Guapa Page 2

  The president appears on the television now. He is sitting behind his desk and is dressed in military uniform.

  “Let me make myself very clear,” he says in his military voice, which is slower and more shout-y than his other voices. “This attack is further indication that there are terrorist elements in the country that are benefiting from destabilizing the situation. We will do everything in our power to crush these terrorists for the security of our nation and its great people.”

  My head is spinning with the president’s voice, the image of the headless bodies in the dirt, the thought of Teta spying on Taymour and me in bed. I look out from the balcony toward al-Sharqiyeh. A flock of birds hovers over the city, oblivious to the mess us humans are making, to the heavy ball of shame and fear in the pit of my stomach. An eerie quietness cuts through the usual sound of traffic and street vendors. Is this ominous stillness new, or have I only just noticed it?

  I switch over to CNN. I can’t stand to look at the president’s face, and I want to see how the foreign media is covering the events. The television anchor, an older woman with dyed blond hair, has a look of concern in her eyes. “The troubled nation has been experiencing upheaval since protests erupted earlier this year, and the latest development seems to confirm growing fears around the radicalization of the opposition to the president’s rule.”

  Only a few months ago I was on that television screen. My beaming face, along with thousands of others, all crammed together, waving flags and singing victorious songs. The camera panned across our nameless faces and we cheered back. We each had a name, a history, a life. But we were willing to forsake all of that if it meant appearing strong, united, steadfast. For that moment we wanted to be nameless because we were one united mass against the bullshit we had thought was inevitable. No more hypocrisy, no more fear, no more staying put and shutting up and selling our souls to political devils for the sake of “stability.” After an eternity of fear and suspicion and disappointment, it suddenly seemed so obvious, as if the opportunity had been staring us in the face our whole lives and all we had to do was reach out and grab it. At one point I was interviewed by CNN, and with a smile on my face I addressed all my friends who had left and vowed never to come back: “You can come back now! We need you to help us rebuild!” We were so hopeful then, so ridiculously naïve.

  I turn off the television and pick up my phone. The dark screen of my mobile glares back at me. Still no word from Taymour. I want to call him, just to hear his voice, even though I don’t know the right words to say. Instead I call Maj. His phone is turned off so I send him a message: My grandmother caught me and Taymour last night. It’s all a mess.

  Just last night we had been at Guapa: Basma, Taymour, Maj, and me. We drank beer and argued. The subject was, as always, American imperialism and the sad state of our revolution. Taymour had been so insistent that now, more than ever, the president was the only alternative, it was either that or the Islamists.

  “Look here,” he was explaining to Maj, “think of it this way. We’re all starving. The president has knafeh cooking in the oven, and you are standing over his shoulder criticizing his ingredients and methods of cooking, and insisting on taking it out before it’s done because it’s not to your liking. But there are some people in the kitchen who want to destroy the knafeh, and as soon as you open that oven they’ll reach in and throw it all away. What will we do then?”

  “That’s what the regime wants you to think,” Maj said, flicking the ash of his cigarette onto the table, “that you either eat their bitter-tasting knafeh or you don’t eat at all. We can’t accept that.”

  “I’m craving knafeh now.” Basma yawned, pulling her curly hair back from her face, her eyes glazed over from the hashish we had smoked earlier. I wanted to explain the sad reality that, knafeh or not, we’ve been kicked out of the kitchen, which is why we were in Guapa drinking ourselves silly. Instead I remained silent, watching Taymour speak, admiring his voice, his conviction, the way the dim red lighting of Guapa cut shadows into his face. As they argued I dreamed of kissing his cheek, because it struck me that to kiss your lover’s cheek in public was quite ordinary, and more than anything I wanted for us to be ordinary and in love. Of course then Basma left and Taymour, Maj, and I went to Guapa’s basement, danced and drank some more, and then Taymour and I came back here and …

  I peer into the apartment. Teta’s door is still shut. The last time she slept in this late was the morning after Baba’s funeral. I could leave now, quickly before she wakes up. But that might tell her I’m running away, that I’m even less of a man than she thought. But if she comes in and I’m sitting here watching television and drinking coffee, she’d think I have no shame, like I am proud I was in bed with a man last night.

  I stub out my half-smoked cigarette and walk out the door.

  Emerging from the gray stone building where we live, I step out onto the busy road. Street vendors are selling tissues and pink battery-operated mini-fans and arguing over the ever-rising price of apricots. As I turn the corner onto the main road and the cold shadow of the president’s statue falls across me, I recall, with perfect clarity, the day this statue was obscured by clouds of tear gas that burned my lungs.

  I pass the supermarket across the street from our building. It’s the supermarket Taymour and I hid in when the snipers attacked a few months ago. At the time, we crouched in a nook between the entrance and a fridge filled with ice cream and frozen chicken. These days, walking past the supermarket brings back the screams of the crowd in my ears, the image of bodies dropping to the ground reflected in the broken glass of the door, and the feel of my face against Taymour’s neck, hot and sweaty. Now the supermarket carries on as normal, except the broken glass is patched up with a piece of old cardboard. Even this early in the morning the sun shines strong and bright and the sky is clear of clouds. Today will probably be very hot.

