Guapa Read online

  Do you remember that first week we met, how you came over every night? Teta had no idea. All day I would long for you. My heart would jump when you’d miss-call me to let me know you were outside. I’d stand by the dark stairway listening as your footsteps came closer, my stomach in excitable knots. Then, after letting you out, I would get back into bed, stick my head deep into your pillow and savor the way your smell mixed with Doris’s orange blossom laundry detergent. I’d lie there and wish for sleep to come, not just to dream of you but also to forget you.

  And although soon society got in the way, and you insisted we see each other less, you remained my days and my nights, my only thought and source of pleasure. In public I’d watch you walk with ease through a crowded room, and then watch you do the same in my bedroom, naked. You would cross the length of my bedroom, knowing my eyes followed you, hungrily gaping as you strolled to pick something up, seemingly at random, and move it from one side of the room to the other. It was a performance, in as much as your swagger across a vast wedding hall or a crowded bar was a performance. But this performance was only for me. I was your only audience. Only I will see you this way, in here, I’d tell myself. When Doris came in to clean the room the next day she would never know that you had been here, naked, your bare feet leaving invisible footprints on the floor.

  When we were alone in my bedroom, in our bedroom, you would sing to me. Did you know that when you’re singing your face appears different? It is a rare moment where you do not seem too concerned with society. A vulnerability, sad and nostalgic, would emerge. In my bedroom you would strum your guitar and start with a gentle hum, and when you sang your voice would expand like a sunrise, awakening something in me that felt dormant all my life.

  “Promise you will sing only to me,” I would beg you, and you would smile and kiss my forehead. And our foreheads? Oh, our foreheads were the gateway into each other. Don’t forget all the times we sat in bed silently, forehead to forehead, for what seemed like hours. It was as if we were connecting to each other, our thoughts flowing through the point where our heads touched. In my entire search for more space, the space between you and me is the only one I wanted to squeeze out. My thoughts have nowhere to go now. They’re just swimming in circles in my head, jumbled up and locked in that damn cage in my mind.

  Perhaps I had been dreaming too carelessly. Too boldly. Perhaps you had sung a bit too loudly. And so now? Will we ever re-create what we had? My room was our sanctuary. Otherwise it was rushed, in moving cars, as we struggled to drive with one hand and fool around with the other, always on dark streets. It was an exercise in logistics that settled cravings, rather than indulged them. Our last sanctuary of indulgence is gone, and today of all days … is this crazy? If I am crazy, then I am crazy. Crazy and furious. Not at you, no. At myself, for letting my guard down, for expecting that we could get away with what we were doing. I never held back. I gave you my all, sacrificed everything for us.

  Anyway … this letter is not meant to indulge in these memories, even if that’s all I have. E-mails deleted, text messages deleted, no photos. Nothing can be left to chance, to the curious eyes of a stranger. Only my memories are left, and here I am remembering it all … Listen, I want you to play an important part in my life, even though I still don’t have the words for what this part could be. I want you to assure me that you will always be there, somehow, that you won’t just get up and leave one day.

  But even as your instinct might tell you to run away from us, remember how good I’ve been to you, how cleanly and honestly I’ve treated you, how much I love you … and we don’t have a choice but to believe that love is greater than anything else. And if it means running away and starting over again, then maybe that’s just what we have to do …

  I look up from the letter, breathless, clouded in hookah smoke. They are clearing plates, a nearly empty platter of fruit sits in the center of Taymour’s table. A few of the diners have lit cigarettes. I study Taymour’s movements, as if examining the tricks of an award-winning actor, looking for moments where he might slip, a feminine flick of the wrist, a dramatic gasp, or a camp roll of the eyes. Someone reaches over and claps him on the shoulder and Taymour turns and smiles. The turn, yes, slightly feminine, maybe? But barely noticeable. Even in the little imperfections, the tiny giveaways that are imperceptible to anyone but me, his performance is flawless. For a long time I was learning from him. I began to go out with him to his social events. At dinner parties we sat beside each other. At the table he paid me no attention, but under it I would feel his foot brush mine. It would withdraw, but soon enough it would be back. I admired the way he conducted himself, flitting between roles so naturally. He had that cool disinterest and controlled boom of a laugh that all successful society men have. He could be among a crowd of admirers and one quick glance my way would remind me where his heart was.

