The World According to Abufares of Tartous

The Booth

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Sat, 22 Oct 2016 19:18:00 +0000

He closed the apartment door and walked down the corridor. While he waited for the elevator, he put his hat on and buttoned his jacket. Inside the car, a man and a woman smiled sheepishly at him. The fluorescent lights flickered. The flagrant smell of sex, tangled with cologne and perfume, clung to the paneled walls. On the ground floor, they exited first and he followed. Whatever they had going it wasn’t enough to last. He shrugged and stepped outside the building.

The dull light of dawn hung like a netting above the city. He headed west, toward Fieldston, carrying a brown paper bag and limping slightly in his usual manner. A flock of pigeons noisily took to the air a second after he trespassed on their sidewalk. They left sticky feathers and diarrheic droppings behind. At a street corner, he picked the morning paper from a kiosk and a pack of sugar-free gum. His mouth tasted of stale coffee grounds. He cleared his throat and spat.

Twenty minutes later, he entered the subway ticket booth. He exchanged a perfunctory greeting with the man he replaced. Five days a week, he spent forty minutes going to and fro, plus a quarter hour at the grocery store outside either apartment or booth.

Commuters with an attitude whizzed by. They hurried to their shops, offices and meeting rooms. He ranked them by the clothes they wore and pictured most in desolate, poorly lit cubicles. Some of them sat back and stretched their legs on mahogany desks in refined offices with large windows offering expansive views of the cityscape. All of them though, everyone, just like him, had nothing better to do but to go back and forth.

At noon, he pulled his lunch and a thermos out of the paper bag. He absentmindedly munched on a tuna sandwich. The lettuce was soggy and tasteless. He sipped the hot coffee. It was infused with a metallic tang that he had stopped to notice. Human traffic dropped from the thousands to the hundreds. The stress associated with his workload, that of accepting exact cash and dispensing tickets, went down a notch. He unfolded the paper and read, not paying much attention to the wars ravaging countries in other parts of the world. It certainly wasn’t his fault. Nor was police brutality, city-council corruption or vile presidential candidates. Once, some years ago, he read that anyone who was worthy of becoming president won’t run for the office. It stuck with him and made up the core of his political belief. That was the reason he won’t even vote. He shook his head.

Shortly before rush hour, when the second wave of humans flooded the subway, he punched his card and unlatched the booth’s door. A turbaned man nodded affably and took his place behind the thick glass. On his way up the stairway to street level, a discarded gum stuck to the back of his shoe. He cussed under his breath and limped east.

The Wedding

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Sun, 17 Jul 2016 15:18:00 +0000

Andrea and Rami led me to the kitchen and asked me to officiate their wedding. That was over a year ago at my sister’s house in Porter Ranch. Just like that!
"You are the one we both unhesitatingly chose. You’re not just an uncle to us, you’re a very close friend." They said.
I mulled it over, did the math (which I’m terrible at) and reached the conclusion that it was doable. Difficult but doable. I could make it to Los Angeles for their big day on July 16th, 2016.
“I’d be honored!” I exclaimed.
So it came about that I got myself ordained as a minister and showed up sober and all dressed up in a suit and tie right on time on a beautiful beach in Malibu.
It was a simple ceremony of charming elegance. In the shade of an old tree, flanked on both sides by handsome groomsmen and gorgeous bridesmaids, the three of us stood. Friends and family sat on lawn chairs. The ocean waves lapped softly. A light breeze carried the notes of a guitar. The player and I momentarily exchanged glances. It was time to start.

Welcome Everybody

On March 13th 2013, Andrea and Rami stumbled into each other’s life on Tinder. Two days later, on a Friday, and after a barrage of text messages, they went out on their first date.

Despite the mellowing effect of drinking two glasses of wine earlier, Andrea was still nervous. Rami, his heart racing, was anxious that the girl he had promised to literally pick up, turns out heavier than he had imagined her to be.

A few heartbeats after they both emerged from the shadows of the unknown, however, her worries melted in his Mediterranean blue eyes, while he was blown away by the lightness of her grace.

During dinner and in the ensuing time since, they fell in love over and over again, the profound kind of love, the one that draws its nourishment from the innermost folds of the soul and transcends physical attraction and the compulsiveness of youth.

"We complement one another, each with our own individuality, yet with just enough overlap to make it a seamless fit." Rami told me.

"He is not a person that you meet everyday. He is the kind of special that every woman dreams about but can never find. Well, I guess I am definitely the lucky one, because I found him." Andrea said.

The way Rami looks at Andrea conjures an image of a wanderer in a vast desert. He drinks her with his eyes as if his very survival depends on it. She, in return, takes his face in as if to etch his features on the wall of her memory, to connect the dots with the tips of her fingers like Braille in the darkness of his absence.

Every time I see them, every time, my mind invariably drifts to “Letters to Véra”, by Vladimir Nabokov, and when they asked me to officiate their wedding, I was more than honored and I knew exactly what I was going to read on this enchanting evening.

Vladimir began writing to Véra, his wife of over half a century, the day after they met in 1923 and continued to do so until his final hours. I dug up a copy of the Letters and found the passages I was looking for. It’s Andrea’s and Rami’s primal and instinctive need for each other that is so well conveyed in these words. I’m very pleased to share them with all of you.
---
Yes, I need you, my fairy-tale. Because you are the only person I can talk with: about the shade of a cloud, about the song of a thought — and about how, when I went out to work today and looked a tall sunflower in the face, it smiled at me with all of its seeds.
How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours — with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it — and can’t recall a single trifle I’ve lived through without regret — so sharp! — that we haven’t lived through it together — whether it’s the most, the most personal, intransmissible — or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road — you see what I mean, my happiness?
I simply want to tell you that somehow I can’t imagine life without you…
I love you, I want you, I need you unbearably…
Your eyes — which shine so wonder-struck when, with your head thrown back, you tell something funny — your eyes, your voice, lips, your shoulders — so light, sunny…
You came into my life — not as one comes to visit … but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your steps.
---

Friends and family of Andrea and Rami,

These two beautiful people have entrusted me with joining them in marriage. To them I say, hold on to your precious love, no matter what, forever or until the end of time, whichever comes last.

After Andrea and Rami exchanged vows and brought tears to all eyes, I continued...

Rami, is Andrea the one that you will dedicate your entire life to, to be with lovingly and faithfully, through difficulty and success, day in and day out, as her rock, her shoulder to lean on, her best friend, her biggest fan and inspiration, her protector and her partner, on this day and forever?
I DO!!!

Andrea, is Rami the one you envision yourself spending the rest of your life with, in joy and in laughter, through the effortless times and the difficult ones, cheerfully and supportively, with no limit to the love you possess for him, as his best friend, his life partner and inspiration, today, tomorrow and for as long as you live?
YES!!!

By the power of love, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Rami, you may kiss Andrea now and everyday thereafter.

The Art of Shaving

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 08 Jul 2016 04:18:00 +0000

Whether a man is a rapacious glutton or a Sufi hermit, he is essentially a slave to his desires. He overindulges in carnal delights on one hand or in abstinence on the other to satiate his physiological drives or his spiritual compulsions. Being but moderate in my pursuit of revelry and a devout secular humanist, I heed idiosyncratic thrills with pious abundance. Come evening, for instance, I smoke one roll of tobacco that costs next to nothing to buy but days and weeks to acquire and cure. I light it with reverence and draw its smoke between sips of amber Scotch, which I can’t, for the life of me, imbibe unless poured in a specific glass that I call Véra. Such is the case with shaving. For ten minutes every other morning, I have elevated the elimination of my facial hair, save for my mustache, to a hedonistic feast of self indulgence.

I like growing a beard. In fact, I wore one for years. Had it not been for the indescribable joy shaving brings me I would’ve kept my beard forever. Perhaps my mustache is my way of rebelling against ephemeral fashion.

I feel sorry for the poor sods who hate shaving but have to. I would hate it too if I had to use disposable razors and gas-propelled foam out of canisters. Ewww... No way! I have turned a dreaded chore into a zen moment of aloof extravagance.

