Yasmina
Amina Susi Ali
Amina Susi Ali is a poet and short fiction writer. Her work has been published in the New Voices Anthology (2016), LatineLit journal, and Random Sample Review. She was the First Prize winner in the 2019 Brooklyn Caribbean Literary Festival Short Story Contest. She holds a certificate in Creative Writing from the New York University School of Professional Studies. Follow her on Instagram at @aminasusi.
I.
People seemed to have certain expectations of you if you were a female with a certain kind of name. Yasmina remembered one time at the home of her former Park Slope neighbor Megan.. Megan liked to cook, and from time to time would invite friends over on the weekend to eat buffet style and socialize. When one of the guests, a half-Syrian woman, learned that Yasmina was also half Syrian, she asked, “Do you do the food?”
“What is this,” later, Yasmina thought to herself, “doing the food?” What was this food and what was she supposed to do with it?
No, she did not carry a bottle of olive oil in her purse. She didn’t even like Middle Eastern food. If one day she were to write a cookbook, the title would most likely be “Ewww…Hummus!”
Now that was all gone: the apartment in Park Slope, the neighbors, the dinner parties, the funky cafes and vintage shops, the fiancé that went with the apartment. Vanished was the arm she held onto to steady herself when they walked in the street, in good weather and bad. People tried to soothe her feelings, saying “Better you know now the kind of shallow man he is.”
All gone. Her life. It all changed the day she ran from the burning towers. There would be the pieces of metal removed from her leg. She would ever walk the same way again. There would be pain, the nightmares. The having to stop working. Now she lived in a different building in a different neighborhood, and instead of lawyers and accountants, her neighbors were cooks, pizza deliverers and single moms. She had one good leg, one bad leg, PTSD, panic attacks and a chronic cough as her company.
The apartment was small but beautiful, and the rent was the same as what was being asked for a room in Park Slope or Williamsburg. A kitchen and bathroom all to herself, and it was on the first floor. The block was busy and full of people and children. There was a supermarket around the corner and a 99 cent store down the block. She could tell mostly poor people lived here. She was one of them now.
Today, she was helping Mrs. Sanchez, her neighbor from across the hall, get to her clinic appointment a few blocks away, while her daughter was at work.
It was cold that December day, in that time suspended between Christmas and New Year’s, when one feels tired but hopeful. Yasmina put on a long dress with a sweater over it, socks, and a pair of high boots. She fixed her eyebrows, powdered her face, and applied lip liner and lip gloss. She bundled up in her white coat, green scarf, and hat, her brown and golden curls hanging over one shoulder. Mrs. Sanchez was already waiting in front of her door, holding onto her cane and smiling. “Hello, m’ija,” she said. The clinic was about five blocks away and they exited the front door into the street. Though the day was sunny, melting snow piles dotted the sidewalk, remnants of the two-day old storm.
Every day was a little different. Her regular schedule was gone, along with her job and engagement. Yasmina was glad to help her neighbor. It gave her something to think about other than her own situation of living in a broken body. It was like being the caretaker of an old, falling-down(dilapidated?) farmhouse in some remote area. She had tried not to think this way. She had tried not to admit this to herself, but this is what she was. Broken. Her body was her job. There was no end in sight. Four years had passed. She had given up looking for the end because there was no end. Because she did not die on that awful day in September, there was no end.
When they got to the clinic, Yasmina helped Mrs. Sanchez to take a seat in the waiting area and then went to the front window to check her in. There was a new woman working there, younger than Yasmina, pale with dark hair. The wedding and engagement rings on her left ring finger were set in either platinum or white gold with tiny diamond stones covering each band. They caught the light in such a way that she could focus on nothing else for a few seconds.
“What pretty rings. They really reflect light well.”
“Oh, thank you,” the woman said hurriedly as she answered an incoming phone call.
Another such ring would probably not sit on her finger any time in the future. She tried to push the thought out of her mind. She took out her compact to check her face and hair in the mirror, making sure her hair was behaving itself on both sides of her part, and that her face powder was even. She thought she could use a facial, maybe even a couple of treatments at that little salon in downtown Brooklyn to erase a couple of the red spots. But no. There was no longer money for that.
***
Dr. Jamal Ali came out to the hall after his prior patient left and called Mrs. Sanchez’ name. Mrs. Sanchez was an elderly woman who took strong medication for her heart and breathing problems. Sometimes, she got dizzy and lightheaded. She did not sleep well at night and oftentimes fell asleep during her many appointments at the clinic.
