The Café

by Procyon White

 

Mahmoud looked at the waiter. Decidedly gay, always smiling a nice, effeminate smile, wagging his head and batting his eyelids. Far too gay for Mahmoud’s taste, yet he was somehow attractive.

Mahmoud never went to cafés, at least not to this kind of café. He didn’t know what had made him come in here today. Maybe it was the fact that he’d been walking past this place many times and it had – well, it’d just looked so nice. So inviting. So unlike anything he’d ever go to. Or maybe it was the fact that he was sick of his life at school, his teachers, his mates, his family. And he certainly wouldn’t risk bumping into any of them here.

But today he’d caved in to his growing desire for cosiness. He didn’t know where it came from, but it felt good to sit beside shelves full of expensive chocolates and cakes that looked luxurious and so unlike anything he knew from home, or from school. Not that he’d try any of them; he’d never be able to afford it.

So he’d come inside and had sat down at one of the neat little tables with lumps of sugar in little bowls on them, both brown and white, and ordered a coffee for the first time in his life. Mahmoud did not like coffee, and it wasn’t one of the things he’d made an effort to acquire a taste for. They drank Coca Cola, he and his mates, never mind that it was the epitome of American imperialism, and they ate junk food, had pizza at their relatives’ pizzerias or cheap burgers from one of the big chains.

Just as the waiter brought him his coffee, a group of girls came in the door, giggling. The waiter gave them a shy smile as he said hello, and Mahmoud felt a pang of jealousy. The waiter hadn’t smiled at him when he came here; he’d given him a wary look, as they all did.

‘We couldn’t resist coming back for another cappuccino,’ one of the girls said with a flirty smile, and the others giggled. ‘The one I had yesterday was absolutely wonderful.’

The waiter blushed. He gave another shy smile and clapped his hands together. Gay. ‘Oh, thanks! I’m getting all embarrassed now.’

‘Hey, no pressure!’ the girl said as they sat down. The waiter laughed a cute laugh. ‘Are you Italian?’ she asked. Maybe she was genuinely impressed with the cappuccino, or else she was just taking flirting one step further.

‘No, we’re Syrian.’ the waiter smiled. ‘I’m glad you like our cappuccinos anyway.’

The girls laughed again; they were all good-looking too, with long, shiny hair, about the same age as the waiter or a little older perhaps, in their early twenties, all smiles. But then, Mahmoud’s sister was all smiles too a lot of the time, so that really didn’t tell you anything.

Mahmoud watched the waiter as he moved and talked, hoping that he wouldn’t notice. He’d never taken an instant liking to anyone like this – never begun to fancy someone at first sight, let alone such a gay-looking fellow. Usually that was a bit of a turn-off – quite a big turn-off even – but not this time. Gay, and beautiful. Hell, maybe he wasn’t even gay, maybe Syrians simply were this way. Were they? There were a few at school and they weren’t.

Mahmoud finished his coffee, which hadn’t lasted long enough, and forced himself to take his eyes off the waiter. He got up and left.

 

***

Raised voices met him as he opened the door to his house – thankfully they weren’t directed at himself.

‘Where were you this afternoon, Iman, eh? Where?’ His father’s face was red, eyes bulging; Mahmoud’s sister was standing opposite him half defiantly, half scared out of her wits. ‘Whore!’ he hissed, baring his teeth. ‘Your embarrass us! You are a shame to the family – what will your uncles say, your grandparents! A disgrace!’

Mahmoud sighed inwardly, careful not to show his emotions as he tried to slip past them and up the stairs. His mother, he saw, was sitting quietly at the table, watching, nodding at his father when he talked. She always agreed with his father. Mahmoud succeeded in sneaking up the stairs unnoticed this time.

‘I was only with Maria, dad – ’

‘Quiet, whore!’ his father roared. ‘You’re not leaving this house except to go to school and back, and even that is a waste, if I could I’d keep you home so you’d learn your place. You will go home with Mahmoud every day, do you hear?’

Iman would have some time to herself in between the end of her classes and his, Mahmoud thought, but it didn’t cheer him up. He sat down in front of his computer and turned it on, mechanically. ‘Your brother, he is ashamed!’ his father went on from downstairs. ‘He has a whore for a sister!’ Mahmoud buried his face in his hands.

He heard the front door open and slam shut, his father was going to his brother’s house, probably; Mahmoud’s uncle was at home all day too, no job, and the two of them often met and complained about the rotten state of things.

‘You shouldn’t have done it.’ Now it was their mother speaking. ‘Foolish girl! You really are a slut, behaving this way, no boy will ever want you, no good boy from home. What if they hear? You know they know everything that goes on here, they will hear how you behave! They will know!’

Mahmoud turned on some music on his computer, he didn’t even look what it was, he just clicked ‘My music’ and then some song – it turned out to be Khaled – and turned the volume up so he wouldn’t hear what went on downstairs.

 

***

He went back to the café that Friday, after he’d taken Iman home. He got the cheapest item on the menu again, a regular coffee, though he realised after he’d ordered it that their tea might be better, and it was the same price. There were many jars of real tea up there on the shelves behind the counter; Mahmoud decided he’d give it a try the next time. Then he wondered, vaguely, when this had turned into such a habit that he was thinking of the next time already.