  With the heavy traffic it’ll take me at least thirty minutes to get to work. Running to find a cab, I hear the president’s voice booming from the speakers of the cars and coffee shops, warning of the imminent threat from those who are seeking to destroy the nation.

  “Be watchful, be vigilant. Don’t trust anyone,” he says over and over. His voice is like alcohol, making everyone drunk, and I am very hungover.

  I hail the first taxi I see, a weathered Mercedes that is probably older than I am. The taxi driver looks worn. Like me, I don’t think he’s had a good night’s sleep. The dashboard is covered in ash and plastic cups, stained with the tar-like sludge of Turkish coffee. He greets me with a grunt and a click of the meter. I give him directions to my office.

  “Traffic is shit down there,” he grumbles as the car sputters forward.

  When I first returned from America, I was eager to learn about the challenges of an everyday man’s life. I sat in taxis and listened to drivers complain: about the cost of living, the government’s failures, the corruption and poverty. My American education had given me a way to analyze my people. I felt I was mixing with the true salt of the earth, the authentic Arab voice. But like an old lover, as the years pass and the complaints remain the same, that rose-tinted vision has cleared. The problems they complain about are now my own problems, and problems are much less glamorous when they are yours. Anyway, today of all days I don’t have the energy to bestow sympathy. I have my own troubles to deal with. I need my own space to think. But the driver talks and talks, invading my thoughts. I look out the window to avoid any pretense of conversation.

  This strategy is unsuccessful.

  “Gas prices are up again,” he says, looking straight ahead. The stench of morning breath, cigarette smoke, and resentment poisons the air in the car. “I drive this broken-down zift car around the city in this heat, and I get, what, five, maybe six customers. I end up spending more on petrol than I get from customers. It’s like castrating donkeys.”

  He looks at me, expecting a response, but I only look out the window. He is about to speak again, I can
sense it. I rummage through my bag and grab my iPod to block him out. The white earphones are all tangled up in themselves. I try to untangle them before he speaks but I’m too late. He is off again.

  “Castrating donkeys. You know why that is? It costs you twice as much to clean yourself afterward than you get from doing the job.”

  I smile at this, put away my iPod. Knowing he is winning me over, the driver chuckles and lights a triumphant cigarette.

  We stop at a checkpoint. The soldier asks for our papers. An automatic guilt surges within me, as though I may be dragged out of the car for a crime I have unknowingly committed, within the maze of complicated rules and unspoken regulations that descend from every corner. The government here does not answer to the needs and desires of the people, I think as I hand the soldier my documents. Here, people must answer to the government.

  “Where are you coming from?” the officer asks, looking through our papers.

  “Downtown,” the driver replies.

  “Avoid the main road today,” he says as he hands us our documents. “There’s lots of security because of last night’s events.”

  We’re moving again, taking a right off the main highway and onto a crowded side road.

  “Soon we’ll need to show our documents to take a shit,” the driver tells me as the meter rises in regular clicks. He lets out a sigh. “All of life these days seems like castrating donkeys.”

  The flood of people leaving the villages is reflected in the heavy traffic, which is already showing signs of expansion. The roundabouts heave with the cacophony of honking cars and screeching motorcycles that have maneuvered themselves into intricate contortions that seem as though they would never be able to disentangle from one another. The exhaust fumes wrap themselves around us as we weave between the people and cars. The lights change from red to green, and the procession of cars begins to honk more aggressively. The meter clicks one more time.

  Meanwhile the sun is cooking us. Beads of sweat swell on my forehead. The driver leans out the window and spits, then turns up the radio to counter the noise of the cars.

  “Tell us your name and where you’re calling us from,” the voice on the radio says.

  “My name is Om Noaman, and I want to thank you for taking our call and thank your program for all the work it’s doing for citizens and thank the radio station for airing an excellent show and —”

  “Thank you, Om Noaman. Where are you calling us from, my sister?”

  “I want to complain about the road that the municipality has —”

  “Where are you calling us from, Om Noaman?”

  “I’m calling from Beit Nour, sir.”

  “Om Noaman from Beit Nour, go ahead and tell us your problem.”

  “As I was saying I am calling to complain about the road that the municipality has destroyed. They told us they wanted to pave the road. They came and —”

  “That’s what they told you? That they were going to pave the road?”

  “That’s what they told us and we thought, yalla, it would be nice to have a paved road because the current dirt road floods in wintertime, and the past two winters have cut us off from the cities so it’s been —”

  “And did they pave the road?”

  “No, but that’s not the problem.”

  “What is the problem, Om Noaman?”

  “The problem is that they dug up the main road to the village and they promised to have it paved. That was six months ago and we are still waiting. This is the main road that takes the children to school. For the past six months the children have had to climb into this twenty-meter ditch and back up again just to go to school.”

  “Have you tried calling the municipality?”

  “You know with the events we are very worried. No way in or out. We have young children, old people. We can’t leave. Everyone is scared and —”

  “Have you called the municipality, Om Noaman?”

