Zaid’s hair is wet and drips onto my bare skin. His body, part of the architecture of this staid loft, overlooks my own, lying in repose on his bed.
My eyes engage the ceiling, avoiding his.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don’t love you,” I say. “I don’t know if I ever did.”
“I see.”
I sit up, cross my legs. He sits down, clutching the towel close to his body. We look at each other.
“This is awkward,” I say.
Silence.
“Maybe —” I begin.
“No,” he shakes his head. “Don’t.”
I wanna tell you something: this city, it makes me sick. You know like the dead fish floating in the murky blue of our harbour. And I’ve become such a bookslut these days, jumping from Neruda to Kerouac to Dostoevsky, holed up in my room reading until my eyes burn and tear.
Then I step outside, wanting to walk away from the consumptive air of my room, only to gasp fumes and exhaust, sucking in the malformed afterbirth of a difficult labour, my body a repository for the city’s waste.
Zaid and I met on one of those misinformed excursions. I carried a copy of the Koran, its spine broken. He carried a black umbrella, bending under the wind. It was raining.
The romantic in me would like to say we met on a Parisian bridge, had a frighteningly good time, and ended up together forever, two pieces of the same soul reunited. But we all know how absurd such a statement would be. Toronto does not have any Parisian bridges.
It went like this:
I am about to jaywalk across a minor road while attempting to protect my much-abused copy of the Koran from the blitz of rain when he comes up behind me and, with the gesture of a gentleman, quickly shields my head.
“Your Koran. It has been through much,” I hear him say. His voice struggles to be heard amidst the backdrop of rain.
I glance down at the tattered book and blush.
“Yes, well -“
“You ought to take better care of it. It is a religious text,” he continues.
“I know,” I say. Who is he to tell me I should take better care of my books? I look up at him and ask coyly, “Do you think I’m going to hell?”
He smiles. “You tell me.”
I ended up going home with him. And no, we did not sleep together.
A week after the first of our many meetings, I twist and stretch under my pitiable covers. The plump Irish neighbour, my rambling insomniac, is vacuuming. It is four a.m. I hurl my pillows at the far wall. To my disappointment, they do not explode. No flurry of goose feathers, just a delicate thud. Cowards.
I sit up. It is decided. I must acquire a pet goat. With bells. I will present my darling neighbour with diluted sleeping pills, and just as she wanders into the Sandman’s oasis, I’ll take my Gertie for a walk.
On second thought, I will get a cloned baby goat with minty breath to clean the chemical sky. It will have a ubiquitous presence, traveling with me far and wide, rolling out a red carpet of fresh air, and inspecting prospective acquaintances for the sign of the devil. I sigh. My head throbs at the thought of working on my dissertation. I can only think that right now I have less productive value than a pig in a slaughterhouse.
I flop back onto the bed, and pull the covers over my head when the doorbell rings. I do not move. There is another ring. God is dead doughnuts are alive will be my new mantra, I think, as I scramble to open it. My hands lift the chain and I peer through the crack. Zaid. Of course.
I quickly shut the door. Sleep deprivation and I have never taken to one another, so my behavior after one of our tiffs can sometimes be lacking.
The doorbell rings again. This time I remove the chain fully and poke my head outside.
“Yes?”
“I know it’s early —”
“Really? I hadn’t realized.”
“But I just had to tell you —” he hesitates.
“Yes?”
“I’m sort of engaged.”
I shut the door again, then immediately regret it. But there’s no way I’m going to give in first. My eyes bore into the door’s mahogany wood, willing the doorbell to ring one more time. It does not. Cursing, I yank the door open. Zaid is leaning against the wall, unperturbed. A little peeved, I say, “You know, you’re supposed to ring again?”
“I was just about to,” he replies.
I gesture for him to come inside.
“So,” I say as I close the door behind us.
“So,” he repeats. Quiet fills the space between us.
“Look, why don’t you go keep Salad company while I get dressed?” I finally say.
“Salad?
“He,” I usher him into the kitchen, “is my gay depressed fish. I stole him from a wedding, he was the centerpiece. And he’s right there. Enjoy.” Salad swims up to the top corner of the vase and presses his blue face against the glass. New faces perk him up. I have an inkling he wants to travel.
