BY THE TIME I step onto the porch and thank Salem for the evening, the moon is glimmering rays through the indigo sky. Salem walks back into the house and I proceed down the freshly snow-covered steps. As I walk, I suddenly stop and look up at the moon and remember how I was so mesmerized by it when I was a child, how I wanted to grab it with my hands and bring it into my bedroom. But that was before I got to know Walid. My legs grow weak. I startle when someone touches my left shoulder. Turning around, I glare at the intruder.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you," Rami says in Arabic.
“No, it’s all right. Did I leave something behind?” I ask, surprised by his presence.
“No, no, I just thought I’d go for a walk. Do you mind if I join you?”
“No. Suit yourself," I now say in English, forgetting I’m with another Arab.
Squinting his eyes, Rami says, “Ana ma befham.”
“Sorry, I forgot that you don’t understand a lot of English," I say, switching back to Arabic.
“Please teach me. I want learn inglize. What mean? Suu…” he concentrates, “Suit your-self.”
“Do what you like.”
“Oh, I try remember this. Please learn me English. Ana badi bikhi good English like you.”
I smile at his eagerness and say, “I’ll teach you.” We then continue walking.
I run down a set of stairs leading to a pathway and tie my scarf tighter around my neck, bracing for the cold. Shivering, I hurry down the path, eyes pasted on the icy ground. I look at Rami, who walks quickly too, trying to keep up with my pace, his breath hurried. When I reach the corner, I take a right and walk down some more steps. Silence and darkness surrounds us. The city lights are dim in this area, reminding me of those cobblestone alleyways from a Charles Dickens novel with men on towering stilts lighting candles. But no men or women are around us. We are utterly alone. I pull the collar of my coat closer to my neck and look up from the ground. I suddenly realize that Rami is lagging behind and I stop and watch him walk faster until he slips on the icy sidewalk. And I smile, remembering my first winter in Canada, thinking my worn sneakers from Beirut would be enough to trudge across Montreal streets and how I slipped and landed on my ass. Bruised and sore, I limped home and had to sit on a heating pad for a few days to heal it. I walk towards him, reach out and help him up. “Inta okay?” I ask in Arabic and English.
He nods and brushes some hair from my eyes but I draw back and put my hands in my pockets. I sit down on a bench and cross my arms over my chest, then loosen my grip.
Rami sits down next to me and pulls out a cigarette. The wind blows and he can’t light the butt right away but then I lean over, take the lighter and cup my hands around the cigarette until it flickers with a flame.
“Shukran.” He takes a long puff and blows out a line of smoke from his full lips, which I stare at for a long time then turn away when he spots me looking at him.
“How long you lives in Montreal?” he asks with a thick Arabic accent. “We bikhi… talk English, okay?”
“Sure. I’ve been here five years. And you?”
“Two year. I fresh off boat!” He laughs.
I smile.
“You nice smile.”
I close my mouth in a tight line. “Shoo?”
“Nothing. Sorry, my inglize no good. Inta smart. Inta bikhi good English. You help me. We talk English. You be my teacher. Uncle Salem say you two degree. You be uni…” he stops.
It is obvious to me that English is difficult for him. I give him a sad smile then help him out. “University.”
“Aywa, uni-ver-city," he enunciates slowly. “You be uni-ver-city pro-fes-soore. Maybe someday. My uncle say inta very smart.”
I laugh in spite of myself.
Rami opens his mouth and starts, “You got po… pot…” He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs, then stops as if he can’t come up with the right English word. “You got po-ten…”
“Speak in Arabic, Rami, it’s easier for you," I say, frowning.
He starts again, his eyebrows pressing together. “You got po-ten-ta…”
I roll my eyes. “Just say it in Arabic.”
He uncrosses his arms and throws his hands in the air. “But, ana ayiz…”
“What do you need?” I ask impatiently.
“Ana ayiz bikhi inglize. I lives in Canada, not Gaza. This my home now. Ana ayiz English.”
I nod and say, “Ana befham.”
“Thank you for understanding," Rami finally says in Arabic. Then tries again. “You talk good English. Ana ayiz learn too.”
The lines around my mouth soften. “Okay. Go on.”
“My uncle say you got po-ten-tial.” He takes a deep breath and he looks worn from the effort.
“Potential?” I repeat.
“Yeah, you know," he starts in English, but then blinks and switches to Arabic. “Possibility.”
