Swedish?”
“You are welcome to explain.”
“The man from the mountain!”
“Really?”
“Compare it with my name … Khemiri!!! It is almost the same! The man from Kroumirie!”
Confronted with your father’s naïve euphoria, I was filled with something that, bizarrely enough, can be likened to jalousie. Instead of congratulating him or correcting his invented symbolism, I said:
“So you were hungry for a little vanilla tonight?”
Your father quieted sharply and focused me with pointed eye-blackness.
“Excuse me?” he cried. “What did you pronounce? Did youbesmirch my newfound relationship with Pernilla with an expression like ‘vanilla’? Repeat if you dare!”
“Sorry, sorry! Excuse my excuse!”
Your father lowered his right arm, paused it by his waist, and then erected it to an amicable handshake.
“Forgive me, Kadir. I don’t know … it’s just that … this is something special … I have never experienced something like this before.”
Before we fell asleep your father whispered:
“Kadir … by the way … do you know which country manufactures the notorious Hasselblad cameras?”
“Let me guess …”
“Precisely … Sweden. It was she who informed me of this when I told of my photographic dream.”
Several minutes of silence followed.
“Psst … Kadir … are you sleeping?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you see her sandals?”
“No …”
“They were enormously excellent. Of a light blue color.”
“Mm …”
Silence. Wave whoosh. Cricket song. On the way to sleep. Until:
“Hey … do you know what she said?”
“That she was tired and needed her sleep before the coming workday?”
“Ha ha, very funny. No … she said that in Swedish one expresses the surprising power of passion with a photographic phrase.”
Silence.
“Don’t you want to know which?”
“What?”
“Don’t you want to know which phrase illustrates the flash of love in Swedish?”
“Of course.”
“One says, ‘It just clicked.’ She told me. In Swedish it sounded something like this:
De saya bahra klik
. Isn’t it beautiful? What a sign from fate, right?”
He continued like this all night. While my wakefulness alternated between dozing and sleep, I heard your father rave sporadic words about Pernilla’s comic encounter with some actor on the approach to Tunisia. There were words about her planned nursing education and homages to her political solidarity. He talked about her satirical humor, downy earlobes, the odor of her sun skin, the odor of her lavender soap. Her throat softly patterned by translucent blue veins, her light blue sandals, her jumpy Swedish French pronouncing, her compromise-free fury when he had happened to attract the eye of another woman …
And … of course … his eternally parroted …
“Honestly speaking. Have you ever seen a woman’s smile that can compare to hers? Honestly? Pernilla will be my Ingrid and I will be her Capa.”
I did not response. I had a little trouble understanding how your father could be so fascinated by this twiggy, elongated woman with unglamorous makeup, nonexistent bosom, and obvious snub nose.
That night, then, was their premier rendezvous and the events of the following days I do not know for certain. I worked with overcast spirits at the hotel while the newfound pair of lovers passed all waking hours in company. Sometimes I saw them in some hotel bar, your mother’s agitated voice discussing some political injustice while your father sat as though magnetized by the shine of her eyes. Sometimes I saw their amorous silhouettes wander beach edges at a distance, your father as straight-backed as a major in an attempt as desperate as it was pointless to measure up to your mother’s one hundred and eighty centimeters. At the beach parties they bore each other’s constant nearness; their hands were never separated. And one night I happened to hear how your fathernamed his parents as Faizal and
“You are welcome to explain.”
“The man from the mountain!”
“Really?”
“Compare it with my name … Khemiri!!! It is almost the same! The man from Kroumirie!”
Confronted with your father’s naïve euphoria, I was filled with something that, bizarrely enough, can be likened to jalousie. Instead of congratulating him or correcting his invented symbolism, I said:
“So you were hungry for a little vanilla tonight?”
Your father quieted sharply and focused me with pointed eye-blackness.
“Excuse me?” he cried. “What did you pronounce? Did youbesmirch my newfound relationship with Pernilla with an expression like ‘vanilla’? Repeat if you dare!”
“Sorry, sorry! Excuse my excuse!”
Your father lowered his right arm, paused it by his waist, and then erected it to an amicable handshake.
“Forgive me, Kadir. I don’t know … it’s just that … this is something special … I have never experienced something like this before.”
Before we fell asleep your father whispered:
“Kadir … by the way … do you know which country manufactures the notorious Hasselblad cameras?”
“Let me guess …”
“Precisely … Sweden. It was she who informed me of this when I told of my photographic dream.”
Several minutes of silence followed.
“Psst … Kadir … are you sleeping?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you see her sandals?”
“No …”
“They were enormously excellent. Of a light blue color.”
“Mm …”
Silence. Wave whoosh. Cricket song. On the way to sleep. Until:
“Hey … do you know what she said?”
“That she was tired and needed her sleep before the coming workday?”
“Ha ha, very funny. No … she said that in Swedish one expresses the surprising power of passion with a photographic phrase.”
Silence.
“Don’t you want to know which?”
“What?”
“Don’t you want to know which phrase illustrates the flash of love in Swedish?”
“Of course.”
“One says, ‘It just clicked.’ She told me. In Swedish it sounded something like this:
De saya bahra klik
. Isn’t it beautiful? What a sign from fate, right?”
He continued like this all night. While my wakefulness alternated between dozing and sleep, I heard your father rave sporadic words about Pernilla’s comic encounter with some actor on the approach to Tunisia. There were words about her planned nursing education and homages to her political solidarity. He talked about her satirical humor, downy earlobes, the odor of her sun skin, the odor of her lavender soap. Her throat softly patterned by translucent blue veins, her light blue sandals, her jumpy Swedish French pronouncing, her compromise-free fury when he had happened to attract the eye of another woman …
And … of course … his eternally parroted …
“Honestly speaking. Have you ever seen a woman’s smile that can compare to hers? Honestly? Pernilla will be my Ingrid and I will be her Capa.”
I did not response. I had a little trouble understanding how your father could be so fascinated by this twiggy, elongated woman with unglamorous makeup, nonexistent bosom, and obvious snub nose.
That night, then, was their premier rendezvous and the events of the following days I do not know for certain. I worked with overcast spirits at the hotel while the newfound pair of lovers passed all waking hours in company. Sometimes I saw them in some hotel bar, your mother’s agitated voice discussing some political injustice while your father sat as though magnetized by the shine of her eyes. Sometimes I saw their amorous silhouettes wander beach edges at a distance, your father as straight-backed as a major in an attempt as desperate as it was pointless to measure up to your mother’s one hundred and eighty centimeters. At the beach parties they bore each other’s constant nearness; their hands were never separated. And one night I happened to hear how your fathernamed his parents as Faizal and
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