I’ve used every conceivable blade on my face, disposable Bic shavers, electric, wet, dry, three in a row, and five in a row, to name but a few. I shaved in the shower and out in the field. Gosh, I shaved whilst floating in a river once, but that’s another story. After close to 6,000 shaves by my count, I couldn’t find anything that comes close to using an old Merkur Classic razor, a boar hair brush, a stainless-steel bowl and a tube of Hamol shaving cream. Sure, many a shaving enthusiast might dismiss my choice of boar hair for a brush instead of a badger’s as that of a boor. I look at it differently, however. I strive to possess the highest quality tools I can afford. I can conveniently buy the best boar brush in the world but only a mediocre pure badger’s. The same is true about my possession of a German Merkur razor instead of a Japanese Feather. I do use Feather Doubled-Edged razor blades almost exclusively, though. The almost is dictated by the fact that I’m not allowed to pack double-edged blades in a carry-on when I choose to fly light.

Running a blade across one’s face is a most intimate affair for a man. I seek solitude, like a Sufi mystic, and pamper myself to unabashed excess, like a lascivious rogue, or gentleman, depending on the observer. I have to yet fulfill my ultimate shaving fantasy, though, a mysterious woman giving me a close shave with a straight razor on the morning after.

The Voice

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 17 Jun 2016 18:36:00 +0000

The cellphone Stephanie bought me rang, breaking the silence into tiny shards. It must be her, checking up on me.

Had I eaten? Was I warm enough? Had I heard from social services? Anything she should bring me on Friday?

At the other end, a woman who didn’t sound like Stephanie said hello. Her voice cascaded through the earpiece the way the white satin sheets slid over my naked body in the Hotel Rouge a lifetime ago. I hadn’t spoken a word all day.

“Who’s this?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must’ve dialed the wrong number.”

I cleared my throat. “But, but… you sound familiar. Your voice, I’ve heard it somewhere. Sometime before.”

“Perhaps in a previous life!?” She laughed. An irresistible small chuckle that didn’t stop but dissolved unhurriedly.

Emily? My first love, my sweetheart. Could it be Emily? But we haven’t spoken since I left to Vietnam.

“Are you there?” The woman asked.

“Yes! Can you talk some more, please? I’m still somehow groggy…”

“And, you’re trying to figure out if you know me.”

“Yes, I am.” I replied.

Ellen! It must be Ellen. My lovely bride. But wait a minute, Ellen died twenty years ago. She had cancer. Oh, my darling Ellen. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what to say. You’re not Betsy, are you?”

“Who’s Betsy?” She asked, seemingly amused.

“My ex-wife. But she wouldn’t call and she doesn’t sound anything like you.”

“Then I’m not Betsy. Listen! Who’s been on your mind lately? Someone you often think about.”

“No one. They’ll never come back and it only makes their absence harder.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

“A daughter. Stephanie. She visits once a week. So!”, I swallowed hard. “You really dialed the wrong number.”

“Uh, huh.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. It’s just that…”

“That you’re lonely.”

“I guess so. And, you have such a beautiful voice.”

“Hmmm, you still got it in you, old man. How old are you?”

“Seventy-two.”

“That’s good enough for me. But, where are you?”

“Modesto, California.”

“That’s not too bad. I live in San Francisco. My name is Michele Wright, by the way.”

I felt light-headed. The possibility of daring to hope was intoxicating.

“I’m John Forest.”

“Like the Franciscan Friar.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Never mind. Say, would you like to get together for a cup of coffee? Do you drive?”

“I’d love to, but I don’t have a car.”

“I have to come to you then. You can take me to your favorite café in Modesto.”

“But… What if?”

“What if we don’t hit it off? Let’s leave that until it turns out to be the case. How about Saturday? Are you free on Saturday?”

I nodded as if she could see me. “Yes!”

“I have your number. Until then, John.” She hung up leaving the sound of her laughter behind.

As a huge grin wrinkled my face I popped a Warfarin with a swig of water.

*Photo “By the Window”, Edvard Munch, 1940

What the Robin Heard

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Sun, 08 May 2016 14:02:00 +0000

They lay down on a stretch of tended lawn in the shade of the largest oak tree. From up here, their merged shape resembled the hands on a watch dial indicating six o’clock. I looked at the dimming sky then back toward the humans. Uh, huh, that’s about right, I told myself. There’s plenty of time still to hunt for worms and insects. I hopped to a lower branch.

“What will you miss the most?” The female asked.

“The feeling of your ear against mine.” The male answered.

The smell of your hair, the ocean in your eyes, the taste of your lips, the freckles on your breasts, the dip above your pubic hair. The male’s breast heaved. Only a robin could hear what the human didn’t say.

“You know it’s for the best.” The female said.

“I know.” The male agreed.

I heard the silence gurgling in the male’s throat, its heart pounding, its hands shaking. Its fingers grasped the grass and pulled. The green blades cried.

Sluthia called from our maple tree. “Where’s the food? The babies are starving.”

“I’m coming. Just listening to these humans breaking up.” I whistled.

“Breaking up? They look so happy. Well, they looked happy when they first got here. I saw them leaning on each other, holding hands. I loved their singing.”

I darted into the light of the dying sun. The firefly didn’t even see me coming. I landed in the nest, shredded the corpse to pieces and fed the nestlings. I kissed Sluthia. She kissed me back and rubbed her beak on my neck.

“Are you going to leave me too?” I asked.

“If you keep acting like them,” gesturing below, “Maybe I should.”

“Can I go back now? Please?”

“Okay, go. But I want you to tell me everything after I put the babies to sleep.”

“Why, no sex tonight?”

Sluthia giggled and pushed me off the branch. I dropped to the ground, skipping as close as I dared.

“You’ll be alright, won’t you?” The female asked.

The male shifted its body, lifted its arm and reached for the female’s hair. I was a human arm’s length away.

“I’ll be fine.” The male answered.

“I can’t go on like this any longer. I’m so tired, my heart.” The female said.

My heart? They aren’t local, this pair. I only heard of humans using body parts to call each other in old bird songs. I always thought it was a myth. I couldn’t wait to tell Sluthia. My heart, ha! She’d be thrilled.

The female pulled itself up on its elbows and I flew away. The male didn’t move.

“Be happy, please!” The female said, walking away.

The male nodded, its eyes closed, two teardrops running down its cheeks.

I shadowed the little red car until it came to the stop sign on Parkway. I dived and zoomed past the open window. I saw the female in that instant. I heard it too. Its shoulders shuddering, it sobbed beyond control.

All the Light We Cannot See, the Pleasure of Audiobooks

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Mon, 25 Apr 2016 10:11:00 +0000

Only recently did I listen to my first book after years of reading. I was fortunate to get a good start. My first novel was The Girl on the Train, a superbly written psychological thriller, by author Paula Hawkins. What made the experience immensely pleasurable was the incredible audio rendition performed by three professional British actresses. I can honestly say that I’ve never heard anything as beautiful before, music included.

After sampling a couple more excellent works of fiction, however, I’ve learned the golden rule of audiobooks selection. The vocal rendition is as important as the written word. From then on, I specifically search for and acquire audiobooks that are as highly regarded for their voice narration as they are for their literary quality.

I'm currently listening to "All the Light We Cannot See", written by Anthony Doerr, and narrated by Zach Appelman. It’s a WWII historical fiction novel and certainly one of the very best I've heard/read in my entire life. The main backdrop of the story is a French city in Brittany called Saint-Malo. Mr. Doerr not only writes with high geohistorical fidelity but on more than one occasion he brought tears to my eyes, when for brief instances, I felt as if he was writing about my Tartous, the one of my childhood (geographically) and the monster it has turned into (historically: since Tartous is similar today to Saint-Malo under German occupation). I've never heard of Saint- Malo before but a few minutes ago I did something I don't usually do until after I finish reading a book. I googled it and saw with my own eyes how it looks like.

The double picture in this post is of the Tartous of my childhood (upper) and of Saint-Malo today (lower). I don’t call the striking similarity a coincidence for although Brittany lies on the English Channel and not on the Mediterranean the construction of the old city of Tartous was nevertheless influenced by European architecture.

