Joseph
is a sweetheart. Arrives late, but he seems early. Takes the seat opposite me,
and then, after a moment he says, “I don’t like this chair, hurts my
back,” takes a look around and then, “let’s move over there.”
“Sure,
Joseph” I say.
There
is a wall behind him. He doesn’t notice it till I make him look back.
Just a glance, and he says: "Yes, a beautiful wall,"
I wonder if he can actually take it in. A wall.
Beautiful.
I
tell him what I have done; he makes no comments. That’s what I need. No
comments. Keeps looking at me casually.
Ohh, I tell him that afterwards I put it in
the fridge.
When
the waiter comes, he orders. No, I order. And he says he’d like some beer.
“So,
why not wine?” I ask.
Shouldn’t
we drink to the occasion? I wonder. Maybe it is a custom here to drink beer
instead. That is why I asked.
The
waiter says: "Let him alone. What’re you trying to do, lady, upset him?
Are you guys friends, or something?"
"Sure,"
says Joseph, "We are. She is a bit curious. That’s all. I think we
start with the beer,"
I say: “I think I’ll start with a cup of coffee.”
So the waiter leaves. I like him.
It
is long, long after, in the late hours of the night when he finally asks:
“So, why did you put it in the fridge, to preserve it? Does that mean you
wish to hold on to it?”
Damn it Joseph, you were doing so perfectly well. Don’t ruin it now.
Now
I am thinking that he has got eyes like candies, and his hair, not yellow not
gold and not, no, it is the color of honey. He seems tired.
“Are
you tiered, Joseph?”
His
eyes are blue, or green candies. Green candies have
a stinging taste. So I rather think they are blue, or even if green, taste
juicy-sweet. Whenever I touch him his skin becomes withered.
Joseph,
Joseph, I didn’t want to hold on to it. It just felt so natural to drop it
in the fridge, believe me. Believe me?
Men
are always hungry unless they hate you. He doesn’t hate me. I am a friend.
He just doesn’t want to order food, so he asks for beer, corona, the brand I
love, and turns towards me, “Are you hungry?”
I
Am Hungry.
To
the waiter, who is young, and hip, and very friendly, and cheerful, not rude,
not rude, but friendly, ohhh, I say: “I like to
have chicken, you know, chicken, fried, not cooked.
And fries. Please..”
Then
I faint.
Does
any body know I haven’t eaten for weeks?
That is right, I haven’t. But I’ve smoked.
Don’t
laugh, Joseph. He was a good guy, a beautiful guy. He was born a girl, then
suddenly, without even telling me, yes, suddenly, (how shocked I could be, as
his mother,) turned into a boy and left. Left me.
Not even that. He left me but stayed close enough for me to see him dropped on
the couch, eat, watch things, sleep, eat, dropped
on the couch. And not even a glimpse towards me. I knew he was gone, but he
was right there, killing me.
Is
that what being rejected feels like?
It
is as if you
are standing, on a spot, and somebody, who has been standing in you, with you,
on that same spot till then, looks away, and walks away.
But
you go on standing where you were, covering your eyes from the stinging sun,
and look straight down on your tows. I stopped.
Then
I walked to the couch, took him piece by piece into a bag, and put the bag in
the fridge.
He
doesn’t comment. I like his ways of responding to me. Thank
you Joseph.
Joseph
doesn’t like chicken; he orders pasta. After the waiter leaves, he leans
towards me, and whispers: “We never, never eat chicken.
People here never mention chicken as food, don’t mind the guy, but, - now
his finger is up in the air- I might be able to grab some. Next time you come
over we’ll make it together”, and like little boys, punches the air: Boom boounchszz
buoonch kue kue.
I
have to go home now.
Before
I go I show him the wall behind him, taken over by Ivies green and alive with
leaves breathing, breathing, breathing a grand
fragrance into the night.
He
says, “Beautiful, it’s beautiful, the wall,” then, “yes, I was saying
that next time you come over, we will make your dish together..”
Then,
he closes his eyes in the kindest of smiles.
I
leave.