The waiter recognised him this time. That wary look he’d had the first time was gone now; he smiled as he gave Mahmoud his change. He’d seen that Mahmoud had neither wrecked the place nor neglected to pay for his coffee the last time, so that had probably calmed him.

The waiter’s smile made Mahmoud look down; he wasn’t sure how to react. Smiling back would be a bit too much. He found himself staring at his torn jeans that were shiny with dirt – perhaps he’d wear something nicer the next time. He did have a nice pair of trousers that his mother had bought him a while ago. He never used them, of course.

 

***

‘Mahmoud,’ Iman said gravely one day as they went home. He looked up in surprise; this was unusual; his sister rarely addressed him by name. In fact, they didn’t say much to each other at all these days. Also, his mind had been elsewhere; specifically, he’d been pondering how he could get to know the waiter a bit better, or at least find out his name. Having to take Iman home was interfering with his visits to the café.

‘Um, yeah? What is it?’ He looked at Iman. She had rings under her eyes and was frowning.

‘I, ah – I’ve met someone.’

‘You’ve met someone? What?’ Now he was staring at her. ‘You mean – a boyfriend?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you crazy?’ He’d stopped walking and stood facing her. ‘Iman, are you mad, what are you doing? A boyfriend? Do you want to get killed?’ The waiter’s smiling face flashed before his eyes but he quickly forced him away. ‘What were you thinking, you can’t have a boyfriend!’

‘But Mahmoud, Mahmoud, I love him! He’s wonderful, he is so different – he – Mahmoud, I love him!’

‘Different? He’s different? Where’s he from, I’d like to know?’

Iman looked down. ‘Istanbul.’

‘Iman, that’s just impossible, are you crazy? Do you know what dad would do?’ He looked at his sister’s head, her curly black hair; she was still looking down, staring at her own shoes. She knew, of course. She knew everything he knew. Her boyfriend wasn’t Kurdish, he was a Turk.

‘Iman, you’re in love, that’s all.’ He paused, thinking guiltily of the waiter’s smiling eyes. ‘It’ll pass. You know it can’t happen, it’s haraam. Iman?’

She looked up, her eyes wet. ‘Haraam – haraam, that’s all they ever talk about! How is it haraam, tell me that? He’s even a Muslim. Mahmoud – can’t you help me? I thought you’d – well –’

‘Let you risk your life for some boy? Hardly. I mean, sorry, I can’t.’ He felt cold inside. ‘I can’t let you do that, so just stop whining,’ he said a little more harshly than was necessary. ‘Now come, we’ve got to get home or dad’ll ask questions.’

 

***

That weekend the café was busy. The waiter was rushing from table to table and hardly had time to even glance at Mahmoud. Funny how nobody was sitting at the tables next to his; it seemed like he was scaring people away. He was big and brutish – he’d cultivated that look for years, he wasn’t sure why. Because it was intimidating, he supposed. However, it was also an ugly sort of look – up until now he hadn’t minded; he didn’t want five girlfriends at once like some of his classmates; he was perfectly happy without any girlfriend at all. But now – maybe the waiter found him intimidating?

‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe,’ Mahmoud heard the waiter tell a customer as he was taking an empty bowl from the table. ‘She’ll be pleased to hear you liked it.’ There’d been soup in the bowl, and the smell reminded Mahmoud of his mother’s cooking, there was some herb or spice in it that she also used. The waiter seemed to avoid Mahmoud’s gaze as he went past.

Mahmoud had thought of his image in the mirror that morning as he was shaving. He had a dark, round face, a big potato nose; he wasn’t one of those handsomely hook-nosed Kurds. His eyes were small and he wasn’t tall, just big. Brutish, that’s what he was. The waiter would never fancy him, he realised. Nobody would ever fancy him.

 

***

It was quiet when he got home that night, so quiet that he breathed a sigh of relief at first. No fight with Iman, no upset voices.

But there was something disconcerting in the way his mother looked at him when he came into the living room. They were both giving him strange looks, his parents.

‘Mahmoud, sit down,’ his father said. ‘We have happy news for you.’

Mahmoud looked at his father, alarmed. He sat down.

‘We have found you a girl, Mahmoud. You are going to get married.’

Mahmoud felt his right leg begin to twitch. ‘Oh… a girl?’ He swallowed. He put his hand firmly on his right leg, but it wouldn’t stop shaking. ‘Who is she?’ He felt sick, bile rising up his throat.

‘Here, I’ve got some pictures you can look at.’ His father smiled now. ‘Zehra, her name is. Look.’ He held out a rather small photograph of a smiling girl in a flowery dress. ‘Does she not look beautiful, eh, Mahmoud?’

Mahmoud tried very hard to control his breathing, not to hyperventilate. ‘Nice, yes.’ Inhale, exhale. ‘She’s lovely.’

‘Ah!’ his father exclaimed. ‘See, Fairouz?’ he looked at his wife. ‘Didn’t I tell you he’d be pleased?’ Mahmoud’s mother nodded, but her smile revealed that she knew this wasn’t what he had wished. Mahmoud looked away; he couldn’t face her.

 

***

The next day after school, he forgot about Iman and headed straight for the café. He crossed the street without looking and was honked at by an angry bus driver. He got to the café, stepped inside, and sat down at his usual table. The waiter was alone; the place was empty.

‘Oh, hello,’ the waiter said and gave him a big, warm smile. Mahmoud smiled in return, surprised.