Back to audiobooks, and specifically to All the Light We Cannot See. There comes along a great novel that makes an old, aspiring writer like me feel humble and an older, seasoned reader, again like me, feel as if it was written specifically for him. Anthony Doeer achieved the most daunting task in literature, creating a universal masterpiece with an intimately personal appeal. I won’t even go into a synopsis of the story. I leave that entirely to your curiosity but I’ll wrap this post up with some final words on the performance of Zach Appelman. Despite the Americanized mispronunciation of French proper names, his narration is absolutely breathtaking!!!

Find below two reviews of the book and a short youtube video of the author talking about his 2015 Pulitzer Prize winner.

Doerr’s “stunning sense of physical detail and gorgeous metaphors” (San Francisco Chronicle) are dazzling. Deftly interweaving the lives of Marie-Laure and Werner, he illuminates the ways, against all odds, people try to be good to one another. Ten years in the writing, a National Book Award finalist, All the Light We Cannot See is a magnificent, deeply moving novel from a writer “whose sentences never fail to thrill” (Los Angeles Times).

'neath the Albert Pike Library

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 22 Apr 2016 09:08:00 +0000

We stand in front of an almost unseeable door, cleverly concealed behind moth-eaten tomes on the last row of bookshelves in the Humanities section. The professor leads the way down a flight of stairs to the mechanical room. Our boots clunk against the gangway as we scurry toward the steam boilers. Under the last one’s chimney, he opens a hatch in the floor. I squeeze through first sliding down a tubular chute. He dispatches the backpack then closes the hatch behind him and jumps. Save for one monolithic door, we find ourselves in the middle of a stark anteroom. Above us, the Pike Library is deep asleep at this hour of the night.

I unpack the gear and arrange it on the floor. The professor takes the can of WD-40 and douses the door’s rusty hinges. While I light the torches, he produces a brass key from the folds of his academic robe. He fearlessly looks me in the eye, yet with a hint of concern he asks.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nod, affirming the inevitable. “Let’s go then. From here on we have to remain silent.”

The flames flicker as a rank draft sneaks through the widening gap of the door redolent of sweat and defecation. I fight the impulse to puke, barely able to repress the bile rising up my throat. The professor looks pale and old, as if twenty years have passed since we left the world above.

We climb down an endlessly twisting stone stairway. Rats squeak beyond the reach of light. The echo of water dripping somewhere reverberates against the sandstone. At the landing, seven shafts radiate in a half-circle like the spokes of a wagon wheel. The professor points to the second one from the right and proceeds. The air becomes heavier as we sink further into the bowels of the campus. A faint humming grows louder deforming and transmuting into orgasmic moans of werehyenas and ghouls.

We emerge into a high-ceiling corridor, flanked on both sides by a dozen massive doors. The professor retrieves a ladder from the shadows and leans it on the crossbar above the door labeled XVII. I climb and peak through the transom window. A proscenium, illuminated by chandeliers, torches and sconces is filled with grotesquely naked figures kneeling on semicircular kneelers and chanting in unison. On the stage, directly below, an old wizard with a belly that hides his genitals and an older witch with drooping, wrinkled breasts utter incantations in an alien tongue.

He pulls at the cuff of my pants. “How many?”

“A hundred-fifty, maybe more.” I answer, coming down.

“Let’s kill as many of the bastards as we can. I’ll get the two fuckheads first.” He says, grinning.

The professor pound-hugs me and ruffles my hair then he unsheathes his sword and I heft my ax, shattering the darkness with shafts of fire. Alea iacta est, we cry as we blast in, blinded with fury, stabbing hearts and crushing skulls.

10th Anniversary

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Mon, 18 Apr 2016 11:01:00 +0000

Although I’ve been posting short stories sporadically here on my blog, I haven’t “technically” blogged anything since January of 2015. There are several reasons (excuses is a more appropriate word) why I’ve been away, but it all boils down to one important thing, my own state of mind. The shifting trends in social media that eventually led to the current supremacy of Facebook didn’t help much either. Like almost everybody else, I took the easy way out, the fast-food approach to gulping down information and throwing in my own mediocre input into one massive river of nonsense.

During my first five years of blogging, I was able to fulfill, partially at least, some of my self-imposed moral responsibilities. I did that by carefully navigating around political taboos and never trespassing red lines least I end up incarcerated or worse. I openly criticized social traditions and religious canons, sitting comfortably in the shade of a (seemingly) secular umbrella provided by the powers that be. Notice that even to this day, I’d rather call the regime, TPTB, instead of, well, the regime. It’s an ingrained Syrian cautiousness that only recently, in the last five years that is, has been broken by a courageous few who remain captives in their own land and by the multitude of ex-patriots who fear no reprisal. When the shit finally hit the fan and the inevitable did happen, I just couldn’t write anymore while remaining true to my principles and inside the country. Shutting up was my easy way out.

I turned to fiction and to writing short stories instead. I have also started on two novels, but alas, we, the unfinished novels and I, stare at each other with a longing detachment, not knowing what to do next. Had I been using pen and paper, the hundreds of pages I’ve written so far would have collected dust while providing a decent meal for a colony of moth.

It’s the 10th anniversary of The World According to a Man from Tartous. I don’t expect a stream of comments on this occasion the way my olden posts once solicited. Actually, I feel almost exactly the same way I felt when I first discovered blogging. I was writing to myself and this is what I’m doing now.

I’m paying tribute to the last decade of my life. I’ve met a lot of wonderful people through this blog. I stayed in touch with a few and lost track of most. But it’s only fitting in a way, I started alone and here I am once again, alone at last.

Sayonara

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 01 Apr 2016 04:51:00 +0000

Overnight the gale quit. The breakers retreated from the battered beaches and joined the dying whitecaps offshore. At dawn the swollen sea was still brooding over its latest outbreak, taking deep, heavy breaths to calm down. It wasn’t the first time the sea got this angry, nor would it be the last.

Fish emerge from the depths to feed nearer to the surface after the storm. I, too, am jittery and need to take to the sea. I cast off Sayonara, my 18-foot boat, and ease her out of the cove. Once clear of the shallows, I open the throttle three notches short of full and head to the farthest fishing ground known to me or to any of the islanders. Tiller loosely held in the crook of my arm, I light up a roll of tobacco and savor the smoke and salt as they course through my airways in a hedonic twirl.

Halfway there, the archipelago disappears below the horizon. The boat has no instruments since I seldom take her this far out of sight of land. I glance at my watch then at the sun and adjust my heading. That’ll do! I always talk to myself when between the sky and the sea. We’ll be there in seventy minutes. This time I talk to Sayonara. I move forward to fetch the baskets. I’ll get the lines ready.

I dead-reckon our position and slow down into a two-minute counterclockwise turn releasing a half-dozen droplines laden with baited hooks. The floats bob with the swell in a perfect circle. As I reach for the second batch of lines the engine sputters making the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. Before I could reach it, it falters and dies of starvation.

The reserve jerrycan under the bow is full, though. I fill the engine tank and bleed the air from the pipes. These things happen, eh! I attach the hand-crank and have a go at restarting the engine. My hand, slippery with squid and diesel, loses its grip. The hand-crank, jerked loose, barely misses hitting me in the head as it plunges into the sea. My fifty years of seafaring have finally caught up with me.

***

I set a piece of fuel-soaked cloth at the end of a plank on fire and wave it high overhead. This way, I have a better chance to be spotted at night by a passing freighter or a trawler. After a few nights, however, when no one comes to my rescue, I stop. I’d choose spending my life lost at sea over being grounded without giving it a second thought. All I left behind was an empty shack. I don’t even have a dog. I could survive out here for months, for years, or until the next big storm hits. I lay my back on the foredeck and open my eyes to the stars. The boat squeaks and creaks. We’ll be fine, I run my fingers over her weathered wood, Sayonara.

