AFTER WORK, I RACE home, careful not to slip on the icy sidewalks. Every day, I walk quickly out of the restaurant with a big smile on my face, happy to be free from that lousy place and those fucking dishes that keep piling up no matter how fast I wash them. I look down at my ungloved hands and notice that the skin on my knuckles is cracked. Glancing at my watch, I realize that I’m ten minutes late for my date with Denise. When I unlock the door to my rooming house, Denise is standing in the hallway chatting with Ben, who is the other tenant. I say hello to Ben then usher Denise out the front door. “Why are you speaking with him?” I snap.
“Well, hello Denise, how are you? How was your day?” Denise says sarcastically.
“Sorry, I get grumpy from work. You know how much I love that place.”
She pecks me on the cheek. “Why don’t you look for another job? I can see if my workplace has an opening for you.”
“A retail job. I don’t think so.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and says angrily, “What’s wrong with retail? It’s work. It pays the bills. Just because you hate your job doesn’t mean everyone does. I happen to like what I do and the people I work with.”
“Good for you," I grumble.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s just go. I’m starved.” We walk in silence until we reach the restaurant.
When we are seated and have ordered, I look around the small Lebanese café. It’s a quaint place with a bar and a couple of tables covered with gold and red tablecloths. Photographs of towering cedars and the mountains of Lebanon hang on the cream-coloured walls while Fairouz’s rich voice plays on a cassette deck. Dishes of maza are in front of us; the smell of garlic and tahini from the hommus and baba ghanoush floats into my nose. Denise scoops some taboulleh with a tiny piece of pita bread and feeds it to me. “Does this taste like home?”
“Hmm, yes.”
“We should really plan a trip to Lebanon this summer. I want to see where you were born and raised. You hardly ever speak about it," Denise says, chewing on a piece of skewered meat.
“Not much to say. I like to leave the past in the past. Talk about the present. How’s your mom doing?” I say, changing the subject.
Sighing, Denise answers, “Not so good.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach across and rest my hand on top of hers and squeeze it gently; it is so small that my entire hand covers it.
We finish the meal in silence then leave and walk gingerly arm-in-arm down the snow-covered streets. I hold on tightly to her as if I’m afraid she’ll run away. Sometimes I think that we’ll get married, maybe even have children. I know it’s been only a short while since we met, but it seems it would be easier this way. Get married. Be faithful to this one woman. Forget about men. As we walk, we pass a gay couple; they are holding hands. “Fucking queers," I whisper to Denise.
She stops walking and says, putting her hands on her hips, “That’s not nice, Amir. I thought you were open-minded.”
“Yes," I say, “to certain things but not queers. It’s not right.”
“What’s not right? Love is love, whether it’s gay or straight. I thought I knew you, but I don’t know you at all.” She walks ahead of me and doesn’t turn back.
When we walk into the house, I rub my hands together. She looks down at them. “Instead of being Mr. Macho, get yourself a pair of gloves," she says rather coldly, and I can tell that she’s still upset about the homophobic comment.
We walk upstairs and I expect her to enter my room but she doesn’t. “Don’t you want to sleep over?”
“Not tonight, Amir. I’m in no mood. Good night.” She bangs the door shut and I hear her moving across her room and sliding down her blinds.
Instead of going into my room, I turn around and head outside. It is a cold night. My body begins to shiver and I pull the collar of my coat closer to my neck. Then dig my hands into my pockets. I should buy a pair of gloves like Denise said, I think to myself. I suddenly hear footsteps fast approaching from behind me. I quicken my pace. “Amir!” the person calls out. Stopping, I turn around and see Rami, running towards me. When he reaches me, he rests his hands on his thighs and takes quick, short breaths. “You walk really fast," he says with difficulty, glancing up at me. He speaks in Arabic.
“What do you want?”
He stands up straight and stares directly at me, then rests his hand on my chest.
I flinch and move back. My heart is thumping in my throat.
“Shoobek?”
“Nothing’s wrong," I mumble.