“You named him Salad? He’s gay?”
“Yes, he’s gay. And I only call him Salad half the time. The other half of the time he goes by Sushi.” Zaid looks at me in disbelief. I pull out a chair and motion for him to sit. “Trust me, it’s good for him.” “He’s in a vase.”
“It’s a preventive measure. He keeps jumping out of the damn tank; I don’t see why I should let him take the easy way out when I have to stick around and suffer.”
“That makes a lot of sense.”
I smile. “I know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get dressed.” I manage to make what for me is a graceful exit, before zooming straight to the bathroom. The icy marble of the bathroom floor slaps my feet into wakefulness. With regulation speed I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and change into a pair of blue jeans and a black sweater. I emerge to Piaf singing; her French voice with the delicious r’s rolling across the decades. I look for Zaid.
“I hope you don’t mind. I thought it’d be nice to listen to some music,” I hear a voice say behind me.
I turn around. “Not at all. Would you like anything?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
I plunk myself down on the couch. He sits down beside me. “So how is it that you’re sort of engaged?” I ask, glowering at him.
He smiles ruefully and buries his head in his hands. “My parents found a girl for me in Pakistan.”
“Uhh, Congratulations.”
“We’re supposed to get engaged soon. I should have told you when we first met.”
“Why?” I ask. He gapes at me. I smile. “Well, it’s only fair. You are, after all, the other man in my life. You see,” I lean into him and whisper, “I’m married.”
He jumps up. “What?”
“Pablo’s ‘Lone Gentleman’ and I are quite happy together. I stray sometimes, but I always go back. He’s under my bed right now so watch what you say. I don’t want to upset him.” I pat the seat beside me.
Zaid laughs and shakes his head, but sits down anyway. “You must be the strangest woman I have ever met.”
“You must not get out much then.”
“Guess not.”
And then we talked. And talked some more. About potatoes, pirates, and God with a capital G. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and La Boheme snuck into the conversation at perfectly odd intervals. As did Machiavelli and Crest White Strips (they do work). And in the midst of all this talk, the sun rose, a modernist painting through my large bay window, a splash of pinks, violets, and oranges. Emboldened by illumination, I ask Zaid, “Tell me about this woman.”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Ahh…the recipe for the ideal marriage.” Zaid pretends not to hear. “I do know what she looks like though.”
“Well, that’s good. All the important stuff then.”
“Yes, of course.”
“What are Muslim weddings like?”
“They’re nothing special. The usual. The men sit on one side staring at the groom. The women sit on the other staring at the bride. Then we eat and drink. And if we’re lucky they scam the groom at the end. Always a good laugh.”
“That’s pretty damn good. At least it’s more amusing than Hindu weddings. There we listen to a swami intone words in a language no one understands, line up to take pictures, and eat bad food and drink bad drinks. Then we go home.”
He shakes his head and grins. “I thought you were an atheist.”
“No, an agnostic.”
“Of course, I should have known.” I ignore this. “We ought to reform weddings. You ought to be able to do anything you like. Say whatever you want, do whatever you want,” I say.
“Agreed.”
There is a pause. “So what are you still doing here?” I ask finally.
“I don’t know.”
Edith’s singing “La Vie En Rose” in the background, bringing the 40s to life in all its dusty glamour, the sophisticated elegance of a decade rousing to notes of music. And for a moment I imagine this is World War II.
Zaid is a French communist, and we’re part of the Resistance. He’s wearing a beret and suspenders. I’m wearing a brown peasant coat. But what are we resisting? Nothing. Everything.
I shake off the thought and look at him disapprovingly. “So not only are you cheating on your wife-to-be, you’re doing it with an infidel.”
“Not really.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’ve never kissed you.”
“True. I guess you’re not cheating after all then.”
“No, I’m not,” he affirms. I look at him. He leans in. I do not pull away.
It is noon of the same day. Zaid has left and Vikki and I are now having brunch. We decided that taking two hours of our lives to eat and talk about men is a waste of time, but being the unproductive and inefficient beings we are, we’re going to do it anyway.
“Why did he have to make me fall in love with him?” I ask, banging my head lightly on the table. “I hate him.”
“Because that’s what he does,” Vikki says, waving her wine glass before taking a sip.
