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Sea Side – Part 17

November 6, 2009 at 7:00 am (Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, life, love, travel, vacation)
Tags: fiction, life, love, mediterranean, relationships, sea, Syria, travel, vacation, writing

By Mariyah

I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about the call from which I had just hung up. I really had missed Youssef. But I hadn’t planned on admitting it to him. In fact, I was annoyed at myself for caving so quickly. As soon as I had heard his voice, though, that was it. His voice always did something to me. It seemed to have the properties of an auditory opiate. The moment he spoke my name I dropped all barriers and drifted carefree upon its smooth tones. All the worries that had plagued me, before the conversation, drifted away. No one had ever had this kind of effect on me. A colleague once remarked that I “appeared impervious to romance”. It was surprising to her that I could write about it since I just “didn’t get it”. And she was right. It all seemed so superficial to me…until I met Youssef. But with him, romance was simply the icing on a rich and delicious cake, most of which I had yet to discover. The question was whether I would allow myself to really enjoy the taste. Later as I listened to the sweet words of his dedicated song, my resolve to remain respectfully distant was significantly weakened even further. I slept dreaming of what the following day might unfold.

—–

Sweet, summer, morning mists drifted through my bedroom window filling my airways with the combined scents of wildflowers, earth, and sea. I breathed deeply and rose to part the curtains away from the window so that I could enjoy the view. Strips of sunshine lit up the eastern sides of the whitewashed homes and pooled in the open fields as the rays climbed over the mountain peaks. I got a sudden urge to walk, maybe run, through the fields as far as I could go. I imagined myself in a floppy hat and flowing dress – yes, like a cliched romantic movie clip. I couldn’t help it. The place seemed to bring it out in me. Even though I was becoming increasingly aware of the heartbreak and suffocating traditions that crept through the lives of some of the people here, this view had such a contagious, warm, dream-like quality. I was easily swept away from a cool reality.

Quickly, so as not to lose my precious spark of spontaneity, I rifled through my dresses hung in the closet to find the most gracefully flowing one. I had brought one, packed at the last minute; floral, silk, cinched waist, low neckline. Perhaps more appropriate for an evening dinner date than a walk through a field, but at that moment I didn’t care. As I slipped it on, I felt a strange sense of freedom. I felt beautiful. I left my hair long and slipped on dainty sandals. I didn’t have the proper hat so I went without. As I opened the apartment door, the breezes caught my hair and caressed all of me tingling my skin pleasantly. I leapt down the stairs with a childlike giggle. I intended to head straight for the field but stopped abruptly when I became aware of someone sobbing nearby. I looked up and saw Yasmina leaning forlornly against her window and crying bitterly.

Sometimes people like to be left alone in their misery, but sometimes it is just impossible to turn your back.

“Yasmina?” I called up to her.

She shrunk away from the window and I instantly felt badly for my intrusion. But then she opened her door and motioned weakly for me to come up. I suddenly felt ridiculous in my florid dress but did not hesitate to help a friend who was so obviously in need. When I entered her apartment she was curled up, like a small child, in the corner of her sofa. I stood, motionless, in the doorway, not knowing whether to go to her or to give her some space.

“I love him, Amar. Oh god, how I love him.” she whispered between tears.

My heart filled with optimism but I erred on the side of caution. “Housam?”

“No, Amar. Yazan.” she looked at me pleadingly as if I might accuse her of treachery. “I loved Housam once, certainly, but that was so long ago. What am I going to do?”

It took everything in me to contain my glee. I sat on the edge of her sofa. “Yasmina, will you let me help you?”

“What could you possibly do?”

“I don’t know yet, but it would mean a lot to me to know you’ll accept my help when and if I can give it.”

Yasmina looked at me quizzically and then smiled sadly. “It is difficult to say no to you, Amar. Your eyes shine with such optimism – something I haven’t seen in so long.” She looked away toward the window. “I would do anything…” Her voice trailed off but I understood.

Just then, I heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the building. Yasmina looked at me and smiled. She had heard it too.

“Go! Don’t keep him waiting if you don’t need to.”

I reached out and grasped her hand. Her meaning hit me forcefully.

“Go, Amar.”

“Just tell me one thing, Yasmina.” I needed to know. “Why do you love him?”

“He is me.”

I reeled with the complex simplicity. He is me. He is me.

—–

Once outside, I waved excitedly, “Youssef!”, and bounded down the stairs. Youssef looked at me over the top of his car and continued to watch me approaching him as he rounded the car to meet me. I fell into his embrace and he kissed me hungrily.

“Yous…sef!” I tried to speak between kisses. Youssef…Please…Listen!”

“Kiss me.” He insisted. I fell silent as his lips met mine again and tenderly but effectively spoke of everything that mattered at that moment.

© Mariyah Ayoub and Mariyah’s Blog, 2008-2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mariyah Ayoub and Mariyah’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

17 Comments

Sea Side – Part 16

October 30, 2009 at 9:46 am (Canada, English Literature, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, life, love, travel)
Tags: love, mediterranean, Syria, Tartous

by Abufares

2men I cruised along the Corniche instead of going home on this late afternoon. I left my car toward the end of the lane, not far from the wharf, then walked briskly to the waterfront. The massive rocks outlining the pier may look alike to wandering inlanders but to lovers in need of concealment and to me, a sea dweller in search of his soul, each one has taken a distinctive personality. My rock was at the far edge and extended further west into the water beyond all the rest. I had named her after my grandmother, a Phoenician Princess from Tyre(1), who was abducted by Zeus 3,400 years ago. In return for her freedom, my ancestors gave the Greeks the alphabet of Ugarit(2). Today, on the other side of my sea, they call their land Europa(3), oblivious to the fact that it is the name of the rock I was sitting on at my day’s end.

Sunset flamed the horizon in sorrel and roseate hues. The smalto sea heaved then sighed with the burdens of history. Tired waves yawned and collapsed at the foot of my rock. My heart soared, catching fire, a comet burning like a thousand stars. Amar’s lips left my soul starving. I gazed at the crestfallen sun, skinny-dipping in my horizon yet fiery and beaming above the distant land she called home. I inhaled deep, drawing a waft of seaweeds. The scent swirled and mixed with her sweet perfume and shot straight to my head. I would abandon my rock and swim all the way to Canada if I had to but I will not lose Amar, not as long as I shall live.

_____

When I woke up the next morning I called her. Her voice came in weak and I instantly knew that she might be sick. Except for my mother, I did not worry about anybody before and the alien fear hit me hard. A gutless, earth shaking and soul rattling torment took hold of me. She ended up calming me down and easing my mind.

