Read Online The Ruins of Us by Keija Parssinen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Keija Parssinen
Tags: Contemporary
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visible hovering above the city.
“Salaamu aleikum,” he said. “Aish Shishmik?”
“Fatima.”
That was nearly the extent of his Arabic. Hello. What’s your name? Two decades in a place and he still felt trapped in a Berlitz video: Beginner’s Arabic for Cursing, Carousing, Unbelieving Scoundrels. But the Saudis he knew all spoke gorgeous English, so why should he bother? They’d already done the hard work, and he felt that there was something romantic about hearing the burble of unintelligible words. When taking coffee with his friends, he liked to lean back and watch their expressions and gestures as they argued in Arabic, the tiny, gilded coffee cups suspended in their hands like ornaments.
A new song came on, heavy on the bass, and Fatima started dancing. An Olympic-quality undulator, she moved effortlessly, her body gamine and beautiful in its iterations. He wasn’t interested, though. Not really. Dan felt a sense of superiority to all the men out there who had affairs, married and remarried like it was sport. They must not have really been in love, he’d think. In the chaste years since his divorce, he’d started to fancy himself something of a Petrarch, a Florentino Ariza—someone not deterred by romantic futility. But Abdullah fancied him a bore, a eunuch, a big drag. That was OK. Abdullah had never had much patience for the classics, was more of a pulp man himself.
He watched Abdullah, who was talking to a man Dan didn’t recognize and sneaking glances at the young woman who’d joined the group. She had a mouth like a split-open black plum, and she wore a long, midnight-blue dress that tied in a halter somewhere behind the masses of hair that she pushed out of her face. He was annoyed with his friend, his bald desires. Suddenly, the Princeton Club didn’t seem like the best idea. He wanted to be alone, back in his condo, not out indulging his rapacious buddy.
He flipped the lock and moved the sliding back door to the side. A weathered, low-slung deck stretched five or six feet outward before stopping abruptly. Beyond was a short strip of beach, the water moving in gentle, moon-pulled waves. It felt good to be so close to the water, the little South Seas–style clubhouse pushed right up against the shore so that Dan could see the small dark mounds of dying jellyfish on the beach. The air on his face was miraculous, and the lights of Al Dawoun winked along the opposite shore like stars in a tilted sky. To his right, the causeway stretched into the darkness, its concrete supporters invisible so that it looked like it was floating the cars back to the Kingdom. It was late and traffic had thinned out. Dan hunkered in a company chair, its wood cracked from the wet, salty air blowing in off the Gulf. The chair’s cheap upholstery was coming apart to reveal foam cushions, and every time he shifted his weight, he could smell decades of mold.
“Daniel Coleman,” someone said from the shadows along the wall.
“Who’s that?” Dan said, his eyes growing lazy with tiredness.
He watched the glowing red tip of a cigarette flare and fall to the sand.
“Patrick Hastings.”
Dan could see the man’s outline now. He was tall and lean with stylishly unkempt hair, which, backlit as it was from where Dan stood, had clearly thinned since the last time they’d met. Pat had made a pass at Carolyn in the kitchen at one of those hooch-soaked State Oil parties, and Dan had broken Patrick’s wrist in two places with a cast-iron crepe pan.
“Pat, how are you?” Dan said, extending his hand. “It’s been an age.”
“Bloody hell,” Pat said, pausing before he took Dan’s hand. “I heard a rumor that you gave up on this place years ago.”
“Can’t quite tear myself away,” Dan said.
They hadn’t spoken since the night of the party. Carolyn had been so embarrassed that night, she’d insisted they go home immediately, and she’d slept under a sheet on the couch. She had shamed Dan later, telling
“Salaamu aleikum,” he said. “Aish Shishmik?”
“Fatima.”
That was nearly the extent of his Arabic. Hello. What’s your name? Two decades in a place and he still felt trapped in a Berlitz video: Beginner’s Arabic for Cursing, Carousing, Unbelieving Scoundrels. But the Saudis he knew all spoke gorgeous English, so why should he bother? They’d already done the hard work, and he felt that there was something romantic about hearing the burble of unintelligible words. When taking coffee with his friends, he liked to lean back and watch their expressions and gestures as they argued in Arabic, the tiny, gilded coffee cups suspended in their hands like ornaments.
A new song came on, heavy on the bass, and Fatima started dancing. An Olympic-quality undulator, she moved effortlessly, her body gamine and beautiful in its iterations. He wasn’t interested, though. Not really. Dan felt a sense of superiority to all the men out there who had affairs, married and remarried like it was sport. They must not have really been in love, he’d think. In the chaste years since his divorce, he’d started to fancy himself something of a Petrarch, a Florentino Ariza—someone not deterred by romantic futility. But Abdullah fancied him a bore, a eunuch, a big drag. That was OK. Abdullah had never had much patience for the classics, was more of a pulp man himself.
He watched Abdullah, who was talking to a man Dan didn’t recognize and sneaking glances at the young woman who’d joined the group. She had a mouth like a split-open black plum, and she wore a long, midnight-blue dress that tied in a halter somewhere behind the masses of hair that she pushed out of her face. He was annoyed with his friend, his bald desires. Suddenly, the Princeton Club didn’t seem like the best idea. He wanted to be alone, back in his condo, not out indulging his rapacious buddy.
He flipped the lock and moved the sliding back door to the side. A weathered, low-slung deck stretched five or six feet outward before stopping abruptly. Beyond was a short strip of beach, the water moving in gentle, moon-pulled waves. It felt good to be so close to the water, the little South Seas–style clubhouse pushed right up against the shore so that Dan could see the small dark mounds of dying jellyfish on the beach. The air on his face was miraculous, and the lights of Al Dawoun winked along the opposite shore like stars in a tilted sky. To his right, the causeway stretched into the darkness, its concrete supporters invisible so that it looked like it was floating the cars back to the Kingdom. It was late and traffic had thinned out. Dan hunkered in a company chair, its wood cracked from the wet, salty air blowing in off the Gulf. The chair’s cheap upholstery was coming apart to reveal foam cushions, and every time he shifted his weight, he could smell decades of mold.
“Daniel Coleman,” someone said from the shadows along the wall.
“Who’s that?” Dan said, his eyes growing lazy with tiredness.
He watched the glowing red tip of a cigarette flare and fall to the sand.
“Patrick Hastings.”
Dan could see the man’s outline now. He was tall and lean with stylishly unkempt hair, which, backlit as it was from where Dan stood, had clearly thinned since the last time they’d met. Pat had made a pass at Carolyn in the kitchen at one of those hooch-soaked State Oil parties, and Dan had broken Patrick’s wrist in two places with a cast-iron crepe pan.
“Pat, how are you?” Dan said, extending his hand. “It’s been an age.”
“Bloody hell,” Pat said, pausing before he took Dan’s hand. “I heard a rumor that you gave up on this place years ago.”
“Can’t quite tear myself away,” Dan said.
They hadn’t spoken since the night of the party. Carolyn had been so embarrassed that night, she’d insisted they go home immediately, and she’d slept under a sheet on the couch. She had shamed Dan later, telling
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