He was rude to me when I first saw him, which is one of the reasons I remembered him. The other was that he was drop-dead gorgeous.
This was in the souk (Arab market) in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, one dull Saturday morning, and I was shopping for a Quran. Not some paperback English translation, but something really nice, an ornate Arabic copy I could display in my office at home. I also needed it for a few of my Arabic classes. I found the sort of shop I was looking for in one of the darker, less populated corridors of the covered market, a little stall really, which sold a variety of Qurans and assorted religious trinkets. It was overseen by two men, one younger, one older.
The older man was sucking sleepily on a water-pipe, and seemed uninterested in me as I looked over the wares. The younger man had a book open in his lap, but he watched me out of the corner of one piercing dark eye. I spotted a copy I liked, and reached to turn back the front cover with my right hand. I wanted to see if it included commentary, or if it was just the text. The sleepy older man glanced at me, realizing I'd seen something I liked--and might be persuaded to buy. But the younger one was having none of it. To my shock--because Arabs are, in my experience, unfailingly polite, especially to foreigners, and very especially to foreign customers, with none of the rudeness or inattentiveness you sometimes find in an Israeli shop--he stood up and snapped "Don't touch!" I literally jumped back, and not just because of the surprising behavior. When he stood up and turned fully toward me, I could see exactly how beautiful he was.
His black hair was cut short and neat, but it was obviously thick. He also had very neat facial hair. About a half-inch of beard--stubble, really. The rest of his skin was liquid-smooth, unlined, a warm golden brown. His eyes were large, arresting, dark, with long curling lashes and soft thick lids. His mouth, though set and serious, was quite lush. He was very young to have such a grim expression on his face, maybe only 25. I realized my mouth was open and I had nothing to say, so I took a step back, then turned around and started back the way I came. I could hear the other man saying something to him in rapid Arabic. I didn't catch what, but he sounded pissed. I continued on my way, got my book at another shop, and ended the excursion with some sweets from one of the many sweet-shops. My mind returned to the pretty young fellow with the grim face as I enjoyed my treat, but I avoided his area of the market for the next few weeks.
I was sitting by the window in a restaurant I frequent near the Old City, and the same young man walked in. The place was somewhat full, and one of the only seats available was near me. So he sat close by. I watched him order his tea, and then pull out a smudged, tract-like document from his bag, which he proceeded to peruse, head bent.
I must have been bored, or feeling particularly gutsy, because I used my badly-pronounced Arabic to get his attention. Then, once I had it, asked him if he'd been to this restaurant before. When he answered yes, many times, I asked him what was the best dish on the menu. He didn't seem to recognize me from the market, and pleasant conversation ensued.
It turned out he was a religious student at some madrasa or another. Hence, I guess, the dead-serious look. His English wasn't great--the vocabulary seemed uneven, comparatively rich on some subjects, barely adequate on others. But he liked to talk, especially about his studies. He was interested in mysticism, things like that. Not really my area. But his beauty, and his cute broken English, sufficed to keep my eyes from glazing over. And somehow, by the time I'd finished eating, I had convinced him that coming back to the room I was renting in East Jerusalem for coffee was a good idea.
Now, from what I gathered, he wasn't married, and he shared a place with a few other students who were away right now, in a building owned by his cousin, the shop-keeper. His family was from Hebron. So nobody was expecting him home tonight.
It relieved me that, unlike with most Arab guys his age, none of his chatter on our bus-ride to my place was about girls. But, because it was mostly about God, I wasn't exactly elated.
In my room, I got him seated comfortably on my sofa, then went into my little kitchenette, out of sight, to put together something to drink. I boiled water, then got out sugar, instant coffee, and brandy. I mixed it together in oversize mugs, putting several generous dollops of liquor into his. I was betting on his never having tasted alcohol before.
And I was right, because he continued sipping on his drink throughout our Arabic-English conversation, seeming not to notice the effects it was having on him. His gestures got more effusive, his English looser, easier, but also more haphazard. The little ember of desire I'd had for him since the day at the market began to grow and grow.
Then he asked where the bathroom was. I showed him, and he got up, a little unsteadily--which was adorable after only a few shots of brandy. He said something about studying all day and being "too much tired". I smiled and nodded knowingly. When he returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, I grabbed him by the shoulders, pressed him against the wall, and kissed his somber, lush-lipped mouth hard.
Needless to say, he struggled. Needless to say, he protested, both in Arabic and in English further broken by fear. But though nearly as tall as me, with firm small muscles, he was a slim young man and I was able to wrestle him to the bed, and after only a brief struggle, pin him there. When he opened his mouth to yell for help I slapped him, hard enough that, but for luck, I might have split his lip. His soft mouth trembled in fear and shock. I leaned over and whispered into one of his lovely ears, telling him to keep quiet or I'd hurt him badly. He seemed to believe me.