He looks hurt. He says in Arabic, “I thought we had a nice time last night. I wanted to give you something. An early birthday present.” He pulls a pair of leather gloves from his pocket then hands them to me. I don’t take them. His hand quivers in the air, the fingers of the gloves shake too as if the wind is touching them but the air is still.
“I can’t take those," I say coldly.
“Why? They’re a small token of my friendship.”
“I barely know you. I wouldn’t call you a friend.”
“Oh," he says taken aback. “I thought we could be.” He folds the gloves and shoves them into his pocket. “Sorry, I guess I misunderstood. I just thought you had a good time too.”
He turns around and starts to walk away.
I rush towards him and grab his arm. “I’m not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind.” I shake my head and walk alongside Rami. After a while I say, “Your uncle told everyone about our skate on the lake. Why did you tell him?”
He turns and looks at me softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d share this with everyone at work. I was just so happy when I returned home and I couldn’t help it.”
“Why would you be so happy with me?”
“I don’t know," he replies quietly. He stares into my eyes but I look at the ground, avoid his probing gaze. Then he reaches back in his pocket and pulls out the gloves, slips them onto my cold hands. I look up again and I almost cry then. But tug on my lower lip and look down at the ground.
“Shukran," I murmur.
“You’re welcome. Do you want to go for a walk?”
“Sure. You lead and I’ll follow.”
He smiles and says, “Those gloves look really nice on you. A perfect fit.”
I look down at them and rub my hands together. “Yeah, they’re perfect.”
We keep walking and Rami tells me about his life. The life he had before coming to Montreal. He had lived with his family in a small town close to the sea. His father was a fisherman. He’d wake up so early, even before the rooster had time to caw, and head out with the other men of their town. “Early bird catch worm. This American phrase, no?” Rami asks in English. “My English get good, no?”
I smile and nod.
He goes on with his story and tells me the fishing season in Gaza was unusually crazy one year. The sardines must have been fucking like crazy. There were so many of them that season. But Rami said he didn’t complain because this was his father’s livelihood. He hesitates and squints. “That how Babba put bread on table. American phrase, no?”
Nodding, I laugh and exclaim, “Aywa.”
“Ana bikhi inglize. I get good. You help me.”
“You’re doing a good job," I encourage.
“Shukran," he says, squeezing my shoulder. He explains that something happened that summer. Israeli sailors overtook a Palestinian fishing boat and forced the fishermen to strip naked, then they pushed them into the sea and they had to swim back to shore. When they finally made it there, the fishermen had to pull themselves out of the water, naked, cold, tired, their hands covering their shrivelled penises while passersby looked the other way, pretended not to see their nakedness, their shame. One of those fishermen was Rami’s father.
I apologize. The snow crinkles under our boots, the only sound heard on this pathway. I take sideway glances at Rami’s face and notice a sadness around his mouth, the way the nerves twitch as if he were trying not to cry. I want so badly to reach out to him and embrace him but dare not. He takes a deep breath and tells me more. He remembered seeing his father returning home. A large T-shirt fell over his shoulders, two sizes too large for him, and the trousers were just as droopy. Rami raced towards him and said, “Babba, what happened?” He raised his hand and opened his mouth but no words came out. Rami remembered looking up at him and for the first time in his life, seeing his Babba’s eyes wet with tears. He hid his face in his father’s hip. His father patted his head and then they walked back home together quietly. Some people rushed towards them and asked if Rami’s father was all right but he just nodded and kept going. After that, Rami’s father gave up fishing. He didn’t rise early anymore, didn’t get out of bed for days, weeks. Then one day he rose from his slumber, dressed in his fishing clothes and headed out for the day. Rami, his mother and sisters were so happy that he was finally smiling again. Rami had walked with him a little bit. His father had bent down and kissed him on the cheeks and whispered, “Be a good boy, Rami. Take care of your mother and sisters.” Rami remembered nodding and lifting back his shoulders because this made him feel all grown up. The man of the house. Little did he know that this was what his father had intended. He was passing this title on to Rami. He had waved at his father as he turned the corner and headed down the road. Rami never saw him again. His father had tied some heavy planks across his chest and jumped into the ocean. Although he was a great swimmer, there was no way he could’ve saved himself even if he had changed his mind about his suicide. Rami tells me that he can’t even imagine what raced through his father’s mind those last few minutes of his life.
