IT’S BEEN A FEW weeks since the incident in the restaurant’s restroom. Rami steps out of a taxicab and greets me on my porch. We decide to go for a walk. It’s late in the evening and the sidewalks are slushy from melting snow. When we get to a bench, we sit and rest for a while. Rami pulls out a cigarette and takes a long drag on it. He stretches his arm out and squeezes my hand. He says in Arabic, “I’m sorry I haven’t come earlier but I thought we needed some space. My uncle has calmed down a little bit and he thinks I’m dating Mirah, though she knows that we are only friends. I told her that’s all I can be to her.”
“And she understands?”
“I guess. She said her parents are strict and, well, she’s met another man but he’s not Palestinian. She tells her parents that she’s out with me when in reality she’s out with this French guy named Luc. It works for the both of us.”
I frown. “How old are we? I can’t believe we have to sneak around.”
Nodding to me, he sighs and says, “The only way for now, I’m afraid.” He stands up and I rise too and follow him down the dimly lit pathway.
An hour later, we make it back to my place. We stand in front of my house face-to-face. Anxiously, I take Rami’s hand and lead him inside, up the stairs and into my room. I cast a glance at him while he removes his clothes and folds them neatly on my chair. Then he undoes my shirt, my pants and we stand in front of each other, naked, open. I have an urge to put my clothes back on but, by this time, Rami is kissing my mouth, my neck, his hands on my waist, pushing me into his chest. Lips upon lips, we stumble onto the bed. He turns me on my stomach and my face is on the mattress. I take short, quick breaths. I feel the tip of his penis on my buttocks and when he’s about to push himself inside me, I roll over on my back and sit up, inch away, clutching my knees to my chest. “Too fast?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready yet. I can’t…”
He gently caresses my face and softly kisses my cheeks. He speaks in our slang language. “No worry. It okay. Nem, ya habibi.” He undoes the covers. I slide under them, close my eyes and sleep like Rami gently said. I feel his warm body next to mine. For the first time in a long while, I fall into a deep, restful sleep.
When I wake up the next morning, I glance over and Rami is still asleep, the morning light pouring onto his handsome face, stubble on his cheeks. I gaze at him for a long time. Sitting cross-legged in bed, I listen to his breathing, his chest rising up and down slowly, peacefully. Under my covers, in my bed, he looks at home. Slowly, I rise and tiptoe across the room. I slip on my pants and a clean shirt. Then I search for a piece of scrap paper, quietly, so as not to wake him from his slumber. At last, I find a sheet, scribble a quick note, and leave it on the chair where he had placed his clothes. From the doorway, I sadly glance back at Rami. I don’t want to leave him. I feel a heaviness in my chest. But I know I can’t stay. I have to go. I step back and heave an audible sigh. The dirty dishes await.
A mountain of dishes rises beside the sink, higher and higher as the morning crowd expands from table to table. My lips purse while my fingers scrape dried fried eggs and bacon grease from the plates. It makes me angry to think that my degrees here are worthless pieces of paper, something to decorate my walls and nothing else. I inhale and exhale, remembering Rami and how peaceful he looked in my bed, the stubble on his cheeks almost begging my fingers to caress his beautiful face. Instead, my hands grip dirty dishes. I take another deep breath. When I glance away from the sink, I see Salem, his head bowed, his eyes refusing to acknowledge my presence. This is how it has become. We ignore each other. But I realize that I can change this, I can change everything. I can return to school, find those dreams I once had about being a professor. It’s all in my hands. I know this. I stare hard at the plate in my grip and let it slip out into the soapy water.
On the way home, I stop at a shawarma stand and order two sandwiches, one beef and the other one chicken, hopeful that Rami will still be in my room but uncertain of what he’d prefer. Chicken or beef. I like both. I examine the fattoush. The pieces of pita bread are still crispy and not yet soggy from the tomatoes, lettuce and cucumbers, so I decide to buy it too. Strolling through the streets of Montreal, I glance at the shops with designer clothes and admire two men who walk hand-in-hand, smiling into each other’s faces and speaking in French, a language I also know but rarely speak because all the cooks converse in Arabic and Denise spoke English. One man smiles at me and I look down, hurry my pace and turn the corner. From behind a brick wall, I lean over, and linger for a few minutes watching the men stroll close together, their fingers still entwined. Pressed against the wall, I wonder where they find the courage.