‘Coffee as usual?’ the waiter asked. Apparently he was a regular now, how odd. Mahmoud had never come to any place often enough to be a regular, except to his cousins’ pizzerias, which were a different thing altogether.

‘Hmm no,’ he muttered. ‘I’d like some tea today.’ He found himself wondering if Zehra preferred tea or coffee, then quickly pushed away the image he saw of a petite, smiling, tea-drinking Kurdish girl. A girl with a flowery dress – the rest, her face and such, was hazy in his mind.

‘Oh, tea! We have excellent tea.’ The waiter gave him an appreciative smile. ‘What kind?’

‘Um, what is there? I mean, what’s your best… tea?’ Mahmoud was beginning to feel stupid; he should just have taken coffee as usual.

The waiter smiled and suggested a few different sorts, and Mahmoud ended up choosing one at random. Classic Russian, or something.

‘You okay?’ the waiter asked as he came with the tea.

Mahmoud looked up, took his tea. He shrugged. ‘Do I look like I’m not?’

The waiter gave him another look as he was tidying the other tables. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a while. ‘You look worried.’ He wagged his head in that annoyingly gay way, and suddenly Mahmoud snapped.

‘You’re gay, aren’t you?’ he said in his most condescending, homophobic voice, the kind that nearly made him explode when his friends used it. The waiter stared at him.

Mahmoud rose, suddenly. What an idiot he was, what a jerk. Idiot idiot. He hadn’t finished his tea, but now he slammed some money on the table, too much, and stumbled on his way to the door. He wouldn’t be able to come here anymore.

‘Yeah,’ the waiter said from behind him. ‘I am.’ Mahmoud turned around, his hand already on the doorknob.

‘I’m sorry. It was rude of me to say that.’

‘Why did you ask?’

Mahmoud opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t. He closed it again; he couldn’t very well say that he’d fallen in love with him. He made a half-turn, but didn’t open the door.

‘Look, you don’t have to leave,’ the waiter went on, ‘why don’t you sit down and finish your tea?’

Mahmoud’s face felt hot, it had to be crimson, but he turned around and went back to his table and sat down.

‘Yeah, um, sorry,’ he said, ‘I – it’s – I’m getting married soon.’

The waiter’s eyes widened, and Mahmoud went on.

‘To a girl. She’s got a flowery dress. I mean, she had one in the photo they showed me…’ Mahmoud swallowed. ‘Her name is Zehra. My parents told me last night.’

‘I see, yeah… My God. No wonder you were looking worried. You sit down and have that tea now, and calm down a bit. Actually it’ll have gone cold, I’ll get you a new cup.’ He hurried off.

‘So, you… have a girlfriend?’ The waiter said as he got back. ‘Other than your wife-to-be?’

‘No.’ Mahmoud could feel himself blushing again.

‘What is it?’ the waiter asked. ‘You’re not gay too, are you?’

Mahmoud stared at him. ‘I – ’ He wanted to say yes, to nod, but he was frozen. ‘Uh –’

‘I know,’ said the waiter.

Mahmoud shut his mouth and was furiously wondering what that meant when the waiter went on, ‘I saw you looking at me. Because, well’ – now the waiter blushed slightly – ‘I was looking at you, too.’

‘Oh,’ said Mahmoud. ‘At me?

The waiter nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘But… I’m fat and ugly.’

‘Shh, you’re not. You know what, come back at six o’clock, I get off then. But finish your tea now – only I’ve got some work to do here. But we can talk at six.’

‘At six.’ Mahmoud looked at the waiter incredulously. Was this a date?

‘You can’t?’

‘Yes yes, I can… But – just like that?

‘Why not?’

Mahmoud was quiet. There were a thousand reasons why not.

‘Your family, do they know?’ he asked.

‘Why? Does it matter?’

‘Well – no… I mean, it doesn’t matter, I was just thinking, since they’re here as well and I’ll be – ’

‘My brother and sister, they know, and my parents do too, really. Only they’re in denial.’ He paused. ‘They’ll think you’re a friend. What about yours?’ The waiter gave a sad smile. ‘Stupid question, they don’t. Or you wouldn’t be getting married.’

‘If they knew I’d probably be getting married sooner, and I wouldn’t be here.’

‘True.’ The waiter nodded. ‘Come back at six.’

 

***

‘Where have you been?’ his father shouted as Mahmoud stepped in the door. ‘Did you forget about Iman? You were supposed to take her home!’

‘Sorry.’ There was nothing to do but to apologise and be as quiet as possible.

‘Sorry? Do you know what she did, your sister?’ Mahmoud shook his head. Best not to say anything. ‘She was seen with a boy!’ At this, his father gave Iman a murderous look. ‘There was a boy talking to her!’

Mahmoud also looked at Iman, trying to hide his exasperation. How could she have been so stupid as to meet with that fellow, her boyfriend – he should have made it clearer that it was impossible, he should have given her a better talking to, been harsher. He had failed.

‘He wasn’t talking to me,’ she whispered, ‘He was talking to Ala – ’

‘SHUT UP! Go to your room, you little slut! Go, now! And you are staying in there, no school for you tomorrow, and you can forget about that class trip!’

Iman hurried off, tears in her eyes. Mahmoud looked down; he knew Iman had really wanted to go on that trip with her class. Of course, chances of that had been slim anyway, but it was still sad.