It
is a 47-minute-ride till RT, and then there is 10 more minutes to Mc Cowan
station. My car is parked there in the parking lot. 22 minutes drive home. I
start my letter to Joseph in the train to
Dear Joseph
It was very nice of you to come, honestly. I didn’t think you could make it in that rain, but you did, and I am very happy. I will write more and so and so…. But why not telling him… because he doesn’t want to know.. but he might.. and so and son.
My best wishes
Saghi
Still
thinking of my son? I’m not.
When
I get home.. my son is..
in the fridge. I know. And he wouldn’t talk to
me. One of his hands is missing. How do I know? I know things. I know things.
Is
that why nobody likes me? Because I know things?
No, They don’t like me because I don’t know so
many things so essential to life in such a disciplined-- society. This
pregnancy, for example, I know nothing about it, and yet I am always pregnant.
It makes people furious with me. Joseph too was furious even though he
didn’t say it directly, I noticed his irritation when I got up and my
stomach, big, stood up over the table. He looked on till I walked down the
patio and to the washrooms.
It
is ok to be pregnant. I always get pregnant but then, after a while I burst. A
baby slips out, and I walk with my flat tummy again, prancing around, looking
proud and beautiful. But, god, the horror, the horror when
I am pregnant. Dear Joseph, the problem is not with the pregnancy, it
is, for me, the disarray of time-cycle when I am pregnant- I give birth, then
my stomach bulges out and becomes huge, then I feel
the labor pain and the tearing of the flesh. After all this, the
morning-sickness starts and I hate every smell and very
taste
and every other things and rush to washrooms to throw up.
Oh how I puke, and the baby is out there growing up.
I
can’t tell you more, just that this crazy disarray of time, always..
best
wishes
Saghi
What
if he can’t find chicken? He seemed so sure. It is not that important. I can
do without chicken, after all, I like to see him anyway, whatever
we eat. But, I just wonder how he can get some chickens? He said he’ll steal
one. Reminded me of gypsies, with a chicken or two popping out from under
their many skirts after each outing- which happens a couple of times a day-
but those gypsies are women; used to the job. Joseph is a guy, thin, wears
casual denim pants and tight-fitting wind-breaker.
I
wonder, if it is so bad mentioning chicken in
relations to food, does that mean chicken is sacred, or they believe that
chicken is not clean to be eaten, just the way we don’t eat frogs.
I
don’t know. I’ll find out next week. Might even call and ask him tomorrow.
After work. He said he’ll be home around 10 at
night.
“Hi,
Joseph? This is Saghi.
Yes,”
“Not
home? Wrong number? Ok .Sorry.”
“Hi,
is this Joseph? No no, I’ve dialed 416 588 6632,
yeah? And no Joseph lives there, you sure? No no,
no problem. Yes. Sorry.”
“Hi,
is that Joseph? No?”
I
have come a long way and I am tired. And so very pregnant.
Fuck him with his wrong number. The guy is sick. Gives me
a wrong number. But last time it wasn’t wrong. We talked for a good
hour. No, last time he called me. Fuck him. I don’t even want chicken. I
don’t like eating chicken. It was just that I thought ordering chicken is --
good. I don’t like seafood, or fish, and beefy meals are such heavy meals in
restaurants, so I ordered chicken and they don’t even mention chicken,
because, it is sacred or whatever, and I never knew. Never knew.
And
he said: “Don’t mind the waiter, he didn’t mean to be rude, just doing
his job”. And how the hell he wanted to get hold of some chickens anyway, I
wonder. A tiny guy like him. Sure he is playful,
but he is very polite too, not the vulgar type.
Ahh, we will never find out then, the
number was wrong.
Joseph, Joseph, please call. Or write. Or email me. Send a postcard.
No,
come see me. No, I’ll come see you. I don’t want you see me here.
You know, I am not me in my home. I am so ugly, so ugly, like
butter
sat on the counter for some
time. And he is sitting here on the couch,
rigid like a cucumber, or what do they say?