Stranded

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 19 Feb 2016 18:46:00 +0000

The bus plows through the blizzard until a shapeless whiteout swallows the world. I brace myself against the seat in front of me and grab the arm of the woman sitting by my side. I sense her resentment but there’s no time to explain. The driver, blind as a bat, taps the brakes. The bus skids for a couple of hundred feet before it hits the railing on the side of the road. It isn’t a violent crash by any means yet it’s strong enough to knock one of the passengers, a young girl, off her seat. She removes her headphones with shaky hands, her purple hair’s all messed up.

The engine whines before the driver reaches for the ignition switch and kills it. The smell of fear pours like a thickly slime along the aisle. Groans of panic rise before the manic storm mercilessly silences them all.

“Is anybody hurt? You’re Okay ma’am? How about you, sir? Good!” The bus driver yells at the top of her voice, going around, visually checking the fifteen passengers, one by one. A man, wearing a toque on his bald head, helps the driver get the girl to her feet. His goatee is made up of long, scarce hairs, like the beard of a real goat. The woman by my side forgets or forgives me. She searches her purse frantically for her cellphone. We’re out of coverage, but she doesn’t know it yet.

“Calm down everybody, please. They will send another bus for us soon. Just stay in your seats while I call for help.” The driver doesn’t know that the cellular tower closest to us was just knocked out of service. No one’s coming till morning. We’re stranded in the eye of a snow storm twenty kilometers south of Ottawa for the next fourteen hours. I, of course, know. I know everything.

The bus driver, Ellen Thompson, is on brink of divorce. She would make out with her husband tomorrow. Over the next few months they would try to glue the broken pieces of their marriage back together, but he’s dying. Cancer would spread undetected until it would be too late. He has less than a year to live.

After refreshing her makeup, the purple girl puts her headphones back on and stares out of the window. She would bounce back and forth between meth addiction and recovery, until her neighbors, alarmed by the foul smell coming out of her apartment, would call the police. They would find her dead. Strangled.

The man with the goatee too. Tragedy would strike him one day. He would lose a yet unborn son. I grab my head with both hands and cry.

“Are you Okay?” Brenda asks. She would become my girlfriend but only for a short while. She would do her best to cope with my mood swings, to break through the wall I have built around myself. But eventually, I would wear her down. How could I ever tell her. I know everything.

The Boyhood Trilogy - Part 3: Up on a Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 16 Oct 2015 05:58:00 +0000

Illustration "Boy Sitting on Branch" by SchoolSpirit

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree
~Joyce Kilmer

Spring 1969
At the far side of the playground, a trail wormed its way down to the treeline. From there, the forest blanketed the mountainside, save for some houses on the beach shimmering like wiggling toes. Wary of my scraped elbows and knees, I faltered on the scree bracing myself against the leaning trunks. Forty feet off the trail, I sat on my ass and slid down to my tree. I heaved my body up onto the first branch and grabbed the second. Within a minute, I reached my perch on a sturdy bough. I came here whenever being in a crowd made me lonely and I needed time alone.

Summer 1989
The horizon arched like a picture taken from the edge of space. A dozen vessels, anchored in the bay, pivoted as one with the shifting currents. At the golden hour, a single ship gingerly broke from the pack. Once in the clear, she slow-steamed at first, and then sailed at full speed on a westerly course. I jumped from my tree and swam in her wake, her stern shrinking, the smoke from her chimney waning before she disappeared beyond the end of the world. In her hold, she carried my hopes and dreams in crates and bales.

Fall 2009
In a world I conjured of fantasy, I soared with the birds over the far north until, close to exhaustion, I landed on a tree. The bitter wind swirled the leafs in a frenzy of autumn colors. I fluffed my feathers against the onslaught of the foreign cold and held on to the swaying branch. Out of nowhere, a swallow darted straight at me, almost knocking me off. She pulled out and tweeted to follow. I took a deep breath and joined her on an updraft. We spiraled skyward until, short on air, we clamped claws together and came to a full stall. With our wings entwined, and bills locked in a manic kiss, we fell back to earth in a dizzying spin. When I opened my eyes, she was gone but my irises had turned blue. A skein passed overhead, heading south to warmer grounds. I took off again, and flew the other way.

Winter 20?9
I was woken by the storm. The treehouse creaked with the repercussion of thunder. I folded the futon, fed wood into the stove then I grabbed my chair and danced while the coffee warmed. The rope-ladder, lapping violently against the trunk, brought me out of my solo waltz. As I opened the trapdoor to retrieve it, I heard the fence gate squeal. Transients of all types called on me over the years but none came this deep into winter. I couldn't see the face but I recognized the turquoise scarf. My heart leapt out of its cage and laughed above the fury. I climbed down and ran toward the fence, the snow sizzling under my bare feet.

The Boyhood Trilogy - Part 2: Indian Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 18 Sep 2015 05:18:00 +0000

"If All Saints' brings out winter, St. Martin's brings out Indian summer."
Old Farmer's Almanac

All Saints', 1970

The double-door opened to a wide corridor flanked on the left by the showers, and by the lavatories on the right. Straight ahead, the custodian's room split the dormitory in mirrored halves of thirty-six beds each. Monsieur Bruno, in charge of maintaining peace, also enforced the Wednesday-and-Sunday-only bathing rule, and made sure no one sneaked into the lavatories at night. For the Marist Brothers, bladder and bowel control was of utmost importance and made us, les petits garçons, better persons, even if we ended up wetting our beds or shitting our pajamas. Tonight, all but seven boys were away for the weekend. The remaining castaways had to wait for Christmas before they could go home.

Without any source of heating until St. Eligius', the nights were getting cold. By then, the nuts of many a boy would have either shriveled or fallen off. Perhaps this was the Brothers' way of propagating and sustaining their ranks. Monsieur Bruno went about his rounds, pointing his flashlight on each of the seven occupied beds across the hall. I closed my eyes shut and stopped breathing until the sloshing of his slippers faded out. Where was I? Yes, Mademoiselle Mireille was teaching me how to kiss. In this exile of boys, perverts and eunuchs, only a rampant imagination kept me going. And a huge crush on my French teacher.

St. Martin's, 1970

The classroom windows were open to a hazy sky of liquid lead. Inside, the acrid odor of twenty-five pubescent boys was nauseating. A pine tree sighed with an intangibly light breeze, lifting Mademoiselle Mireille's scent above the noisome air. From my front seat, I heard a boy in the back reciting a passage in French. After her usual back and forth pacing, Mademoiselle Mireille stopped and sat on the edge of her desk. I sunk into the chair and rested my cheek on my textbook. Oh, Dear, Sweet Lord! I was rewarded with a clear, unobstructed view or her white panties. In that eternal instant, I crossed the line and became a man three years ahead of puberty. At some point, never measured in real time, she dismounted and grabbed my ear. When she pulled me up, it was too late.

-"Hé, toi,petit méchant. Qu'est-ce que tu regardes?"
-"Moi! Rien! Je te jure…"

Caught red-faced, I summoned my hands to quickly cover the front of my pants, but she already knew too much.

St. John's, 1970

“Don't grow up too fast,” Mademoiselle Mireille said on the final day of boarding school as she pinched my ear for the very last time. Occasionally, over the last eight months, when she couldn't resist my defiant eyes, she'd grant me a fleeting glimpse at a new pair of panties. She had a look especially reserved for me, a half-smile-half-frown sort of expression, that gave me a head-start on understanding women.

St. Agatha's, 2009

Or so I thought!

The Boyhood Trilogy - Part 1: The Threshing Floor

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Mon, 17 Aug 2015 16:24:00 +0000

… Behold! Your great numbers elated you, but they availed you naught: the land, for all that it is wide, did constrain you, and ye turned back in retreat.
The Quran, Al-Taubah 9:25

Al-Mina St. Tartous, Syria (circa 1958)

The Threshing Floor is visible in the background, off to the left (behind the single white building)

June 11th, 1967 (the day after)

Men with stooped shoulders walked the streets on their way to make a living. Women ventured out on balconies to dry their laundry on flaccid clotheslines. On the Threshing Floor, kids, out of school for the summer, regrouped and played football again.

