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EZZEDINE CHOUKRI FISHERE NewYork for the weekend. It was peak time and he’d paid a whole one hundred and twenty-two dollars. If he’d left it till the next morning it would have been forty, but that evening he was going to have dinner with Professor Darwish, his first invite from him in years. He had bought the more expensive ticket but, like an idiot, ended up missing the train because he had fallen asleep inWashington. He couldn’t believe he had done it, but after spending twenty-two hours on a train from Miami, he’d been exhausted. He had no idea how he could have slept on Union Station’s marble floor either, but he had. He woke to realise his train had gone and with it his dinner appointment and all the other arrangements he had made. He was on the point of giving up on it all but instead made a dash for the last train to NewYork. He didn’t exactly know what he would do when he got there, but he would work it out on the way. It would take about another hour and a half to reach NewYork and the girl in his carriage was obviously going there too. She seemed to be about his daughter Sasha’s age. She had put her headphones on as soon as she had sat down, but kept the music low. She had leaned over and asked him if the noise bothered him and he told her it didn’t. A nice girl . . . well, it seemed that way at least, but who knew really? She might have stolen money from her parents. He ran his hand over the fourteen dollars in his pocket and smiled sardonically to himself. He bore no grudge any more. Whatever had happened had happened and things were how they were. He wasn’t bitter towards his boss, his wife, his daughters – any of them. They had all behaved as their natures dictated so what was the use of being bitter about it? It still made him gloomy, though; he hadn’t foreseen all this upheaval. He was annoyed with himself too and reflected that, if he had brought up his daughters better, if he had been less easy-going and careless when raising them, they might have treated him better. He had thought about it a lot over the last few months but, every time, he came to the same conclusion: the time for all that was long gone. He wondered what Selma was like now.Was she like his daughters or had her Egyptian education made her different? He hadn’t seen her since she was ten, and girls change quickly at that age – incredibly quickly. He looked at his watch and then his ticket. He would be in New York around midnight. He’d go straight to Darwish’s house, and then Mark would pick him up after dinner and take him to stay with him in Brooklyn. Once he’d settled down at Mark’s, he could think all these things through properly. Rami, sitting in the train carriage with his fourteen dollars in his pocket, had not always been like this. He had been the head of his household, with two daughters of marriageable age, a well-paid job in a big PR firm and the mortgage paid off on his fancy house in Miami. He led a sober, steady 110 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES
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2012 INTERNATIONAL PRIZE FOR ARABIC FICTION life and got on with neighbours and colleagues. He had never stood out particularly, nor attracted the particular interest of those same neighbours and colleagues. He wasn’t the type you’d invite round for dinner and brag of your friendship to other guests, but he was well-respected, reliable, quiet, friendly and conservative in his habits and morals. He accepted difference and never stuck his nose into others’ affairs. He had graduated from the Department of Middle Eastern Studies at NYU and had gone on to work on a three-year research project with Professor Darwish. Darwish had liked him, not just because he was a distant relation – Rami’s aunt was married to his cousin – but because he was kind-hearted and straight with everyone. Rami was hard-working too – a key quality in a researcher – and Darwish foresaw a promising future if he stayed in academia. But then the chance of a high-flying job in a top public relations and marketing firm changed Rami’s mind. The monthly pay outstripped what the university would offer him a year – even with a professorship – so he took it. His decision hadn’t exactly pleased Darwish. He was shocked that Rami would even think about it and livid that he had turned down the chance he had given him. He liked and respected Rami, but felt that he had bestowed a generous honour indeed in letting Rami work alongside him, only for him to be bought off with a handful of dollar bills: how cheap! He was resentful that Rami could walk away like that. Once a year, Rami would get in touch to find out how he was, but always got the same curt response. Darwish would never ask after him, but Rami was persistent and so Darwish would invite him over whenever he was in New York. It was there that Rami met Selma, the professor’s granddaughter. Selma was a sweet kid who tried to trust those she didn’t know and not be afraid of strangers. Whenever Rami visited his old teacher in summer, he would normally find Selma around, spending the holidays with her mother in the city. Sometimes he would bring Sasha with him and they would all go off to the movies together, or a picnic maybe – but all that was done with now.These last few years, he rarely went to NewYork and, when he did, Professor Darwish no longer invited him round.Their contact was reduced to birthdays, with Rami initiating and Darwish replying tersely. That was why Rami was so taken aback to receive this dinner invitation and, of course, he had eagerly accepted, though it cost him the last dollar in his pocket to get there. Ever since he had moved to Miami, he had lived a life of solid equanimity. He had met his wife Maria – born in Cuba but from a Lebanese family – who taught Spanish in the private school near his house. They had worked hard to get their two daughters into Stanford and Sasha, the eldest, had even managed to win a scholarship which covered the tuition in BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 111

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EZZEDINE CHOUKRI FISHERE

NewYork for the weekend. It was peak time and he’d paid a whole one hundred and twenty-two dollars. If he’d left it till the next morning it would have been forty, but that evening he was going to have dinner with Professor Darwish, his first invite from him in years. He had bought the more expensive ticket but, like an idiot, ended up missing the train because he had fallen asleep inWashington. He couldn’t believe he had done it, but after spending twenty-two hours on a train from Miami, he’d been exhausted. He had no idea how he could have slept on Union Station’s marble floor either, but he had. He woke to realise his train had gone and with it his dinner appointment and all the other arrangements he had made. He was on the point of giving up on it all but instead made a dash for the last train to NewYork. He didn’t exactly know what he would do when he got there, but he would work it out on the way.

It would take about another hour and a half to reach NewYork and the girl in his carriage was obviously going there too. She seemed to be about his daughter Sasha’s age. She had put her headphones on as soon as she had sat down, but kept the music low. She had leaned over and asked him if the noise bothered him and he told her it didn’t. A nice girl . . . well, it seemed that way at least, but who knew really? She might have stolen money from her parents. He ran his hand over the fourteen dollars in his pocket and smiled sardonically to himself. He bore no grudge any more. Whatever had happened had happened and things were how they were. He wasn’t bitter towards his boss, his wife, his daughters – any of them. They had all behaved as their natures dictated so what was the use of being bitter about it? It still made him gloomy, though; he hadn’t foreseen all this upheaval. He was annoyed with himself too and reflected that, if he had brought up his daughters better, if he had been less easy-going and careless when raising them, they might have treated him better. He had thought about it a lot over the last few months but, every time, he came to the same conclusion: the time for all that was long gone. He wondered what Selma was like now.Was she like his daughters or had her Egyptian education made her different? He hadn’t seen her since she was ten, and girls change quickly at that age – incredibly quickly. He looked at his watch and then his ticket. He would be in New York around midnight. He’d go straight to Darwish’s house, and then Mark would pick him up after dinner and take him to stay with him in Brooklyn. Once he’d settled down at Mark’s, he could think all these things through properly.

Rami, sitting in the train carriage with his fourteen dollars in his pocket, had not always been like this. He had been the head of his household, with two daughters of marriageable age, a well-paid job in a big PR firm and the mortgage paid off on his fancy house in Miami. He led a sober, steady

110 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES

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