Cucumber
is more like it. I want so badly to break him in half and bite on him. And
throw the butt away. Butt is the bitter part. You never eat the butt of a
cucumber. The pulp is juicy though. He is staring at the upper side of my left
cheek. That. If you look any longer I will cry.
If
you look any longer I will cry.
If
you look any longer I will cry.
If
you look any longer I will cry.
Yes.
That.
Look
at me.
Drained,
I am. Tiered? Standing not moving. Doesn’t
walk away. No she is not. No she is not tiered. Bent like that she
looks like a sack of flour. Half full. Why. Don’t look at me.
Before
I go to my room I say: “Why are you still up, honey? It’s past bedtime.”
“Haven’t
you heard, dear? The princess of the golden-belts is riding on her white horse
of the golden-hoofs into town. She shall linger in front of our path for me.
She shall sweep me off of my feet, and up on her horse. We will ride through
the hills to her castle. You see, she is going to order the moon and the stars
for me. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? She shall make me DaGreadest.
Do you hear? The humping of the hoofs! But she does not know which of these
wretched houses I live in. I’ll wait outside. Nightnight
honey. Don’t wait up.
Joseph,
do you have a sharp knife? We kill’er.
By the herb garden. We’ll let the blood run into
the garden. Anyway, before that, we’ll have her take a drop of water. That
is how we do it back home. I’ll do it. You don’t have to watch. Go inside
and boil water in two pots. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Go. Go
inside. I tell you later how we do it. Just kidding.
But I’ll tell you how we cook it. You see, spices are the trick but
different spices, no curry.
Ok,
first empty the gut. Run the whole chicken under cold water. Rinse it - leave
the gut aside for another dish. Season the chicken inside and out. Put it in
the pot. Water should cover the body a fingertip high. See how she looks lying
limp under water.
Now
add a pinch of saffron
½
teaspoon pepper
1
teaspoon salt
1
small can tomato paste
Whack
it together and cover the top. Let it boil for one hour.
I
am going to kill her now. Go inside if you don’t want to watch. Don’t
forget, two pots of boiling water.
Ok,
ok, don’t fret. I kill her in the bath-tub. The Neighbors, sure, I know,
might notice. And we don’t want them see what we are up to. Honestly, I
don’t even want you to see what I, I might be, doing. If only you would let
me tell you how it feels, to grab the thing and hold it between my knees,
while I’m standing outside the tub, bent inside, trying to bend inside, into
the tub. Her neck stretches peacefully in my hand. Her eyes are closed. Her
claws stiff, frozen in one long silent stretch. Her wings cover her quivering
chest.
I
pat her and sooth her and touch around the bill, let her neck rest on my palm.
I rub the knife an inch below the head, on the neck, and wait for the splash.
Why
am I lying? She is frantic. I can’t hold her still. Her neck wags like
snakes. I feel her eyes open, and close in my palm. Wings.
Her wings. Claps open shut. I have no way, no way
other then just rub the knife on her throat. Get rid of the beak. Cut the beak
first, cut the throat, rub it again, rub it again.
I wait for the splash.
Joseph,
there is no blood, how come? What did she do to all her blood? Nothing is
coming out. Did I kill her so badly? Don’t you think he was delirious? That
night? They don’t ride on horses nowadays. They come in Limo’s. I
should’ve told him. But she will order the moon, don’t you think? I say
she’ll get him a glossy black crescent hanging of a Russian hammered-gold
chain. The tension between the two will make it a gorgeous necklace. Would she
really? I wonder. Yes. I wonder.
Joseph,
I wonder if we should check on the chicken now.
Now,
you taste the stock. Sometimes it needs a bit more spice, dab on her with a
fork to see if she is doing all right. The meet should fall off the bones if
she is well done, but we don’t want her to overcook and get rubbery. You
must try it barbecued. I can’t believe you guys are so shy about these
matters. Get a bird, nip the head and throw it on the grill. Honestly,
respecting chickens to the point of not eating them,
is, well, I don’t know.
Joseph
is watching.
Joseph
doesn’t want to look at the back yard.
He
must be mad he must be mad.
