The early morning was cold. Adele stood shivering by the side of the road where she had agreed to meet Elias. She looked around; the darkness of the early hours had not yet vanished. She heard rustling in the fields; she jumped as a lone goat ambled out of the bushes and came up to her and she laughed at herself for being startled by the creature. Then her laughter stopped and she wondered whether she should have agreed with Elias. Her heart began to pound until her breathing had gotten so loud that she didn’t hear Elias coming. He put his hand on her shoulder; she jumped again.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She turned to face him. He looked pale in the dark as if he had been the one frightened, not Adele.
“Ready?”
She nodded. Crossing the field, they silently walked to Elias’s car. Adele swallowed and nervously entered the tan Mercedes and sat down. She watched as Elias got in through the other door. His hands trembled while they clutched the steering wheel.
Before letting him start the ignition, Adele rested her hand on Elias’s arm.
He looked down at her fingers, then into her face. Silence prevailed for a moment. Bending her head toward him, she finally said, “Shukran.” Thank you.
He smiled, then directed his eyes towards the road.
The car sped on its way. Still somewhat uncertain about her decision to leave her family, Adele huddled at the passenger’s door and stared out into the darkness.
As they approached Beirut, the sun began to rise, spreading yellowish-orange streaks through the dark blue skies. Adele yawned and looked out the car window. The dirt roads they had travelled on through the villages and small towns, stopping at various checkpoints, had now manifested into paved streets and sidewalks, lined with several fast-food chains and fashion boutiques. Neon signs flickered off with the approaching daylight. Adele sat up and gazed at the sea, waves hitting the rocky shore. The riverbed was no longer lush green but manmade slabs of concrete. They drove on. Adele leaned her back to the door so she could face Elias. He was fully awake despite the three-hour drive it had taken them to reach Beirut; he hadn’t taken a break, except for the time it took them to show identification to the military troops at the roadblocks. Adele reached across and stroked his handsome face, stubble tickling her palm and, for a brief moment, he glanced at her, his full lips breaking into a smile.
She dropped her hand onto her lap and cleared her throat. “We should take a break. You’ve been driving for hours. Let’s get some breakfast.”
Elias arched his left eyebrow and Adele noticed a small scar on his dark eyelid. She lifted her hand again and traced the brown line. “A remnant of my accident. My body tells that story over and over. Sometimes I forget or try to but my body reminds me again and again. That’s hayati, my life, I suppose. Scars and memories of my experience constantly remind me of things I’d rather forget,” he stopped then changed the subject. “What about breakfast? Do you want to eat at McDonald’s? This is what Americans eat, no?”
Adele laughed, resting her head on the car seat. She rolled her face to the side, looked at Elias. “But habibi, you have it all wrong. I’m not American. I’m Canadian.”
“American, Canadian, what’s the difference? Aren’t they the same?” he grinned mischievously.
She laughed again. “Depends on whom you ask.”
“True, true. So, it’s McDonald’s? Or would you prefer a Lebanese breakfast of warm zahter fresh from a stone oven or labaneh and zeitoun rolled up in homemade pita bread with a cup of ahweh?”
“I don’t care much for coffee,” she said, pretending to be difficult.
“Okay, okay, habibti, a cool glass of halib for you. Sounds good?” Elias said, smiling.
“You’re paying, right?”
“You’re the American, remember?”
Adele raised her head from the seat. Gazing into Elias’s eyes, she said with a short laugh, “Canadian.”
“Ah, Canadian.”
“Since you’ve been driving, I’ll treat you this time. It’s the least I can do. Us `Americans’ are rich, after all.”
They burst into laughter once more as the vehicle sped on the busy streets.
