The Coin, page 7
I downed my third cognac and grabbed the cigar from Trench-coat, surprised by how it felt between my fingers. My uncle had smoked a lot, and I knew what a cigar should feel like. It should feel like a living thing in your hand, supple, aromatic, moist with saliva. But Trench-coat’s was dry, and too light. It reminded me of a plastic princess wand I had when I was a child. I used to wave it around the house, willing my desires.
I gave it back to him and asked the waiter for matches. Aren’t you going to smoke it? I asked, it’s dying. He thanked the waiter for the matches and placed them on the table. Well, he finally admitted, I’m not rich, you know. For now I’m just pretending. When I can afford it, I will start to burn them. He adjusted the Montecristo paper emblem, so it faced the street. I asked him, not for the first time, where he was from, and again he only answered that he was born in New York City.
Technically, Trench-coat was homeless. It was not exactly a choice, he was dealt a bad hand, and the game is rigged, of course, it favors the better hand and exploits the weak. But at least in appearance, Trench-coat was wealthy. He wore a perfectly tailored suit everywhere he went, he hung around the expensive neighborhoods, he smiled courteously at old women, he spoke slowly, enunciating all of the letters. His body was lean and strong, his posture the marker of good health.
Trench-coat believed that one only belongs to a certain class inasmuch as one dresses, speaks, walks, shops, or takes as a certain class does. But his performance was not total. He smiled a lot, he felt comfortable in his own skin, something that made me suspicious from the beginning. Why is it that the rich are uptight and the poor are themselves?
T
renchcoat moved in with me, and he agreed to carry out certain duties.
Laundry is a refined art, one that requires great knowledge and precision, I said to him. And I don’t have many clothes, so I always have to be washing. He agreed, he said he was the same. We were standing near the washing machine when we made the pact, the afternoon sunlight was shining through the window and onto his face.
The machine was not great, but at least it was my own. I couldn’t share a washing machine with strangers, I couldn’t tolerate their cat hair on my clothes, any hair for that matter, nor the lint of foreign colors. This machine was nothing like my old Bosch, and it confirmed my theory about Americans being dirty, in addition to being messy. The machine was called a top load, and it looked like a toilet bowl. When it turned, the clothes didn’t really bump and grind, they just sank to the bottom and stuck to the edges. I had to soak my underwear in soapy water before washing it in this machine, and I didn’t soil my underwear any more than other women do.
No, I don’t think so, although I’ve never been tasked with cleaning the underwear of other women.
Every Thursday, I explained to Trench-coat, I begin with the underwear, socks, and undershirts, which I wash separately from everything else, because they need to be cleaned the most thoroughly. I stop the bathroom sink and fill it with warm water and two squeezes of Genie delicate detergent, stirring with a wooden spoon that I keep here. I opened the cabinet above the sink, another American thing that I found disgusting because I associated it with those orange pill bottles and the psychopharmaceutical complex, and showed him the wooden spoon.
Then, while it soaks, I wash the shirts and pants, only what can be washed by machine, of course. I wash these in one cup of gentle washing detergent, never with softener, on a delicate cycle, which only takes forty minutes. I opened the cupboard, showed him where I kept the detergents. When these are done, I continued, I hang them on a drying rack in the bedroom. It’s in the closet, I’ll show you in a bit. I never use the dryer, it’s an enemy of clothes, and therefore an enemy of the earth. I also don’t know how to use it, because I grew up in a hot climate, where a shirt dries during breakfast in the sun. You know what I mean, don’t you? Of course, he nodded.
Next, I wash the underclothes that were soaking in the sink, also on a delicate cycle, with a half cup of detergent. Then I wash the towels, which are all white, two big ones, two small ones, and two washcloths. I use a cup and a half, and every other week I also add a spoonful of bleach, here.
We walked into my bedroom, I showed him the drying rack. There has to be a very clear partition in the rack, I explained. You have to balance it so it doesn’t tip and collapse. Then, finally, I wash the bedsheets, also white. A fitted sheet, a flat sheet, one duvet cover, four pillowcases, 600 count. One and a half cup of each, hot cycle, bleach once a month.