Opens
another corona and walks over to the little table. Sits
down. Look at his shoulders! Good shape but bent. It is bent because he
is bending over his corona, spinning the bottle slowly, and now he looks up at
me. I lit a cigarette and get a sip of his beer. He is not mad,
he pats the back of my hand and pats the side of my thighs. He unites his
fingers into a tight bunch and slide them gently up
inside me. Rubs on the root of my breast and pinches the heart behind it and
then, slips out to get another sip.
Another
sip.
He
has a sweet little backyard. We will wash all the blood and the mess and
things, before I leave. Good heavens, look, the push-feathers are all over the
plants.
I
better go now.
Look Joseph, it’s boiling. Now take the lid off and let it simmer slowly. Low heat for half hour. Or so. Half hour should be enough. Hot. I’m bobbling bobbling you should’ve sautéed me first before letting me in this pot would’ve tasted better now my skin looks mushy not crisp you should’ve gotten rid of the skin if you wanted to boil me but that’s ok believe me I taste goodgood add more tomato not paste tomato fresh tomatoes boost the taste I’m alright the meat is falling off my bones I’ll melt in the mouth I taste goood press the spoon The orangey grease oozes up. Stringy breast pulls back. This. The glens of my drumsticks. You can chew on it. Tastes magnificent. I have two. Both are popped up. Meaning that I am well done. And it is hot. I hate it each time. Each time. Lying here. And the boiling up. Boiling up. Bubble Bubble Boiling up. Thanks. I wouldn’t really want you to get into so much trouble for a chicken meal. Honestly, we could do with some cold cuts and a six pack. I’d enjoy every bit of it just the same. It is ready Joseph jaun.
It
was a long walk to the subway.
I
was, actually, thinking about it, but I don’t think it is any
pleasant,
well, cooked like this, I’m sticky. If I touched you,
if
you touched me, I don’t know, who wants bits of chicken
smeared
all over their body, but then, isn’t that kind of
fetish?
I should’ve asked. Call me.
best
wishes
Saghi
Dear
Joseph
I thought you might wanna know. I got home
fine. She had
shown up. Well, she must have, because there
is a full
moon
in the house. I expected a necklace or something like that, with a
little moon hanging on it, but this is a
full moon, a huge one, and he
is
there, still, sitting in the moonlight. It is beautiful, sure, the problem
is that with a moon in our house it is
always night in here.
Not that I have a problem with a gleaming moon, but then,
I have to keep the lights on all day, and you know what,
I’ve ended up paying ridiculous hydro bills. I’m cutting down on
everything else. I’ve tried to do with no
lights but then I can’t see to read and write.
Believe me Joseph, I am not whining, but it is spooky.
Sometimes I yearn a delicious hot sunny day. At this point
don’t even mind skin cancer. Or those
brown blemishes on
my shoulder
best
wishes
Saghi
Yes, might be kind of a fetish, don’t you think? Imagine, we are in your kitchen, like last time, and instead of walking home like that, cooked as I was, you take me out of the pot and into that big green platter. Before you start, you start with your corona, and lit a cigarette, and by then I am kind of cooled down, you gently put your hands, both of them, under me so not to spill, and walk to the couch. You bend over, and kiss me, press your lips a bit, to push further, and move them in kind of the same spot, let bits of me get into your mouth, for the flavor, move up down the shoulder down the breast. You can stick your dick anywhere you want, it’ll just sink in, anywhere at all, I’m well done, you don’t have to look for a hole. I want to put my legs around you but I can’t, naturally, and you don’t mind ‘cause you -and I have to admit this- you’re very, very understanding, no, I swear, I know you well, you are very understanding, you know that’s so rare among guys, when it’s over you can even lick yourself all over, and then, you can get up, why not, and go to the shower. Rub your hands all over your body to wash the sticky yummy bits under this running cool water. It is fun to wash it off. You need soap. No? But people have so different tastes. I wonder.
It
was a long walk to the subway. I could, actually I was, thinking
about it, but I don’t think it is any pleasant, well, cooked like this, I am
sticky. Why, sure, I will contact you. I will contact every body, anyway,
don’t you think?
