I went over to him and looked him over once, twice, three times. I pushed my hands inside his sleeves and pulled out the cuffs of his shirt, adjusted them, and smoothed the hem of his jacket. I looked at him again and gave him one last kiss. He gave me a hurried hug and left. As he closed the door of the elevator, I closed my front door. The song would be in its eighth and final loop.
My road takes me away from yours
I call to you, I love you
I turned it off and smoked my seventh cigarette, to start my day without him.
There was a lark living in the tree opposite my house. I heard it every morning, and sometimes at dusk. I could almost make out words in its song, of my own invention naturally. I liked that lark a lot. It was sad like Ali; maybe the story it recounted was Ali’s. Both of them had soft and delicate voices. I never saw the lark, even when I stuck my entire upper body outside the window to try to locate it. Just as whenever I sought Ali out, I didn’t find him. I knew he was there but I couldn’t see or touch him. Sometimes I admitted to myself that I didn’t really want to capture the lark or Ali. It was enough for me to hear the sad song floating to me from the tree. I could enjoy their presence, so near and yet so far.
27
Zayn set a high bar for my definition of love. His presence in my life was both exciting and grounding. I didn’t think of beginnings and endings and the usual complications of relationships; I didn’t think about the future. Zayn’s existence gave me all the peace I needed, as well as all the madness. I sometimes went to sit with him at a downtown coffeehouse. I would be carrying my small bag, with my university books and papers.
“Read me a poem you like, Nadia. Something close to your heart.”
I got flustered. Most of the poetry I liked back then was in English, and I didn’t trust my ability to translate it. In the end I settled on Coleridge, from “The Ancient Mariner,” an old favorite of mine.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
He listened to me with kindness, holding my hand in his. The sadness in Zayn’s eyes was real. He had been sad since his wife died. They didn’t have children and he never remarried. He told me he had waited for years, until we met; that his life had passed by while he waited for me. He said he knew that something was going to happen, that he would meet this girl, and that through her, life would bring him solace. My heart beat wildly as he held my hand and told me I was his sparkling girl, his muse, the unsuspecting weaver of his dreams. Zayn didn’t want anything from me, except to love me. It was enough, and not just at that moment; as I later realized, his love was enough to last me for the rest of my life. Years later, I met Ali and fell in love with him. Then I met other men. My heart was broken more than once, but Zayn’s love always saw me through those disappointments.
Galal too didn’t love me like Zayn did. But I believed him in that moment. I just wasn’t excited; Zayn had used up my capacity for excitement. I listened to Galal’s poised words with a calm familiarity. I’ve always believed him. He was honest, a revolutionary, and was not like the others. He was not a liar or a fraud. And he was charming. We all loved Galal and needed him. He was like our collective child. Rima would ferociously defend him whenever I was angered by his occasionally childish behavior. Layla would say that he was foolish and reckless and that we must all look after him. Deep down I knew that each of us had some story with Galal, but that we had long since left those stories behind in order to form our uncomplicated friendship circle.
I didn’t know the details of the other stories, but I knew mine. I knew that Galal would find creative ways to make me feel like I was one of a kind, that there was no one like me and no one had ever gotten this close to his heart. I felt an intense happiness—that perhaps didn’t always show on my face—whenever Galal told me that he loved me. I would listen to him talk about the struggles and honesty of the poor, and I’d believe him. I recognized these words, as they had been my father’s since I was a child. I believed everything that Galal told me about the oppressed classes. During those moments when, lying on my back on the ground in the large square, I felt despair, I only had to steal a look at Galal’s eyes and see the hope pouring out of them to feel reassured again.
He knew that we stood in the same corner, tuned to the same wavelength. I would be filled with enthusiasm when I heard his voice chanting. If his voice sounded downcast, I felt myself on the edge of depression. My feelings toward Galal were unusual and confusing.
