CHAPTER 18

ADELE DREW THE STONE HOUSE of her father’s childhood home with a coal pencil, sketching grape leaves climbing along the side boulders of the residence and, at the same time, remembering her introduction to Elias, how he had stood shyly in the front yard before joining the family for maza. And now, in Canada, working in a studio at the University of Toronto, Adele drew this memory. She was immersed in her art when a man entered the studio and began to set up a blank canvas on one of the easels. She hadn’t heard him cross the room and was startled when he stood in front of her, his right hand stretched out to her in greeting. “Hello, I’m Scott.”

Slightly irritated, Adele put down the pencil and looked up at the young man. His brilliant green eyes kept glancing at her drawing. He wore a red baseball cap, which he removed to reveal a mop of blond hair. His face was clean-shaven. She breathed in wisps of his aftershave and, when she looked across at him, she thought he was beautiful. The strong, square jaw reminded her of Elias, but he was an English-Canadian version. His complexion was pale and his eyelashes were light. He wore a loose, long-sleeved blue shirt over his khaki trousers and a beaded necklace, the kind sold at vendor stands in Kensington Market.

She held onto his hand longer than she would normally, but there was something soft in the way his warm palm stuck to hers. “I’m Adele.”

“Nice to meet you,” Scott said. He pointed to her sketch. “That drawing is very interesting. Is it a place in Europe? It looks so old. You don’t look European, maybe Persian. Are you?”

The question caught her off-guard; she had no idea what to say. She wasn’t used to his directness. “No, I’m Canadian.”

“Really? With your thick black hair and big brown eyes, you look so … so….”

Adele stood with her arms tightly folded across her chest, suddenly feeling awkward and embarrassed by his probing questions. “So what? Un-Canadian?”

“No,” he paused, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You just look so exotic, that’s what I wanted to say. I’m sorry if I’ve just insulted you, that wasn’t my intention.”

“What was your intention then?”

“I think it would be nice if we went out for coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Then tea or juice.”

“I’m busy today.”

“Maybe another time.” Scott walked back to his knapsack, pulled out a sticky note and scribbled something on it before peeling it off and handing it to Adele. “Here’s my number for next time.”

That night, lying in bed, Adele thought about Scott. She wondered what it would feel like to lie next to him, her head on his chest, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, her hands tracing his ribs, his flat belly, and then she also let her mind travel further below to a place she had not yet visited. His flaccid penis grew with her touch. At this moment, she let her hands move down her belly, cringing only slightly when she felt her scar, until her fingers were in her underwear, spreading open her lips and she imagined Scott entering her body gently and slowly, her hands on his back pulling him closer to her. A few minutes later, she moaned softly while her thighs trembled. After, she closed her legs and turned on her side and slept as the moonlight spilled shadows on her bedroom walls.

The next morning, Scott sought out Adele, standing next to her in the art studio and offering to help her set up before their class.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” Adele said quietly, her cheeks turning red.

“Well, do you want to help me?” Scott laughed. He had a deep laugh, originating from his belly and when he laughed, he threw his head back slightly, blond curls bouncing.

“All right.” Adele held the easel while Scott positioned the canvas on it, setting his paintbrushes and palette on the side table.

“Thank you, Adele.”

“No problem.”

The instructor walked into the room and began to teach the morning’s lesson but Adele’s eyes kept moving from her canvas to the young man beside her, who winked when he caught Adele taking a peek. She turned away quickly, and this time focused on the task at hand.

A couple of days passed and Adele held the yellow sticky note with Scott’s number in the palm of her hand. A few times she had put it down and hid it in her desk drawer, between piles of other papers, and just as quickly as she had placed it there, she reached back in and pulled it out again. Now she stood in front of the telephone, the note in her hands, and felt light-headed at the thought of speaking with Scott. Taking a deep breath, she finally picked up the receiver and began to punch in the number. She was about to hang up on the fourth ring when someone answered.

“Hello,” a deep voice said.

Unsure if it was Scott, Adele asked, “May I speak with Scott please?”

“Speaking.”

“Hi, Scott, it’s Adele,” she said, her voice slightly shaky.

“Hi Adele. How’s it going?”

“Good and you?”

“Pretty good now that I’ve finished the piece I was working on earlier today. I love painting but sometimes it can be so frustrating. Isn’t it odd how what we love to do can also cause so much grief?”

“Like the way you can love and hate someone at the same time?” Adele asked.

“Yeah, that’s true. Love can be complicated but I think people make it more difficult than it really has to be, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.” Adele cringed, wishing she could think of something more intelligent to add to the conversation.

“Do you have plans tonight?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want some?”

“Some what?” Adele asked softly. She fidgeted, the floorboards creaking under her weight. She cringed again. She felt so awkward.

“Plans, of course!” Scott laughed. “I know this really cool Indian restaurant.”

“I’ve never tried Indian food before.”

“Really? Do you like spicy food?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, I’ll go easy on you and choose mild dishes. Is it a date?”

Adele smiled wondering if Scott would laugh if he knew this was her very first date, but she didn’t mention it; instead she agreed to meet him that night.

Later that evening in a small Indian restaurant, Scott told Adele about his family. His life was so different from hers: his mother was a psychologist and his father was a lawyer. He was an only child. He had grown up in the affluent part of the English district of Montreal, had attended private school then later McGill University where he studied law. But in his second year, he had decided to abandon his father’s dream of him following in his footsteps.

Scott explained how he had moved to Toronto with a girlfriend and how their relationship ended after only a few months in the new city. The scent of curry engulfed them as a waiter in white and black served them steaming plates of curried chicken, samosas, and rice. It was a Monday night and the restaurant was quiet; there were only a few customers, so the evening felt intimate.

As they started digging into their meal, Scott suddenly seemed preoccupied. “What’s wrong?” she asked gently.

He was silent for a moment, then said, “My father called with his monthly lecture.” Scott rolled his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“It’s when my father bribes me with countless offers of European vacations and money if I return to law school.”

“Those offers don’t sound too bad to me,” Adele said, laughing.

“I guess but it’s the way he goes about it. He doesn’t get it. I’m not into money like him. I don’t need, or want, the six-figure income, the huge house, and cottage. Those things don’t matter to me. I just wish he could accept my decision, accept me the way I am. What about my happiness? I’m his only child for God’s sake.”

She laid her fork on her plate, reached over to Scott and rested her hand on his.

He glanced down at her hand, then mustered a smile. “I’m sorry to be such a whiner especially on our first date.”

“You’re not a whiner and don’t be sorry. It helps to talk.”

“Now you sound like my Mom.”

She raised her right eyebrow. “Is that a good thing?”

“Most definitely. One day we’ll go visit my parents,” he said very casually. “We’ll make it a mini-vacation. A weekend in Montreal. What do you say?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her tone serious. But she broke into a smile, and quipped, “Your father may think I’m a bad influence, being an artist and all.”

“And an Arab on top of that!”

Her eyes darkened. “What do you mean by that?” She pulled her hand away from Scott but he grasped it and brought it to his mouth. He kissed her knuckles.

“I’m sorry. Your heritage makes you unique. Eccentric…”

“Eccentric? I thought that’s what my art made me!”

“Let’s finish eating before the waiter kicks us out in favour of the boring TV show!” They glanced back and saw him hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and the restaurant. A small television was perched at the edge of the bar, and his eyes were darting back and forth.

Adele suddenly asked, “Do your parents dislike Arabs?”

“No, it’s not that,” Scott said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s just that they think…”

“What?”

“With everything going on in the Middle East, they think Arabs are hot-tempered.”

“Yes, we’re passionate people and what’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing, Adele. Can we change the subject?” he said in a low voice.

“I just don’t understand why your parents wouldn’t like a particular group of people simply because of what they see on the news. Have they ever been to Lebanon or anywhere else in the Middle East?”

“No.”

“Do they even have Arab friends?”

“Adele, please, let’s talk about something else.”

“Do you dislike Arabs too?”

“I wouldn’t be here with you if I did.” Scott smiled and reached across to take Adele’s hand. He then leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed him with the inexperience of a young teenager. “You’re a great kisser, let yourself go,” he murmured in between their open-mouthed kisses, encouraging her. They were oblivious of the waiter by the kitchen door.

“Hmm … thanks,” she softly laughed. Finally freeing herself, she exhaled deeply. “I suppose we should finish eating.”

Scott nodded. They abandoned the silverware and picked up the remaining rice and bits of chicken with their fingers.

A few months passed and Adele’s world began to make room for Scott. They talked and talked, wove their stories together, listened to each other’s lives, shared laughs and the occasional bout of sadness. And now Adele was going to meet his parents for the first time.

When Adele crossed the cobblestone laneway, leading to the spacious front porch lined with huge pillars, she felt herself return to her childhood neighbourhood, to Mrs. Foster’s big white house. She felt a pang of grief for her old friend, no longer in this world. She was buried next to her late husband and Adele wondered if they were at last reunited. Sometimes she missed her so much that Adele would suddenly be overwhelmed with a longing to see Mrs. Foster. Sometimes she would even leave her apartment, and head down the street to have a chat with her dear friend, and then remember Mrs. Foster wasn’t alive, and she’d realize she herself was no longer in Ottawa, but in Toronto.

Now she stood in front of this similar-looking home and before she knew it, her eyes were filled with tears. Scott looked at her puzzled, raised his hand and rested it on her face. Adele lifted her hand, rested it on top of Scott’s, and for a while they stood on the porch with their hands connected, then their lips.

Finally freeing herself from his embrace, she exhaled deeply. “I suppose we should go inside. What will the neighbours think? The Miller boy has lost his mind—he’s dating a gypsy!”

Scott wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her close. She rested her head on his shoulder. “My sweet gypsy girl,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She didn’t know what to say in return, so she did the only thing she could think of: she pulled away and stood in front of the large door, waiting for Scott to unlock it.