“And what is that?” I ask.
Vikki puts the glass down, smiles. “He fucks them, converts them, and then leaves ‘em hangin’ by a thread.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“For serious. He’s like a saint. Risking his salvation in order to save others. It’s all very noble.” She raises the glass in a mock toast and drinks.
I swallow my shot of tequila, and shudder. “I don’t love him. I don’t.”
Vikki laughs. “I never said you did.”
I am sitting at my desk, staring out the window. There are melancholy trees, mulberry trees, stirring outside, slowly succumbing to the silky voice of time. And there are cracks in the street, a prologue to suburban despair. My fingers tap the grainy desk in a misguided attempt to start my brain. Zaid and I see each other everyday this past month. My dissertation also runs itself aground. There may be a correlation somewhere, I muse. Sushi is hovering on the blue vase floor, refusing to eat, fins swishing against a rock he cannot move. He is acting all Bohemian this morning.
I think of Zaid, his body inseparable from his language.
Cynicism is the great Satan.
Why?
Cynics cop out on life, he had replied. And I wondered what fed this idealism.
I look at Sushi. “You oughtn’t be a coward,” I say sternly. He gives a curt wiggle and turns around. I shake my head. Attitude.
The next night Zaid and I are sitting on the porch, under the pale light of the gaunt moon. The air is fat with lazy heat, jazz, and smoke. We are leaning against the concrete slabs, faces flushed with warmth.
“What is the most exciting thing you’ve ever done?” I ask.
“Cooked a good meal.”
“Please. I hope you can come up with something better than that!” I exclaim.
Zaid throws his head back and laughs. It is a deep laugh that emerges from somewhere in the bowels of his soul.
“There must have been something,” I insist. “You’ve been everywhere.”
He looks at me, clearly amused. “Like what?”
“Delivered babies in Sub-Saharan Africa? Been kissed by a camel?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe. But I still think there is nothing as intoxicating as cooking a good meal.”
I am quiet.
“What do you love about me?” Zaid asks. He is lying sideways on the bed.
I flip onto my front and peer up at him. “Your sweaty feet. My turn. What do you hate about me?”
Zaid scrunches his eyebrows in mock concentration. “Your sweaty feet.”
I laugh. Zaid runs a finger down my spine. “I’m not going to marry her,” he says absentmindedly.
I sit up and rub my arm, which has fallen asleep. “So what are you going to do? Marry me?”
“Maybe,” Zaid replies.
I press on. “Why? Do you imagine that we’re in love?”
“Do you love me?” he asks quietly.
“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
“You’re full of it.”
“Took you long enough to figure that out.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“It’s the truth,” I respond. “What do you think will happen if we continue with this?” I ask.
“We’ll get married?” Zaid retorts.
“More like you’ll be shunned by your family, your community. Alienated from your religion, your God. It’ll be all hellfire and brimstone.”
“You paint such a rosy picture.”
“It’s my special talent.”
Zaid looks angry for a moment. He sighs. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re taking the easy way out. Loving is hard business.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“So do you love me?”
Sushi floats upside down in his vase, and I was supposed to meet Zaid one hour ago. I cannot bring myself to move. It occurs to me that this constant balance of uncertainty, this world for two I have allowed us to momentarily shelter in is disappearing. The stillness of an instant, this life between the brackets, ripples in time, a stolen moment, all caught within the lens of our eyes.
We are all second persons. The second person implicates, leaving behind the conceit of the first, the distance of the third. I am a second person.
I crush the roses, letting the soft red blush of their petals float onto the water. Words don’t create meaning, we do.
The words unbound themselves, fall around us. “I don’t love you either,” Zaid says at last. His wet hair drips onto my bare skin. Words drenching skin. The dispossession of Love.
I lean my head against his chest and close my eyes. “Will you marry her?”
His finger traces the contours of my face, etching it into memory. Echoes of kisses and sin. “Do you want me to?”
No. I open my eyes. “Yes,” I whisper.
“You should go,” I say as his fingers entwine with mine. Our knees touch.
“Yes,” he replies, and does not move.
I gently pry my hand from his. He gazes at me, and then starts putting on his clothes. I look away. When the door finally closes I do not need to turn around to know he is gone.