“A Moral Tale”
By Bilal Bikile
Selection from I Don’t Know What’s Wrong with Me
By Bilal Bikile
Selection from I Don’t Know What’s Wrong with Me
- Clear the shoes from the foyer
- Scrub the dishes
- Wipe the counters
- Vacuum the house
- Light some incense: Jasmine scent
My ex, Kat, was in town. I woke up on Saturday morning to the buzzing of our landscapers’ grass-cutter and muffled conversations about the Padres’ loss the night before, when I found she’d left me two missed calls and a voicemail.
I was still in bed as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. The sweat from the summer morning heat clung to me as I kicked my blanket to the floor, hurrying to play the voice recording. I held the speaker to my ear. For the first five seconds, all I heard was her slow, deep breathing. My chest tightened at her recent presence on the line.
“Hi… I’m in town for the weekend… It would be nice to see you,” she said.
That was all.
My parents were in Ensenada. Mom recovered from surgery on her knee after her bike-riding incident, and they wanted to celebrate. It was just me at home, and Luna, our Bengal cat. She sat on the couch arm in a loaf position, watching me dust off the pillows attentively. There were so many potato chip remnants and missing pennies, it was taking me forever to clean.
The house rule growing up was that I could date and introduce girls to my parents, but they just had to be Muslim. That was the requirement, so naturally I didn’t follow the rules. When Kat and I were together, it was like we weren’t, because I never brought her around.
My parents, busy with work, sick grandparents, and sudden funerals hardly ever took trips. With them gone, I was met with creaky house noises of mysterious origin, staleness in the air of my parents’ room, and thankfully, a lot less dirty dishes. It was nice the first few days, but the loudness of my thoughts and ideas of a beautiful woman, me, and an empty house were rampant.
As a kid, I enlisted my childhood friends Jay or Muneeb as alibis whenever I slept over at Kat’s house, often sneaking through the back window in order to avoid her hefty step-father. We’d watch Wes Anderson films on her Macbook, with one earphone each, our temples resting upon one another’s. We’d quietly whisper for hours until movement arose in her parents’ room next door, and then freeze like perpetrators in the night, staring deeply into each other’s vigilant eyes, until the coast had cleared and we continued on, watching, stealing glances.
Seven years was a long time to conceal a relationship. It was only when I got to college I realized that my parents weren’t idiots. It was the same thing every week: smoke weed in the canyon after class, party till my parents stopped ringing me, lay dead-asleep in Kat’s bed all but skin-to-skin, all while thinking my parents hadn’t a clue. They always knew, but they never said anything. It was probably too much to deal with, and they were so busy at the time. It must have been easier to just act like everything was fine.
The sunlight that morning blasted through every window of the house, bouncing off the white tile floors, creating kaleidoscopic shapes on the walls through slits in the curtains. I tidied the living room and breakfast nook. Took out the trash overflowing with eggshells, avocado skins, and coconut water bottles, recycled the empty milk jugs sitting beside it on the floor. I didn’t know where we would end up, so everything had to be spotless. Rooms and mattresses were purely off-limits, because I wasn’t exactly single, and I didn’t exactly like Kat. I loved her.
Vices were easy to stave off as I got older. In contrast to friends I grew up with, who are borderline addicts today, quitting drugs was a breeze for me. Kat was the only vice I didn’t give up, despite how hard I’d tried. She was always a problem, and still is a problem, and would be standing in front of me within a few hours.
It might sound complex, but our love is quite simple.
We’re like a city. Or a house. Some physical, fluid structure. A place in which every object, utensil, bedroom, corner, alleyway, main street, backroad, rooftop, lamppost, is familiar, in every sense of the word. Everything in us and on us, has been observed, noted down, and cataloged by heart. However, just as a city and that structure eventually reaches an age of change and modernization, evolving by way of alterations that enhance or diminish its value, the last time Kat and I saw each other, it felt as if the furniture in our home had been unexpectedly re-arranged.
***
Amber was my new girl. A stunning north African college girl from North County, she played volleyball and studied biology. The perfect amount of nice and innocently sweet, she refused to be alone with me, even in public. We’d spend time together in groups as she wanted to abide by her Muslim parents’ rules.
Things felt very right with her, as if I was doing something good.
When things between me and Amber first began, I mentioned the potential relationship to Kat, which I came to regret. It was one year before, and we were walking on a trail near her house which sits on the canyon where we used to smoke weed in high school. The brush was dry and the trees stripped down by winter, but a pond with floating geese and storks gliding above water was a pleasant sight.
I mentioned that I was talking to someone new who I liked a lot.
Kat paused in the trail and placed a smile on her face. “I’m really happy for you. That’s great news,” she said.
“Thank you,” I told her.
But there were tears in her eyes.
***
Kat arrived as the sun was readying to set. A purple sky painted the hilly landscape with soft lucid strokes that were watercolor-like, the texture and color palette in similitude to that of a painting by Georgia O’Keefe.
