Page 22 of Under the Arabian Sky

“That’s because you likened yourself to the Mona Lisa. How old are you there?”

He shrugged. “Twenty-one. I’d just graduated from veterinary school.”

“You look so different without a beard. Still handsome, but to be honest I think you’ve grown into your looks.”

As soon as the words left my mouth I gulped.

What was I thinking?

Shit, this was the Middle East, for fuck’s sake!

Homosexuality was clearly outlawed, everyone knew that, yet here I was, a man complimenting another man on his looks in a way that was more than just—

“Empirically speaking, of course,” I said in a panic. “I wasn’t hitting on you just then. Anyone can see, quite objectively, that you were good-looking then… and now. But not in a sexual way… at all… ugh… fuck… this is not going well. Oh shit, I just swore in your family home, that’s probably not allowed either. Oh fuck, I just did it again. Why are you laughing?”

Tariq was, indeed, doing his best to hold his hysteria back while I did my best to stop my face from burning up with embarrassment. “Stop talking. My mother’s coming.”

I shut my mouth.

Tariq’s mother entered the room carrying a tray holding a tall ornately decorated coffee pot and three ceramic cups. “Why are you two not sitting already?”

Tariq smirked. “Arthur was just admiring my old photo.”

Tariq’s mother set the tray down on the coffee table between the sofas and proudly commented, “Handsome, wasn’t he?”

Tariq couldn’t contain a splutter of laughter.

His mother looked at him suspiciously. “What’s so funny, Tariq? Why are you laughing?”

“My question exactly,” I said, glaring at Tariq.

“He thinks he’s a comedian, you know. He’s one of the best vets in the country and yet he still jokes around like he’s a funnyman. He’s the complete opposite of his father… praise Allah. Now both of you, come… sit.” She patted one of the sofas and as Tariq and I sat down she turned back to the tray and began pouring coffee.

“That’s a beautiful coffee pot,” I remarked, trying my utmost to be a gracious guest.

“Here we don’t call them pots,” Tariq’s mother informed me politely. “Pots are for cooking. This is called adallah. So, tell me Arthur, what brings you to our humble home? And how do you know our son? And what on earth did you bump your head on?” She was gesturing to the gauze taped to my temple.

“Well, there was an accident…”

“Oh my!”

Tariq quickly jumped in to calm his mother. “Don’t panic. Everyone’s fine. Arthur and I had a near-collision in the desert. Arthur’s car rolled. I pulled him out and stitched him up and here we are.”

“Goodness. Arthur, are you alright?” Tariq’s mother handed me a cup of coffee.

“Thank you. And yes, I’m fine. The doctor here tells me I’ll live.” I looked at my coffee. It was watery and black and only half-filled. “Do you mind if I ask for more coffee? I’m feeling the withdrawals after our near-collision.”

Tariq quickly shook his head. “In our culture it’s rude to pour someone a full cup. If you want more, you can have more after you finish that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tariq’s mother said, handing Tariq a cup and pouring one for herself before settling on the sofa opposite us. “You won me over when you wished meAs-salamu ‘alaykum. We don’t expect anyone from the west to understand our ways. Finish that first, and when you want more, you let me know. I hope you like it. I make it with the finest Arabic beans, a dash of cardamom and the very best saffron money can buy.”

“Mymoney,” came a voice from the entrance to the living room. Tariq’s father had returned. “And where’s my cup? Are you already excluding me from the welcoming party?”

“Nobody is excluding you, you needy man,” said Tariq’s mother. “And it’s not your money at all. Did you already forget Sharia law between a man and his wife? My money is my money… andyourmoney is my money. Need I remind you that the wife gets it all? Or has your dementia set in again?”

Tariq’s father crossed his arms and gave a loud humph! “Well can I at least get a coffee?”

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