibilities. Something that had become so redundant. All I wanted was for her to accept me and my situation, not a futuristic, improved version of me.
I remember a time after an invitation to Yamen’s place. On the way to the bus stop we saw a homeless man sleeping on the pavement. I was broke and had been rejected by many embassies with my expiring passport. A while back, I had forged an extension; a measure taken after visiting UNHCR and bribing the Syrian embassy staff many times. I never believed in hope. On that day, I couldn’t have been more pessimistic. Studying the man, I announced, “That could be me one day!” There, at the bus stop, she sobbed, “Why, why, why…” I tried to calm her down but everything I did only added gasoline to a burning fire. After I managed to stop her, she went all silent on me. On the bed, she whispered, “All I want is to have two babies and share my life with you.” I fancied that more than anything in the world.
We even survived that night. Finally, we came to an agreement. That was, there were forces beyond our reach and we owed it to each other to fight so fiercely that we’d end up together. Jennifer tended to get overwhelmed, I couldn’t blame her, but she always managed to snap out of it. We survived the distance for over nineteen months. She had, of course, moved back to Koreabut had visited me on the island three times; the longest she stayed was a week. We talked every day, sometimes twice a day.
I knew she was very busy. Three trips to the island, I have to make it up to her, I decided. Koreans, apparently, have this festive week during the Chinese New Year. I thought it would be the best time to pay her a surprise visit. And maybe put a ring on her too. Definitely, do that, I intended. So I went to the Korean embassy with all required documents, yet I was denied a visa. It was on the premise that my application was incomplete. I enquired, “What can I do?” and was told, “Check our website!”
“But I did,” I replied.
“We cannot assist you, please let us deal with other applicants,” the officer ordered.
I’d no doubt that it was my nationality.
Via a Skype call, I told Jennifer about my plans. I even knelt and proposed to her. She eventually accepted. I was happy, happier than I had ever imagined possible. Jennifer had wanted to get married and start a family way before my proposal but it was the romantic gesture of the whole thing that aroused that emotion in me.
Things started to get serious and I had to check for all kind of arrangements. I needed to provide the court with an affidavit and my birth certificate. They both needed to be issued by the Syrian embassy, which meant that I had to go through the fruitless blackmail once again. Even with a valid passport, I still couldn’t get them. I told Jennifer everything, except for forging the Syrian embassy’s extension. After I had finally sorted things out, I told her about that too. She went bananas on me; she told me that I was a selfish and irresponsible prick. She broke up with me over the phone. I tried to contact her but I had no luck. I thought I could reach her through Caroline. I sent her a message on Facebook, “Can I talk to you. It’s about Jennifer.”
She replied, “What is it now. I am tired of the both of you.”
“I am sorry but I haven’t talked to you in years, let alone about my relationship with Jennifer.”
“What is it?”
“Can I call you?”
“Just say it here!”
“It seems that I am bothering you. I am sorry to get you involved.”
“What is this? You say you want to talk. I don’t understand this.”
“Okay, Okay. I love your friend. I have managed to deal with some tricky issues. I want to tell her that it all worked out.”
“Stop lying to her.”
“I haven’t lied to her once. What are you talking about?”
“You want to make her miserable. She is happy here. She doesn’t need war!”
“War! I don’t understand what you are talking about. She is happy with me and that’s all I want for her.”
“Where are you going to live? I know you are Syrian, you cannot get anywhere.”
“Maybe I cannot go to the US but I wouldn’t take her to Syria.”
“Just leave her. She’ll be happier without your problems.”
“Okay, I got it. Thank you. I have to hit the road.”
“Just don’t make her hit that shitty road with you.”
“Okay. Thank you for the help. I need to go.”
She sent couple of messages that I left unread. For some reason, Jennifer called me before I had reached the motorbike parking. I explained the solution. She didn’t object much. In a few days, we went back to normal. That is, accepting each other and happy to be together. Then things got difficult again. Jennifer informed me that she’d already sent a letter of her resignation. Simply, I asked, “Why didn’t you inform me before you made such a decision?” And of course we ended up arguing about what kind of decisions to share with each other. I asked her to wait and not to ruin her livelihood, not just yet. She saw it as cold feet on my part. From that day onward, I noticed some changes in the way she talked to me. Most of our conversations seemed to end in nothing but putting too much blame on me. I bore the brunt of her frustration.
That week she was on her last trip before leaving the company for good. She told me she'd been working there a month to train her replacement. Two days before her return from that, she resolved to come to the island, get married and then maybe we could plan for our immigration to another country; somewhere where it would be possible for both of us to find jobs. Then she wanted us to have babies as soon as we had got there. I tried to reason with her that we needed to settle down first. She agreed. On the day of her departure she asked for some time, and that she would talk to me once she got back to her home. I gave her the time and waited a while longer. Then, without explanation, she wanted to end it. I called countless of times. For my calls, I got no answer; for my messages, there was no reply. She finally broke the silence saying, “I want to see the world and explore other options
.” She told me that, for some reason, she felt lucky and happy. She even went to this island in Korea; an island she claimed, “The best place for couples and newly-weds.” I tried to reason with her even after that. But my endeavours were fruitless. In the face of many hardships, I was helpless, refusing to accept the new status quo.
**********
I don’t know what came over me. When you ride a motorbike too fast, your eyes water. They can’t help but shed some burning tears. So, there I was, on the bike, riding as fast as it could go, despite the blurred vision. The speed pushed the drops to my earlobes; making their way through the back of my neck to my shoulder blades. I wanted it. I didn’t slow down. My trembling, weak body needed the venom of it, all out at once if it were only possible. The lump in my throat and the quivering of my Adam’s apple had been escalating, suffocating me of breath. The ache in my chest, just above the right nipple, had been buzzing in me for days. Sometimes, I felt two pulses beating one after another, at a quickened pace. I didn’t know, it could have been the smoking; except, it was not. Exhaling, my lungs forced a husky sound. In my head, it sounded like roaring that would vibrate the closed windows of the speeding vehicles. It felt like my chest was releasing the excruciating agony, signalling its maximum intake of pain. I rode to the bridge that connected the island and the mainland. I knew nobody there. The bridge was high and long and the wind was strong; I struggled not to lose my balance.
I’d never understood the structure of the mainland. It was like a group of small towns of high-rise buildings and bungalow houses, separated by nothing but empty jungles. I was heading there. I sought a shoulder off the road and far away, with no town in its immediate vicinity. Taking the left I entered three of these wastelands before I reached the one I wanted.
I lit a cigarette and footslogged toward the woods, quite far from the road. I glanced toward the road, making sure that the bike was still visible. I had no sense of direction. Jennifer had often said that the GPS in my brain was somehow impaired. The bike was my compass. I knelt on the ground. The grass was wet and the patches of reddish soil were muddy, seeping through my jeans. Smoking my lungs out, I thought this ritual might help. After all, there was nothing else that I could do to change the current state of affairs.
An Ishmael of Syria Page 13