“It’s just a little exhaustion Youssef that’s all. Please go on with your day… No, I don’t need a doctor… I’m telling you it’s nothing… I guess I had too much sun… I’m going to stay in the apartment… Just call me in the evening, OK! Before you go to bed not earlier, Please Youssef… Please don’t worry!”

No wonder I stopped falling in love. It scared the shit out of me. I called Sea Breeze and prayed that Yasmina would answer. She found my concern endearing and promised to check on Amar every once in a while. I could not eat but went on drinking coffee and worrying until it was time for my lecture. Around fifty people showed up at the Tartous Cultural Center, several of whom I knew by name or face. In one corner, two Orwellian “undercover” agents sat with notebooks in laps and pens in hands. They had to write down every single word I said just in case I strayed into the forbidden. What torture it must be for them to listen to my worthless crap. My friend Bassam and his wife, an English high school teacher, sat in the front row. I looked around and wished Amar was there too. I was reading out of my last page when I detected Yazan’s face in the crowd. He was sitting alone way in the back. When he saw that I recognized him he grinned broadly and gave me a thumbs up.

Bassam and his wife apologized for not being able to spend more time with me since they were attending a private dinner. As usual we agreed to stay in touch with a light tap on the shoulder before we parted ways. While my small audience filed out with mendacious smiles or feigned handshakes Yazan approached me in his usual nonchalant way.

“Very good Doc. I’m really impressed.” It was difficult to tell whether he was being serious or sarcastic.

“How about a drink?” I offered. My stomach churning on coffee and air but I sought companionship.

“Who cooks for you? If I may ask.” He obviously did not expect an answer. “How about if I invite you for a drink and a light dinner in my apartment? Don’t worry, I won’t prepare any quiche. I’ll fix sandwiches only. That ought to make you feel secure enough. We can sit outside and talk about the facts of life.”

The man was obviously very strange, I thought, but I welcomed his offer. It would make Amar happy when I tell her that I had spent time with Yazan. Moreover, he found out about my lecture in one of the fliers distributed to bookstores in the city and made the effort to attend. I was intrigued by his presence. Evidently, I made a gross error of judgment about him. There was far more to him than meets the eye and if I had any doubts about the authenticity of his character they were totally dispelled as soon as he turned host. He kept both my drink and his perpetually fresh and engaged me in a fascinating conversation about music, art and literature.

I have never known a man more like me than Yazan, yet somehow he was my complete opposite. Unlike me he did not hesitate with his choices. He simply bullied his way through life and rarely looked back. He was unwilling to talk about himself, but with two or three Vodka Martinis under our belts I blurted it out.

“Tell me about Yasmina and you. I bet it’s an interesting story.”

He held his liquor well but his eyes were unfocussed and reddish. “Why don’t you tell me about Amar. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Well I kissed her and I think I’m going all the way.” I said impishly. “All the way to stay with her for the rest of my life, that’s what I mean.”

“You lucky bastard. You kissed her after four days only and I haven’t laid a hand on Yasmina, let alone kissed her in four years. I knew you’re not as clumsy as you looked.” He raised his glass, “Kassak!”(4)

“I kissed her after only three days, to be precise.” I rubbed salt in his wound.

Then he spilled his beans. Yazan never stayed in any one single place for more than months. He made landfall in the United States, moved from city to city, got married then got a divorce in the span of a few years. He later left to Europe and jumped all over the continent working as a chef. One summer, he climbed on his BMW motorcycle and rode from Germany to Syria. Twenty days later he decided he had enough of his homeland. He packed his stuff again, left his birthplace, a seaside village near Tartous, and was on his way to the Turkish border when he zoomed by Sea Breeze. He brought his machine to a full stop, glanced over his shoulder and made a U-Turn for a bite to eat. Yasmina came to his table to get his order. He’s been there since waiting for the right moment to tell her that he loved her and to whisk her away to their own place in the world. Twice in the early days after he started working for Walid, he packed and rode to the border but then came back for Yasmina. He would never leave the cafe again until she either becomes his woman or tells him to get out of her life. He sold his bike and was making less money per week at Sea Breeze than he used to make in a day when he worked abroad. But for Yasmina, his heart, his mind and soul, as he called her, he would do whatever it takes to keep her from harm’s way. He would kill for her and almost did a few times when some hapless assholes made the mistake of going too far in expressing their infatuation.

“And you never told her that you love her?” I asked in total disbelief, drunk but fully aware of every word he said.

He turned and faced me. “It’s not easy competing with a dead man Doc”, he was illimitably bitter. He stared again at the silhouette of the distant mountains and fell silent.

The man was forged out of desperation and iron will. Now, however, I finally understood him. “Do you think she loves you Yazan?”

He gulped down a full glass then answered as if he was in a trance. “She loves me Youssef… And that’s what makes it even more painful.”

_____

On my way home I called an old friend who worked as a DJ at an FM radio station in Lebanon. I asked him to play a special song and he gladly promised to.

At 11:45PM, I dialed Amar’s number. She answered after the first ring. “How are you Hayati(5)?” I asked.

“Much better now Youssef. Please come early tomorrow. I miss you.”

“Of course I will.” I placed a pillow behind my back, dimmed the light and floated on her voice for a few minutes which felt like an eternity. “I saw a radio on the night table near your bed Amar. Can you please tune it to 88.0 at midnight exactly. The song is for you. Sweet dreams Eyouni(6).”

(Click image below to listen with Amar)

Midnight Song: Youssef to Amar

(1)Tyre: a city in south Lebanon
(2)Ugarit: Ras Shamra, ancient city in northwestern Syria
(3)Europa: Phoenician Princess
(4)Kassak = Cheers
(5)Hayati = My Life
(6)Eyouni = My Eyes

15 Comments

Sea Side – Part 15

October 23, 2009 at 5:34 am (Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, life, love, travel, vacation)
Tags: Lattakia, love, Syria, Tartous, travel, vacation

By Mariyah

I stood in my own stunned silence as I watched Youssef drive away. Well, not stunned exactly. I had half expected him to kiss me. Dazed would be a better word, dazed and delighted. And surprised. Surprised because I was so delighted. I smiled and shook my head as his car disappeared from view. I touched my lips with my fingers and felt the tingle of his kiss all over again. It had been soft and so tender, completely unlike I had previously imagined it might be. My stereotyping had blinded me. I thought perhaps an awkward professor might dispense rather dry, dispassionate kisses. But he was not awkward, nor dry and definitely not dispassionate. In fact, the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that perhaps his exterior image may be a disguise, one he devised, perhaps subconsciously, to shield himself from unwanted attention.