I hang the pillowcases first, and then I drag that small radiator underneath the fabrics, on low heat. It looks dangerous because sometimes water drips on it, but believe me it’s safe. Then I place the flat sheet on top of the drying rack, longways, then the duvet cover, patting it so it dries without wrinkles, and then, finally, I wrap the whole thing in the fitted sheet and spray a mix of eucalyptus and lavender all around. I close the room and all the windows and do what I need to do for the day. The laundry is like a cake that bakes.
No problem, Trench-coat said, I can also do the ironing. We walked back to the washing machine, I watched him do it, and I made small corrections as he went along. Before he placed the sheets in the machine, he reached his hand inside and pulled out a coin, a quarter.
He didn’t think much of it, but I took it as a bad sign. Ever since the coin had reappeared in my body, I had become very aware of the presence of money. I was especially concerned by how many coins there were out there and, at least hypothetically, all the damage they could do.
Is it really true that the poor are good and the rich are evil?
T
he boys at Franklin had never experienced a war, all the ones their country had waged were fought on foreign soil. I sometimes questioned my decision to go to America. I felt that I could have gone to Iraq or Yemen or somewhere in Africa, where the need for teachers is more dire.
You’re right, I didn’t have to go as far as Africa. I didn’t have to go anywhere at all. I could have stayed home in Palestine.
But the answer is the same. I didn’t have the courage to go somewhere dire. I wanted a certain life for myself. I wanted to give and to be good, but I also had a certain idea of myself, what my life should look like. Wearing heels was important to me. I couldn’t have worn heels teaching in a school with dirt floors. The carpet at Franklin was bad enough as it was, the soles of my Louboutins were sometimes bluish. I haven’t told you about all of my shoes yet, maybe I will get to it later.
It was Aisha who introduced me to Curls, they were together in some action committee. She excitedly told me about her Palestinian friend who was also in education. I emailed Curls, and we agreed that she would come to my class the following Tuesday with a guest, Rawda, who was a Syrian refugee and so presumably had a story to tell.
When they arrived, Rawda surprised me, so I suppose I had my own prejudices. I expected to meet an old hag in a headscarf and jilbab, but Rawda was about my age, with a bob cut that she had styled with a curling iron, wearing a black tracksuit. I later found out that she was actually Palestinian, a double refugee. It turned out that her grandfather and mine were both from Bisan. I didn’t try to find anything in common, we were the third generation, it was too late.
Curls, on the other hand, was a classic Palestinian American, curly hair, big bust, big nose, and everything else petite but loud. The three of us had a coffee in the staff room, it was crowded so we all squeezed on the same couch. My boys are very smart, I told them, go ahead and talk to them like they are adults, they know a lot already, sometimes I read them the news.
I felt something warm around us, and I didn’t know if it was blood, some visceral ancestral affinity. I was aware of our reproductive systems. I touched my elbow to Curls’s left thigh, her hips were wide and fluid, they filled my mouth with saliva. Palestinians were losing on all fronts and I thought maybe a demographic offense was our only hope. I told the girls, If only we could raise children who were so committed that they were suicidal. I laughed, but they didn’t have the same sense of humor, maybe it was a diaspora thing.
Rawda had an Arabic accent, but she kept saying, So, Like, As such. She had crossed over to Europe by sea from Turkey, four nights and three days on a plastic boat. It was this that the boys were most interested in, the boat, the sea, the storm on the second night, the burner phone she was given to complete the deal with the trafficker. They asked her about the toilets, of which there were none. What she ate and what she drank, which was water, fruit, and juice. This detail really enthralled Sal for some reason, he asked what flavor juice, and when she answered, Mango, he shouted, Damn, I knew it. Leonard asked about the war, he wanted to know who was fighting who, and Rawda explained but it went over their heads. I didn’t stop her even though I could see the boys were confused and losing interest. She talked about Assad’s assault on Yarmouk and I was straining to put it all together in my own head. For a moment I felt like it clicked but then Sal cut her off and all the pieces drifted apart like continents. He asked her what she did with the juice box when it was done, if she threw it into the waves, what they did with the garbage in general as a boat must stay light and garbage is heavy.