Around midday, an army ZIL truck dissected the improvised football pitch and stopped at the center spot. The driver, a brawny sergeant with a walrus mustache, emerged from the cabin and was soon followed by a sad-looking officer with sunken eyes. A whole platoon disembarked from the back with shovels and picks and started digging.

I watched from behind the painted windowpanes deep into the night, as the silhouettes, illuminated by the truck's headlights, burrowed and disappeared into the ground. They were gone the next morning, leaving behind a long scar on the face of the Threshing Floor, dividing it in two, reducing the pitch to a quarter of its original size. The kids abandoned football and rode their bicycles, bridging the six-foot-wide trench with planks of discarded lumber.

August 2nd , 1969 (783 days after)

I locked the rear wheel and came to a sweeping stop. Eight or nine boys, squatting or leaning on their bikes, squinted in the glare and waited for me to reappear from behind a cloud of dust. Jumping the trench was the redemption sought after the Threshing Floor was defiled. Except for the buzz of flies and the loud weight of the heat, the space was silent. On the other side of the trench, the shimmering reflections of a million suns danced on the surface of the sea.

Beads of perspiration broke through my eyebrows and coursed around my nose, washing the gound at the corners of my eyes and burning my cracked lips. I wiped my face with the back of my hand before I kicked the pedal on a down-stroke. The bicycle swaggered left and right until it gathered enough momentum to shoot straight. It hit the makeshift setup mound at the exact right spot. As metal and flesh became airborne, I pulled back on the handlebars but the angle of attack was a tad shallow. The front wheel touched down on the other bank a couple of inches too short. The bicycle bucked underneath me like a horse shot dead and catapulted me clear. I landed hard, face first, on a protruding rock on the western side. Blood gushed from a nasty cut in the chin, as painful as the trench.

January 4th, 1978 (3,860 days after)

I took one last, fleeting look out of the taxi's rear window but couldn't see a thing. The Threshing Floor was encased by a high wall. Inside, the trench was filled and the entire ground resurfaced with concrete. Only my scar remained.

Lili

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 31 Jul 2015 08:58:00 +0000

I stand waiting past midnight in the parking lot of a downtown hotel. An ambulance wails in the distance and from somewhere near, a dog howls in return, as if mourning the already dead. The gray mist, precariously balanced on the roof of the tallest building, jumps, blotting out the neon signs and the speckled, lit windows. I take one last drag and flick the cigarette butt. The ember arcs and crashes in a flurry of sparks. I exhale and listen, reconstructing the last one hundred days of my life.

Lili and I met on a dating site and fell in love in no time. On coffee breaks, in between meetings, at red lights and whenever possible, we seized the moment and spent it together. We called and texted, and as we became intricately more involved, we advanced to sexting and Skype sex. When I finally had a chance, I broke my chains and came running to her.

The click-clack of heels hammers the pavement. A slim shadow emerges into the cone of light. Lili walks to within an inch of me and stops, impregnating the air with her basic scent. I take a deep breath, almost snorting the freckles off her skin. With the taste of tobacco lingering on my breath, we lock in a feverish first kiss. Once we peel our lips apart, she whispers for me to take her. Now! I grab her arm and dash through the hotel back door. The elevator car is on the sixth floor. The room on the second. We find the staircase and start climbing.

Lili’s wearing black. Silk top, pencil skirt, seamed stockings, stiletto shoes and all. A slit slashes the rear of her skirt, denuding a lavish stretch of legs. The adrenaline rush puts us both on the first landing. A flood of endorphins propels us the rest of the way, leaving a trail of pungent pheromones in our wake. In my mind, I can taste flesh and nylon as I gnaw the garters, sliding them past her knees and calves.

Panting already, I slide the card through the lock. The door swings open and we lurch in. A lamp on the night table bathes the room in a warm glow. The bed’s too far, too decorous. I pick Lili up and lower her onto the desk. Standing between her legs, I pull at her shirt, stretching the fabric, popping the buttons off. I grab one of her breasts and squeeze. Her swollen nipples strain the lucent lace. My other hand drives to higher ground along her thigh. I kiss her earlobe, nibble at her neck. I bite her throat. She moans and bites back, shuddering. Unexpectedly, she clamps my wrist with a grip of steel. My heart pumps faster to divert blood to my brain. I look down and I see it. The knife, concealed in her stocking, is fully unsheathed. It catches a flicker of light in her raised hand before the night turns dark and silent.

Originally posted on the 500 Words Blog, where a small group of talented writers post their short stories.

The Will

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 03 Jul 2015 07:48:00 +0000

By Chevsapher (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons

Daren, his sister, Stella, and their cousins, Elsa, Lizbeth, Nathan, and Jonathan were in the office of Trevor Byrd, attorney at law. Their grandfather, Mr. Pierce Eason, passed away at the age of eighty-eight. He excluded his three surviving children from the will and instead named his six grandchildren as heirs. Jonathan was the designated executor.

“Why Jonathan?” Daren asked, betraying his resentment.

“According to Mr. Eason," the lawyer replied, "Jonathan’s the only one who’s not… sorry, but I have to use his exact words, ‘… a ne'er-do-well, rich kid.’ Your grandfather started as a ranch hand at a young age. He believed that Jonathan, who actually works for a living, is better qualified to make sound judgments.”

A dejected murmur of dissent crescendoed into a collective outcry of indignation. Only Jonathan, standing by the window and looking out, remained silent.

“Spare us the crap,” Daren retorted. “Just read the will.”

The multimillion-dollar estate of the late magnate was to be divided among Doctors-Without-Borders, several environmental groups and a charity for the homeless. He left the Wyoming ranch for the heirs to dispose of as they see fit. None of them had prior knowledge of the ranch’s existence.

Jonathan insisted that he must see the property first thus vetoing the otherwise unanimous decision to sell it. His cousins didn’t trust him to go there alone. They all agreed reluctantly to travel to Powell, Wyoming the following Wednesday and meet in the Lamplighter Inn in the evening. That would give them two full days to arrange for the sale of the ranch with a local realtor, recommended by Mr. Byrd. They could fly back from Yellow Stone over the weekend and resume their separate lives.

“Damn you, Jonathan!” Elsa said to his face. That was the last he heard from any of them until they were reunited in Powell.

Daren and Jonathan rode with the realtor. The others followed in one of the rentals. Twenty miles to the northeast, they reached the ranch on the Montana border. The main house had long been deserted and the place was in shambles. The realtor’s estimate was a disappointment to everyone except Jonathan. For Lizbeth and Nathan, it wasn’t even worth the trip they took to this shit hole.

Jonathan sold everything he owned back in Jersey and bought the ranch from his cousins who were only happy to get it off their shoulders. He also bought two hundred sheep and hired a few hands, working himself to the edge of exhaustion, barely treading water. At the end of an exceptionally torrid summer, he was ready to throw in the towel, but force of habit kept him toiling until sunset every day. He was replacing a rotted beam in the barn’s roof when he found the letter. There was an abandoned mineshaft, his grandfather wrote, at the southern edge of the property. At the break of dawn, Jonathan climbed down with a lantern and a shovel and dug out the 270 lbs. pot of gold.

The Boutique

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Sun, 07 Jun 2015 15:17:00 +0000

A gust blew from the north carrying a whiff of the lake on its breath. The larches on the other side of the channel rustled, forcing a murder of crows to abandon the branches. The echo of ghastly cawing ricocheted against a spire, bounced on the walls, and then vanished into thin air.

Katherine reached for her disheveled bangs and combed them back. With her other hand, she furtively searched for mine and found it. I pulled her closer and buried my face in her hair. She nestled her head against my chest and breathed our entangled scents. The wind gave up when we kissed on the sidewalk, and time looked the other way.

A whitewashed, narrow building stood at the end of the street, near the footbridge. We walked to the lone storefront and peered inside. Except for the burning lights, the place looked deserted. I turned the knob and gave the door a nudge. As it opened inward, the chimes on top shushed the whining hinges, muting their groans. Racks and tables stacked with retro clothes extended all the way to the deep end. Metal hangers carried pipes and ducts across the high ceiling. Faint Spanish guitar music played in the background. The boutique was intact, exactly the way we had left it one year ago.

