I OPEN THEN CLOSE my mouth when I see Denise in the hallway, carrying a cardboard box in her arms. I offer to help but she pushes me aside and says, “I don’t need your help.” She can’t bring herself to look me in the eyes. I don’t blame her, not after what I did to her. She shouldn’t have loved me, I keep telling myself, as if this is justification. Denise is moving back to her family home. From my window ledge, I watch her as she carries box after box to her father’s car. As the last package is placed in her father’s station wagon, I notice Denise staring up at me. I sit up and wave, hopeful she will forgive me and wave back, but she doesn’t, only looks away quickly, her head straight, eyes focused on the road ahead, her father’s old car sputtering a trail of smoke.
Later on, I head to the restaurant for the night shift. When I enter the kitchen, the cooks stop talking all at once and ignore my hello. Then Salem stands across from me and explains that I’m no longer welcome here. We argue. The owner appears minutes later, drawn by the rising voices, mostly my own and Salem’s. “What’s going on?” the owner barks. “The customers can hear you. Everyone get back to work!”
Salem obeys and I’m surprised by his acquiescence.
As the sink fills with water and soapsuds, I remember how naïve and young I was when I had told my parents that this country had many opportunities for me. I’m a dishwasher, just as my mother had predicted. I drive my fist into the hot water and almost screech but hold my anger. I turn and glare at Salem who gives me the finger then continues chopping some onions and garlic cloves. I almost pray he misses and cuts the finger off.
By the time my shift is over, it’s a little past midnight. From across the street I see Rami’s green Chevy. He waves and calls out to me. I cross the intersection and bend over, lean on the edge of the unrolled window. “Hey, Rami, it’s been a while. I’m sorry about what happened the last time I saw you. Denise shouldn’t have treated you like that. I’m sorry too that…”
“No worry. Your girlfriend want you herself. Three crowd, no? This American saying?” he says, smiling.
“Your English is getting better everyday. She’s not my girlfriend anymore.” I feel sad saying these words.
“Sorry. You okay?”
I nod.
“My inglize bad. I want say more but don’t know how. I practice. I someday be good English speaker like you, Amir. Enshallah.”
“Aywa.” I nod. “God willing.”
“You teach me. Maybe go for dinner soon. This okay?”
I blurt out, “How about tomorrow night?”
“Friday night? Ma baaref.” He rubs his goatee.
“Oh, you don’t know. You probably have plans.”
Changing his mind, he replies, “No, no plan. I go with you. I pick you at your place.”
“Let’s walk instead.”
“But too cold!” he shivers. He flutters his fingers in the air now. “Come in car. I drive you home.”
I turn and look back at the restaurant. “Your uncle won’t like that. I better go.” I stand up straight but Rami clutches my wrist and insists I get in the car.
“It too cold. You freeze walk home. Get in. I don’t care what uncle think.”
I hesitate but then open the back door and slide in. We are quiet while we wait for Salem and as soon as he gets into the passenger side, he turns and sees me in the backseat. “What the fuck are you doing here? Get out!”
Rami shifts the car into drive and zooms away. There is no time for me to get out nor any way for Salem to push me out.
We drive in silence until we finally reach my place. Salem leans out the window and takes in the outside of my house. “I never noticed how shitty your place is. You should go back to Beirut. A building spotted with bullets is better than this dump.”
I don’t say anything but touch Rami’s shoulder as I slip out of the car. I watch from my porch while he disappears into the Montreal night with his uncle still cursing about me.
The next day, my hands are shaking as I wash the dishes. I keep thinking about my dinner with Rami. I flick my tongue over my dry lips and take deep breaths. Is this a date? I ask myself. Am I actually going on a date with another man? My hands shake again and I nearly drop a dish. The cooks are busy speaking to each other but I ignore them and think about what might happen after our dinner. Do I even want something to happen? I think about what had previously taken place on my bed and, horrified, I rush out of the kitchen and into the washroom, where I bend over the sink and splash cold water on my face. I take a paper towel and pat my cheeks and forehead. I haven’t felt this nervous since… since Walid. I slide down the wall. My fingers stroke the dirty floor.
Footsteps on the floor startle me to my feet. Salem stands a couple inches away. “Why are you still here?” he shouts, saliva spewing out of his mouth. I almost wonder if he knows about my date with Rami because I’m not sure what he’s talking about. “The owner asked me to come look for you like I’m your father or something. I made the mistake of trusting you and you go and try to turn my nephew gay!”
“I’m not turning anyone gay!” I retaliate. “I’m not gay," I say less forcefully.
Salem roughly unzips his trousers. As I rush out of the washroom, I hear his stream of piss hitting the urinal.
When I get home, I race to my room and keep the lights turned off. It is dark outside. Winter has beckoned the night to come early. I sit on the ledge of my window, staring out into the street. When I see Rami’s green Chevy approaching, I fall to the floor and peek out the window, making sure Rami can’t see me. His shoulders are straight when he walks to my door. His tap is forceful, confident. He knocks. Tries again. Then my phone rings. I look at it on my side table but don’t pick it up. There is another knock, louder this time. I lift myself up and peer out the window again and see Rami’s shadow shrinking on the snow-covered path to my house. Within minutes, he returns to his car and sits in it for a while. It idles and it’s the only sound I can hear in my neighbourhood. I slide completely onto the floor and crawl to my bed and hoist myself up. Looking up at the ceiling, I pray he’ll drive away. The idling breaks, then starts up and the engine doesn’t seem to stop for a while until, at last, I don’t hear anything at all. I stumble towards the window and look down. Rami is staring up at me. He waves and comes to the door again.
I walk down the stairs and open the door. Rami walks inside, smiling widely. He squeezes my waist. I step back and show him into the living room. “I think you forget. It Friday? We got plan, no?” he says quietly.
I nod and don’t make an effort to apologize, nor to correct his broken English which I have grown to adore. My heart is racing so fast that I can feel it in my throat. “Have a seat. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.” I hurry back upstairs and change into a new sweater and clean jeans. I splash some cologne on my cheeks and neck. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I take a deep breath and say everything will be all right. “It’s not a date," I say out loud. “Just a friendly dinner between two men.” Not a date, I repeat in my mind. Then why do I feel so nervous? I want to slap myself across the face and tell myself to grow up. But there’s no time. Rami is downstairs.
When I return to the living room, Rami stands up and walks towards me. He reaches across to touch my back but I’m already down the steps and on the sidewalk, walking fast, Rami trailing behind and shouting, “Wait! What about car?”
I turn and smile. “I told you we’d walk. Walking is better for us. You can walk, right?”
He pretends to be difficult, “Yeah but my leg tired.”
I smile and say, “But you have long legs. You can keep up with my fast pace, no?”
He finally reaches me and puts his arm around my shoulder. I tense up and try to move away, but he has a firm, but not unkindly, hold on me. “Of course!” He lets go and hurries as we rush across the road and head to the mainstreet.
I take him to the small Lebanese café where Denise and I had once gone together. It’s quiet for a Friday night. We share some dishes of maza and talk about our workday. I complain about my lousy job and he says he actually enjoys working in the government. “Well, I would too if I got paid to do nothing," I laugh. We converse in Arabic.
“Not true. Public servants work.”
“With ten million breaks, I bet.”
He tries not to laugh but does anyway. Then I hear the forceful, deep grunt of the word ayb. I turn and notice two men at the bar staring at us. I don’t say anything for a while and keep looking back at those men, who throw me a look of disgust.
Sitting back in his chair, Rami folds his arms across his chest and asks, “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, just some assholes at the bar.”
“Forget about them.” He reaches across, squeezes my hand and I don’t move this time. I let his skin touch mine without feeling guilty even when those assholes mutter ayb again.
He finally lets go of my hand and we eat and laugh some more for no particular reason. I glance back at the men at the bar, who now rise from their seats and leave. I watch them, but then my attention diverts back to Rami. I lightly pat his hand and say, “Thank you for coming out with me tonight. This was nice.”
“Really?”
I nod and pop an olive into my mouth.
After we leave the restaurant, Rami puts his arm around my shoulder and we walk along a secluded pathway. We don’t talk, just stroll quietly. There’s no need for words, I think. I turn and stare at Rami. He drops his arm from my shoulder and lets his arms swing by his side; he has a big smile on his face. We continue walking. It is cold and the snow has hardened on the asphalt, making some parts slippery. I nearly slip but Rami catches me. He speaks in Arabic. “Be careful, my friend.”
“Thank you. I hate winter!”
“Me too. But I hate the alternative even more. At least we have peace here.”
“Yes," I agree. “There aren’t any bombs exploding. Montreal isn’t a broken city.”
“I guess it depends on whom you ask!”
“You know what I mean. I know the French and English don’t always get along, but there’s not the violence like in the Middle East. When I was young, I met this man and," I hesitate and stare at Rami, whose eyes are soft with concern, “he pretended to be my friend. I trusted him… I was just a child. One day I was home alone and I let him into the apartment. I… he…” My voice cracks.
“Did he hurt you?”
I don’t answer him. He puts his right arm around my shoulders, then his left around my waist and guides me into his body. “It’s okay," he says again and again. I blink my eyes and rest my chin on his broad shoulder. Lifting my head slightly, I look up at the blurry, bluish-white moon; it stares sadly at me.
Rami walks me to my house.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask. Lowering my eyes, I suddenly feel embarrassed about crying in his arms. “I’m sorry about...you know.”
“It okay. It good to cry," he says gently in English.
“I know," I say with a sigh. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”
“Next time.”
“I had fun.”
“Me too.”
He kisses me on both cheeks and says, “Yallah, bye.”
I watch him depart, the moonlight guiding him home.