Behind the hills, the sun slowly descended, when I was reminded of Eric Rohmer’s film, The Green Ray. Envisioning myself awaiting nightfall on a California beach with my feet in sand, sitting beside Kat, or Amber, I questioned whether the current circumstances would call for that vibrant green flash to appear. Was it based on weather? The type of clouds in the sky? Or was it purely based on faith, only shown to those who needed to see it for some spiritual reason?
I couldn’t remember exactly, but just then the sun fully retracted into the hill, and all I was left with was a yellow tinge and the violet dispersion of cloud and sky.
I sat in the breakfast nook awaiting her arrival while reading Slaughterhouse Five, for the third time. With Arabian cologne in my nostrils, I wore a fine black t-shirt beneath a light cardigan, bermuda shorts, and beige socks. My chain and rings sat underneath Luna who sat before me on the table, scratching her head on the corner of my book. Reading on, I paused at the illustration of a tombstone in grass, with a carving of a baby angel and the inscription which read, “EVERYTHING WAS BEAUTIFUL, AND NOTHING HURT,” when I heard keys and footsteps approaching the yard. I glanced out the open windows to find Kat approaching. She walked with her eyes forward, not noticing me sitting in the corner window.
I sat and waited for her to ring the doorbell. I didn’t want to seem too eager, as if I’d been lying in wait.
She wore a pastel yellow spaghetti strapped tank top with no bra beneath, white pants, and bright loafers. The skin of her small tan breasts peeked out the sides of her shirt, and her long brown hair, which I always loved to caress, was far shorter now. It got shorter every time I saw her. The next time I’d see her, she’d nearly be bald.
I let the doorbell ride out its full note, then approached the door. Opening it slowly, I looked at her face that was ever soft, her exposed arms gleaming, and her figure still slim and desirable. The scent of jasmine wafted towards her from behind me as I stood to the side, holding the door open, allowing her to walk in before me. I noticed the scent of her hair conditioner, that of coconut and something sweet. I then slowly shut the door.
Leaning against the wall, I looked at her standing before me in the foyer.
“Hello,” she said.
“Welcome to my home,” I awkwardly breathed.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”
“I know. It’s crazy.”
“Your parents are where? In Mexico?”
“Vacationing in Ensenada. Mom just got over a really bad injury so they’re celebrating.”
“That’s nice, I’m glad she’s feeling better.”
“And you? How’s mom? Your stepdad?”
“Mom is well. Dealing with a lot but she is a strong lady. Stepdad is good, although I haven’t seen him much as of late. It’s been a weird time.”
“How so?”
“Well… I mean, I didn’t know him well, but I just found out my father, my biological dad, just passed away.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, it's a weird feeling.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that Kat.”
Her head grew heavy so I wrapped my arms around her. It seemed like she didn’t want me to let go.
***
“When I totaled my car in San Francisco, you were the first person I thought of calling.” She said.
“Well why didn’t you?”
“What could you have done? You’re all the way over here.”
“Why’d you want to call me then?”
“I don’t know. I was just so frustrated – in a different city, it was just so crazy and stressful. I had that car since high school. I don’t know.”
“Well I wish you did call.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“But you called last night.”
“That’s different.”
“Well I wish you did. I would’ve helped somehow.”
“How would you?”
“I don’t know, but I would’ve.”
***
Jean Luc Godard’s Pierrot Le Fou played on the projector screen in the living room. I began watching it the night before, having enjoyed Masculin Feminin but it didn’t keep me as engaged so I paused it and fell asleep. Kat sat at the opposite end of the couch with Luna on the floor beside her. Luna closed her eyes as Kat scratched behind her ears with her slender fingers. Her nails painted yellow matched her tank top.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“I’m okay, already ate.”
“How about some tea? I could use a cup.”
“Sure, something herbal?”
“Absolutely, with honey?”
“Ooh, yes, please.”
I put the steel kettle on the stove, and grabbed brown clay mugs from the cupboard. Kat is in my living room, I thought. Amber trusts me to be patient. I’m not 17 anymore. I can’t screw things up.
At least that’s what my mind was telling me.
French dialogue from the film played loudly. I could hear it in the kitchen. I couldn’t understand anything but a few words I’d learned from other French films, although I listened attentively, watching the kettle silently push smoke from its mouth. Dousing chamomile tea bags into the cups of hot water, I took organic honey my father kept, and brought it with me to the living room coffee table.
“What’s this movie about? I haven’t figured it out yet.” I asked her.
“It seems this guy is tired of his life so he ran away on an adventure. That pretty woman isn’t his wife, I don’t think. It must be his mistress of some sort.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, they’re too much in love,” She said.
***
Ferdinand drives down the street with Marianne in his red Mercedes. She lays on his shoulder, kisses him, and looks at him looking forth at the road.
She will never fall in love again, she says. “It is a disgusting habit.”
She massages his head with her left hand as they drive through a sandy one way street towards the open ocean.
Regarde, la mer, les vagues, le ciel.
Ah, la vie, et peut-être triste, mais elle est toujours belle.