Mahmoud turned around and walked towards the stairs.

‘Mahmoud!’

Mahmoud stopped and turned back. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long. Hopefully his father wasn’t mad at him for anything else besides having left Iman at school.

‘Mahmoud, you will talk to Zehra now.’

‘Zehra?’

‘Yes, Zehra, you didn’t forget did you? Your future wife, your fiancée. We are phoning her now, she is waiting at home.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ Mahmoud forced a smile on his face; again, he could see that his mother saw through it.

‘Here,’ his father said, handing Mahmoud the receiver while he dialled a long number. ‘It will be Zehra answering. Or her father, maybe, then you ask for her.’ He nodded encouragingly at Mahmoud.

There was just one signal, then a click. ‘Hello?’ It was a girl’s voice; she sounded young, shy. Suddenly Mahmoud felt nervous about his Kurdish; it was rusty, and sometimes he thought he had a bit of an accent.

‘Hi, I’m – I’m Mahmoud.’ What did she know about him? What had her father told her? Did she want to marry him?

‘I’m Zehra.’ Quiet.

‘So, Zehra, um – so… we’re getting married.’ He wanted to bang his head on the wall. This was horrible. But his father gave him an encouraging look.

‘Yes… so you’re coming here this summer?’

‘Um, I guess. We always go back home in the summer.’

‘I can’t wait to go back with you. I’ve never been abroad, and I’ve heard so much about it, I have many friends who live in your city – ’

‘Yeah… yeah, it’s a nice place. By the sea and all, you’ll like it here.’ Mahmoud was amazed that he could sound so normal, as if this were a perfectly natural conversation with someone he knew. Someone he wasn’t going to marry. Apparently she knew she was coming after the summer – when was the wedding to be? Their parents obviously had it all planned. Mahmoud’s mind was racing. His father hadn’t told him anything at all, while Zehra seemed to know, like, everything. ‘Yeah, so… that’ll be – nice. You’ll like it here…’ Mahmoud bit his lip; he had said that just a second ago. ‘Well then – it was nice talking to you, Zehra.’

They said polite good-byes and hung up. Mahmoud’s father looked pleased; thankfully he didn’t seem to mind that Mahmoud’s contribution to the conversation had been rather brainless.

‘Excellent!’ he said, a grin disfiguring his face. Mahmoud’s father hardly ever smiled; Mahmoud thought he didn’t really know how. ‘You like her, yes? Here,’ he said, leafing through some papers on the kitchen table. ‘Some more photos. She is a beautiful girl, Zehra. A good girl; I checked up on her.’ Mahmoud suppressed a shudder; he didn’t want to know how his father had done that. ‘You take these photos, Mahmoud… Women, girls, they must be treated strictly. Not too much freedom, look at your sister. You must be kind to her, but firm. Strict. Eh, Mahmoud? You get my point?’

Mahmoud nodded. He looked at the kitchen clock, suddenly; it was ten to six – he’d have a hard time getting to the café by six. He’d forgotten the time completely. ‘Thanks dad,’ he said. He glanced at the photos; Zehra really did look beautiful. Large eyes, a well-shaped, smiling mouth, black, wavy hair. She looked happy.

He got up and reached for his jacket. His father also got up now, the family gathering seemed to be over, so Mahmoud would be free to go. Thankfully. ‘Going to Sami’s,’ he muttered as he put on his jacket and walked out the door – his mother called good-bye to him, but his father didn’t bother.

After some minutes he realised he was clutching the photos in his right hand so hard that they were getting crumpled. He put them in his pocket. Zehra was moving abroad, coming here, to marry him. She probably thought she would get some sort of freedom here – did she? Or was she, as his father said, a “good girl”? She had sounded happy on the phone, excited, but then, he hadn’t sounded too unhappy himself.

Mahmoud was out of breath when he came to the café, almost ten minutes late; he’d been half running and he was embarrassingly out of shape. His hands were sweaty. The waiter was not to be seen – maybe Mahmoud should step inside. Surely he couldn’t have left already…

But no, there he was; he came out the door now, saying good-bye to a girl with a white apron who had to be his sister. Mahmoud’s face broke into a big smile in response to the waiter’s. He felt a surge of terrible happiness go through him.

‘Hi… Um, I don’t know your name,’ he said, still grinning.

‘Jean.’ A Syrian Christian, he was, not a Muslim, with a name like that. Haraam. Not that it mattered, this was completely haraam anyway, all of it.

‘I’m Mahmoud.’

‘You have a nice name, Mahmoud.’

‘You too. I… Sorry I’m late, by the way, I had to, well – talk to my fiancée. On the phone.’ Now he couldn’t smile.

‘Oh, yes. I see.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘So – is she nice? Do you like her?’

‘Well yeah, she sounded nice… Not that that’ll do me any good. It was the first time I talked to her. I’m – I don’t know, it’s confusing.’

‘Yeah, I can imagine.’

‘I’ve some photos of her, here,’ Mahmoud went on, much to his surprise. Here he was with gorgeous Jean, and he had to keep talking about the girl he was going to marry. But something made him show Jean the photos, made him want to show them. ‘Her name is Zehra.’

‘I know, you told me.’ Jean looked at the first photo, scrutinisingly. ‘She’s a lovely girl. Beautiful.’ He leafed through the photos and nodded. ‘Yes, a lovely girl. Does she want to come here, do you know?’

