The Wanting (18 page)

O M
ERCIFUL
O
NE
, why do I tarry? Who is this Dasha Cohen to me, after all? What glues my eyes to the long silken tresses of her golden hair? In her bitter silence she is a lamp unto me. Her breasts, hidden beneath the veil of her garment thin as a bedsheet, are two fawns dancing over the gates of my heart. Her closed eyes are two curtains of silk, her lips are two figs split open, her cheeks are two ripe pomegranates. Wait. I know these lines from somewhere. Possibly some poetry I memorized, I don’t know. Nothing is really clear anymore.

I can’t seem to get close to her; I can only imagine her scent, which is most likely rosewater and cinnamon, and I can only guess at the color of her eyes, which must be amber. Amber. Have I not seen such eyes? O Allah, Store of Hope! Let me see those eyes once more!

It was in the house of my uncle Bahir, which was much larger than my father’s house. Someone they called the Great Man sat in the place of honor in the corner, and Uncle Bahir himself placed a large platter before him. My aunt Ahd was so flushed she was already pressing sweets upon him, and Uncle Bahir had to wave her off.

Fadi, dressed in his best white shirt and gray slacks, his head respectfully bowed, was seated next to this man. My father and I were seated on the other side of the table, waiting. The others also sat and waited. Men from our family, men from their family.

Suddenly I felt dizzy.

My father shook his head at me. “Go outside and get some air,” he said. “Just go quietly, and don’t disturb anyone, for the sake of Heaven.”

“Always for the sake of Heaven!” I snapped at him.

I left them all sitting there, laughing and nodding at everything the Great Man said. I passed by the women watching from behind the door, coming and going from the kitchen. Obviously, the Great Man was very rich. Anyone could see this. And he must have been somewhat traditional, for Uncle Bahir would never have dared hide Aunt Ahd behind a door; Aunt Ahd sat and ate with him all the time. In his house, like my father’s, it was all one family. My sisters wore jeans and T-shirts, so did all their friends. But when I glanced over I saw my mother in the hallway with a hijab pulled up over her nose. I didn’t even know she owned one.

I pushed open the door and felt the air cool my face. I took a deep breath, but it only made me dizzier. In the yard, amid the flat tires and discarded toys, I found a canvas chair resting under a tree. I thought I might sit in the breeze and let the waves of nausea subside. I sat there for a minute or two, my head in my hands.

“Hey.”

I looked up. She was standing some feet away, framed in the olive tree, the sparkle of its leaves like a halo of precious stones above her head.

“You okay?” she asked.

I didn’t want to answer, so I said, “Why aren’t you all dressed up, too?”

“Oh please,” she said. “You wear a hijab.”

She was in Levi’s, a pair of cowboy boots, a shirt that said
COCA
-
COLA
on it. Her hands were on her hips, and her hips were slung forward like the bow of a ship. “I don’t wear hijabs. I don’t wear chadors. I don’t wear burkas. I wear DKNY. My father can go to hell. Do you have a cigarette?”

“No,” I said. “I’m out.”

She laughed. “You’re out?”

“Yes. I don’t know.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m sick of cigarettes. Isn’t there anyplace to sit down? I don’t squat, either.”

All they had were some old boxes and crates. That’s what they used for chairs around there. “Take my chair,” I told her. “I’m happy to squat.”

“Don’t be stupid. Sit on one of those boxes. Bring it over here.”

I gave her my chair, fetched one of the old crates, and slid it along with my foot. When I sat down beside her, I could see how much taller than I she really was.

“You’re Amir, right? So tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“About Fadi, stupid.”

“Fadi? What about him?”

“Everything, of course.”

“Everybody knows Fadi.”

“Sure, sure, I know everything already. Do you think I’m stupid or something?” she said.

“I don’t know anything about you.”

“Well, that wasn’t very polite. Hasn’t your mother taught you anything about being polite? Oh, don’t worry, I’m just kidding. I don’t care what you think.”

“Fadi is a great person. He knows everything. What do you want me to tell you?”

“Does he like girls?”

“Of course he likes girls. He’s got lots of girls.”

I could see her stiffen, but only for a second, because then she smiled at me. “Let’s be friends,” she said.

She grabbed a cigarette from her purse and lit it by striking a match with her thumbnail. She allowed the smoke to rise from her open mouth and fold into her nostrils, inhaling through her nose. “These Israeli cigarettes suck. What does Fadi smoke?”

“Marlboro,” I instantly replied.

“Good. I like Marlboro. Does he drink alcohol? I do. I drink at the Highball in Bethlehem. Have you been there? Of course not, you’re too young.”

“What’s high ball?”

“It’s English,” she said. “What kind of cologne does he wear?”

“I don’t know.”

“Paco Rabanne? Aramis? British Sterling?”

“I don’t know.”

“But something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good. I like a man who cares about himself.”