As Mrs. Sanchez approached, he saw she was holding onto a younger woman. As they came closer, he opened the door wider, smiled and beckoned for them to enter. With the younger woman in front of him, he thought that he was going to need a dose of the asthma inhaler he had just given his last patient. The breath left his chest, and his heart pounded. The woman’s glowing face and golden-brown rivulets of hair shimmered under the light. She was the only warm sight in the fluorescent, white-walled world, her eyes like a summer’s midnight.
The woman smiled back. “Thank you,” she said. Dr. Ali’s breath came back.
He put out his hand. “Hello, I’m Jamal Ali. Nice to meet you. Are you a member of Mrs. Sanchez’ family?”
“No, we’re neighbors. My name is Yasmina, Yasmina Ahmad. Nice to meet you.”
“Yes, same here.” Breathe. “Well, Mrs. Sanchez, how are you today?” Jamal put his focus back on his patient.
“Doctor, I’m going to wait for her in the waiting room until she’s finished with you.”
“Very well, thank you Yasmina.”
He thought he would like to become accustomed to the sound of her slight, lilting voice.
“Now, what is wrong? Why are you here today?”
Dr. Ali did not think much about falling in love. That was something he had put out of his mind a long time ago. That was what he was telling himself as he left the examination room and nearly walked into a wall.
***
Having returned to the building with Mrs. Sanchez, Yasmina thought about what she was going to do for the rest of the day. Because it was still early, she decided to go to Union Square. Perhaps she would walk through the Farmers’ Market or check the bargain books at the Strand or Barnes and Noble. On the subway ride into Manhattan, she got scared whenever the train stalled between stations, but she brought the free newspaper, which had a crossword puzzle, along to distract her, as the therapist had advised. As usual, she was going someplace by herself, as people from her past were not very understanding if she had to suddenly cancel plans. Being alone was okay with her. She had found the cure for loneliness because she just didn’t like people very much anymore.
***
Dr. Ali continued to see patients until a little bit after 6:00 PM as he usually did, then drove home to his condo. He sat on the couch with the day’s mail in his lap, unread. He did not turn on the TV to catch up with the day’s events, as most professional people were doing in that very city at that very moment. He went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of Heineken Zero, opened it, and put on the classical radio station. They were playing a scene from the Russian opera, Eugene Onegin. He sipped the beer and tried to collect his thoughts as the opera played. “Life’s sweetness is known to me! I drink the magic potion of desire!”
II.
That following Saturday at about 11 AM Yasmina looked out the window as she drank her morning tea. She needed to go outside as she had been in the house for a couple of days. The snow had melted but it was still cold outside, giving her pause about any concrete plans for the day. She headed to the library and spent some time reading the current New York Times and New York magazine at one of the tables. After about half an hour she checked the New Fiction and New Non-Fiction shelves, selected a book from each, and joined the checkout line. After she got her books stamped and was heading for the exit, someone called her name.
She turned around to see Mrs. Sanchez’s doctor, Dr. Ali.
She was surprised he remembered her name.
He gestured to her to walk in front of him. He opened the entrance door for her, and they both exited. They both stopped just in front of the entrance.
“Good to see you again, Yasmina. How are you?”
“I’m ok, just trying to avoid dealing with this cold.” She giggled and heard herself. Her face got warm. Since when did she giggle?
“Oh, I know. I dread doing anything or going anywhere.” He was holding onto two novels and a DVD. “I just got out of the clinic and was going to head home. I think I am going to stay indoors until Monday morning.”
“Oh, you work at the clinic on Saturdays too?”
“Not every Saturday, we take turns. This week was my week.”
There was silence, then a gust of wind and a chill. They both shivered.
He spoke.
“Hey, um would you like to grab some coffee or something to eat? I was headed to a little Dominican spot down the block, sometimes I go there to take a break from the halal places…”
“Sure, sounds great. I was starting to feel frozen.”
As they walked outside, Yasmina said, “So this is where you go to take a break from the halal places? Is this then the haram place?”
They both laughed.
They entered the small diner-like cafe. The young guy who worked at the front counter and always flirted with Yasmina whenever she came in was seriously giving Jamal the once over. They found a small table near the window. A Spanish radio station was playing in the background.
“So, Yasmina, where are you from?”