“Too bad.” I said aloud to myself. He could have made some woman very happy. Then immediately realized the irony in my thoughts. He was making me very happy. Why was I not completely allowing myself to enjoy him even if it would only be a brief time we could have together? That was the problem, the brevity. I was holding back, not intentionally, but the time constraints weighed on my mind and affected my behavior. What would I have done had I known I would never leave this place? The answer hit me so hard, I felt the tears well in my eyes. I would have fallen completely and utterly in love with this man. I sighed deeply. The reality was that I was falling in love with him and the thought of leaving him tore at my heart. I turned back to face my temporary home and walked toward it with a purposeful stride. I had decided instantaneously. I couldn’t allow myself the selfish pleasure of toying with Youssef’s heart or my own. I had only a few weeks left and my purpose here was clear. To help Yasmina and Yazan. They had a good chance at a future together. Youssef and I, as far as I could see, did not.

—–

My make-shift writing table was a bit wobbly. I tried to ignore it as I scribbled down a few thoughts in one of the notebooks Youssef had picked up for me. But my mind was distracted and I welcomed the excuse to find something to shove under the table-leg to stabilize it. I wandered aimlessly around the apartment, halfheartedly opening drawers and cupboards. I stopped in front of the west-facing window and stared absentmindedly at the shining waters beyond the village. My heart ached to stay here…forever. But it just wasn’t possible. My whole life, well, my career, lay ahead of me back home. I had worked so hard to make it as far as I had, I couldn’t give it up for something…someone…I knew so little about. It just didn’t seem reasonable or practical. Besides my track record with relationships wasn’t exactly stellar. Obviously. That was probably part of the reason my father suggested I vacation here. He knew the relatives would never stand for this kind of lackadaisical, non-committal behaviour. I couldn’t help but smile at my own clumsiness. And then Youssef’s smile floated into my mind…

A loud knock at the door startled me. I hadn’t been expecting anyone and I felt tense at the interruption.

“Amar? Its Yasmina.”

Relief flooded me. This was a welcome interruption after all. I flung open the door and greeted her warmly.

“Yasmina! What a wonderful surprise.”

She raised one eyebrow and looked hesitantly inside before entering.
“I’m not disrupting anything am I?”

I knew what she meant. “No. I’m all alone.”

We plunked ourselves on the sofa like two teenaged girls.

“So…?” Yasmina asked curiously.

I played dumb. “So, what?”

“Oh come on! How was your morning with Youssef?”

I answered too briskly. “It was fine. Lovely.” I tried to force a smile.

Yasmina started to laugh, hard.

“What?”

“You’re terrified!” she laughed harder. “He kissed you didn’t he? He kissed you and you liked it!”

Women have an uncanny ability to pick up on body language, especially when that body language contradicts the spoken words. I decided my only defense was to throw something back at her to set her off-guard and off the topic of me and Youssef.

“What do you think of Yazan?”

“Oh no, no! We were talking about you!” She smiled broadly.

“Please, Yasmina?” I practically begged. “Tell me about Yazan.”

I could see her entire body withdraw almost within itself. “I barely know him, Amar. He won’t let anyone know him. But then, I’m married so I don’t make it my business.”

“And I have no business leading Youssef on. I’ll be leaving soon. Its not fair to either of us.”

We looked at each other in silence. Each of us knowing full well that we were in love and that we were both hiding behind these obstacles that we closely guarded as being legitimate for the sake of self-preservation. Now I was further set in my determination to tear down her obstacle, and clearly she was equally determined to destroy mine.

“He would go anywhere with you.” An effective verbal grenade.

Shields up. My response was almost robotic in nature. “But he has his life and career here. He couldn’t leave as much as I couldn’t stay.”

“That’s bullshit, Amar, and you know it.” Yasmina wasn’t smiling.

“Well what about you? You can’t live like this forever, Yasmina.” I threw everything at her. “Yazan is in love with you.”

She sighed. She already knew. “It’s all bullshit.” I held her while she cried her heart out and in my own heart I longed to be held by Youssef.

21 Comments

Sea Side – Part 12

October 2, 2009 at 10:24 am (Canada, Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, home, life, love, memories, travel)
Tags: Lattakia, mediterranean, Syria, Tartous, travel

by Abufares

You look perfect together
Good luck

I read Farid’s short message on my mobile phone and simpered quietly. He was probably having fun with the guys in Lattakia but thoughtful enough to send his words of support. He and May, his wife, have tried to hook me up with an interesting friend or a pretty relative a million times over the years. I always appreciated their concern but also felt awkward. There was nothing inherently wrong with me. For all practical purposes I “am” a decent man, a little distant perhaps but not out of hauteur. I was rather coy with genuine modesty, weary with the burden of broken promises and despaired of ever finding a woman; the woman who would change my outlook on life and give me meaning and purpose. I often dreamed of an Amar illuminating the dark of night in search of me. And, having found what she was yearning for my moon would spawn silver rays of light turning the invariant gray into a rainbow of bliss. No longer would I fear the treacherous shallow waters, jagged with knives of coral and ragged with spears of rock. She would show me the way, a lighthouse beckoning at me, be safe my Youssef, I’m here for you… forever.

We reached the entrance to the little garden surrounding the quaint building where she was staying. The landlord, Walid, lived with his family on the ground floor. Up the flight of stairs, Amar told me, two little apartments shared the western veranda with a magnificent view of the sea. I was not gawky at all when I took her little hand in mine and kissed it softly. I had a long way ahead to reach then to hold on to her and I had no intention whatsoever to be careless. My mind was perfectly clear, my heart calmly set.

“Goodnight Amar”, I spoke softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning and bring you the stuff you need from the bookstore.”

She hesitated then, “Are you sure I’m not monopolizing your time. I mean really Youssef. You must have responsibilities, some sort of obligations…”

“Please stop it Amar.” I interrupted. “I’m on summer break. Sure I drive a couple of times per week to the university in Lattakia but not out of necessity. I mainly go to have an espresso at a corner cafe in the Amerkan area. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing than spending my time with you. Besides I’m truly and genuinely in love with castles and fortresses. I plan to show them all to you. As lovely as Sea Breeze and this village are you still need to see the rest of the coast.”

It was her turn to interrupt me. “And there’s no one else I want to have as my guide. But, …” She hesitated again, “you know that I would be leaving Syria back to Canada in a month, and…”

“I’ll be here at nine. I’ll bring breakfast, Msabha and Fool from the old town. I’ll also bring the hot Mashrouh bread from the bakery. Pickles, fresh green mint, I think I’ll skip the onions though.” I laughed for her.

“I like onions”, she said, “and I have no reason why I shouldn’t eat them. Do you?” She had that lovely mal’ouneh look on her gorgeous face again.