I thanked Rawda and made the students applaud, then gave them their assignment. They were to write a story imagining that they were on a boat, leaving their country, not knowing if they would ever return or even make it to shore. They asked which country they were leaving. I said, The details don’t matter, I want you to focus on the feeling.
Curls was standing in the back of the classroom, leaning on the wall. She smiled at me while I spoke, she crossed her arms, folded one leg on the wall behind her, which was already covered in blue shoe prints. It was the quality of attention she gave me. I noticed it, and I looked at her thighs again, and I wasn’t shy because I felt that I was invited.
It was hard for me to say goodbye to Curls and Rawda at the end of class. I didn’t have any girlfriends, and I would have liked them to stay longer. I wondered if they were going to get lunch together, what they did in the evenings, if they slept on soft or hard mattresses and whether there were traits that the three of us shared, like skipping dinner, or hugging a pillow between our legs while sleeping, or counting while brushing our teeth, or never getting into bed before showering. Now that I’m telling you this, I think what I wanted to know was if I was who I was just because, or if it had been programmed into me.
By the time we know ourselves, we are already. That is the problem of childhood. It takes you a couple of years to grow up, to be conscious, to make decisions, and by then it’s already too late, it’s just a race against those fateful years.
I’m going to tell you something else now, because I feel that we’re comfortable. Yes, I’m talking to you. I wanted to know if you were a figment of my imagination or something inherited.
T
he next day, Sal was the first to read his assignment aloud. He cleared his throat in his usual exaggerated manner, he had the qualities of a great performer and could pace himself while reading. That day I even gave him permission to stand on the chair. Dear God, he began, looking at his audience. Oh Lord, he raised his voice, looking up at the popcorn ceiling, suppressing a smile, why have you abandoned me? I giggled, and I was glad Rawda and Curls were not there to hear this, although it was a legitimate question, even kids know that God abandons people every day.
Leonard’s piece was dark, he mused on a beheading he had witnessed in the capital before boarding the last ship to Antarctica, a dissident, he used that word, who had spoken against the king and was dragged bleeding through the city streets. Did you read that in a book or see it in a movie? I asked. No, he answered, sitting back down in his chair, it was my idea, I like coming up with stories. Very well, your imagination is superb, Lenny. Can I call you Lenny? He smiled nervously, inhaling from his nose. Lenny, I want you to write the story of the dissident, a short story of two pages. I want to know what he did to the king and why he did it. Leonard smiled and proudly closed his notebook. Later, while another student read their assignment, I saw him open it again and write something down, a new idea.
Jay didn’t want to read his story. That day, he sat in a corner in the back, like he was punishing himself. Later, at home, I checked his notebook and saw that he had written me a note. He wrote that he was feeling very sad, he couldn’t do the homework. Then, War is bad, it kills people. I’m sorry Miss, I hope you won’t give me an F.
I was worried for Jay. He was too sensitive, he had no shield. He was growing up in a culture that was over-legitimizing certain emotions, especially hurt, and encouraging vulnerability without discernment. Carl was depressed and empty, and he wanted to kill himself and everybody around him. Jay did not deny or deflect his suffering, he let it happen to him. Aisha encouraged the boys to talk about their feelings, there was always one boy or another sitting in her office looking melancholic, and later she would come to me and tell me to be easy on them, They’re just kids. I told her that she was enabling depression and fostering mental illness. The brain is very malleable at that age, I explained. If you let them enter the dark alleys, they will remember the way forever, they will keep wandering back there as adults.
So I gave Jay an F on the assignment. I wanted him to be strong, to overcome himself. Take me, for example. I was still crossing the Brooklyn Bridge every day. And I didn’t complain, because what good would that do?
Well, at the time I thought speaking would only make everything worse. But with you I see that naming the thing makes it smaller. Pain can be a great field of suffering, or pain can be just an object.