‘I’ve no idea. She sounded excited on the phone, but it was the first time ever I talked to her. Gosh. I – imagine getting married.’ Mahmoud shook his head. ‘It’s such a weird thought.’

‘Yeah. Very weird.’

‘I don’t suppose I’ll be able to go to college.’ Not that he’d have been able to anyway, with grades like his, but this would make it completely impossible.

‘Hmm, yeah. I don’t know. You’ll have to work?’

‘Yeah, I think so? Really – the worst thing was that she was so excited. I thought it’d be terrible to talk to her, that she’d be… well, dunno, really annoying or something… but – she’s excited. Or she seems excited.’ Mahmoud shuddered. ‘In a few years’ time she’ll hate me. And I’ll hate her.’ He paused. ‘What about you – your parents, are they – do they want you to get married?’

Jean snorted. ‘Of course they do, but they haven’t suggested anyone yet. No match made so far.’

‘I didn’t think mine would go this far either. I had no idea.’

‘Yeah. You have to do something.’

Kiss Jean, that was what he wanted to do, but their topic of conversation had ruined the mood. ‘Do something – what? How? It’s impossible. Really, you don’t know what it’s like.’

Jean gave a laugh.

‘Okay, you do, but I think my parents are worse,’ Mahmoud said. He hesitated. ‘Okay, I have no idea what yours are like. Probably just as bad.’ He blushed. Jean was so effeminate it was impossible to imagine that his parents were as bad, not if they could tolerate a son like him without beating him up regularly.

 

***

‘They’ll kill her one day, my dad will, or someone – my uncle perhaps.’ They had left the café and changed the topic to Iman. ‘They don’t even tolerate it when she’s out with her friends, and now she has a boyfriend. They don’t know about him, of course. I swear they’ll kill her; she’ll dishonour the family, and then – ’

‘Yeah, I see.’ Jean nodded. They were down by the beach now, on the promenade. It was well-groomed and neat, willows leaning out over the water with their long tear-drop leaves. ‘I understand. Yes. – Well Mahmoud, I brought some bread to feed the ducks.’ Jean took out a brown paper bag full of little cubes of dry old cinnamon buns. They stopped. Jean had obviously planned this – they were now in a place where there were a lot of ducks. The ducks’ gathering place. Mahmoud had never been here, didn’t know it existed, but then he’d never gone for quiet strolls on the beach.

Jean held out the open bag to Mahmoud, who grabbed a handful of bread cubes and began throwing them to the ducks, who were already flocking around the two of them.

They went on feeding until the bag was empty, commenting only on the ducks, nothing more serious. When Mahmoud reached for the paper bag for the last time, Jean held it upside down so the last bread crumbs fell out, then looked at Mahmoud and smiled. He leaned forward, close to Mahmoud’s face, his mouth half open. He was batting his eyelids again.

Mahmoud’s pulse quickened. ‘I – I’ve never done this with a guy,’ he stammered. ‘I’ve never done this with anyone, actually.’

Jean smiled. ‘Then it’s about time, isn’t it?’ He came even closer and then Mahmoud felt Jean’s lips on his.

 

***

‘You were seen!’ his father roared as Mahmoud stepped in the door. Mahmoud jumped and barely managed to suppress a gasp: he’d been seen…? He hadn’t checked that well but he’d been pretty sure there was nobody there as he was with Jean.

‘You were seen, we know you kissed him, Iman!’ Mahmoud leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Then he quickly opened them again; they mustn’t see him like that. Thank God. It was Iman who’d messed up, not him – normally he’d have been furious at her for being so careless, but today he said a prayer of thanks to Allah that it wasn’t himself at the receiving end.

‘Your cousins…’ his dad now embarked on a tirade on how Iman’s cousins had seen the atrocities she’d committed, her male cousins, who were keeping a rather close eye on her when Mahmoud wasn’t around. Apparently one of them had just phoned his father and told him of their discovery. It had happened some days ago. Mahmoud slipped past on the stairs once again and went to his room. He shut the door, turned on the computer, and began playing Unreal Tournament, turning the volume up loud. But he couldn’t concentrate; he kept dying. Eventually he gave up, turned off the computer and lay down on his bed. He’d have to be very careful. He’d have to be a lot more careful than Iman; if his parents found out that he had kissed a guy… He couldn’t even begin to imagine what might happen. It’d be a disaster. Luckily his cousins weren’t actively watching him, guarding him, like they did with Iman, but if they happened to see something –

He should stop seeing him. Really, it wasn’t worth the risk. He gave a deep sigh. But Jean had been so good to talk to, he wasn’t like anyone else, and – he’d kissed him. There were only the tiny details that he was a guy, that he wasn’t a Kurd, and that Mahmoud was getting married after the summer, to a fine Kurdish girl. Only those.

It would be best if they never met again.

 

***

The next day, Mahmoud went back to the café. Iman hadn’t been let out of her room since last night except to use the bathroom. Mahmoud had planned to sneak in there and see her, ask what exactly had happened, but at first he’d been so pissed off that he really wouldn’t have known what to say to her, and then when he tried to get into her room – this was the next morning while their father had gone to their uncle’s for a minute, and their mother was taking a shower – he could not find the key.

He had said a few words to her through the door – accused her of being careless, mainly, though he’d intended to say something uplifting, to try to give her hope – and then he’d had to leave for school.