“Hiiiiii!” A velvety voice came out of nowhere. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

A slight woman, wearing a long skirt and gypsy hair, emerged from a backroom. “Hellooo!” She sang when she saw us.

We dawdled around the boutique, Katherine picking a shirt from a rack, returning a blouse to a table, I following in the wake of her grace.

“Keep the door open,” I joked, when she went into the fitting room. “I want to see you.”

“You never get enough, do you?” She laughed.

“How could I ever?”

The woman joined us, “You’ve been here before.” She said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, we have.” Katherine answered. “We love your boutique and are always happy to see it still open for business.”

“Thank you! It’s customers like you who make it worth the effort.”

I drank Katherine with my eyes as the woman fussed around her, fixing imaginary imperfections.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I asked.

“She’s gorgeous! And, more so because I see her through your eyes.” The woman said.

“Oh, you do?”

“I love the way you look at her.” She smiled. “How long have you two been together?”

“Seven years.” Katherine replied.

“Oh my! You look as if you’re still on your honeymoon.”

At the counter, I picked a silk scarf and wrapped it around Katherine’s neck. It matched the color of her eyes. The woman handed me the bag of shopping and bid us good-bye.

A steady wind toyed with us when we stepped out of the boutique. It blew across the channel with a desperate sense of urgency pushing us to move on. We hugged each other, dragging our steps and dallying with time, heedless of the approaching rain.

Stupid Piece of Lettuce

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 15 May 2015 04:36:00 +0000

My teeth sunk deep into the soft buns, bursting a medley of juicy flavors. A sliver of lettuce broke free, smearing my chin with mayonnaise, and fell to the floor. I tried reaching down to pick it up but I couldn’t. Michael, sitting across, chewed on his mouthful until it chuted down his esophagus. He took a swig of soda then he coughed and cleared his throat.

“You’re such an obsessive-compulsive old man. Will you just forget about the stupid piece of lettuce and enjoy the damn burger?”

Michael was right, I was frigging old. I nudged the gummy piece of lettuce with my foot, hoping it would stick to the side of my shoe but it didn’t. I stomped it flat. Crap! That only made it worse.

After the third bite, my burger crumbled.

“You’re holding it backward.” He said. “Keep your thumbs underneath the lower bun and the other fingers on top.”

My thumbs disbanded the sandwich as they bore into the bread. The patty slid askew, diced onions fell on the Formica table, and a slice of tomato threatened to follow. Crossed-eyed, I saw a smudge on the tip of my nose.

“Here, use a napkin.” Michael mumbled as he chewed and sipped, ignorant of the fix I was in, or pretending to be.

I looked under the table again then back at him, cloudy, gray eyes imploring.

“I won’t pick it up.” He said. “And neither will you even if you could. Just stop stressing about the goddamn lettuce.”

Michael scoffed what remained of his burger and slurped the last two ounces of his drink. The ice rattled in the paper cup. Gazing at some point above my left shoulder, he frowned as if deep in thought then laughed like a maniac.

Wipe that smirk off your face. I just don’t like making a mess.

“That’s why they hired that Mexican girl. Not because she has a PhD in physics like you have but to clean the floor after sloppy customers. If everyone cleaned after himself or herself, she’d be out of a job. She’s cute, isn’t she? Look at her firm, little butt and perky breasts.”

The girl was beautiful. Twenty, twenty-one. I held her in my eyes.

Only if I were younger, Pretty Thing. You should’ve seen me in my twenties. I had a full mane of dark hair and I was taller, much taller.

“You know why this joint is painted in bright orange?” He asked. "It’s to drive people nuts so they eat and take off.” He answered his own question. “Come on, let’s go.”

Michael helped me to my feet. I grabbed the cane and walked stiffly across the diner. I stole furtive looks at the girl’s butt and breasts. She caught me gawking and smiled at me. I smiled back, almost tripping. Michael held me steady.

“Hey dad, how about some ice cream before I drop you off? We can take the beach road.”

I nodded. I had nothing better to do.

Ulcer

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Sat, 24 Jan 2015 06:14:00 +0000

I picked up the receiver after the third or fourth ring, tipping the glass of water on the night table. “Hello!” I cleared my throat, but my voice came out hoarse. The colon in the middle of the clock display blinked, while the digits stared without a flinch.

“Hi daddy, it’s me. I’m sorry to wake you up at this hour.” Liz was crying.

“What’s wrong sweetheart? Are you two fighting again?”

“I left the house and brought the baby with me. I’m staying over with a friend.”

Before she hung up, she assured me that Brandon didn’t hit her. He never did, she swore.

He was a passive-aggressive bastard who transferred his neuroses to her, a control freak with a tongue capable of lashing out words soaked in bitter venom. A divorce was the obvious answer, but Liz’s life was a little complicated. She would lose custody of Michael, who was named after me, or more likely, after his paternal grandfather. Brandon wasn’t a bad guy, she claimed, but I never liked him. I told her that it wouldn’t work between them. Liz was in love, though, and she brushed me off with a sweet giggle.

“Oh come on, daddy. He’s a brilliant programmer, just like you. Give yourself enough time to know him better. Besides, you’re going to spend your summers in San Francisco from now on. Brandon’s dad’ll buy us a house overlooking the bay as a wedding present.” She kissed my forehead and tickled me. Her mirth was contagious. I burst out laughing.

They were married in London and left on their honeymoon the next morning. It was Liz’s dream to travel to Japan, but something important came up for Brandon. Instead of staying there for a month, they had to cut it short and fly to California a week later. I hadn’t seen my daughter since, and only knew my grandson as an apparition on a computer screen.

I switched the bedside lamp on and sat straight. A pool of water enclaved my pillbox. The ulcer scraped the lining of my stomach like an errant fingernail on a chalkboard. I winced and reached for the telephone.

“Hello Sid. It’s Michael.” I listened to his response and feigned a smile for my own benefit. “You sound good too.”

We chitchatted for a minute. He asked how I was managing alone. I sent Maggie, his wife, my regards. A pause wedged itself into the conversation before I filled the gap. “I need a favor. You have someone on the West Coast, right? Uh huh, San Francisco. Eight o’clock’s perfect. D’you still drink single malt? Good! I’ll bring you a 28 year Singleton. See you tonight.”

I shuffled my feet and found the wet slippers. Behind the curtains, the sun sneaked above the cityscape resurrecting shadows long presumed dead. I had a few loose ends to tie, I thought on my way to the kitchen, but first, I needed a glass of warm milk.

Beauty and the Beast

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Mon, 19 Jan 2015 11:01:00 +0000

At last, the Levant is under the spell of a conventional Mediterranean winter. Conventional in the sense that it's raining hard and snowing as it should, and that the temperatures are down to single digits at night in the coastal plains and below zero in the mountains and inland.

The earth was parched and the subterranean water reserves were all but gone. Had this winter been as benign as the previous one, Syria would’ve gone thirsty this coming summer. We were in dire need for Ghayth, rescue from the sky, to permit the lucky ones among us to live under worsening socioeconomic conditions for one more year.

But with the beautiful sight of white snow and the latent promise of a better tomorrow we shouldn’t overlook the true nature of the beast, the homeless, the orphans, the wailing mothers and grieving fathers, those who lost everything while the onslaught of war continues. We should remember our refugees, now scattered all over the world, freezing to death in the outback of neighboring countries or keeping warm in distant, Nordic lands. We need to honor the memory of those who died because they had no place to go to and those who were lost at sea trying to make it to safer shores.

Although the war in Syria has reached an unprecedented magnitude of baseness and cruelty, let us never forget how it all started so we can, or our descendants, breathe the fragrant air of the coming spring. No matter how calm it was before the storm, the cruel heat oppressed us. It’s always after the storm that beauty prevails.

Je suis moi

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Sun, 11 Jan 2015 09:45:00 +0000

I'm against the fanaticism of the Kouachi Brothers and the vileness of Charlie Hebdo. No one has the right to take the life of other human beings for a word they wrote or a cartoon they drew, or to cause them bodily harm. Similarly, free press isn’t an open license to ridicule someone else’s beliefs, culture and sanctity.
This tragic event is a dirty reminder of the bigotry and atrocities being committed in the names of freedom of speech and religion. Before we identify ourselves with one wicked side or another, let us not forget the thousands of innocent people dying every day, everywhere in the world, of hunger and cold and disease and war and torture. Let us identify with them instead, or at least with our true selves.