Elias turned the car into a small alley, barely wide enough for two. He parked it around the corner. Adele slipped out of the passenger’s side and followed Elias on the cobblestone street, down a flight of stairs which led to the entrance of a small coffeehouse. When Elias pulled the door open, the smell of sumac and thyme enveloped Adele along with the warmth of a large stone oven which was situated at the far end of the establishment. There were about six small tables covered with flower-print cloths. A water pipe was behind the cramped counter where an old man sat on a wooden stool, his eyes half-closed. He looked about in his mid-eighties with his cheeks drooping and deep wrinkles lining his forehead. Beyond him, two windows were open wide, allowing a gentle breeze to enter the softly-lit, tiny restaurant that was empty but for the old man and one customer. He was dressed in what appeared to be a woman’s polo shirt and baggy trousers common to older Middle Eastern men. He greeted them with a broken smile - a large space between his two front teeth flashed when he opened his mouth. “Marhaba. It’s a beautiful morning,” he said, wiping his hands on the grease-stained apron around his protruding belly.
“It sure is,” Adele answered in Arabic.
“You’re not from here. I can tell by your accent.”
She smiled timidly; she was surprised the old man could tell immediately that she had an accent. She spoke hesitantly and now wondered in the warm heat of the coffeehouse how she had lost this fluent speech as she looked across at her reflection in the mirrored walls behind the cash register, past the old man on the stool. Her curly hair dropped over her shoulders and her face was unusually pale compared to Elias’s and the cook’s dark complexion. Yet she looked unmistakably like them.
“Come on,” Elias said, waking her from her thoughts. He put his hand on her back. She didn’t move away but let his hand fall down her spine. He stopped at her lower back then guided her to one of the small tables, pulled out a chair and dropped his hand to his side; she immediately missed the warmth of his hand. Sitting down, she sighed heavily and followed Elias’s strong stride, his long legs walking elegantly across the restaurant back to the old cook, who handed him a plate filled with zahter and a cup of steaming ahweh.
When Elias returned, she smiled up at him. He stood beside the table and began to serve her as if she were his guest. The smell of the flat bread powdered with dried thyme, sumac and sesame seeds floated in her nose. As he placed the dish and coffee cup down, he smiled then smacked his large hand on his forehead. “Oh, I forgot! You’re not a coffee drinker. Back in one moment with your halib.”
Affection filled her heart for this thoughtful man. She touched his wrist and said, “It’s okay, Elias. Sit down. You’ve done so much for me already. Sit and share this wonderful meal with me.”
“Our last breakfast?” he said, slipping onto the chair opposite her.
“I suppose. But does that mean there will be a resurrection of sorts?”
A smile lifted his mouth. “Most definitely. Resurrected from family obligations . . .”
“And guilt,” Adele added quietly. They ate in silence until the cook came to their table. He placed a round bowl of zeitouns in front of them, the oil glistening on the green olives.
“These come from tree in yard at home,” he said in broken English. He also handed them pieces of pita bread. “I make bread too. Well, not right. Wife make bread,” he said, kneading his knuckles on the tabletop. “She make on ground. Hard on knees. She yell every time she do bread. Allah, she say, why you curse me to be woman?”
Adele raised her eyebrows and frowned; she didn’t like this last comment because it seemed that being born a woman was indeed a curse, the worst possible fate. She looked away from the cook and out the window. A few feet away there stood a young man dressed in military garbs with a finely-trimmed beard and crew-cut hair. A rifle was flung over his left shoulder. His slender body bent forward as he questioned people in their cars. She imagined his voice resonant with forced authority. He looked boyish. She guessed he was only a few years older than herself. Twenty-two the most. Adele sensed the cook’s eyes on her. She turned her attention back to the old man.
“I say something bad? You mad?”
Adele asked quietly, “Why does your wife think it’s a curse to be a woman?”
“Life not easy for woman. They cook, clean, take care of child, husband. They work hard and for what?” He slapped his hands together. “Nothing. No respect, only grief. A woman lose lots. Husband boss, child make body fat then break it in birth. Not easy to be woman, that why curse. Man have easy life.”
She stared at the man. There was neither coldness nor meanness in his eyes or broken words. He wiped his hands on his apron and smiled.
“Now eat. Enough about man, woman. Can’t live with woman. Can’t live with no woman, right? This American phrase?”