  Through trial and error I learned his rules. In public there would be no hand-holding or inappropriate touching. We would greet each other with a firm handshake and maybe a kiss on one cheek. I was not to refer to him as my boyfriend, my habibi, even in private. He would come over once a week, on Thursday nights, and would leave during the muezzin’s call to prayer at dawn. I was not to act too feminine, even as a joke, but if I approached him from behind and tried to take control he would tense up and quickly move away. He asked if I was willing to let him enter me, but I refused. My refusal was instinctive. There was no logic to it. I felt that if I let him enter me, I would have jumped off the cliff, and there was no guarantee he would follow. If he didn’t try so hard in public, if he was just comfortable being a man and doing man things, then perhaps I would have agreed. I would have let him take me however he wanted and enjoyed myself in the process. But his public performance of manliness felt like a competition, and I couldn’t let go or else I would lose. But what would I have lost exactly? I could not say but I felt the threat of the loss viscerally. I could not open myself to dishonor, did not trust him enough with my shame.

  He was right when he told me once that he had one foot in and one foot out. It was a balancing act, and he navigated it so effortlessly. But I was his one foot out, wasn’t I? In fact, he made sure I never met his mother. He introduced me to his father once, a few years ago at the wedding of one of his distant cousins. I remember being surprised at how tall his father was, but like Taymour he was very handsome. The way he held himself, his gestures and manners of speech, reminded me so much of Taymour that I fell in love with him even more, because I realized I was not just falling in love with Taymour but also with generations of him that connect through history, traits that had been passed down from one generation to the next. I was in love with his ancestry that stretched out for centuries.

  After I met his father I was so happy I wanted to return the favor, to show him that everything in me would be open to him and only him. I took him to our old neighborhood in the western suburbs. It was late afternoon, and the streets were empty. I showed him the site of our old house and told him about my father and mother. As we walked down the old streets, I mentally introduced my father to Taymour and told him everything that had happened between us. I asked him to forgive me, that there was nothing I could do. This was just how I turned out, I explained. I promised him that I would protect Teta from this secret, but that I owed it to myself to live an honest life. A sense of calm settled over me, and I took it to mean that my father had given me his blessings.

  The shame hit me as we drove back from the area. I thought of how Teta might react if she knew what I had done, visited Baba’s grave with Taymour, my secret lover. I couldn’t help but feel that I had tainted my father’s memory. I had thrown away the dreams Teta and Baba had for me and had taken their source of shame to my father’s grave and demanded his acceptance. I began to cry in the passenger seat. The more I tried to stop myself, the harder the tears came. My shame was revealed to him now, I thought, as I buried my face in my hands. There was nothing left to hide.

  He reached
over to touch me and I quickly pulled away.

  “Please don’t,” I sobbed, and he squeezed my leg, as if to say that it was okay.

  But still he never introduced me to his mother. He withheld the person to whom he is closest. Was there a reason? Did he think she would know, once she looked at me, the true nature of our relationship? He would never let me sit at the table, by his side, among his family. My role is to stay here, hidden behind smoke and pillars.

  One of the women at the table gets up. She walks toward me, quickly passes by my table without giving me a second glance, and enters the bathroom. Although I don’t know what she looks like, I’m convinced the woman is Taymour’s mother. So convinced that I get up and walk toward the bathroom, hovering by the doors. When the woman comes out again we are face-to-face. She looks at me with the same honey-colored eyes as Taymour’s. There is that same melancholy in her eyes, but also a flicker of shrewdness. She shifts her head to the left, slightly, studying me. I look back, unsure what expression I have on my face. Does she know? Can she see it in my eyes?

  “Do I know you?” she asks, hesitant. Her voice is much deeper than I imagined.

  “No, Auntie,” I reply, swallowing.

  “What’s your family name? There’s something very familiar about you.”

  “You don’t know me, Auntie,” I insist.

  She nods, although not with belief. She maneuvers around me and walks back to the table without looking back.

  I return to my seat. The encounter has shaken me more than I imagined. What was I expecting? That she would welcome me, invite me to sit at the table with them, introduce me to the rest of the family as her future son-in-law?

  I fold Abdallah’s photograph into a small square and put it in my pocket, then leave a few bills on the table and sneak out before anyone notices me. As I get into Nawaf’s car, my phone rings.

  I almost don’t recognize his voice.

  “I’m in the prison downtown,” Maj mumbles, in a tone that instructs me not to ask any questions.

  I drive Nawaf’s car back to the office and walk the fifteen minutes to the police station. The weather is stifling but I feel the need to clear my head. I tell myself that Maj is okay and soon he’ll be free. There’s still Teta, and Taymour, but those problems seem less immediate. Shame and lost love are bourgeois worries, I tell myself. Metaphorical prisons are no match for the real thing.

  Walking along the main road, I navigate the traffic and bustling market stalls. During the first protests I had felt as though I was seeing everything for the first time. My senses were alive. This was my city, and I was finally in control of my destiny. I experienced this feeling so intensely that I would appreciate the scent of jasmine and the feeling of cool springtime rain on my skin. Even the smell of the diesel from the cars used to make me nostalgic. Nowadays I don’t smell the jasmine, the sounds of downtown give me a headache, and the diesel stinks. My vision is once again gray.

  Cars are honking and fighting for right-of-way in the busy roundabout. Some cars are blasting pop music from crackling speakers, the songs merging into one another until they are just a cacophony of shrill habibis and yallas. In the center of the roundabout a circle of trees surrounds a statue of the president. You can measure his popularity in certain neighborhoods by how many posters of him the government has put up. The less popular he is, the more posters his thugs hang in defiance.

  My headache is worsening, as though someone is hammering a rusty nail into my skull. Maj is okay, I tell myself again. He’s okay. I’ve heard his voice. But his voice … he has never sounded like that before. At least he’s alive, at least he is well enough to speak. For now, that counts for something.

  Maj is always getting himself into trouble, and ever since we became friends I have inevitably been sucked in. When we were younger, anytime I was outside with Maj we were at risk of getting chased, so I made sure that we hung out in my room as much as possible. We were about nine then, and in my room he always wanted to play bride and groom. He insisted on being the bride, prancing around draped in a white sheet. He took great joy in mimicking the poise of the real-life brides we saw at weddings. Begrudgingly, I would stand next to him in my suit, all square and zalameh-like. He would take my hand and lead me back and forth across the length of the room, waving and gushing over the imaginary guests that surrounded us.

  One day my mother walked in on us. I froze, with the inexplicable feeling you get when you are young and think you have done something wrong, although you are unable to explain why.

  Maj didn’t skip a beat.

  “I’m so glad you came, madam,” he said, showering her with hugs and kisses. “Please, please, have a seat.”

  “Mabrook.” Mama laughed, a confused look on her face. “You look beautiful, Maj.”

  “Why thank you, thank you, madam,” Maj gushed. “It took the coiffeur hours to get my hair. Just. Right.”

  “You’re a beautiful bride now,” my mother said. “But as soon as you take that dress off you’ll spend your life chopping onions.”

  “That’s why I’m never taking it off, madam.” Maj pranced around the room. “They can’t make me work if every day is my wedding day.”

  “Enough!” I grabbed the veil off Maj’s head and threw it on the floor.

  My mother looked annoyed. “Rasa!” she gasped.

  “It’s eib,” I explained.

  Mama, a lover of all freaks and outcasts, placed the veil back on Maj’s head. Then, as she walked out of the room, she turned around and looked me in the eye.