Look at the sea, the waves, the sky.
Life may be sad, but it's always beautiful.
***
I brought you a gift, Kat said.
Touched by the gesture, I smiled at her. “Did you, really?”
“Yup.” She smiled. “I hope you’ll like it. I got it during my life painting course in Italy last Fall.”
Lifting her bag from where Luna sat, she reached in to remove a small brown paper bag and handed it to me. There was a purple stamp of the letter S encircled by an intricate ouroboros on the front of it. I imagined it came from a tourist gift shop in an Italian village somewhere, as it did not give an impression of city origin, and still carried a foreign scent.
I opened the bag to pull out a plastic wrapped rectangular frame, and upon removing the packaging, discovered a small printed image of George Méliès’ famous still frame of his moon. The spaceship bulged out the right eye of its face. And on the back, was a handwritten note.
“To You.
With love,
K.”
“How do I know this gift was for me,” I said, displaying the note to her.
“Stop it.” She smiled. “Do you like it?”
“I love it Kat, thank you.”
I got up and sat beside her to put my arm around her, and kissed her forehead.
She laid her head on my shoulder, and her thighs shifted onto mine, as she maneuvered to find comfort. I resumed the film with my left hand, while I watched her feet in pink socks playing with Luna’s dancing tail.
The warmth of her body was relieving, as if whatever anxiety I had regarding her arrival had completely lifted from me.
My hand started gliding up and down her bare shoulders, when I noticed my grip tightening, bringing her closer into me. I could feel her breathing as she looked up at my face. And she didn’t stop looking. I kissed her softly, eyes closed, and with an overwhelming sense of peace filling the room, until I separated my lips from hers.
My phone was vibrating in my pocket so I removed it to find Amber calling me. Kat saw her caller ID on my phone, and removed herself from me as if she wanted no part in my criminal presence. I let the phone ring.
“You know I’m in love with you, right?”
“Okay.”
“So I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
“This.”
“But you kissed me?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t we just be friends, and not do anything sexual?”
I look towards the projector screen, still playing. Ferdinand and Marianne rest upon a sundered piece of pier in the ocean. The Ford convertible they’d stolen for a joyride, now submerged in the ocean beneath their feet.
He recites writings from his notebook with a tropical parrot sitting atop his knee. She pets the bird, listening to his ramblings, when he stops, and faces her.
“Why do you look so sad?” He says.
“Do you remember when I’d sneak into your house, on the weekends? That Wes Anderson film we used to watch over and over?
“I don’t know, we watched so many.” She said, annoyed.
“Hotel Chevalier.”
“Yes. What about it?”
“You remember what he said to her?”
“You’re talking about a movie.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“It's just a movie.”
“And movies are real, Kat.”
She grew silent. Tears began to flow, from her earthy brown eyes, pouring like raindrops off the edge of a canopy.
***
She lays atop of him as they kiss on the hotel bed, when a thought arises in her, and she lifts her face from his. “Whatever happens in the end, I don’t want to lose you as my friend.”
He stares into her face. Firm, and unapologetic.
“I promise, I will never be your friend. No matter what, ever.”
***
“I just don’t understand. I’ve never understood why,” she said.
“Imagine a city.” I told her. A city so beautiful, nuanced, and alive. A city that had the good, the bad, and the ugly, but still, you loved every bit of it. It gave you safety when you needed it, danger when you wanted a rush, and sadness when the sky was gloomy and your soul needed to weep. The city was in you, and one with you, for as long as you could remember. But then, one day, you left the city. You stepped away from the place which you loved and knew so well into a new one. For years, you spent time learning the intricacies and habits and behaviors of that city, what makes its people and places good or bad. And you were away from your beloved city for some time, then after a period, you came back.
That city you loved, and knew so well, while you were gone, was still a growing and changing place, even in your absence. It might look the same in some ways, or feel the same in certain places, but the fabric of it will be so changed by time, you will not be able to completely adjust without feeling like you’d missed something. Sometimes, that something you missed could be so important, so instrumental to its current state, that you could never quite capture what it is or what it meant, to the people who stayed there and went through it.
I think that’s all that’s happened here, Kat. We’re not the same city anymore.”
We laid on the couch, her body folded and cradled inside of mine. Her tears filled a pool in the fold of my arm. I held her tightly into the night, as we fell asleep, holding one another closely.
***
I wake up to gunfire.
Urgently, I lift my buried face from what was left of Kat’s luscious hair, as she is comfortably asleep, to find the origin of the ruckus – the film still running.
Marianne is shot.
Blood stains her striped spaghetti strap tank top as her supple enfeebled body carried desperately by Ferdinand lay in a lounge chair on the balcony of a villa in the French countryside.
He makes a phone call. He picks her back up. He lies her down on a mattress.
“You brought this upon yourself,” he says.
Deep red skirt. White and blue stripes. She looks like the flag.
“Please forgive me, Pierrot.”
“My name is Ferdinand,” he says. “It’s too late.”