She nodded and popped an olive in her mouth.
When they returned to the car, a blast shook the earth under their feet. As if in a nightmare Adele mumbled, “What’s happening?” Elias didn’t reply but instead grabbed onto Adele’s arm, pulling her into the safety of his body and hurriedly leading her into the entranceway of another shop, past several vendor stalls, which were toppled over, figs crushed, gold bangles bent in the chaos by passersby’s soles. Adele watched a vendor kneel and stuff precious stones in the deep pockets of his apron, his mouth hurling out loud Arabic curse words and assaulting Adele’s ears. But it was the wailing from the injured people that made her shake. Elias held her close so the smell of his skin floated into her nostrils; it was a mixture of sweat and soap.
Adele asked again, “What’s happening?”
“A street bomb.”
His answer silenced her and she turned aside and stared at the burning building. She saw black patches of smoke, bodies sprawled in the corner, limbs dismembered, shattered windows all over the asphalt. Everything was in an uproar. She began to shake more violently. There was a distinct sharp stench and she realized it was the smell of blood. She closed her eyes for a moment then opened them to Elias placing the warmth of his hand against her face. “Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of here.” She swallowed and watched the fire dying down with the tide of water spurting from the emergency crews’ hoses, embers burning on the streets. She had never experienced any of the violence in the Middle East firsthand, had witnessed it many times on Canadian broadcasts, read it over and over in the world information section of papers.
The noon sun rose above the haze and cries. She suddenly became aware of how hot it was. Beads of sweat trickled down her ribcage. The intense sunlight made her raise her hands to her eyes, protecting her pupils from the brightness.
Some distance away, she saw a woman on her knees clutching a child. The boy jerked a few times, then remained still in his mother’s arms. Blood was on the woman’s hands, her son’s face. She pulled him tight to her chest, her wails drowning out the sirens. And she hated the light that hit these victims. Adele saw the torn look on the woman’s face - eyelids swollen, cheeks disfigured by shards of flying glass and cried out at the stranger’s grief, loss. She turned away, stepped back from the noise, the sun. Burying her face in Elias’s hard chest, she felt him stroking her head as she wept.
They hurried down several streets, away from the burning debris and rubble. Dust soared in Adele’s face. She let go of Elias’s hand, rubbed her eyes then reached for him again, afraid of losing him in the rush of people. She searched for his fingers as if not reconnecting would be the end of her existence; she needed him and this frightened her because she had never had this feeling of complete reliance on another person, had actually felt suffocated when her family sheltered her and refused to let her do things because she was a woman. She held onto his hand tighter and liked the way his fingers entwined with hers. All of a sudden, she felt a longing for the man her father had arranged for her to marry but there wouldn’t be a marriage because she had refused to accept this fate. She squeezed Elias’s hand then felt sick and stopped him. The taste of vomit surged through her throat. She had to stop running. Bent over, she felt Elias’s fingers pull back her hair while she threw up at the side of the road. He moved, stood in front of her and reached out to wipe her cheeks with a handkerchief. Then he took her face tenderly in his hands and at this moment her eyes filled with tears. She looked around and realized they had stopped running, not because of her sudden illness, but because they had reached the Beirut International Airport. The prospect of never seeing Elias again saddened her more than she expected. She embraced him so tightly that it was almost painful; her breasts were crushed against him for a long moment. “Thank you, Elias,” she said, almost crying.
He smiled and stepped back, waving goodbye. She walked away, then turned and glanced at Elias now standing alone, his head bowed and his hands clasped together as if in prayer. Without a second thought, she pulled open the door and entered the busy airport.
Sonia Saikaley lives in Ottawa, Ontario. She has taught English in Japan.Her fiction and poetry has appeared in Urban Graffiti, Zygote, the anthology Burning Ambitions, FreeFall, Bywords Quarterly Journal, Jones Av., blueskiespoetry.ca, The Writer’s Block and Inscribed. She is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers.