The Radiant City. Lauren B. Davis
rhythmic foreplay that is tango. There are not many dancers at this time of day. Things do not really heat up until evening. Since they are not there to dance, Jack and Matthew do not pay the admission that would grant them entrance to the actual dance floor. They take seats on the green chairs along one side of a railing that separates the dancers from the curious. Jack produces a slim flask from his back pocket.
“Drink.”
Matthew does. Some time passes. Perhaps thirty minutes. Maybe more. They sit side by side watching the dancers prowl. Music changes, the sound like waves.
“So, nobody had a gun, I’m guessing,” Matthew says at last.
“Not that I could see, anyway.”
“I heard shots.”
Jack reaches over and pats Matthew on the knee, as if he were a father and Matthew his son, although there is no more than ten years between them. “Listen, I’ve heard those very same shots before. Lots of times. And mortar fire. And don’t get me started on low-flying airplanes.” Jack laughs softly. “I’m better than I used to be though. This the first time?”
“Third.”
“Ah. Well, let me tell you. The trick is, as far as I can tell, and fuck what the doctors tell you—wait, you seeing a shrink?”
“Nope.” Matthew’s leg trembles only in fits and starts now. The shaking in his hands is practically unnoticeable.
A girl in a red dress, her hair short and slicked back, gleaming with pomade, dances backward past them in the arms of a wire-thin man who looks like a pimp. Their eyes remain locked onto each other and their bodies move in perfect harmony, as if they are preprogrammed. Jack raises the camera to his eye. At the last second, before she turns, the dancer snaps her head around and stares upward. Jack clicks the button. “Good,” he says, and it is unclear if he means the shot, or the fact Matthew is not seeing a therapist. “I guess they help some guys, but I gave up on ’em too. Anyway. The trick is not to let it define you. You get an episode, you get up, you dust yourself off, and you keep going on with your day. You don’t let the fuckers live in your head. You don’t let that present-tense thing get to you. You know what I mean?”
Matthew does not, and listens hard, for he suspects this is a secret he must learn.
“One good thing a shrink told me was this: there’s a part of the brain that always lives in the present tense of the trauma, whatever it is. Like some little lizard part of your brain doesn’t realize that whatever shit happened to you isn’t still happening. So, if you have an episode, and you spend the rest of the day, or the week, or the fucking month dwelling on it, I figure you’re reinforcing that shit. Key is to kick the little fucker out as soon as you can. See what I mean?”
“Yes, possibly.”
Jack looks over at Matthew and then takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and polishes his lens. “It may do no good to talk about the fucking episodes, but sometimes it does help to talk about whatever’s causing them. Say what happened, and then what happened next, you know? And then what happened after that. Train your brain to realize it isn’t still going on, that you got past it. Like, I got shot, then I woke up in hospital, then I ate some crappy hospital eggs, pinched a nurse’s ass and went back to sleep. Tell the story over and over again, lead the mind through, and convince your lizard brain that time’s moved on.” Jack pauses, holding the camera up to his eye. “So, if you do want to talk about what happened . . . well, you know.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
A couple stops near them, executing a series of complex moves with their legs, intertwining them and stepping first right and then left at fantastic speed. They are both dressed in black, she with a red rose in her hair, he with a red rose in his lapel. Jack’s camera clicks happily away.
“Anyway,” says Matthew, feeling deeply vulnerable and foolish because of it, “Thanks for saving my ass back there.”
“No problem.”
“Remember Kosovo? Seems like you’re always saving my ass, doesn’t it?”
“You can do the same for me one day. Have another drink.”
And Matthew does, his hand damn near steady.
Chapter Seven
Saida swirls olive oil over the top of the hommos and sets it inside the refrigerated display case next to the bowls of eggplant moutabal, taboulé, moujaddara and spicy potato salad, as well as the platters of falafel, safiha—little pizzas with meat and pine nuts – two kinds of sausages, both manakiche and makanek. She arranges the pastries, the baklava, maamou, with either pistachios or dates, and macaroons flavoured with orange water. An oriental bakery near their apartment delivers fresh sweets to Chez Elias every morning. Saida herself is a fine pastry-maker and would prefer to make them herself, but there is no time for such things, nor is the kitchen nearly adequate. Already the savoury dishes must sometimes be cooked at home in the early hours of the morning. Since she left her husband, such responsibilities have fallen to her. Ramzi handles the coarser tasks, such as grilling the skewers of chicken and lamb or stuffing the pita with falafel while she makes the rest in the minuscule kitchen, just an alcove really, behind the counter. Saida does not mind that the kitchen is not private. She wants every customer to see how spotless and well organized the little space is.
In fact, the entire shop gleams. The floor, the four tabletops, and the counter—everything is spotless. Her father is her ally in this. She and Ramzi were raised to believe that a clean mind and clean body are intertwined, that a clean house is the outward manifestation of good spiritual health. If, however, Ramzi has relaxed his diligence as he grew into manhood, Saida lives with a bleached rag in one hand, ready to pounce.
Her father, of course, is not helpful in any practical sense. But he is her father and he is old and if he chooses to spend his days sitting by the window watching the world go by, reading Lebanese newspapers, then Saida feels he has earned the right.
She wishes Ramzi would leave her father alone. Every day the same thing and this morning is no exception. She listens to father and brother argue with only half an ear. The same old argument.
“We can’t stay here forever,” says Ramzi. “We’ll never get ahead.”
Her father shrugs. “No place is perfect. This is not so bad. We eat.”
Ramzi makes a sound of disgust.
“You want to go back to Lebanon?”
“No. I didn’t say that. But, well, maybe.”
“I’ll never go back. It is the land of the dead for me. And you are saying nothing. Wind across the sand.”
“There are more opportunities elsewhere. There is more sunshine elsewhere.”
“There are opportunities here. You think you have it so hard? You own this business. You can take a wife. Feed your children. The stores are full of things to buy.”
“This city is depressing. People are so unhappy.”Ramzi stands with his hands in his pockets, his stocky back and strong shoulders hunched. He looks out at the rain streaming down the window. “And unhappier still to see an Arab get ahead.”
“Bitterness will only make your breath sour! I will not move again. How many times do I have to say this?” The old man strikes the table with the flat of his palm just as a girl walks in; she looks at them, hesitates.
“Good morning,” Saida says with her friendliest smile and gestures with her hand to the sky. “Such dreadful weather.”
“It’s September, fall already,” says the girl, stepping in, not looking at the men. “It’s the season. October will be worse.” She shakes her umbrella in the street and leaves it propped up against the door.
“What can I get you?”
“Espresso. A double to take out.”
“Have