Yasmina did not take offense at this game of ethnic geography, especially from another diverse-appearing person. The doctor was not bad looking, about her age or maybe younger, brown complexion, black eyes and hair. Really white teeth and a nice smile. Probably Indian, Bengali, Pakistani?
“I was born in the USA, but my mom is Puerto Rican, and my dad is Syrian.”
“Wow, how very interesting. I hope you don’t mind my asking, it’s just that most of the people I talk to here have Spanish or Chinese names.”
If she only knew what was going through his mind. Was she able to figure it out? Was there even the possibility? He had heard about women having a sixth sense when it came to certain things, but he was not into that kind of speculation. Until now. He did not know much about women. Well, yes, he did, in a superficial way. He had his run-ins with the Aunties and upwardly mobile types who had tried to get him interested in them as if he were some kind of trophy. He was divorced from one, something he rarely thought about anymore.
Was she was married? Or engaged? She wasn’t wearing any rings.
The fact of the matter was he was not even sure if he knew his own mind. He had been focusing for the past few months on the clinic and his patients, keeping close with a couple of friends and family members and ignoring the bulk of humanity, which to him seemed superficial and materialistic. He did not go into medicine to focus on money and possessions. But for so long he had to ignore his emotions or even the beginning of a feeling, afraid it would unmoor him to go down that path. For too long he had been lost at sea.
The radio was playing a bachata and there were several conversations going on, but not overly loud.
He spoke. “Do you mind me asking, are you Muslim? How do you know about haram and halal?”
“Some of my family is Muslim but I was raised Catholic. But I did go to a mosque for a while, trying to learn Arabic and Quran. That didn’t last very long.”
“Oh, how come?”
“My father stopped me from going back because every week, a different guy would send a woman to ask me if I was married. I was 17!”
“Oh no, stay away from those!” He laughed.
He has a nice smile, she thought.
There were so many things she wanted to know about him. The questions rushed through her mind. She took a breath. “So, um, are you from New York too? “
He made her feel at ease, almost bold, something she had not felt for a long time with a man or anyone for that matter. She could not remember the last time a man showed interest in her. Oh, she caught guys stealing glances of her in public places, but she felt her awkward limp scared them away. At least that is the conclusion she had come to.
“Well, I was born here, too, in Queens. My parents are both Bengali, I was raised Muslim, but I am liberal, and I live in Brooklyn now.”
“Hmmm. I guess I could say I am liberal, too. I go to church to look at the marble and the pretty windows. But I just basically believe in God.”
“I hear you, Yasmina.”
When it came time to order, he asked for coffee, fish, and rice and beans and she asked for water and a chicken soup.
They continued to have polite conversation and then the check arrived, which he insisted on paying.
A moment of awkward silence ensued.
“Look, I know we just met, but would it be ok if we exchanged numbers and got to know each other better?“
Yasmina took a deep breath. Her head and chest started pounding.
“Sure”
They left the restaurant. “Let me walk you to your building,” Jamal said, offering his arm for her to hold on to. “Be careful, it’s still kind of messy out here.”
They said their goodbyes at the front of her building. Yasmina got inside her front door and checked her mail, went into her apartment, sat on the living room couch, took a deep breath and cried for what seemed like a long time.
III.
The following day, on Sunday, she went to the 58th Street pier to find the quiet, to find her thoughts. It was at the last stop on the bus, and she was the last passenger after people got off to go to their jobs and visit their friends and relatives at Lutheran Hospital. This pier did not look as bright and as well-maintained as the piers in other parts of Brooklyn, such as Bay Ridge, but she felt comfort in its unfinished and faded quality. She walked past the garbage and broken sidewalk pieces, welcomed by the sudden sound of waves and seagulls, the city noises fading. They were called gaviotas. That’s what you call seagulls in Spanish. The wind moved the turquoise water. Everything looked as if it was painted with the same blue paintbrush. God’s decorating. Royal blue benches and gates, faded blue buildings on the other shore, the rolling dark blue water. Sometimes she found things people left behind on the benches. A stuffed toy octopus, a Chinese magazine. She loved to find those things. They made her wonder about the people who left them. She wondered if they came here like her, to get away.
In the warmer months, people came to fish. The last time she was there, she saw a man and a woman sitting on the bench with a fishing pole cast into the water. They were listening to cumbia music coming from a small radio. She guessed the pier reminded them of where they were from.
She looked up into the sky and got lost. Blue, blue, blue, endless and boundless.
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