A half hour later, my right hand turns the doorknob while the other one clasps the plastic bag of Lebanese food. The smell of the sandwiches fills my nose and my stomach growls. I’m smiling. When I finally open the door, I look around my room, the smile on my mouth fades. Rami isn’t there. I walk downstairs and put the food in the fridge then take off my jacket. It’s still early, I tell myself. Wait. Be patient. He’ll come, just wait and see. Relax. Back in my room, I grab a book, sit at the windowsill and pull up the window. A warm breeze enters the room and, opening the book of poetry, I begin to recite Langston Hughes into the dusk.
That evening, Rami comes to my place again. When I open the door, I embrace him tightly then guide him inside. We talk about our day and eat.
“I didn’t know what you’d like so I got us chicken and beef. Which do you prefer?”
“Definitely chicken," he answers in Arabic. I hand him the chicken sandwich. “Which do you like?”
“Either one.”
He looks down at the wrapper and doesn’t undo it yet. “Are you sure? If you like chicken, you can have this.” He hands it back to me and I insist he eat it. “Are you absolutely sure? You’re not just saying that to be nice?” He slowly begins to unwrap it.
“Me nice?” I throw him a playful grin, then undo the wrapper and take a big bite of my sandwich. I talk with my mouth full. “It’s too late. I’ve already started eating it.” But this doesn’t stop Rami, who leans over and takes a mouthful of my sandwich too; a piece of beef hangs from the corner of his lips. I reach over with a napkin and wipe it for him.
“We can share.” He has a wide smile on his face. He lifts a forkful of fattoush into his mouth.
Later on, we make love. When we are done, I can’t stop smiling. I touch Rami’s face and whisper, “That was nice, ya habibi.”
Leaning on his elbow, he gazes into my eyes. “Maf i hada…”
“There’s none, what?” I ask gently.
He tugs on his lower lip and thinks for a few seconds. “Maf i hada as beautiful as you.”
I blink back the tears then muster a smile, reach across and stroke his face again.
After a few minutes, he gets out of bed and sits at the windowsill. I follow his eyes as he stares at the full moon. His rugged features soften in the pale blue light of the moon.
Afterwards, he strolls back to the bed, kneels on the floor, and rests his head on my lap. I stroke his short hair. He climbs on top of the bed again and falls back on the mattress, eyes looking at the ceiling as if contemplating something. I ask him if he’s happy and he rests on his elbow again, bends down and kisses my forehead, then sinks back and closes his eyes. I smile and look out the window, listen to the wind moving in the towering maple trees, whispering, whispering.
The dark gives way to morning light. When I wake, I look around and can’t find Rami. My heart sinks. Startled, I rise to my feet and put on my bathrobe. Opening the door, I peer down the hallway and expect to see him coming out of the bathroom but the door is wide open and it’s dark; the hallway is empty. I close the door and stand in my room alone. My bare feet are cold on the hardwood floor. I look at my watch and get ready for work.
Throughout the day, I keep glancing at the wall clock, eager for my shift to come to an end. I replay my lovemaking with Rami. Feel his body against mine, our hands entwined, sticky, sweaty palms, and how I shuddered inside him, felt my soul slipping into his, becoming one for a brief second, then pulling apart, flushed, separate human beings again. The desire, the pleasure, the ache. The longing. I feel it right now. This terrible longing. Lost in my memories, I don’t hear Salem walking toward me and standing beside me.
“I don’t like you hanging out with my nephew. It’s not right.”
Dazed, confused, I wonder how he knows about us. I turn and look at him, then mumble, “We’re not hanging out together. Who told you that?”
“I’m not stupid, Amir. Just because I’m not university educated like you doesn’t make me an idiot. I have eyes. I see what’s going on.”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about," I stutter.
“He came home last night smiling like a fool. He said he had spent some time with you.”
I finally confess. “Yes, that’s true. We talked about politics, our lives. That’s all.”
“You don’t need to know about our lives!” he bellows suddenly. “I made a big mistake inviting you into my home.” The other cooks turn and look, their whispered voices carry over the fans and frying pans. What’s the commotion? I hear someone ask.
“We didn’t talk about your life," I reiterate. “What does my friendship with Rami have to do with you, Salem?”
“He’s my nephew! He’s only twenty-four! Naïve and stupid.”