“Not at all. I’ll bring onions and lots of garlic just for you.” I laughed, earnestly this time. “Get the table set and tea ready on the veranda so that we eat then leave. The Marqab Castle is not far but if we were to see it all we should give ourselves ample time.” I grinned, the very same way she told me less than an hour ago over by the sea that she really liked before she, for no reason at all, changed the subject.

—–

I was getting in my car near the front entrance of the cafe when I noticed a solitary man waiting by the highway for a micro-bus to take to Tartous or some small village along the way. I have seen him before. He was staring at me from the kitchen’s door when I had my little talk with Yasmina yesterday.

“I’m going to Tartous,” I said, “and if you’re on my way you’re welcome to hop along.”

He dithered for a passing instant then opened the front passenger’s door and climbed in without uttering a word. He stared through the windshield as if he was driving and didn’t give me a second look.

“I’m Youssef Khalil.” I introduced myself. “Can you please fasten your seat belt?”

He rolled his eyes in disbelief. He wanted me to realize that my request was too nerdy for his big and silent type persona. I could care less. He complied though but remained uninterested in pursuing any further conversation. For five complete minutes, I drove in silence and totally ignored him.

“I’m Yazan,” he proclaimed all of a sudden. It was dark and I couldn’t see his face clearly. He kept, however, looking ahead while he talked. “So you are a doctor, I hear! A gynecologist perhaps?”

“You know Yazan”, I replied without taking my eyes off of the road, “A friend of mine, a physician, once told me that the best specialty in medicine for the purpose of pursuing and picking up women is pediatrics. The mothers are fit and young. Besides, when a perfectly healthy woman comes alone to the doctor’s office with her child, dressed up, smelling nice and looking pretty that’s the best any doctor could ever dream of examining, with his eyes if not with his hands at least. Gynecology is too messy and way over-rated in my opinion.”

He burst out laughing and finally thought that I deserved being talked to. “I’m sorry. I knew you were an English professor. Yasmina already told me. I’m Yazan Moussa. I’m the cook at that dump.”

“So you are responsible for that most delicious Mezza and the sea food delicacies. By the way, the Sea Breeze is not a dump at all. I honestly think it’s the best little restaurant I’ve ever been to.”

He softened up quite noticeably. I could see that he was not a talkative man but when we both faced each other in the car I felt an authentic goodness emanating from him despite his effort to conceal it.

“So where did you learn how to cook,” I asked truthfully interested.

“Oh, I traveled the sea for many years. I worked as a chef on large general cargo ships and been all over the world. I learned a trick or two about cooking but look where I am now.” He painted his face with a sarcastic smirk, not at all convincing.

I don’t know what got into me but it was the first thing that came to mind. “Perhaps you are there because there is something you can’t stay away from.” I obviously meant someone in particular and we both knew it.

“You can drop me anywhere you like and thank you for the ride.” He said quickly as we barely entered the city from the north. I was not sure whether my incursion further irritated him or not. He was a difficult man to read.

I insisted on driving him all the way to his apartment. He lived in one of the newer neighborhoods of Tartous, the Sixth Project as it was called. I knew it by name but rarely went there, if hardly at all. We shook hands and an ephemeral trace of a smile appeared on his facial furrows and lines rather than on his mouth. I was far from gifted when it came to possessing omniscient faculties but I had an overpowering feeling that Yazan and I would meet again. Not casually for I might see him every time I go to the cafe. It was more arcane than that. Something told me that our fates converged for a purpose tonight. For a person like me, who could be described as agnostic at best, the feeling was very unsettling.

—–

I drove along Mar Elias Avenue toward the Corniche. At the second fountain, where Cinema El-Nejmeh once proudly stood and brought the magic of the movies to my doorstep, I made a right turn down Al-Mina St. The theater, like everything else I loved about my city had disappeared and only survived as an engraved memory in my head.

“I was born in Kingston, Ontario.” Amar told me as we walked earlier on the beach. “I would love to be able to show you around some day, especially in the fall.” Like a little child she spoke excitedly, looking back and forth at me then toward the distance West. “On a sunny day, when the trees are bright with color and back-dropped with the gray limestone of the buildings, it can almost feel as though you’re walking in a dream. It’s hard to explain really. But whenever someone mentions Kingston, this and the bright blue waters of the lake come to mind.”

I never wanted to be anywhere else. Even in London where the whole world was at my feet, I missed Tartous. When I returned, however, I realized that I was missing her in a different time, a time which had ceased to exist all together. I stood on my balcony, a generous glass of Scotch in hand, captivated by a late evening fog descending on the harbor and thick enough to obscure all view of the sea. I downed my drink with a consuming thirst and instantly felt the amber tendrils caressing my being. The mist dissipated and vanished like magic in thin air. Beyond the black silhouettes of shore cranes and the dancing lights of moored ships I saw the colored trees, the limestone buildings and the bright blue waters of a lake. I was yearning for a place I had often visited in my dreams. I opened my eyes and swallowed hard, my longing inevitable. At long last, I was homesick.

33 Comments

Sea Side – Part 11

September 25, 2009 at 6:54 am (Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, life, love, roses, travel)

Together - Tom Baxter Yasmina’s eyes lit up as I approached her and her warm smile gave her a look I hadn’t seen on her before. It was sincere and without any attempt to mask it.

“They’re lovely!” she whispered excitedly, indicating the bouquet in my hand, and in a slightly teasing tone she added, “What a lucky girl you are!”

“Am I? I really don’t know what to think.” I couldn’t help giggling in a rather flustered way.

“You think too much. You’re very much like me that way.” She chuckled but I noticed a shadow cloud her eyes. “Dr. Youssef is one of the gentlest, kindest men I’ve ever met. A little quirky, but we all have our oddities, don’t we?”

Yasmina’s words quickly brought to mind Youssef’s nervous charm. I smiled. “Oh yes, we do. Yasmina, can I ask you something about Youssef?” She nodded and I continued. “I know he was your professor, but you seem closer to him than that. Not that I’m suggesting…”

“Oh no, I know. I was in his class when…” her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat. “Although I never confided in him, I mean, he barely remembered me yesterday when he saw me, we weren’t that close, but somehow he managed to keep me afloat for a while.”

“But how, if you never spoke to him about what happened?” I stopped abruptly. I didn’t want to push her too hard for information. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“Its alright, Amar. I know you know what happened. Do you think I didn’t hear you last night when you cried out in your sleep? Its a familiar sound, dear.” Tears gathered in her eyes, but she blinked hard to chase them away. I wanted to embrace her but something told me to hold back. She continued. “Everyone knew what happened almost as soon as it happened. Word travels fast in these small communities.” She smiled pensively.