Now he stepped into the café, slightly nervous. Jean didn’t seem to notice him as he walked past his table to serve the other guests. This was their busiest hour, perhaps; it was lunchtime and Mahmoud began to feel guilty for taking up a whole table all by himself. Maybe he should order lunch, though he couldn’t really afford it – and anyway, how was he going to order when Jean never came by?

After some minutes he began to get nervous. Why was Jean ignoring him this way; had he done something wrong – had Jean suddenly changed his mind about – everything? He couldn’t decide whether to look at him or avoid it, and wondered if maybe he should rather leave, but then the rest of the day would be hell, with him wondering what he’d done wrong and why Jean had got tired of him.

Then finally he came by, slamming down a bowl of soup on the table in front of him. He didn’t stop to talk but gave Mahmoud a quick look – Mahmoud wasn’t sure what to think of it, he didn’t exactly look pleased to see him – and rushed off with plates of food to some other guests.

‘Er, I didn’t order – ’ Mahmoud began, but Jean evidently didn’t hear him. It seemed to be lentil soup – the one Jean’s grandmother made, presumably. It smelled heavenly. He might as well eat.

‘You like it?’ Jean’s voice came unexpectedly; Mahmoud had almost given up hope that they’d get to speak at all. He nodded, his mouth full of soup and bread.

‘Good.’ Finally Jean flashed one of his gorgeous smiles at him and Mahmoud felt better.

 

***

That night as he was going upstairs to his room, he heard Iman call his name.

‘Shh,’ he hissed and hurried over to her door, which was still locked. ‘Quiet for God’s sake! What do you want?’

‘Mahmoud, my mobile – please!’ Her voice had a desperate ring to it. ‘Just for a little while, please…’

‘What for, so you can phone that idiot boyfriend of yours who got us – you – into this mess?’ Mahmoud felt the door handle; the door was still locked, of course.

‘Just please give it to me! I only want to text him, he’s got no idea where I am, he’ll think I want to split up!’

‘Well so he should, it’s not like you can go on going out with him or anything.’ He seemed to have some kind of need to rub it in, to make it worse for Iman, but was beginning to feel bad for her now and added, ‘So where is it?’

‘In my jacket pocket – I think – or else look in my school bag… You’re great, Mahmoud.’

‘Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?’

‘Yeah yeah, now get me the mobile!’

Mahmoud had to get past his parents without arousing suspicion, so he muttered something about having forgotten his homework – a bit of a risky excuse since he rarely did his homework at all. But they said nothing and he took the mobile upstairs and slid it under the door to Iman’s room. ‘You’ve got the charger?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Thanks a mill, Mahmoud.’

 

***

He met with Jean again a few days later, after Jean’s shift again. He finished late this night and the sun was low in the sky. They walked briskly towards the beach, and once they were down there and there were less people in the vicinity, Jean took Mahmoud’s hand. They were walking more slowly now.

‘They’re not letting Iman out of her room,’ Mahmoud said after a long silence. ‘This is the longest it’s ever been.’ He cursed himself for not coming up with anything romantic to say, but was glad, at the same time, that Jean was there to listen.

‘They’re not usually this bad?’

‘No… Usually they let her out of her room after a day or two.’ Mahmoud sighed. ‘But she’s never had a boyfriend before, so…’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘What would your parents do if you were seen with me? Now?’

‘Holding hands? Dunno. Well – I don’t know how bad it’d be, but I know it’d be bad.’

‘Yeah.’

It’d be a bloody disaster, that’s what, Mahmoud thought. For both of them. Iman’s punishment, he was sure, was nothing in comparison to what might happen to him if his parents found out.

They walked on, quiet; it was getting dark now and some birds were screeching in the distance, Mahmoud wasn’t sure what kind – crows maybe, suitably, like in that Hitchcock movie.

‘You should do something,’ Jean said after a while. ‘You should get her out of there. It doesn’t sound too good.’

Not too good. Mahmoud contemplated the words. He wondered what might happen, how far his father and uncle were prepared to go. He didn’t know. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘Just – get her away. Can you do that somehow? I mean, by the sound of it they might be… planning things.’

Mahmoud sighed. ‘Yeah, they might… but away where? I’ve nowhere to take her, no friends, really – none whose families would take her in anyway. And my cousins are everywhere.’

‘Yeah, hmm. I’ll see if I can think of something. Your family does seem worse than mine,’ Jean said and gave a laugh.

‘Yeah, there won’t be any left of us soon,’ Mahmoud said, laughing too. ‘There’s only the two of us, my mother couldn’t have any more children after Iman, so… if they kill us both there’ll be none left.’

‘Yeah, your dad’ll be really happy then, no problem defending his honour after that…’ They laughed harder, until there was a rush of wings as a pair of ducks took off from the water close by.

‘Wow, even the ducks don’t like us,’ Mahmoud said.

‘They will again once we bribe them with more cinnamon buns. Anyway, I think we should do something about your sister.’ Jean paused. He’d said ‘we’, Mahmoud noticed. ‘What’s her room like, Mahmoud? Do you think you could get her out of there somehow?’

‘Yeah probably… but where would I take her?’

‘My gran’s house. You know, my soup-cooking granny.’

‘Really? She’d take in a total stranger?’ Mahmoud gave Jean a doubtful look.

