The Radiant City by Lauren B. Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

then I ate some crappy hospital eggs, pinched a nurse’s ass and went back to sleep. Tell the story over and over again, lead the mind through, and convince your lizard brain that time’s moved on.” Jack pauses, holding the camera up to his eye. “So, if you do want to talk about what happened . . . well, you know.”
     
    “I’ll keep it in mind.”
     
    A couple stops near them, executing a series of complex moves with their legs, intertwining them and stepping first right and then left at fantastic speed. They are both dressed in black, she with a red rose in her hair, he with a red rose in his lapel. Jack’s camera clicks happily away.
     
    “Anyway,” says Matthew, feeling deeply vulnerable and foolish because of it, “Thanks for saving my ass back there.”
     
    “No problem.”
     
    “Remember Kosovo? Seems like you’re always saving my ass, doesn’t it?”
     
    “You can do the same for me one day. Have another drink.”
     
    And Matthew does, his hand damn near steady.
     

Chapter Seven
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Saida swirls olive oil over the top of the hommos and sets it inside the refrigerated display case next to the bowls of eggplant moutabal , taboulé, moujaddara and spicy potato salad, as well as the platters of falafel, safiha —little pizzas with meat and pine nuts – two kinds of sausages, both manakiche and makanek . She arranges the pastries, the baklava, maamou , with either pistachios or dates, and macaroons flavoured with orange water. An oriental bakery near their apartment delivers fresh sweets to Chez Elias every morning. Saida herself is a fine pastry-maker and would prefer to make them herself, but there is no time for such things, nor is the kitchen nearly adequate. Already the savoury dishes must sometimes be cooked at home in the early hours of the morning. Since she left her husband, such responsibilities have fallen to her. Ramzi handles the coarser tasks, such as grilling the skewers of chicken and lamb or stuffing the pita with falafel while she makes the rest in the minuscule kitchen, just an alcove really, behind the counter. Saida does not mind that the kitchen is not private. She wants every customer to see how spotless and well organized the little space is.
     
    In fact, the entire shop gleams. The floor, the four tabletops, and the counter—everything is spotless. Her father is her ally in this. She and Ramzi were raised to believe that a clean mind and clean body are intertwined, that a clean house is the outward manifestation of good spiritual health. If, however, Ramzi has relaxed his diligence as he grew into manhood, Saida lives with a bleached rag in one hand, ready to pounce.
     
    Her father, of course, is not helpful in any practical sense. But he is her father and he is old and if he chooses to spend his days sitting by the window watching the world go by, reading Lebanese newspapers, then Saida feels he has earned the right.
     
    She wishes Ramzi would leave her father alone. Every day the same thing and this morning is no exception. She listens to father and brother argue with only half an ear. The same old argument.
     
    “We can’t stay here forever,” says Ramzi. “We’ll never get ahead.”
     
    Her father shrugs. “No place is perfect. This is not so bad. We eat.”
     
    Ramzi makes a sound of disgust.
     
    “You want to go back to Lebanon?”
     
    “No. I didn’t say that. But, well, maybe.”
     
    “I’ll never go back. It is the land of the dead for me. And you are saying nothing. Wind across the sand.”
     
    “There are more opportunities elsewhere. There is more sunshine elsewhere.”
     
    “There are opportunities here. You think you have it so hard? You own this business. You can take a wife. Feed your children. The stores are full of things to buy.”
     
    “This city is depressing. People are so unhappy.”Ramzi stands with his hands in his pockets, his stocky back and strong shoulders hunched. He looks out at the rain