I nodded sympathetically in hopes she would not stop her story.

“Dr. Youssef seems to have an uncanny ability to see through any facade and to understand exactly what the soul needs.” She shook her head. “Perhaps I’m giving him too much credit, but I don’t think so. Amar, I really can’t tell you whether he intentionally focused his lectures to give my life meaning, but the time I spent in his class were the brightest moments in those dark days.”

My stomach lurched partially from a deep seeded empathy for Yasmina, and from a sudden urgent realization about Youssef. I felt the bouquet in my hand, not the weight of it, but the optimism in it.

“Yasmina?” I almost whispered. “What is your husband’s name?”

She looked at me with eyes bright with relief. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You didn’t say “was”.” She smiled sadly. “Housam. My husband is Housam.”

“Housam…” I repeated but stopped as I noticed Yasmina looking over my shoulder.

“Excuse me, Yasmina.” A soft, but gruff voice came from behind me. As I turned to see who it was, the man I saw there was completely unfamiliar to me. I thought I had noticed everyone in the cafe – at least seen them once since I’d been there – but he had eluded me. In his food stained, white apron, there was no question that he was the cook. He was probably in his late 40’s, on the tall side of average, broad of shoulder, and time worn in a most interestingly handsome way. I saw immediately the quiet tempest brewing beneath the surface. His eyes were dark pools nearly hidden beneath his furrowed brow. They were eyes which, under normal circumstances, would be impossible to read – but now, as they looked at Yasmina, they spoke a thousand words.

“Yes, Yazan?” Yasmina replied, her face softening delicately.

“Can I speak to you?” He gestured gently toward the kitchen.

“Of course.” She first smiled at him and then winked at me. “Yazan, this is Amar, she’s visiting from Canada. She’s seems to like this place.”

Yazan gave a brisk nod in my direction not even attempting to force a smile. “You haven’t been here long then.”

“Only a day.” My writer’s mind was whirring now. The exterior of this man presented a formidable challenge, but I believed the information held deep within may be a treasure trove. “But I’d like to stay longer.”

A low, indecipherable sound came from Yazan’s throat before he turned back toward the kitchen. “It was nice to meet you.” I called after him. He waved without looking back.

Yasmina shook her head. “He’s a big bear. I’ll go now and see what he wants. Enjoy your day, Amar. We’ll get together later?”

“I would like that very much. You have a good day too, my friend.” I hoped I wasn’t being presumptuous but her smile suggested that she appreciated my gesture.

—–

The romantic hero indeed. As his words washed over me, Youssef’s eyes were lit as though there were a thousand stars behind them. I knew then, as I stared into their inner depths, that I had definitely made a mistake – several, in fact. I had never imagined myself as a character in the story I was collecting here – especially not the love interest of my hero. And, although I saw the potential in Youssef to be a romantic, I had completely underestimated him. In none of my experience, and I would fully admit that there hadn’t been much in the way of experience, had I ever heard such an expression of affection. I was, in no uncertain terms, completely captivated by it, speechless, in fact – for a moment too long.

“Amar.” Youssef moved his hand toward my face as though he wished to touch it, but then stopped himself and frowned pensively.

“Youssef, I…”

“No, please, you don’t have to say anything.” He hurriedly interrupted me. “Its alright. Just walk with me to the beach. Give me this small pleasure, will you?”

Without waiting for an answer he began walking again, marginally faster than our previous amble.

Without a word, I walked close by his side and slid my hand into his, discretely, and left it there for just the right amount of time.

23 Comments

Eid Wishes

September 20, 2009 at 4:35 am (Ramadan, Syria, family, friends, life, peace)

Eid Mubarak

A happy and peaceful Eid to all of you who are celebrating.

I just realized as I looked back at previous Ramadan posts, as I move forward in time, they are getting shorter and shorter. I guess since I started blogging my life has been getting busier and busier. So I stopped a moment before posting to make this one a little more…intimate. Unfortunately Eid, for me, will go by this year for the most part uncelebrated (in the traditional sense) but not forgotten. I am still away from home and its just not the same. My thoughts are with all of you, and I sincerely hope that your celebrations with family and friends are warm, joyful, and very memorable. For those of you who are, like me, away from home…you are not alone. As we are spread out around the globe…we can be sure that our hearts are together throughout the holidays. A blessed Eid to you all.

Mariyah xo

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Sea Side – Part 9

September 11, 2009 at 6:16 am (Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, life, travel, vacation)
Tags: Lattakia, mediterranean, Syria, Tartous

“Youssef?” The name barely passed my lips.

It had been a long time since I had experienced a nightmare. They plagued me as a child but as an adult they rarely entered my head at night. It was the most unsettling sensation, especially since I awoke with a start in unfamiliar surroundings. As I sat up and pulled my legs into my chest, my breath was quick, my heartbeat quicker, and perspiration dotted my forehead. My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness and at the same time darted to avoid the nightmare images that still fogged my view. An almost unbearable sense of sadness and foreboding gripped my soul and I wanted to call out to anyone; just someone to take my hand and soothe me back to a reasonable calm.

“Youssef.” The tears welled in my eyes and tumbled unreservedly down my cheeks. I could barely stifle my sobs by pulling the sheets to my face. As I closed my eyes again the water pipes in the small, main floor apartment began to rattle and jolted me back into my nightmare. They were at the door – the men with hidden faces. They had come for Yasmina’s husband. No. They had come for Youssef. He was Yasmina’s husband? The banging pounded in my head and I covered my ears. But still they persisted – louder and louder. They can’t take him away from her…from me!

“No!” My scream hung in the air and then dissipated into the still silence of the deep night. The nightmare evaporated before my eyes but still left me cold and confused. I hugged my knees tighter and searched my mind for the correct answers, to sort nightmare from reality. But even as I recalled that it had been Yasmina who had lost her husband, not I who had lost Youssef, I still couldn’t shake a feeling of dread. I knew many people who believed that their dreams foretold some future event but I had always dismissed it as nonsense. In fact, due to the intensity of my nightmares during my teenage years, I made a point of refusing absolutely that anything could be made of dreams. But now I worried urgently about Youssef and could not settle myself.

I turned on the bedside lamp. The dull light partially illuminated the room in a soft glow but left the far corners in shadow. I felt a sudden chill crawl over my exposed skin. The room, although lovely and modest in the daytime, seemed barren and stark now. I rose reluctantly from the bed and walked to my travel bag to search for the scrap of paper with Youssef’s phone number. The cold of the tile floor seeped up into my body through the soles of my feet. As I pulled the tiny note from the bag, I sighed deeply as if these few numbers were my only salvation, and quickly headed back to the warmth and humble protection of my bedsheets.

