Green Almonds
I found the green color of the
unripe almonds soothing, even more so if I dipped my hand into the wicker
basket in which they were piled as to let them run through my fingers in the
slow moving current that I created. Although Aziz did not mind me doing so I
did not blame the others for forbidding this, conveying their disapproval with
downward turned lips and had it been a particularly vexing day, adding a
“Tsk-Tsk” noise to the look.
I had gone through the entire staff
of the kiosk, everyone having admonished me once, I should now know better but
still sometimes could not help myself. I memorized Aziz’s schedule. If he
worked with someone else I would wait for them to go on break before going
over. I would kill time at the patisserie across the way. They had strong coffee
and three little tables out front, the other two of which were often empty.
This was how I met Fatima. It was her family’s place and everyone who worked
there except for one prep cook was related. Initially they found it odd that I
would sit at one of their tables sipping coffee, since there were so many
places close by better suited for such things.
In truth their machine had been
bought secondhand from a now closed café almost as an afterthought but no one
wanted to question me about my choice as to not risk bringing to light all my
other real café options in case for some odd reason I had not realized.
Cinnamon skinned, she had the build
of one of those pagan fertility sculptures, which I found appealing. The first
time I saw her I thought that she had been taller as I was sitting with her
standing over the table. Our relative
positions also prevented me at first from noticing how limpid her eyes were. I
wanted to ask her if she knew Aziz but that seemed such a bourgeoisie mistake,
the assumption that all people of the same ethnic background knew one
another. I also did not want to risk it
because Aziz only had eyes for women who looked like the ones from the American
Movies. Anytime I pointed out a woman walking by whom I found attractive, it
did not matter what their charms were, he would shake his head and say;
“No, no blond is better…:
I could imagine in trying to appear
cool and sophisticated what he would say about someone so close to the type he
had grown up with.
Fatima’s mother looked like a
slightly heavier, older version of her. She smiled but also watched like a hawk
that every pastry which passed my lips was paid for. Fatima also had an older
brother whom I had only seen briefly as a head peering through the circular
window of the swinging door that led into the kitchen.
I would sit at the little table on
the far left as it was the one which did not wobble and she would come out on
the sidewalk to sweep while we chatted. I would take out my sketch pad to give
my hands something to do. After a month of going there every day she felt
comfortable enough with me to ask what brought me there. I was too embarrassed
to mention the almonds. I did a sketch of her face giving it to her.
A few times I had happened by and
if she was having a bad day and no one was around she hugged me. Laughing our
foreheads banged together as we both went for the kiss on the cheeks, the lips
confused about as where to go. Aziz knew about my infatuation, with a tasting lemon
scowl he told me several times;
“Those type of girls very
traditional.”
Still finding me at my usual table
sketching, he waved and dropped it. Now and then I would run into her on her
way to work as Aziz and I took a walk before he too had to start his shift.
They would momentarily linguistically exclude me, his way of subtly reminding
me that he knew what he was talking about even if I did not want to listen.
I was waiting in the small line to
order my coffee. Only her mother alone was behind the counter. I said hello but
thought better than to ask where Fatima was. I had not dressed warm enough and
so decided to take the side street home which was quicker. A series of doors
that were interspersed with dumpsters, by happenstance her brother was emptying
the garbage and having a smoke. He saw
me before I saw him.
He was supposed to eventually take
over the place but had not ever bothered to learn much about the daily
operations. He was busy giving away free cookies to pretty tourists and keeping
a mental scorecard of who he could marry his sister off to. He had a plan already;
he would sell the place, the estimated value being the other thing which he
kept close track of and then use that money to travel. Of course he could not
just throw his sister to the wolves, he would marry her off and therein lay the
tricky part of the equation. The groom had to be able to take care of her but
also could not be too well off as it would then be expected that the wedding be
lavish and as he had to pay for it he did not want it cutting too much into his
future nest egg.
He thought his trademark was the
gold rimmed pilot sunglasses that he almost always wore. Two heads taller than
me, he was still mildly apprehensive that I may get a good shot in and so took
a moment to take his sunglasses off. My mind raced to find a phrase to diffuse
the situation but his fist was quicker, catching me in my left eye. I had not
slept well the night before and was tired, I crumpled to the ground with what I
would like to imagine was a modicum of dignity. I raised my hands even with my
chest, palms out, not to tell him to stop but that I was not going to fight. There
was no point to it, besides being doubtful that I could even take him, a
victory on my part would get me nothing except potential awkwardness from his
sister and definite increased animosity from the mother.
I do not think he had meant to hit
me as hard as he had or at least not in the face. My eye had already begun to
swell, the sight of which made him realize that I would most likely be asked by
everybody what happened. His hands went under my arms to help me up. He bent
down again to grab my book bag which he then handed to me.
“Ca-Va?” he asked.
I nodded but as I went to walk away
I wobbled a little. He took me to a nearby bar where two of his friends sat in
the corner smoking a hookah and watching with curiosity as we drank Pastis with
almond syrup. I felt I could now get
home. We shook hands and I nodded.
I put my hat and bag on the table
and let my clothes fall to the floor at the foot of the bed. I lay down but in
my usual position, on my stomach it made my eye throb. I have always had
trouble sleeping on my back. In the
orphanage whomever had my bed before me had created a sort of divot. To lay on
one’s stomach hurt the ribs and back but to lay in the concave space on one’s
back was a little more tolerable. Even then though sleep had been hard to come
by as it was not my usual position.
As to try to counteract the
discomfort I came up with a mantra that I would recite in my head until sleep
finally took me, the origin of which I can not remember;
“I have never had a wart nor broken
a bone…”
I got up to get a glass of water,
some aspirin and a cold cloth for my eye. I lay back down, cold shroud on my face
blocking my view of the ceiling;
“I have never had a wart nor broken
a bone….”
- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2014
www.waynewolfson.com