“I know what it means," I mumble. “Your uncle doesn’t know shit," I say too quickly, then immediately regret my words when Rami lowers his eyes. I playfully nudge him on the arm with my elbow but he still remains silent. “Listen, I don’t know shit. I don’t have potential. I’m just a dishwasher. I’ve been here for five years. I came to this country with big hopes like you. Fresh off the boat with a suitcase packed with dreams and memories. I’m university educated and working as a dishwasher. I wanted more but it just never happened. The dreams shrivelled like dried figs; they didn’t even taste good like the ones we have back home!” I say, trying to laugh. Rami doesn’t smile, only stares at me in the eyes. “And the memories, well, the memories...” I look vacantly at the distant moon then put my head in my hands and sigh.
Finally, he rests his hand on my thigh. I flinch. He lifts his hand away, continues in Arabic. “I’m sorry you feel so discouraged.”
I don’t say anything for a while, just look into the distance. The moon hovers in the dark sky, bright; its light shines on the cement path, black ice shimmers and I have an urge to stand up and slide across it with my arms outstretched asking this man to join me. Two Arabs on ice. I laugh at this possibility.
“What’s so funny?” Rami asks, throwing his half-finished butt on the ground.
“Do you like to skate?”
“What?”
“You know, skate, like on ice.”
“Are you fucking crazy? I’m Arab. We don’t skate," he says in a serious voice. But then his full lips lift into a big smile. “You want to go skating? Now?”
“Sure. I know a great place.”
He rises from the bench. I don’t move. “Yallah. Show me this great place.”
We walk in silence. The wind has grown in strength. But we keep trudging forward until we reach the lake. Of course, when I get there, I realize that we don’t have any skates. “I’m sorry," I say. “How can we skate without skates?”
“Use your imagination, my friend.” He speaks in Arabic. Rami holds out his hand. I don’t take it right away but when I do, I feel warmth through his glove. I frown then let go quickly and shove my hands into my pockets. “Where are your gloves?”
“I’m a dishwasher, remember?”
“So? You can’t afford gloves? I’ll bring you a pair next time.”
Next time. I suppress a smile. He holds out his hand again and, after a while, I take it. And we glide along the ice in our boots. Fall once, twice. Laugh like elementary students on a field trip. We lie on the ice far too long and my back gets cold as I gaze up at the moon, then glance at the man next to me. He has thick eyebrows but nicely shaped as if he had them professionally waxed, and dimples when he grins. I begin to shiver. He sits up, then stands and extends his arm to me, helping me up. “Too cold?”
I shake my head. We skate some more, his gloved hand still covering mine. Two Arabs on ice. Two Arabs on ice under a full moon. Two Arab men holding hands on ice under a full moon. What would my mother think? She’d think I’m trouble. We skate for a while and by the time we stop, the wind is blowing so hard in my face that my eyes tear. Rami reaches into his pocket and hands me a tissue. “For your eyes.”
“Shukran.”
We walk back to the main street. Cars zoom past us. At the lights, Rami says, “We should do this again.” He doesn’t speak in his halting English; his voice is strong in his mother tongue but there’s an innocence when he speaks in English. I can’t explain it. I long for him to say something in English again, and as if reading my thoughts, he says, “Let’s do again.”
“Skate?”
“Well, maybe no skate but meet. I have fun.”
“Me too.”
He raises his right hand in the phone symbol and says, now switching to Arabic, “Call me. But I guess I’ll see you next week for your birthday celebration, no?”
I nod then say, “Yallah, bye.” We wave and go our separate ways.
When I reach my house, the porch is dark and I fumble with my keys trying to find the lock. I tiptoe across the hardwood floor, up to my room, open the door and lock it behind me. Stripping off my clothes, I slip under the covers next to Denise and try not to wake her but she blinks her eyes open and caresses my face. “How was dinner?”
“All right. Nothing special. Everyone was loud and speaking over each other. Typical Arab family.” I laugh and she laughs too. This is what I love most about her – her laughter. She laughs easily and often. Not so serious like my mother, who barely lifts her mouth in a grin.
She sits up and says softly, “You must miss your family, Amir. Why don’t we plan a trip this summer to visit them? I’ve always wanted to go to the Middle East. And what a perfect opportunity to travel with a tour guide who knows the area so well.” She leans in and kisses me on the lips. We kiss for a long time before she strips off her clothes then mine. I move inside her gently and close my eyes. I see Rami’s face. Stubble on his square jaw, his large brown eyes emanating light when we skated on the lake and laughed as we fell on the ground together, lying side-by-side, close but not touching, even though I longed to. I suddenly stop thrusting and roll onto my side of the bed, stare at the ceiling and rub my forehead.
Denise turns, touches my arm and whispers, “What’s wrong?”
I say nothing.
“What’s wrong?” she repeats, now sitting up, drawing her knees to her chest.
“I’m sorry.” I turn and face her, clear my throat. “I’m just tired. Sorry. Would you mind if we just slept?”
“No problem, my Arabian prince," she says, slipping her pyjamas back on and bending down to give me a goodnight kiss. “I completely understand. I tired you out from our earlier quickie, didn’t I?” She laughs and I can’t help but laugh too. I close my eyes and try not to think about Rami. But I can’t stop myself. I focus on Rami’s hand in my own and how we glided on the ice. Two Arabs on ice. Two Arab men on ice. Holding hands. I shake my head and close my eyes tight so the tears can’t escape. I turn and stare at Denise who is now fast asleep. A draft slips under the blankets, up my calves, thighs, past my groin and touches my belly. Bolting up, I rush out of the room and throw up in the bathroom. When I return to my room, I glance at Denise, her hair spread on the pillowcase, her thin lips slightly open. She doesn’t stir as I crawl back into bed.
The next morning I wake up, shivering and sweaty. My sheets are drenched with perspiration. I turn to Denise’s side of the bed and realize she’s gone. With difficulty, I rise to my feet, put on a bathrobe and head to the shared bathroom. The door is closed but opens in a few seconds. Denise walks out. Her hair is damp and her blue eyes are red from shampooing. “Good morning, my Arabian prince!” she says cheerfully. “Sorry, I slipped out of your room but I have to work the early shift at the store. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Sure.” I watch her walk down the hallway, her small hips swaying. When she turns, she catches me staring at her and looks down at my morning erection.
She winks and says in a teasing manner, “Save that for later! You have to make up for last night!”
I nod and slip into the bathroom. I lean into the mirror and wipe the steam from Denise’s shower. Then I beat my fists against it. The mirror doesn’t break but pain shoots through my hands. Another lousy day. Another eight hours of washing stupid dishes. I’ve been in Montreal for five years. Why didn’t I return to school? In those five years, I could’ve obtained another degree. A Canadian degree. Why didn’t I do something better with my life here? But I realize that I have no time to think about this. My lousy job awaits. I quickly shower then return to my room and dress.
Nausea rises in my chest. I rush out of the kitchen and into the restaurant’s restroom. I throw up in the dirty toilet bowl and realize that I should’ve cleaned the toilets this morning before the breakfast crowd. The hell with it, I think. Why should I scrub shit from a toilet bowl? Who ever said a dishwasher had to wash toilets too? When I emerge from the stall, Salem is standing at the sink, glancing at me, a look of concern on his ragged face. “Are you all right, Amir?”
“Yeah, just something I ate.”
“Hopefully, not something my wife made last night," he says, frowning.
“No, no. I had a chicken shawarma yesterday too.”
“You should be careful where you eat. Some places don’t clean properly.”
I glance back at the toilet stalls.
“You know Rami couldn’t stop talking about you when he got home from his walk. He said you both went skating. Maybe you caught a chill.”
My mouth opens but nothing comes out and my cheeks grow red. “He told you about that?”
“We’re a close family. We’re Palestinian after all. Family is of the utmost importance to us. You should understand. You’re Lebanese.”
I nod then hold the door open for Salem. “After you.”
“Thanks. Hope you’re feeling better. Don’t work too hard.”
Warm water and soapsuds on my hands. Piles of dirty dishes are in the sink. I stop shivering and think about what Rami had told his uncle. How could he have shared our skating escapade with his uncle, I think. This somehow makes the whole experience less intimate, less special. My throat tightens when I hear the cooks laugh about it.
“Do you think your nephew is queer?” one of the cooks asks Salem.
Salem answers quickly. “No, no, not possible, he likes girls too much. You should see all the women I bring to the house for him. Palestinian, Syrian, Lebanese. They all like him. He’s handsome like me!” he jokes, sticking out his chest.
I glance up from the dishes and throw him a look of disgust.
“But why was he skating with Amir?”
Salem whispers, “I don’t know.” The conversation grows silent. I look away from them and scrub the dishes harder, water splashing onto my face.