His entire family was devastated. They learned to live without him but life wasn’t the same. Rami pauses, then goes on in Arabic, “It is never easy when someone dies. You just keep going, find the strength and courage every day to keep going. In the beginning, I felt like a robot, just going through the mechanics of daily living. School, helping my mom, then eventually finding a job to help out. It wasn’t easy. At times, I wanted to run away from everything. Away from the responsibilities. Away from my sisters who would cry almost daily and my mother, who pretended that things were okay when they obviously weren’t. But somehow we got through the grief. I don’t know how we did it, but we did. The funny thing about the human spirit, Amir, is that no matter how much it gets crushed, it just unfolds itself and straightens up again. Again and again.” He stops, then touches my arm and says in English, “I talking too much. I not let you talk. Sorry.”
“No, no," I reassure him. “I’m glad you could share this with me. It’s quite touching.” He smiles and we walk in silence.
He walks me to my home and asks if he can use the bathroom. When we walk inside, Denise is sitting in the living room with Ben. Bending over, I give Denise a lingering kiss on her mouth. I feel her fingers push against my chest and when I stop kissing her and look down, I can see her nipples hardening under her thin pyjama top. “I thought you went to bed," I say, my voice rising as I stand straight again. From the corner of my eye, I see Rami staring at us, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, this is Rami," I say absentmindedly.
Denise stands up and extends her right arm. Rami shakes it and says, “Nice meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too. Do you work with Amir?”
“No, my uncle work with him.”
She turns to face me and continues where we left off in our conversation. “I couldn’t sleep and when I went into your room, you were gone so I came downstairs to watch some TV. Ben was kind enough to keep me company.” She squeezes Ben’s arm; he smiles. My fists clench at my sides.
“Amir," Rami says quietly. “Ana go. See you next week.” He walks out of the living room and I give Denise a stern look as she flops back on the sofa next to Ben. I race after Rami, who is already out the door.
“Rami, don’t you need to use the bathroom?”
“No, I pee outside.” He laughs, then says seriously in Arabic, “I don’t need to go anymore. The urge has passed.”
“Come back inside. Let’s have some coffee.”
“Laa, you busy. You get back to girlfriend," he struggles in English. Rubbing his forehead, he speaks in Arabic again, “Why don’t you bring her to the birthday party next week?”
“Maybe.” I pull the gloves out of my pocket and lift them up. “Thanks again for the present.”
He waves then runs down the front steps, his shoulders slouching.
When I walk back inside, Denise is standing by the door. I thrust the gloves into my pocket. “Isn’t it a little late to be out with a friend?”
I hang my coat in the closet then walk past her, up the stairs and into my room. She follows me. “I could ask the same of you.”
“Ben is our neighbour. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s a nice guy.”
I pull up the blinds rather roughly and stare out the window. I watch Rami walk down the street, his tall figure small from this distance, and I wonder if he’s thinking about me. Denise stands behind me and puts her arms around my waist. “Your friend seems nice.”
I turn around, embrace Denise, crushing her breasts against my chest. “He’s nobody. Just some Arab who wants to learn English.” I frown and feel guilty. We pull apart.
“What’s happening next week?”
“Just a party, nothing special, at his uncle’s place. His uncle feels sorry for me, I think, because I don’t have any family here. He’s always inviting me over.”
“That’s nice.”
I clear my throat and say casually, “It won’t be anything big. Just a bunch of Arabs speaking in Arabic, talking about the old country. You’d probably find it boring.”
“When is it?”
“Next Wednesday.” I don’t remind her that it’s my birthday.
“Oh, I have to work the late shift that day.” She looks disappointed.
“No worries. There will be other parties. Next time. Come on," I say, tugging her towards the bed. “Let’s sleep. It’s late.”
Minutes later, I strip off my clothes and slide in next to Denise. She closes her eyes almost instantly. I stare up at the ceiling, wide awake, and think about Rami.