‘My gran’s… not like my parents, she never was. I think she’d do it. I’ll talk to her first though, of course.’

‘Yeah, that might be a wise idea.’

‘Can you come by tomorrow during your lunch break?’ Jean asked. ‘We should probably do something sooner rather than later.’

‘Where, to the café?’

‘You’ll get some lentil soup again.’

Mahmoud laughed. ‘Then I’ll definitely come.’

They’d reached the duck place again. Jean had no bread with him, but it was late and the ducks seemed to be sleeping. They were alone with the dark shapes of the ducks, heads stuck under their wings, and they kissed.

 

***

The house was so quiet when Mahmoud opened the door that he thought his parents had gone to bed. But when he came into the kitchen, he saw them both standing there, beside the table, looking.

His mother turned away as soon as he looked at her and walked over to the stairs.

‘You were seen holding a boy’s hand.’ The statement rang through the quiet room. Mahmoud’s heart sank. ‘What,’ his father asked, his upper lip shaking, ‘ – what were you doing, holding a boy’s hand?’

Mahmoud said nothing.

‘Your uncle saw it, Mahmoud, your uncle! On the promenade. Were you on the promenade, Mahmoud?’

Mahmoud opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself. He had to think of something, quick – an excuse. His mind was blank.

‘No, don’t bother, Mahmoud – don’t lie to me, too! My own brother saw you, he was not wrong. The shame of it!’ A spray of spittle came with those last words. ‘I thought I could trust you – I trusted you with Iman, always, and now – you piece of filth! You’re as bad a whore as she is – no, worse!’ His father did not shout as he usually did with Iman, but if possible, this was scarier.

‘I’m getting you a ticket to Sulaymaniyah tomorrow. You’re going there as soon as I can get you a seat on a flight, and you’re marrying Zehra – before she finds out about this.’ His father shuddered. ‘You disgust me, Mahmoud.’ He paused and gave his son a long look. ‘Well. Until you go, you’ll be staying in your room. You can go. Now.’

His father followed him up the stairs, and locked the door behind him as he went inside. It was a big, sturdy door, with a good lock. Mahmoud wondered vaguely if his parents had changed the doors of this house at some stage for the event that something like this should happen – great foresight, in that case – because modern houses like this one didn’t usually come with inner doors like these.

Then, Mahmoud realised that he had no water. He also needed to pee. He hesitated, then quickly stepped over to the door, banged it, and shouted for his father, then his mother. Nobody came.

 

***

Jean didn’t know where he lived, that was all Mahmoud could think of that night – that, and his full bladder and dry throat. He looked under his bed to see if there might be a few drops of coke or water left in one of the old bottles he’d left lying around, but found nothing. He then debated whether to pee in the waste-paper basket, but decided to postpone that for as long as he possibly could.

Some time in the early hours, when Mahmoud had drifted off into uneasy slumber, he was woken by the sound of his door being slammed shut. There was a plate of food and a bucket beside it.

His mother’s dolma, Mahmoud noticed when he had used the bucket. He loved his mother’s dolma, but he had no appetite at all – thankfully, however, there was also a large bottle of water beside the door.

Did Jean even know his last name? Mahmoud wondered as he gulped down the water so fast that he nearly choked. Hardly. They hadn’t talked much about themselves, all they had talked about was Iman, always bloody Iman. Much good that’d do him now. He nibbled at a dolma but put it down again. It reminded him of Jean’s gran’s lentil soup. He wished Jean knew where he was.

He tried knocking on the wall to Iman’s room, but there was no response. Maybe she was still asleep, or maybe she hadn’t heard him knock. Mahmoud tried the door just in case, but it was locked, of course. The house was quiet.

 

***

‘It’s looking bad,’ his mother said when she brought him a late lunch; dolma again, normally he’d have loved to get dolma twice in one day. ‘Not so much for you as for Iman. Your father… I don’t know what he might do, he’s been at your uncle’s house since eight this morning. What you did – it was just too much.’ She looked at him searchingly; she must be hoping he’d protest his innocence after all. ‘Mahmoud, if you didn’t do it, tell me. I will believe what you say.’ She paused. ‘Mahmoud. You didn’t do it, did you? You didn’t hold a boy’s hand.’

Mahmoud sighed. ‘I did, Amma.’

‘But why, why, Mahmoud! Is it Zehra? Is it that you don’t want to marry her? I told your father it wasn’t a good idea, I told him – but that you had to do something like this …!’

‘It’s not Zehra, mother. It’s…’ It’s love, he wanted to say, but couldn’t – it wasn’t, really – and besides that’d be like one of those Arabic soaps his mother always watched on TV.

‘I knew marriage wasn’t a good idea – I knew it,’ his mother sighed. Then they both turned as they heard the front door open. ‘Your father. He’ll have changed your ticket…’ She gave Mahmoud a worried look, got up, and locked the door as she left.

 

***

‘You’re flying tomorrow,’ Mahmoud’s father said later, when his mother had let him out of his room. Iman wasn’t there. ‘My cousin Mohamed will meet you in Sulaymaniyah and take you to Zehra’s home town.’

Mahmoud did not look up.

‘If I knew who that boy was – ’ Mahmoud’s father leaned closer, ‘then, Mahmoud, I would have him killed.’ Mahmoud could not help seeing in the corner of his eye that his father’s lips had curled in disgust. Then his father got up, abruptly. ‘Sadly, your uncle could not make out who it was,’ he added. ‘Or I’d have arranged things already.’

