Short Fiction: "If He Should Ever Call"

By Fawzia Naqvi

“Marc Anthony helped put me back together again.”

“What?!”

When you picked me up at the airport in L.A. You were playing that Ricky Martin CD we bought together in New York.”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember. But Marc Anthony…what is that all about?”

“Oh That..that has nothing to do with you. It’s me. My own. Not for you, not because of you. Mine. Remember the André Bocelli song…”

“Yes. I know. It must have been hard…”

“It took me almost one year to be able to listen to that song…”

“Yes. Yes, of course. ‘Por ti Volare’. I still remember that night. It was special. I know it sounds empty now. It was special. I remember how much you cried that night when we danced to that song.”

“I had believed you chose that song just for me….it was ours. For me, from you.”
“I did…at that time…it felt right…I…”

“Do you like the name Emilio? I’m going to call you Emilio in my story. Is that okay? I first heard that name in high school. Senior year in Manila. Someone’s gorgeous Spanish boyfriend was named Emilio. I loved the name ever since.”

“Why not call me José? Make it a really common name. In fact why don’t you first conduct a survey and see what is the most common name for Mexican men. Better yet, why don’t you just use my real name? Doesn’t matter what you call me, I want you to stop writing this story. Why do we have to go over this all over again? Why do you have to write this story? ”

“Because I have to. You know, according to the Wall Street Journal, in 1998, José was the most popular name for newborns in Texas. And, according to the Economist, the most common family name among new home owners in Los Angeles is Garcia.”

“Great. Excellent. That’s it. José Garcia!”

“No. You will remain Emilio. Emilio Rodriguez.”

“You’re crazy. You really are! You know what I’m saying?!”

“Why don’t you ever speak to me in Spanish?”

“What?”

“Now that I understand, why don’t you ever speak Spanish to me?

“Whatever.”

I want to call myself Sherazade.”

“Shera...what?”

“Sherazade...you know from the Thousand and One Arabian Nights...”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I hate it when you say that.”

“What?”

“Whatever. It’s like a slap in the face. Dismissive. As if you couldn’t be bothered. I hate it.”

“And I hate it when you lecture to me like I’m a child. Why do you always speak to me like that? As if you have to educate me about the world.”

“That’s not fair. I only tell you about things when you ask me to. Why do you always do this? Remember you did the same thing when I returned from Pakistan and you wanted me to tell you all about Pakistan and Islam? And when I started to you put an end to it by accusing me of talking down to you and lecturing you like a schoolteacher. Why do you always do that?”

“Because you do talk down to me. I’m not as ignorant as you think. Anyway. Whatever. Stop writing this story. Let it go.”

“Like you let me go? No! Zahra. That’s it. I want to call her.…me, Zahra. I want my daughter’s name to be Zahra. When....if I have a daughter. Did you know that I wanted you and me to have a son? I wanted to name him André, or Emilio if you wanted to follow tradition. I wanted us to have a son because he would have looked like you.”

“Those are not very Pakistani names. Why wouldn’t you give him a Pakistani name?”

“If you would have agreed I would have given him a Muslim middle name. Emilio Mikhail, André Ali, … or may be Danyal ...if you had agreed.”

“Of course. Of course I would have agreed. Even to the first name if that’s what you....we could talk...we could have talked about it. Of course.”

“Like we talked before? That fatal conversation which you temporarily donned to see how it fit? That conversation which made you feel trapped and caged in? Remember? How did we fall in to that conversation? I didn’t want it. I was too scared to let my mind go in that direction. I knew you were not ready. Besides you wasted no opportunity to tell me, “We are not there yet.” Whether it was about my being the only woman you were with, or your looking for a job in New York.

I cannot forget how you reacted when your friend asked you why you were not moving to New York to be with me. You didn’t count on my understanding Spanish. But sometimes you need not fully understand a language to know what has been said.

“Tu… que quieres?” you asked him.

I looked at your face, the way you extended your arms out to him in that ‘what the hell do you want from me?’ way. That is why I got up to go to the bathroom. What else could I have done but leave? Leave you to further express my irrelevance in your life, set your friend straight once and for all.

But I continued to play the role for you that night. The appropriately silent yet adoring woman by your side act. Agreeing with every word uttered from your mouth, volunteering nothing to the contrary. That is how I assumed you wanted me to behave, at least that particular evening when you did in fact express how pleased you felt with my behavior.

And as I sat huddled near the door of the cab you moved closer to me, resting your head on my shoulder and caressing my thigh as you slid your hand underneath my dress. “Do you want me to make love to you tonight?” You asked, “Are you going to relax?” I nodded wordlessly, looking away from you and out at the passing city.

Then that afternoon, just before you left for an interview in Washington D.C, you started telling me how easy it always is being in Mexico, how few complications there are. Everyone is Mexican, you said, they know who they are. No need to explain backgrounds nor spell and pronounce names. No one stands out as being different. Its too complicated in this country.

“Does it bother you?” I had asked, “that we are different? Do you find it complicated and a chore to deal with me because I am not Mexican?”

And you said “No, of course not. This is not about us. I don’t feel that way at all. Besides, with you its simple. I am totally comfortable with you as I think you are with me. There are no issues. I don’t feel I have to explain myself or you have to explain yourself to me. For instance, if we were to end up together I don’t think we would have a problem because I think both of us are open minded, and you’re reasonable....”

And we talked about also having a church ceremony if that was what your parents wanted. And about how you would convert to Islam for ‘technical reasons only’, which made you wince at first, but you said okay if its only for technical reasons, like traveling in a Muslim country and such. And how the kids would be both baptized and have the azaan whispered in to their newborn ears, although the Christening would probably kill me. And how I could wear cream and gold for the church ceremony and you said blue looked good on me too, for the Pakistani part of the wedding. Oh no not blue, I said, something else. And you suggested that I go and get color coded at one of those places.

Then we continued to discuss every possible obstacle related to a Catholic-Muslim marriage, a Mexican-Pakistani home. And I told you that you must be responsible for teaching the children Spanish. “Of course,” you said “And teaching you too.” I told you that it would be nice to live with your parents. You smiled wickedly and said but there won’t be any privacy. And I said you won’t be requiring it after I had one pregnancy, because then my body would no longer be attractive to you. And you swore that would never be the case. You would always want my body you said, as you lifted up my sweater and began caressing my body with your mouth. Lowering my sweater I asked you to stop.

“Please,” I said, “This makes it so much harder when you leave. We only have an hour left. I feel your touch days after you are gone. Its very hard for me.” But you didn’t stop. And you begged. And I said no, not this time and you kissed me hard and long on my mouth, “Please. I need you,” you whispered in to my ear. And so I gave in. Lo que quieres Emilio.

And I said we can always consider a duplex arrangement. It is an important issue to keep in mind. Something to resolve before hand to avoid any unnecessary problems later. We must tell your parents up front that living with us is an option they will always have. I wanted to test you on the subject keeping my own parents in mind. And you smiled at me and told me I was always reasonable. May be that is why your mother liked me so much. I was like her. Reasonable. And I assured you that nothing will be an issue, everything can be worked out if we both want it to.

And on the way to JFK the cab driver asked you if you were Pakistani and you said no, Mexican, and then he asked if I was Pakistani. And you lied and said no, I was Mexican too. And he doubted you for a moment as he looked up, catching your eyes in the rearview mirror. But then he let it go. Because, a Pakistani woman would never caress a man in public nor kiss him so shamelessly in view of the whole world.

But his doubt resurfaced as he replayed the image of you and me kissing at the street corner where he stopped to pick you up.

No, not Pakistani, he convinced himself, may be Indian.



February, 1999