  “We used to call them every day but not anymore. They used to promise to fix it, but they haven’t done anything and now they aren’t even answering our calls.”

  The driver slams on the brakes as a young boy selling a stack of Qurans and washcloths dashes in front of the car.

  “May sixty dicks dance on your mother’s pussy,” the driver barks, leaning into his horn. The sun, the horn, the voices on the radio. All of this is giving me a terrible headache.

  “Okay, Om Noaman, I will give the municipality a call now. Please stay on the line while I find the number. There we go. If you would stay on the line for one moment please, Om Noaman …”

  There is a click and then a dial tone as the radio host punches in the numbers.

  “Office of Mr. Qasem.”

  “Hello, this is Mohammad Bashir calling live from the radio program Bisaraha. Can I speak to Mr. Qasem, please?”

  “One second, please.” There is a rustling on the line, and then, “He’s busy.”

  “This is very urgent, sir. We’re currently live on air and just need to ask him one question. Please let him know we are live on air.”

  There is more rustling and then a brusque voice comes on the line.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, sir, I’m Mohammad Bashir calling from the program Bisaraha. Have you heard about us before?”

  “Yes.”

  “We take calls from citizens across the country —”

  “I know what you do.”

  “We have just had a caller from Beit Nour who has told us that the municipality authorized the digging of a ditch for an assessment to pave the road.”

  “The country is being attacked by jihadi terrorists and you’re talking about a ditch in the road? Have I gone mad?”

  “Sir, this happened six months ago. Six months ago. Those poor children have to climb in and out of a twenty-meter ditch to go to school. Six months ago, sir.”

  “We sent someone to take care of this.”

  “Well the person never arrived, sir. The children are climbing in and out of the ditch to get to school, sir. Twenty-meters, sir. Haram, sir.”

  “The Americans funded this project. I’m not in charge of their decisions.”

  “Please see if you can deal with this today, sir. It’s the only road to the village, sir. I’m going to call you back. In twenty minutes, sir?”

  “Give me a day or two.”

  “Thirty minutes, sir? We need to have a guarantee before we go off the air.”

  “Tamam. Give me half an hour.”

  “Thank you very much, sir, on behalf of the village of Beit Nour and from myself, Mohammad Bashir.”

  I glance at my phone, hoping for a call from Taymour or Maj or anyone, really. Perhaps even Mohammad Bashir.

  Are you saying she caught you, sir?

  Yes, she caught me.

  Well what were you doing there together in the first place, sir?

  It’s my life, I can do what I want.

  But you’re in her house, sir. She does own the house, sir.

  It was my room.

  Do you pay rent, sir?

  No, but —

  Is the house in your name, sir?

  I’m entitled to some privacy.

  If you’re living in her house, then you follow her rules.

  There’s nothing wrong with what we were doing.

  Eib, sir. It’s a perversion, sir.

  There are lots of perversions in our world.

  What you were doing is haram, sir.

  The car jolts as we drive over a pothole. A plastic coffee cup rolls across the dashboard and onto the floor. The sludge at the bottom of the cup seeps into the dirty carpet under our feet.

  “Nothing works.” The driver spits. “This is a country, they say. What kind of country is this? Do you think this is a country?”

  “It was always this way.” I look out the window and say nothing more. Why get into an argument about the government with this guy? I’ve heard enough stories of informants posing as drivers to catch casual complainers. The ris
k isn’t worth pursuing yet another frustrated diatribe.

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “I’m young.”

  “What are you, a woman? Tell me how old you are.”

  Oh to ignore him for the rest of the ride, or else to tell him to shut up and remind him that I am paying not for his opinions but for his driving! There is no reason to be nice, to believe in anything, when everyone around you holds your fate in their hands. And make no mistake, everyone is to blame for the mess Taymour and I are in, because society is made up of everyone, and it is society’s stupid rules that are keeping us apart. But try as I might, I can’t ignore the taxi driver. To ignore him would be eib, shameful. So I answer his question.

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “You see, you’re too young to remember. Things were never this bad. Married?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I look out the window and sigh. “I’m still young. I don’t want to get married.”

  The driver turns to look at me. I continue staring out the window to avoid eye contact. My youth can only get me so far with this question. In a few more years this answer would no longer be acceptable. In fact, this excuse for my permanent bachelorhood is already being met with disapproval and well-meaning advice on finding the right girl.

  “Smart man,” the driver says.

  The smell of the taxi brings me back to my first time, the first time I operated purely on instinct. The memory returns to me so vividly I feel I am back there, at fourteen, in the backseat of that taxi. At the time my father had been dead for eighteen months, my mother had vanished the year before that, I was magically sprouting hair in places I was not expecting, and I was still sharing a bed with Teta.

  I was returning from a history lesson at Maj’s house. We were both struggling with the material. Our school followed the British curriculum, which meant we had to study the history of Europe and the World Wars: the Kaiser, the Treaty of Versailles, then Churchill and Stalin. It all seemed like another universe to us, so Teta and Maj’s mother agreed to share the costs of a private tutor.