Mahmoud went cold inside. This wasn’t a joke, this was for real, and it meant he wouldn’t be able to see Jean again, ever.

‘We’ll make sure to deal with Iman while you’re gone though,’ his father said, still looming over him.

Then suddenly the doorbell rang, shrilly. Mahmoud’s father cursed under his breath and went to open the door. There was a woman’s voice, oldish, saying how sorry she was to bother them, mentioning something about some 20-litre saucepans. He looked around. Should he leave? run? But where would he go – he had nowhere to go, and he couldn’t risk Jean’s life by going to the café again.

‘Only one ride!’ he heard the woman say, ‘that will surely be enough! I can’t handle the wheelbarrow on my own – but maybe Fairouz could do it?’

‘What,’ said his father, ‘you mean you have the saucepans in a wheelbarrow?’

‘It’s not far at all,’ the woman said eagerly. ‘If you could just take it there for me, I can’t do it because of my back… Really I was looking for Fairouz, but since she’s not here…’

‘She’s out shopping. Our son… is getting married.’ His father’s voice sounded strained.

‘Oh, but that’s wonderful!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘But she hasn’t told me this! Oh, what a surprise! You must tell me everything about it – come, now we should go, I need to get there in good time, we need to get all the dishes prepared for tonight. Fairouz is coming, isn’t she?’

‘Ah, yes, well… I don’t know about Fairouz, we have a lot to do, but just a minute, I’ll be with you.’

Mahmoud’s father stepped into the living room again, his face red. ‘Up – up with you!’ he hissed. ‘Now! We’re going to your room.’ He was waving the key to Mahmoud’s room with his right hand. After he’d turned it and Mahmoud heard the front door slam shut, the house went quiet. Mahmoud sat down heavily on his bed, and, after some moments, lay down and closed his eyes.

Then there was a deafening bang from downstairs. Had his uncle come over in a fit of frenzy – to kill him? Or Iman? There were steps running up the stairs, quickly, and many of them. Then – the key in his lock, and it turned. And there was – Jean.

‘Jean!’ In spite of the fright, Mahmoud was grinning like a maniac. ‘But how did you find me – how did you get in!’

‘Eh, no time to talk, Mahmoud, where’s Iman – in the next room?’ Mahmoud nodded. Jean’s sister was behind him in the doorway, and there was another man behind her, who bore a vague resemblance to Jean. His brother, most likely.

Jean and his brother hurried over to the next door, while Jean’s sister took a good look at Mahmoud. Then they came back with Iman in tow, the latter looking puzzled.

‘We’ve got to hurry, we haven’t got all day,’ said Jean, ‘my gran said she’d make sure we had half an hour, not more – we have to get out.’

‘Your gran?’ Mahmoud stammered. ‘It was her, at the door? With the, um, wheelbarrow?’

‘And the 20-litre pots, yeah. They’re in the same cooking class, your mother and my gran – great, isn’t it?’

‘Er…’

‘Don’t worry about that now, Mahmoud.’ There was an old, red Saab 99 in the driveway and they all promptly got in. There were no seatbelts in the back seat, and Mahmoud and Iman squeezed in there with Jean’s sister.

‘Mahmoud, who are these people?’ Iman asked quietly as they began to drive.

‘Jean’s this guy I met while feeding ducks,’ Mahmoud replied.

 

***

‘Well, that didn’t go too badly?’ Jean’s grandmother said as they sat down at her dinner table. Her famous lentil soup was on it, in one of the 20-litre pots she’d used to get Mahmoud’s father out of the house that morning.

They were in Jean’s gran’s house, which was on an island not far from the café. They had parked the Saab down by the water and, to Mahmoud and Iman’s surprise, got into a small boat and gone over to the island; it had taken them about 15 minutes.

‘You never told me how you got hold of the key to our rooms,’ Mahmoud said to Jean.

‘Oh, I saw your father hang it on a hook beside the front door,’ Jean’s grandmother said with a smile. ‘We were lucky. He did that so your mother would be able to give you food, I assume. She’s a good cook, your mother.’

Mahmoud felt a twinge of guilt for the first time since they’d left, and Jean’s gran seemed to notice.

‘We’ll sort things out soon, don’t you worry,’ she went on. ‘Well – we’ll try.’ Mahmoud looked at Jean and then at Iman. They’d be lucky if there was a way to sort this out at all. But at least they were out of reach for their various cousins and uncles for the time being.

‘Anyway, then I texted Jean to tell him we’d gone, and where the key was – I think that was the trickiest part, making sure your father didn’t see what I wrote, or just become suspicious. But luckily it worked…’

‘And you happened to have a secret island for us to hide on,’ Mahmoud said.

‘This is my husband’s house, blessed be his soul. My second husband’s – this is where he grew up. He loved this island.’ She looked out the window, remembering.

Jean pushed away his bowl and got up. ‘Want to feed the ducks, Mahmoud?’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of them here, too.’

Mahmoud smiled. ‘I’d love to.’

 *  *  *

These are the songs Mahmoud was listening to: Mas Louly

sung by Cheb Khaled and Diana Haddad, and Cheb Khaled's Henna.

* * *

Footnote: The picture of the ducks was provided by freeimages.co.uk

The other two images are my own.

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