I stared at the phone on the night-table. I hadn’t any notion of what the hour was. The old clock that sat beside the phone was of the wind-up variety which I hadn’t bothered to wind the night before. I had figured, then, I would rise to enjoy the morning when the sun awoke me. I was on vacation after all and wasn’t expected at the cafe until after noon. Now I wished the clock would provide some comfort, with a constant, reassuring tic-toc.

I looked again at the tiny note with the carefully handwritten numbers. I envisioned Youssef slumbering peacefully and began to think of how foolish I would look if I called him now and disturbed him. He would have thought I was either a madwoman, or a silly girl with a crush. The very idea of either scenario threw me into a fit of giggles that blossomed and effectively rushed away the sense of dread I had felt only moments before. How could I be so ridiculous, allowing my dreams to affect me so? But deep inside, I knew that I would still feel better once I saw Youssef’s face at the cafe.

—–

All morning I wrote feverishly in my notebook. By noon the scorching sun was high in the sky and I had lost almost all traces of shade on the balcony where I now sat. Yasmina had invited me to use the balcony as it was an extension of her own apartment on the second floor. It overlooked the lower village with a perfect view of the cafe and the sea beyond. For most of the morning I had been very comfortable there. The quaintness of the village inspired my imagination and the words poured out of me onto the page. Now, however, the heat began to congeal the creative juices and I found myself staring wistfully at the sparkling waters.

Suddenly my eyes were distracted by activity at the cafe. Several cars had pulled up along the road and about half a dozen men emerged from them. I wondered if this might be the group whom Youssef had invited to join him, but I did not see Youssef. A pang of worry churned in my stomach and images of my nightmare flashed in my memory. I decided that I needed to go to the cafe now as well. I gathered my things and, as I was returning to the stairwell through Yasmina’s apartment, I stopped to see my refection in the mirror. My face was flushed from the heat, and my hair had coiled into ringlets in the humidity. Self consciously I swept them up onto my head with a clip and slipped out the door.

As I walked the short distance to the cafe, my eyes continued to sweep the area for a glimpse of Youssef. By the time I reached the patio, I still had not spotted him. My worry became agonizing even though I continually reminded myself that I was being ridiculous. It wasn’t long before I was greeted heartily by Walid, his eyes dancing with delight.

“Amar. Welcome back!” he nearly shouted and his huge hand reached across my back and ushered me forward. “Please, sit here. It is the best seat in the house!”

Walid’s smile was broad and warm. I couldn’t help but admire the pride he had for his little cafe.

“This is a perfect spot.” I agreed and returned as bright a smile as I could muster. “Thank you.”

I watched Walid’s eyes wander from me to the street. Although I hadn’t thought it possible, his smile grew.

“Ah, Dr. Youssef, you have arrived.” He bellowed. Walid went out to greet the professor who had just rounded the corner. I stood again quickly in my eagerness to see him, nearly craning my neck to see around the girth of Walid. As my eyes met with Youssef’s, I knew immediately from his expression that perhaps it would have been prudent of me to attempt to conceal my emotions, even if only by a fraction. Without stopping to greet his friends, he moved, instead, swiftly toward me. “Oh my god.” I thought to myself. “What am I going to tell him?”

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Sea Side – Part 8

September 4, 2009 at 11:31 am (Canada, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, life, love)
Tags: mediterranean, Syria, Tartous

by Abufares

turkish_coffee “Ahla w’sahla Dr. Youssef”, the pot-bellied owner vigorously shook my hand. His face was dominated by a huge mustache and somehow it was this black and thick mustache that was grinning from ear to ear. “I am Walid Haddad, owner of this café. He looked at Amar in such an impossible way making her even more beautiful than she already was. Ahla bel Sit… ?” If it was not for his genuine happiness at seeing us, this stout and intimidating man could have scared anybody half to death.

“…Amar”, I interjected, glowing with pride.

“How appropriate! Amar indeed.” Towering over the table, Walid eyed her steadfastly then took her little hand in his while she remained seated.

The arrangements were handled in a quick and efficient manner. No give and take whatsoever. Walid asked for a fair and reasonable rate and Amar agreed graciously. Yasmina would go with her to the apartment momentarily and show her around. The owner would manage without his only waitress, he told us. His wife was due in shortly and would help him with the evening business.

I stepped inside the enclosed part of the restaurant leaving Amar behind. Walid was sitting at a small desk with Yasmina by his side. She came forward and met me halfway across the room, perpetually smiling. How she does it indeed, I wondered silently.

“Can you give me my check please Yasmina? I also need to ask you for a favor.” I spoke so faintly she had to tilt her head and stand very close to hear my words. “Amar’s check too. I’m afraid she might not be used to our ways. She might find my manners too assuming but you understand that there’s no way I can let her pay, don’t you?”

“Of course I do Dr. Youssef.” She was not surprised at all, actually she was knowingly amused. “So how can I help you?”

“Just tell her that Walid insisted that her lunch is on the house. This way she wouldn’t have to know it’s me.” I stopped looking in her eyes as her gaze was too incisive to take, my humility too personal to give away.

She left me to have a few words with Walid. His face contorted as if in pain at first while listening to her whispers then from the pupils of his eyes a smile radiated outward, sweeping his features with a giggling wave. When it reached his lips, invisible behind his mustache, it turned into laughter, loud, deep and unstoppable laughter.

“Both your and Amar’s tabs are on the house Dr. Youssef. And, if you think you can argue your way out of it you’ll be wasting your time and mine.” He stood up and navigated his bulky frame around the desk.

“But I was planning on coming here tomorrow, bringing some friends for lunch and I can’t do that if you won’t let me pay.” I objected.

“Well tomorrow is another day. You will pay whenever you come here again but you will always be treated as if you own the place. And that’s final.” He placed his chunky hand on my shoulder. “I like you Doctor Youssef. You are a man of honor.”

Amar was scribbling in her notebook when I approached her on my way out. She neatly closed it, stood up and presented me with her hand. Finally, we touched. Oh, how sweet it was, how ethereal, how precious, how exhilarating the feel of her hand in mine.

“See you tomorrow.” I said at last. I passed her a scrap of paper with my number. “Please call if you need anything. They are good people here and I’m not worried at all. But I’m just a phone call away.”

“See you Youssef. Drive carefully.” She smiled, expecting perhaps that I release her hand from my grip. She did not complain though. She was visibly flattered. It was difficult to leave, so unbelievably hard to let go of her hand.