Orzo Spinach Soup

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Sun, 28 Dec 2014 14:05:00 +0000

1 diced white onion
3 diced cloves of garlic
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon brown sugar
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 1/2 cup Arzo pasta
1 cup diced celery
I cup diced carrots
2 cups roasted diced tomato
1 tablespoon butter
3 cups diced spinach
6 cups Water + 2 chicken broth cubes
Oregano, rosemary, thyme, a pinch of each
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat oil in a pan, add onions garlic and soy sauce, stir for 4 minutes until gold in color and sprinkle with brown sugar (optional but I love the caramelized hint of sugar).
Add diced celery and carrots, stir for 4 minutes.
Add water, chicken stock, tomatoes, butter, oregano, rosemary, thyme, salt, and pepper. Cover and bring to boil over medium high heat, stirring occasionally.
Reduce heat, uncover, add the orzo pasta and simmer while stirring lightly but continuously for 10 minutes, add spinach for an additional 2 minutes.

Ready to serve. Enjoy it! (Serves 6)

A Simple Pizza Recipe

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Tue, 16 Dec 2014 18:21:00 +0000

I bought the dough ready. If you'd rather make your own dough, good for you, that'll be awesome.
Using my hands and the rolling pin, I spread the dough as thin as possible over a piece of aluminum foil (mine was about 16" diameter).
Once stretched to its limit, I splashed it lightly with olive oil. In a small bowl, I mixed half a cup of Pomì, an Italian passata brand (strained tomato sauce) with two tablespoons of ketchup and a half tablespoon of mustard (I love the subtle and underlying taste of mustard in almost any kind of sauce). I mixed the sauce with a spoon, added black pepper to it and spread it over the dough with the back of the spoon.
I distributed 2 large cut tomatoes (1/2" thick slices) and chunks of feta cheese (about 100 grams).

I then sprinkled a cup of grated Parmesan, one chopped green pepper, fresh oregano, and a 100 grams of sauteed and drained ground beef. (Salt as per your own preference)

You can use whatever ingredients you like, of course, but these are the ones I used on mine today.

Preheat your oven to the highest temperature possible (heat from above and below) and stick your pizza in with the aluminum foil. My oven isn't that hot so it took about 12 minutes to bake this pizza. Ideally, it should be fully baked in 5 minutes precisely.

Anyway, it came out looking great and tasting incredibly delicious...

Bon appetit!

Pasta Tartourossa

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Tue, 15 Jul 2014 09:34:00 +0000

Family Size recipe

Ingredients

1 266g pack of your favorite pasta, I used Bavette no. 13
1 lb ground beef, rolled into eye-sized balls
4-6 peppers (sweet, mild or hot), cut in stripes
1 lb fresh mushrooms sliced
1 large onion, diced
5 cloves of garlic, minced
1 cup tomato paste
1 cup tomato sauce
1 large ripe, red tomato cut in small pieces
1 teaspoon brown sugar
Salt and black pepper per taste
Fresh oregano, basil, parsley ( em, about 1 table spoon each or a little more: loosen up will ya!)
4 tablespoons butter
4 tablespoons olive oil
1 chicken bouillion cube
1 cup of water or red wine
Grated favorite cheese

One Way to Do It

The most important thing to remember when cooking thick, delicious tomato-based pasta sauce is that it takes time. Two and a half hours, at least. You can cook it in 30 minutes if you’re in such a hurry, but I suggest that you open a can of tuna, squeeze a lemon on top and get fed. If you want good food, you have to wait.

Heat the butter and the olive oil in the pot over medium heat. The meatballs should be salted and spiced then thrown into the hot base with the brown sugar, being careful not to let them stick until they get that beautiful light tannish brown. Add the onions, garlic, oregano and basil then the rest of the solid ingredients gradually (after they rested in salt and pepper for a while) while stirring continuously, letting the heat at the bottom of the pot touch every single piece of delectable grub you’re going to eat later. Do that for five minutes or so.

Add the tomato paste (gradually), just don’t rush it, ok! The tomato sauce follows and the small pieces of tomato. Continue stirring and add one cup of filtered water, or red wine. I leave this one entirely up to you but you already know where my heart is ;-)

At this point, the sauce may look very thin. Don't worry, it'll get thicker with time until it reaches the perfect consistency you dreamed of. Leave over medium-high heat until it starts to boil, cover and reduce heat to low for one hour. Stir the sauce every five minutes and whisper in the pot how much you love it.

Uncover and keep the sauce barely boiling for 90 minutes, stirring every few minutes. (i.e. don’t leave food to cook itself in the kitchen while you chat with your boyfriend or watch TV) Never leave a sauce alone while cooking. It gets lonely and bitchy. You can bring a book to the kitchen if you are a bibliophile, but for the love of food, stay there!

Prepare the pasta as per the manufacturer’s recommendation. I add salt and olive oil to the water (about a teaspoon each). Drain the pasta, do not wash! I repeat! Just drain the pasta, move it to the large serving plate, pour the sauce on top with love and affection. Fake it if you have to, but until the sauce and pasta become one you have to be nice to them. Sprinkle cheese on top for visual stimulation and add to individual plates. You can splash some oil too, olive oil.

I have used so many different ingredients over the years. Veggies, the ones you like most, are delicious when cooked slowly. Use your imagination and vary your position(s), oops, I mean your ingredients.

That’s it! Bon Apetit!
Sahha wa Hana

Bisectors

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Fri, 25 Apr 2014 14:59:00 +0000

We were born in a village by the sea, squeezed on three sides by the slopes of a mountain and two hills. It was a godforsaken place, save for the summer months, when it brimmed with tourists from the inland and beyond. With the onset of September, they left, shepherding their children back to school, while motorists on the north-south beach road went out of their way to avoid driving through. The windswept main square lay empty, and the lonely café on the overhang was deserted, except for a handful of old sailors, waiting unhurriedly for another day.

Yunus and I grew up together, as inseparable as Siamese twins. While the other kids were locked up in school, we often skipped class, by climbing over the wall. Once on the outside, we ran to an outcrop, that was only his and mine. We harvested mussels, and then grilled them on flattened tin cans over a small fire. Later in the afternoon, when raw hunger clenched our stomachs in its grip, we baited fish with a batter of dried poison leaves and dough, which we gingerly hurled toward the shallows. In the time it took us to share a cigarette, the queasy fish floated on their sides and swam in circles. They opened and closed their mouths and gills, staring at the sky above with their one eye, before our whittled sticks whipped through the air, and turned them into corpses.

We were a couple of teenage boys, working hard to stay afloat, scrubbing and painting boats and dinghies for cigarettes and cash, and helping our families to make ends meet. Once a week, on Wednesday night, we mopped the terrace floor in front of Uncle Ismail’s café. He paid fairly, and rewarded us with the privilege of using his rowboat. So it was on a morning in early October, that Yunus and I jumped aboard, and put out on a day trip. We handled the oars in turns, ten to fifteen minutes each, and while Yunus rowed and rowed, I sat on the bow munching on a loaf of bread.

A light breeze blew from the north, puckering the water with white caps, and filling our lungs with a tang of salt. I lay on my back, watching a herd of clouds scudding hastily to somewhere else.
“Do you like this place?” Yunus suddenly asked.
“I hardly know any other.” I replied. “I’ve only been to Balanea and Laodicea, and they ain't much better.”
“But do you wanna spend the rest of your life here, I mean?”
“Uh, I never thought about that. I guess when we’re older, we’ll travel the sea for a few years, like everybody else.”
“No! It's not what I want.” Yunus interrupted. “I wanna go away, and never come back, just keep rowing west, day and night, for weeks and months, till I make landfall on the other side. Will you go with me?”
“But we don’t have enough food and water, not even a tarp over our heads. We can’t make it in this boat.” I was as serious as he sounded.
“If not today, then tomorrow, or next week, but what do you say? You'll go with me, won’t you?”