  “I’ve lost you to your grandmother, haven’t I?”

  One of my main goals in high school seemed to be to keep Maj from getting us both beaten up every day. His femininity offended the sensibilities of everyone, which only made him more adamant to flaunt it. He’d flirt with all the boys and bat his long eyelashes at them, his arms and legs like tentacles, coiling themselves around his conversations. Then when they chased us, I had to drag him along to keep him from falling behind.

  Even after college, after he had grown his nails out and painted them first in a subtle French manicure and then later a deep red, even after he began to pluck his eyebrows into a dramatic arch, even after he began performing in Guapa’s underground parties, even then I stayed by his side. It is rare to meet someone who cares so little about what others think of him, and at the same time has an unwavering faith in the human race. I feel shame for many things, but my friendship with Maj is one of the few things in my life I am proud of.

  I take a shortcut between two derelict buildings. A man is playing a grand piano in the middle of the alley. The piano is mounted on a vegetable cart. A group of children surround him, rolling him down the alleyway, laughing and singing. The man is banging on the piano keys, and every so often he throws his head back and roars with laughter. I catch some of the lyrics to the song they are singing:

  Destruction is bad, but when it’s from within it’s terrible

  We’ve been waiting for electricity and water

  But the world only sends delegations

  They come and go, blocking sidewalks and stopping traffic

  What is it with this world? I swear to God it’s terrible

  The young pianist smiles when he sees me coming. Deep dimples pierce both cheeks. “Sing along,” he says.

  I shake my head and carry on walking. My mind drifts to last night at Guapa. As with most things in this city, there was the public Guapa and then there was the real Guapa. After the main bar closes and most of the patrons leave, usually to friends’ houses or to drunkenly drive around the city’s empty streets, a dim red light in the basement of Guapa switches on, and after a few minutes of screeching feedback from the microphones, the show begins.

  Apart from the red light, there’s a small, crescent-shaped wooden bar, a few tables and chairs on one side, an old sofa on the other, and a set of speakers blasting trashy Arabic pop music. The basement room, about half the size of a tennis court, is also where Nor
a, Guapa’s manager, lives. That’s the reason it’s safe from the authorities. So long as it is in private, they do not care if a few men wear dresses and dance to silly music.

  Guapa was livelier than usual last night. As soon as we walked in Maj rushed off to get changed, so it was just Taymour and me. I worried all the people would scare Taymour off. Although he regularly drank with us upstairs, he hardly ever came downstairs and so was noticeably uncomfortable, shifting and glancing around the room, and I felt obliged to act cool and confident to make up for it. A couple of knife-blade-lean boys with a faint lick of eyeliner smiled at us.

  “Are you boyfriends?” one of them asked with a trace of awe. He looked about sixteen and like he might be from the provinces, but he spoke in a perfect American accent.

  Taymour stiffened at the question.

  “I really want a boyfriend,” the boy said.

  Taymour leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Do you have any idea the shit I’ll be in if someone recognizes me?”

  “Relax. We’ll just stay for a quick drink and see Maj perform.”

  There were two stylishly dressed women I didn’t recognize, who sat at a table in a dark corner surrounded by a few of Guapa’s regular butch girls. The butch girls were, as always, dressed in black T-shirts, old jeans, and scowls that appeared terrifying if you didn’t know them. The two women seemed happy to just sit there looking pretty, smoking their cigarettes and staring at their phones.

  There were of course the regulars: the older men, taxi drivers mostly, who sat by the bar, their worn-out eyes looking up from the tip of their whiskey glass across the sea of thin young boys, who were squealing and jumping from corner to corner, scrounging drinks from naïve newcomers. These boys seemed to change their outfits in unison; some days they were in leather vests and the next they’d be sporting chiffon scarves around their necks. But their fake designer handbags always hung from their elbows as they spoke to one another like middle-aged housewives, their hands flapping about like a fish out of water.