I tossed and turned in bed. I tried to read. Why waste more time, I finally decided. It was past two in the morning and there was no way I can force myself to sleep. I fixed a large Rakweh (pot) of coffee and headed to the balcony overlooking the port where I sat in silence sipping from my Turkish cup. I thought about Yasmina and shuddered. What kind of a place do we live in? How base and inhuman. How painful that this peaceful land is marred by the atrocities of cruel men on horseback. Is she asleep yet? Is she hugging her pillow, crying her loneliness, Pretty Yasmina, or is she too dry to weep?

The exotic aroma of cardamom in the brew reminded me of Amar. The shimmering lights of the berthed ships, the distant gurgle of a motor launch out at sea, the drift of a cloud in the wind, the moonlight dancing on the surface of the calm water in the harbor. They reminded me of her. She danced in between the breaths I took. She reached for me from behind a table at the café then disappeared beyond a sea and an ocean in Canada her land. I will see her tomorrow! I felt as lighthearted as a young kid waiting for his Christmas presents the night before.

I prowled the empty house then stopped and opened the door to my mother’s room. A ripple of tenderness took hold of me at seeing her empty bed. Except for the maid who came once a week to clean, nobody had been here since she had passed away a year ago. The walls were mostly occupied by books, hundreds of them, but the place very much needed a paint job. A few odd pieces of the furniture had to go. I should get a comfortable leather sofa and put it there where mother liked to watch me sit and write. What a lovely corner for two to cuddle together, to talk intimately and drink some tea or a bottle of wine. Oh, she would have loved Amar, my mom. I sat in her chair, in the same spot where she prayed everyday, where she asked God to put some sense into my head and help me find a good woman, to protect me and give me what I deserve and to give her the pleasure of holding my child. She begged him to make me happy. Alas, her voice was too feeble, I guess.

What shall I wear tomorrow? I need some new clothes but the souk would be closed on a Friday. I have time for a haircut though and there’s a florist not far from the museum. What should I get her and what should I say? My mind raced then ran out of breath. Twilight tiptoed quietly outside, drawing a faint line between sea and sky. I gazed from behind the open window seeking an augury of the time to come, instinctively folding my arms around my chest. I could not tell if I was pushing away the creeping cold or if I was tightly hugging Amar as she lay sleeping.

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Sea Side – Part 7

August 28, 2009 at 4:20 pm (Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, life, love, travel)
Tags: Lattakia, mediterranean, Syria, Tartous, travel, vacation

“No, Amar. He was covertly arrested and detained and then vanished in thin air.”

The words were like a torpedo. They entered my mind with such force and then exploded there, leaving me feeling dizzy. The thought shrapnel lodged in my throat. I couldn’t respond to Youssef and found myself looking down at my own hands. What was there to say? The silence tugged at me. The awkwardness seemed so wrong here, so unfitting compared to how I had felt only seconds before. And as the awkwardness grew it became more of a burden than the information that had been given to me. I looked again at Youssef. Although the colour had begun to return, his face was still like stone. Slowly the enormous impact of this event began to dawn on me.

“How many years ago, Youssef?” I wondered if he knew.

“I think almost a decade. They were so young then.” Youssef’s voice trailed off as though he was missing his own youth.

“And she’s never heard another word about him?” I suddenly felt anxious for her, for everyone. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Youssef repeated softly.

“All this time?” My voice was almost pleading as if I expected when I asked this way that he would give me a more pleasant answer. But it was not to come.

“All this time.” He repeated after me again, nodding his head in agreement to the plea in my voice.

“Oh.” Was all I could muster. I sat back in my chair feeling defeated. I had wanted to know about Yasmina. I needed to understand her demeanor, her aloofness. I had thought perhaps she was a jilted lover, but I had not guessed in this way. Then a new curiosity stirred in me.

“How does she do it, Youssef?”

“How does she do what?” He looked a me questioningly. For the first time, I noticed the colour of his eyes. They were the most luminous colour of hazel I had ever seen. They reflected a contradiction of serenity and intensity and pain or struggle. I needed to know more – about him and whatever he could tell me about Yasmina.

“How does she wait, day after day, and still manage to do her job? To talk to people? To live…” I started to think about how we often focus so much on the fragility of the human mind, that we forget and are surprised by its strengths, its tenacity. I watched Youssef look over at Yasmina as she milled about inside mechanically busying herself. His mind was clearly at work. Before he could answer, I fired off more questions. “Were they in love? Were there children?”

“No. No children.” He looked at me then, his eyes shrouded by what I couldn’t tell you. “Yes, Amar, they were in love. Deeply in love and how she goes on without him, I don’t know.”

Youssef took a long drink of his wine. I watched his lips pressed hard against the glass and the speed at which the liquid disappeared. It seemed this sip was more out of necessity than pleasure. He placed the glass firmly on the table and continued to watch it as if he might take another swig. His face was tired but he continued to speak again very softly.

“All of the rest of the information I have is hearsay, Amar. The point of the matter is that no one, including Yasmina, knows any more than they did on the day it happened. The tragedy is apparent. The pain in her eyes heartbreaking. But there is nothing more to say.”

The silence loomed again. I didn’t want to ask any more. I didn’t know what to ask any more. Yasmina hadn’t approached the table since Youssef and I had started the discussion. She probably recognized the conversation she had seen between patrons over and over in the cafe for the years she’d been here. Youssef was right. Gossip was of no advantage to anyone, so I lay my curiosity on the matter to rest.

The late afternoon sun was beginning to throw shadows across the patio and onto the street. The breeze that traveled the short distance from the sea carried with it a subtle hint of freshness. Not cool, but pure somehow. It danced and teased the chimes in the doorway behind us, the tinkly tune almost mocking the melancholy that had crept into our hearts. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, allowing the clean air to push out the lingering staleness. When I opened my eyes again, Youssef was looking at me intently.

“Amar, will you drive to Safita tonight?”

“I’m not sure.” I really wasn’t. I had no desire to leave the cafe, let alone the town. But I had no inkling of a plan either.

“Well, you should make arrangements before dark.” Youssef said alarmingly urgently. But, then, as though becoming aware of himself, he smiled. “I only mean to suggest.”

“Of course, Youssef.” I returned his smile, touched by his concern. “It is a wise suggestion. Do you know if there is a place to stay here?”

“We should ask Yasmina.” Without hesitating he signaled to her that she was needed.

Yasmina approached the table with the same confidence she had before, her eyes bright but guarded. She looked to me and smiled before addressing Youssef.

“Yes, Dr. Youssef? Would you like something else?”

“A place that you could recommend for Amar to stay the night. I have to be leaving shortly and I would be comforted to know that she is safe and not driving the mountainside at dark.”