But I was still thinking about the Marlboros. I had no idea what Fadi smoked. I couldn’t remember if he smoked at all. I supposed he did. Of course he did. I was the one who didn’t smoke. Too young, Fadi told me, you’ll look stupid with a cigarette in your mouth. I wasn’t happy that I lied about the Marlboros; this after all was going to be Fadi’s wife; but when I thought about it, I couldn’t be 100 percent sure I was lying. Maybe he did smoke Marlboro. Or maybe it was Time or Golf, I had no idea. Certainly he’d smoked Marlboro sometime or other.

“So?” she was saying.

“So what?”

“Does he really have many girlfriends?”

There was a fig tree in the yard and it was heavy with fruit. Already the ground beneath it was purple with seed and skin. When she spoke I found myself looking at it.

“Well, that’s all right if he did. In fact, I prefer it. If girls like him, that’s good.” She took another drag on her cigarette and held it out to me. “Want some?” She waved her hand up and down impatiently. “Well?”

Without another word, she pressed her face to mine, closer than any girl ever did before, and blew smoke directly into my mouth.

“Bitch!” I screamed.

She burst into laughter. When I started coughing, she laughed even harder.

Without thinking, I brought my finger to my mouth to curse her. But she drew near again, the cigarette now tossed somewhere out of sight, burning itself out among the ants and beetles in the dust of the yard, and my lips suddenly froze. Inside the house, her fate was being sealed by the Great Man (who of course was
just her father) and my uncle Bahir, who controlled the life of Fadi; money would pass hands, property, Fadi would then be brought into the business. I was only twelve, but at that moment I seemed to sense the misery of this beautiful woman in blue jeans whose body sang a song I had never before heard, a song whose words I longed to understand.

“Sorry,” she said. “It was just a joke. You don’t have to smoke cigarettes.”

She bent forward and kissed me on the corner of my neck, as one might on the Hajj, chastely, even though her hair brushed across my cheek, and her arm, which was bare below the elbow, skimmed across my bicep as a pebble skims across the tips of the waves, and I looked for the first time into her eyes. They were glowing large as pumpkins, amber flecked with leafy green, shimmering, honeyed, hardened, and the wide, black pupils were like tunnels.

It was in that moment that I cursed their marriage.

Yet it was not from hate that I cursed her but from a surfeit of love, as the Prophet, may peace and blessings be upon Him, says, when a man loves his brother he should tell him he loves him, and if one of you sees something bad, you should change it with your own hand, and if you are not capable of changing it with your hand, then with your tongue. And I see the girl in her Levi’s jeans and her Coca-Cola shirt and her amber eyes—the amber eyes that cannot hear the curse that had been lain upon them.

And now floating here in the night sky above the Garden of the Rising Sun in which the young Dasha Cohen lies dormant as desert lupine before the rains, what comes to me is a name. Nadirah. Most precious, most rare. Nadirah. May Allah be pleased with her!

Dear You,

I broke down and called Lonya. He’s so lame he didn’t even ask me why I wasn’t in school, but I knew he wouldn’t. He has no
idea what year it is, let alone what day of the week it is. I didn’t tell him about Pop disappearing either, I just said I wondered if I could come over because I had a question for him. He said, Why don’t you just ask the question, and I said, Because, and he said, Because why, and I said,
Because
, and finally he said, OK, let’s meet for coffee, and I said, Café Milano, because that’s my favorite, and he said, When, and I said, Now, and he said, Is it really that important, and I said, Yes it is, and he whined and then agreed, OK in an hour.

So I’m sitting now in Café Milano, having a choco-latte and shakshuka with three eggs and also a brioche, and I’m sitting outside, and when I’m not writing this I’m just looking at people, and at this time of day there is every kind of person passing by, there are kids, there are hot guys, like in their twenties, and lots of women, some of them dressed cool and some are so not, mostly going shopping, and there are old kibbutzniks—I think you can always tell them, and it’s not just how they dress, but how they always look a little lost, like
what happened?
—and there are a lot of people who work in offices and tons of Russians, they’re like every third person. It’s almost embarrassing.

But really, it’s most excellent to sit here when everyone else is in school. And now I see, here comes Lonya, you can spot him a mile away—he’s the one with the T-shirt that always says something like
HELLO, I
’
M AWESOME
or
YES, I
’
M A MALE MODEL
, or it has a photo of Marilyn Monroe’s cleavage made to look like it’s his, and of course the glass eye (unless he’s wearing his patch, because he likes to lift it up and gross everyone out with the hole).

So here’s what happened, which I am recording exactly as it happened. He came over, kissed me, sat down, ordered his coffee and toast, and said,

“OK. What?”

“I have a question,” I replied.

“I know that. What?”

“Well, more than one question.”

“Fine. What?”

“It’s more like a discussion.”

“Anka, please.”

“OK, OK. It’s just that—”

“What?”

“It’s delicate.”

“What, already?”

“My mother.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

“Suddenly you want to know something?” he said.

“Maybe.”

“Well then, I suggest you ask your father.”

“He won’t talk about her.”