The math teacher drew triangles and bisectors. Yunus and I stared at the blackboard blankly, while twenty-four kids furiously scribbled in their notebooks. At the end of class, we all filed out for recess, and once in the schoolyard, the others went berserk with the taste of false freedom. Yunus and I paced the confined space back and forth, like a pair of caged animals.
“I scrounged enough canned foods to last us for two weeks.” He said. “How about you? What did you get?”
“Four plastic containers for fresh water, twenty-liter each. I think we should get one more. Canned food, namely sardines and spam. I found one smock in good condition, and Simo promised to get me another. We already have rain boots and sweaters. We need fishermen pants...”
“OK fine! We should have it all stashed in the cavern by next Monday. Ropes, gear and everything else. We leave by dawn on Tuesday.”
I hesitated for an instant, feeling the import of his words. “Why Tuesday? Why not any other day?”
“It’ll be full moon on Tuesday. For the first few nights, we need all the help we can get.”
“What about the weather?” I cleared my throat. “What if we run into bad weather?”
“We might! The next forty-five days are our best chance, however. If we keep a constant westerly heading, we’ll make it somewhere long before then.”

A dream of being lost at sea woke me up shaking. My brother snored loudly in the dark. I slept on and off, and by dawn, I was so afraid, I stayed in bed, burying my head under the pillow. When mother came in to wake me up at seven, I told her I felt sick. She touched my forehead, checking for fever, and although there was none, I shivered violently. An hour later, she walked into the room again. “Yunus is here to see you.” She brought him in, and left us alone. I averted my eyes. I couldn’t look at his face.

Yunus took the rowboat the next morning and melted into the sea. By Friday, all the fishing boats went out looking for him. A few bigger ones from the nearby village, and a coastguard launch joined the search. A week later, Ismail’s boat was spotted by a tanker, drifting eighty miles offshore. Yunus was unconscious from fatigue and sunstroke. He didn’t fully recover until mid January, but he never went back to school afterward. In the spring of that year, his father died, leaving him with an ill mother and two younger sisters. For the first time since I abandoned Yunus, I walked into his house to pay my final respects with the other villagers. Before I reached him, he stood up, and walked out of the room.

At eighteen, I traveled the sea to the far reaches of the world. Once in America, I jumped ship and stayed there, eventually making a family and a good life. I lost all ties with my birthplace, when my brother moved to Australia, and was soon followed by my parents. Yunus, moored to the village, worked as a fisherman on somebody else’s boat. I didn't hear a word of him for sixteen years, until one day, my family and I boarded a plane for a summer vacation in the old country. We rented a car at the airport, and after spending a week showing my wife and kids the splendor of my native land, we drove to the village by the sea. It had grown bigger and more desolate. Metal roofs replaced bamboo awnings, stifling the sea breeze behind mortar walls. Where Uncle Ismail’s café once stood, we sat in a restaurant that served frozen seafood, along with chewy mutton and bland chicken. Cathy, my wife, and Michael and Brenda, my kids, didn’t like the food, and hardly put any effort into hiding their displeasure and boredom. I gulped the stale beer down, and signaled for the waiter to bring the check. He hurried toward the table, smiling timidly, hoping for a big tip from this American dude.
“Who owns this place?” I asked.
“It belongs to Mr. Adan from the inland. He owns most of the village.”
“It used to be a café”, I said, “Do you know what happened to the previous owner, the old man, Ismail?”
“Ismail? He was my father’s uncle.” He replied, with a kind of pride, that was tinged with shame.
The waiter followed us out, offering advice on a resort, where we can rent a chalet. While he and I stood talking, Cathy and the kids waited impatiently in the car.
“Say, do you know Yunus, the fisherman, he’s about my age?” I ventured, my heart pounding in my throat.
“I sure did. He passed away last year. A stick of dynamite blew up in his face, while he was out fishing alone. May God Almighty rest his soul in peace.”
“What about his mother and sisters?” I had to know.
“His mother died a long time ago. He took good care of his sisters, though. They got married, and have children. Are you related to him by any chance?”
I closed the car door, fastened my seatbelt and rolled the window down. “No, but he was my friend.” I said, putting the engine in gear. Behind the dark shades, my eyes flooded with tears, but luckily for everyone, my wife and kids were already immersed in their own worlds. At the edge of the village, I took the exit out, and sped away on the north-south beach road.

Heroic Feats

noreply@blogger.com (Abufares) — Mon, 02 Dec 2013 13:49:00 +0000

Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say.
-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., novelist (1922-2007)

A light bulb exploded somewhere nearby. The glass shattered into a shower of tiny fragments, and as they cascaded in the abyss of time, the filament burned in a flash of glory and died. I lay silent in front of the keyboard, staring at the blinking cursor and wondering what to do next, what to write.

23-year old Ernesto Guevara de la Serna wrote in the opening sentence of The Motorcycle Diaries : Notes on a Latin American Journey, “This is not the story of heroic feats, or merely the narrative of a cynic; at least I do not mean it to be. It is a glimpse of two lives running parallel for a time, with similar hopes and convergent dreams.” In 1952, while still attending medical school, he and his 29-year old friend Alberto Granado started on a nine-month epic voyage across the South American continent from their home in Buenos Aires, Argentina to Caracas, Venezuela on board a 1939 Norton 500cc. The journey helped transform Ernesto Guevara from a care-free, middle-class university student into a Marxist revolutionary, who ultimately died as Che Guevara, one of the twentieth century most profound symbols and compelling heroes.

I'm by no means the reticent type, yet I had only blogged seven posts in 2013. It's easier to keep my rhetorical turmoil confined within. There will come the day when I can blab it all, of that I have little doubt. It would be too late then for my words to make a difference, but they were never meant to anyway. For you see, although I admire “Che” for what he lived and died for, I wasn't made of heroic material. I may have started this blog in 2006 as a care-free, middle-class, middle-aged Abufares, but I never expected a dramatic ascent to fame, nor a footnote in an obscure book of history.

Aris Messinis /AFP/Getty Images

While the future of my homeland is being deliberated upon over a slow-burning, yet scorching fire, thousands of my compatriots continue to die, meaningless numbers to an apathetic world, acceptable losses to the powers that be, victims to the modern day pecking order. What started as a deep sigh to breathe a lungful of the unsullied air of freedom has turned into a vicious war whose embers are continuously fed with coals of apotheosis and fanaticism.

This eighth post could be the last one of the year, so I might as well tell the “regulars”, who still pay my blog the occasional visit, that I've been writing behind their backs. Last month, I submitted an entry to the 2013 Writer's Digest Short Story Contest. I have no idea how it will rank among the more than five thousand other entries. It will be published if it makes it as one of the Top 25 finalists. If not, you'll be unfortunate enough to read it here. I'm currently working on a second short story, but my progress is even slower than Ban Ki-moon's expression of dismay, or was it disgust, over the "tragic" events taking place in Syria. This is not the time, nor the place, for cheery writing, and I'm afraid I don't make a decent commentator on world politics and current events. Since there only remains the truth that's worth writing about, I find myself caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Work has come to an almost complete stop here, but unlike those I once ignored and now despise, I haven't debased myself by blaming everyone but the perpetrators. Will next year, the one after, and those to follow be the same? If I have learned anything from the books I've read over the last eleven months, or from the wear and tear of growing older, it's that nothing lasts forever. Eventually, I will ignore those I despise, and fall head over heels in love with the ones I already love. I know that my own words will come back to haunt me for not being brave enough to have unleashed them when they would've counted for something, but in true existential form, I find myself stuck in this time and place with nowhen or nowhere to go. The least and most I can aspire for in my future is inherited liberty, for the price of pure freedom is too high for ordinary folks to pay. My consolation is that one day, truly free children will be born, but not until our guilty conscience is buried deep with us. Perhaps, I should write about them, the yet unborn, and the future they will forge, instead of lamenting a past that was never as rosy as I once led myself to believe. Happy Holidays Season Everyone!