Yasmina smiled sympathetically. “You haven’t changed much, Dr. Youssef. I always remember you being quietly chivalrous. There is a lovely apartment below mine which is often rented to vacationers. The owner is my boss. I will send him over to discuss it with you, Amar, if you wish.”

“How wonderful!” I smiled broadly despite myself and she was gone again, inside, presumably to find her boss. “Thank you, Youssef.”

“Both you ladies give me far too much credit.” He grinned shyly.

“Perhaps not enough.” I looked into his eyes trying to read what was there, but still the patterns of shadow and light eluded me. “I had hoped to continue our conversation about you. Is it possible that you might be back this way again?”

“Very possible, Amar.” His eyes flashed but then softened into another smile. “I’ll be bringing friends here tomorrow for lunch. Would I be so lucky as to find you here as well?”

“Yes, Youssef. I’ll be here.”

“Then, we have a date.”

15 Comments

Sea Side – Part 6

August 21, 2009 at 10:49 am (Canada, English Literature, Lattakia, Mediterranean Sea, Syria, Tartous, Tishreen University, life, travel)
Tags: Lattakia, mediterranean, Syria, Tartous, travel, vacation

by Abufares

blue-eyes “Can you drop the doctor and just call me Youssef, please?” I stared at her bare shoulders while gently pushing her chair. It felt weightless and smoothly glided forward. I was irreversibly smitten by her supple neck and distrait by her bracing scent. I moved around the table and took my seat, smiled carelessly then brought my glass slowly to my lips. A faint tremble on the surface of the white wine betrayed my unwarranted anxiety. I have been in the company of beautiful women before but there was something exquisitely rare about her. To the casual onlooker she seemed fragile and delicate but as soon as she pinned me with those deep blue eyes I felt completely under her spell. She was divinely white, her skin almost translucent in the breezy shades of this little corner of heaven. Underneath the silk and light, however, she was neither feeble nor flimsy. A very remarkable woman this Amar, fluid poetry in motion, absolute truth at rest.

“So Youssef”, she beamed at me, “what’s your field of expertise in English Literature?” I detected a teasing undertone dancing in her voice. She wore a white gold pendent carrying an aquamarine teardrop. It rested a couple of tormenting inches above her entrancing cleavage with a matching ring on her right hand. She was not married, aged thirty-one, thirty-two perhaps, a novelist living in Canada, traveling through the land of her fathers alone and interested in me. She heard my entire conversation with Yasmina no doubt. And ohhh, that is where the ribbing came from when she said field of expertise. I suspect that she had already classified me in the back of her mind as the gauche professor who secretly lusts after women. What else does she think of me?

“The American novel, Steinbek, Twain, Hemingway, Melville, Masoud…” I did not mean to be as mocking as I sounded. Oh goddamn it, I’m so clumsy. Relax and don’t blow it, I wordlessly ordered myself. This one across is a fascinating woman to say the least. Don’t push her away, don’t scare her off. Just be unlike your usual self around women whom you find attractive or who, for some odd reason of their own, are attracted to you.

She giggled. “Well I publish under a pen name. You might still have never heard of me though but that’s Okay. I thought you were going to tell me about you.” She had a way with words. It was made clear that I better not ask about her public identity. Not yet at least. There were doors to open, hurdles to cross and obstacles to clear before she would let some English professor from an unknown provincial university get anywhere close to her but she managed to be pleasant. When would I ever learn to say No this way? I am to a certain degree disagreeable even when I concede. Why am I so nervous? Why am I compulsively shaking my leg?

I saw Yasmina moving in the darkened room before she stepped out in the lingering sunlight. She looked as regal as she was when I first laid eyes on her over an hour ago but a rill of remembrance and realization seeped into my consciousness. I knew this Yasmina before, I have heard her name, obviously I have seen her face and I have known…ahhh… her husband. I turned white, almost the same color as the striking woman sitting across the table from me.

“How about some more wine?” Yasmina asked cheerfully.

Amar was smiling at her when she looked in my direction and was taken aback at the sight of my ghastly face. The awkward moment was short but it instantly veiled Yasmina’s countenance with its heavy shadow. There was a bitter taste of loss on the tip of my tongue too and it infused my blood with depressing venom.

“Sure, we would love to. Thank you Yasmina.” I managed to say.

“Something wrong, Youssef?” Amar asked as soon as we were alone. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Oddly enough, I regained my calm. Now that I was not faced with the challenge of talking nonchalantly about myself I could hold my disquiet at bay. When I coolly asked Amar earlier if she wanted to know more about me it was an unrehearsed and instinctive reaction to her candid approach. The simple and true man within spoke unabashedly back to her. As soon as I smelled her once more, as soon as I felt her overpowering femininity within the bounds of my personal space I panicked like I always do when someone gets too close. My hitting back with buried sarcasm was a self-defense mechanism, the only one I ever mastered to keep my isolation intact. With Yasmina in the picture and the vastness of her torment I realized how ridiculously absurd my insecurities were. To my own surprise and glee my resistance was all but gone with Amar. Another glass of wine and I would have opened up to her completely. She could have asked me anything and I would have answered. I would have taken her on a private tour to the inner chambers of my mind and soul. I would have uncovered my most secret thoughts and fears hidden for years under the dusty sheets of denial and melancholy.

“Have I proved too unpleasant a companion already Amar?” I smiled faintly but from the heart this time. She looked at me intently, plainly seeing through. A warm sense of relief gripped me and I found no reason whatsoever to resist. The wine lulled my deep-seated inefficacy. I was happy to be naked in front of her.

“Why would you say that?” she tenderly asked. “Except for that awfully strange look on your face and the reaction of the… of Yasmina, we two were on our way toward a very absorbing conversation. What is it Youssef, if I may ask? If it’s too personal just forget it. You can simply ignore my question.”

“No, no, it’s not like that at all.” I leaned forward and Amar realized that I was going to hush my voice. From her side, she moved closer too. We were so physically near but I did not lose control. In fact I had the strangest urge to hold her hand in mine, grab her face and kiss her cherry red lips softly. It was such a normal thing to do as if we have been intimate all of our lives. It was such a peculiar thought for a man who was never too fond of kissing.

“Yasmina lost her husband a few years ago and never heard from him again.” I murmured.

“Oh, no! Was he lost at sea?” She gasped and brought her hand to her mouth covering it in dismay as she said this, her eyes reflecting an enormous sense of loss, of defeat and despair.

I breathed deeply and ran my fingers backward through my hair. I didn’t look at her but instead stared at my hands anew. I felt very tired. “No, Amar. He was covertly arrested and detained then vanished in thin air.”

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