“He’s not stupid!” I yell back.
“Leave him alone. Or there will be trouble," Salem warns. “You don’t know me, Amir, I can be a real bastard.”
“No kidding," I egg him on.
“Listen, you queer! Don’t mess with me and my family!” He grabs me by the shirt. The other cooks now rush toward us and pull him away from me.
“Calm down, Salem," one of them insists. “Calm down.” He drags him away.
Salem points his finger at me and shouts, “Leave him alone! You’re asking for trouble. He’s not a queer.”
I look down and start washing a dish, but my fingers can’t stop shaking; it slips in my grip and shatters on the floor. You’re trouble, I hear my mother’s voice travelling over the mountains and across the seas. I bend down and pick up the broken pieces. I flinch, and a stream of crimson pours down my thumb.
When I get back to my place, Rami is there reading one of my books. He puts the book down and rushes toward me when he sees my bandaged thumb. “Ya shoobek? What happen to hand?” he asks. He looks worried.
“Nothing. I broke a plate at work.” I try to smile but the nerves around my mouth freeze.
“Let me have a look," he says in proper Arabic, not the slang of the two languages we know. He holds my thumb in between his fingers. “Does it hurt a lot?”
“A little, but I’ll be okay. Got a few stitches but nothing came apart!” I laugh now.
“It’s not funny, Amir. Sit down and rest. Let me make you some dinner.”
“If you insist," I say, eager to taste his culinary skills.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He fluffs up the pillows and pulls back the sheets of the bed, then helps me out of my shoes and guides me to the mattress, tucking me in as if I were his child.
“Shukran ya Babba," I tease.
“Smart ass," he says in English.
“New word?”
“Aywa, smart ass – someone like be sar-cass-tick.” He sounds the words out, then points at me. “Inta smart ass!”
“Now who’s the smart ass?”
As he leaves the room, he bends slightly and smacks his behind for my benefit. He speaks in Arabic once more. “Be back in a while. Be prepared to taste heaven.”
“Or hell!” I call out.
He peers over the edge of the door and croons, “Smart ass!”
An hour later, Rami comes back into the room with a tray of steaming food. A stew of baked shrimp bathed in olive oil, hot peppers, garlic and crabs cooked and stuffed with chili drifts in the air when he places the plates on the small table. Walking over to him, I bend down and take a whiff of the food. “Smells great!” I exclaim.
“Tastes even greater. Sit down, habibi," he says in Arabic. “Let’s enjoy this feast.”
We make love again, the taste of his meal still on my lips, traces of cinnamon and allspice on his belly. His fingers comb through my hair. I look up and stare at his face. His eyes close tight as he groans and falls back on the mattress. I slide back up and rest my head on his chest and gaze at him. He raises his head and smiles. “Inta give good blowjob.”
“Shukran.”
“Now you?”
“Maybe later.” I lie on my back. After a while, I whisper, “Rami, we can’t keep hiding our relationship from your uncle.”
With his breathing returning, he says, “I know.”
“Today at work he told me to stop hanging out with you. Said I’m trouble.”
Sitting up, Rami laughs, “Everyone think you trouble even your mom.”
I nod vigorously.
With a shadow appearing on his face, he asks, “My uncle do this to you?” His hand lightly touches my bandaged thumb.
I laugh. “No, no. I cut myself on a broken plate.”
“Really?”
“Of course! Why would I lie about that? Your uncle isn’t dangerous, is he?” I say jokingly, but Rami doesn’t laugh.
“He have temper. Be careful, ya habibi.”
We don’t speak for a while. I close my eyes and drift to sleep only to be awakened a few seconds later.
“Amir, you think it okay to tell my uncle?” he asks in his halting English.
I sit up and trace the worry lines around his mouth, eyes. “We can’t keep going on like this. We have to tell him.”
The next morning, we get up and dress quietly. I watch Rami slip on his pants and shirt, his fingers slightly shaking. The morning light shows how worried he is; there are dark circles under his eyes. He catches me glancing at him and gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. And I wonder if it’s wise after all to speak with Salem about our relationship. I imagine Rami’s uncle greeting us with punches to the face and ribs. But I’m almost certain that speaking with Salem will make things better. I look down at my watch. We have enough time to speak with him before my shift. I put on my jacket and race down the stairs with Rami following me. We walk quickly down the street, the flaps of our jackets touching.