I
did see Curls again. I emailed her to ask if she would like to get dinner, just us. I took her to Tavern, it was dark out and I couldn’t see anyone in the park, so we gossiped about the other people at the restaurant, as if we were old friends spending meaningless time together. I paid, then asked her if I could come over, or if she would like me to rent us a room. We went to her apartment on the Upper West Side and when she got undressed I did everything to her that I would like a man to do to me. It was easy, familiar. I understood the noises she made and I answered like an echo. I had the feeling that I was doing it with myself, that we were doing it in a house of mirrors. Her kisses were soft, her skin smooth. At the end, I got a bit rough with her, because I’m used to men being rough with me.
We kept the lights on, and her studio wasn’t bad either. The place was clean. I liked her bedsheets, they were a chalky pink and ironed. She owned too many things though, small things that cost less than twenty dollars. Those Armenian ceramic mugs from the Old City, copies of The New Yorker, candles, lint rollers, bottles of lotion, and vitamins. She was from Texas after all. But it was like masturbation without the void that feels like waking up from a nap and seeing that it’s dark outside.
After we finished, things took a turn for the worse. She told me about her father’s first marriage and her stepsister. She began to take form and character, dividing herself from me. The more she talked, the less I liked her. She wasn’t bad, no, she was a pleasant woman. But the more she talked, the more separate from me she became, like she was stepping out of the mirror, her face distorting into someone else’s, her curls tighter and her boobs more menacing.
With every joke she made I grew more and more distant, realizing that I was in the company of someone other than myself. Her Arabic too, it freaked me out. Texan Arabic, with that American impairment of the tongue and throat. It was impossible to speak with her in our mother tongue. We had sex again, but it wasn’t the same. It was more complex, a dance, acting and reacting. It was too complicated, and I had to put an end to it and go back home to my Trench-coat.
No, she wasn’t hurt. Rejection is easier when it comes from a woman. It’s like when I told Aisha that I couldn’t come to the Brooklyn Museum because it was Sasha’s birthday. She took it in stride, she even recommended a restaurant to me. Sex with women, I felt, was purely recreational.
T
he week before we flew to Paris, the weather changed dramatically.
By then, Trench-coat was sleeping in my apartment every night, even when I wasn’t there. I had come home one evening, not long after we made the laundry pact, and another one of his Italian suits was hanging in the closet, attached to a Berluti dust bag with some black socks and underwear inside. That was it. He had no other belongings, and maybe that’s another reason the transition was so smooth, because his presence was light, not only in person but physically as well, he didn’t take up a lot of space, he wasn’t in bed when I woke up in the morning, he didn’t leave any items lying around, no letters, no shoes, no bags or keys or change.
One morning, it was a Saturday, a bright day with near-freezing temperatures, and Trench-coat and I had coffee at The Academy and then took the train to Fifty-Ninth Street. We went into a few stores on Madison, Trench-coat opened the door for me even before the doormen could do it. I walked around the racks, touching the fabrics, while he mostly just stood there, observing from a distance.
At Prada, where they had just definitively changed to the triangle logo, I showed him a taffeta blouse. It was a great year for them and I wanted to buy it, but Trench-coat convinced me that it was not practical, the sleeves were too puffy, I wouldn’t be able to wear anything over it. At Hermès, Trench-coat insisted that I get a new wallet, and I picked the red one in crocodile skin. At Loro Piana, the cashmeres were smooth, they felt like silk, and the suedes too, textureless to the eye and to the touch, like the skin of a young animal or a Russian woman. Trench-coat picked a quilted gilet, the color of tea leaves, and told me he’d been very cold lately and needed to warm himself up. He also picked a white fringed scarf and draped it underneath my coat. Your clothes are very dark, he told me, you shouldn’t wear a white collar, because you’re a woman, but wear this scarf. I looked at myself in the mirror, and he was right, I looked better. I was now a picture in relief and not just a dark plane. How did you think of that? I asked, carrying the gilet and scarf to the cashier, paying for them myself, of course. Getting dressed, Trench-coat told me, it’s a cosa mentale.
