FICTION ROSES AND JASMINE
Ahmad took the picture of Amine
standing in front of the wall. He pulled the
roses from the bouquet, lining the base of
the wall with them as well as the jasmine.
Those who were walking about stopped to
watch him: wondered what he was doing,
why he was doing it, who he was? Ahmad
clicked as he did it. Amine kept one of the
roses, pulling petals from it and throw-
ing them onto the wall. He was saying
something as he did it, a prayer perhaps, a
prayer for them.
The crowd had thickened, as there
were about thirty staring not immedi-
ately around him but near: behind the car,
across the street, further across the street.
He dropped the green stem of the torn rose
there, in front of the black-and-white wall,
and stared at it: arms out, palms facing the
sky. Ahmad kept taking photographs and
unconsciously felt his eyes welling. Amine
slowly walked to Ahmad and took the
camera from him. He walked across the
street, taking a photograph of the memo-
rial of Mohamed Bouazizi draped in vinyl
over a public building. The dead man was
clapping, the fading image of him clapping
to no one or nothing besides the police
station across the street. The heartbeat,
Amine thought, this is the heartbeat. He
took more pictures of the concrete fruit
cart the community had built; we will
never forget spray-painted at its base. There
were also handprints: red, blue, yellow, and
green at the base as well.
A police officer watching Amine walked
up to him. “What are you doing?”
Amine looked at his camera, then
looked at the officer. “I’m taking pictures,”
he said.
“You can’t do that,” the officer said. He
was wearing a pale blue T-shirt, which
made his protruding stomach seem larger.
“Why not?”
“Terrorism.”
“I’m not a terrorist. I’m American.” The
officer walked to the taxi driver and began
arguing with him. Amine kept taking pic-
tures and walking slowly. He wanted to see
the details: the cracks in the rocks, the way
the lotus trees bent in the breeze, how the
old man in a red-and-white scarf teetered
past the cement fruit crate, hand cupping
his chin.Ahmad ran to him. “The policeman is
getting crazy.”
“I don’t care.”
“Just take the pictures then put the
camera away.”
“I have enough here I guess. He’s just
asserting his nonpower,” Amine said, put-
ting his camera in the leather case. “I’m
going to walk around. I’ll meet you under
those trees when I’m finished.”
He rubbed his arm as he stood in front
of the building where Bouazizi burned
himself. He closed his eyes, seeing fire and
hearing a man scream. He passed the fruit
stands near the taxi station where cream-
colored Mercedes were lined up with doors
opened and men sleeping inside waiting
for passengers who wouldn’t be around
for several hours. The vendors were selling
lemons, piles of peaches, apricots, and the
remaining strawberries at the end of their
season. Perhaps Bouazizi’s cart was there in
2010, he thought. Amine took money out
of the ATM, enough to pay the driver and
perhaps cover the lunch they’d have along
the way. He walked to the open market
where a man sat on a carpet clipping his
fungal-infested toenails and laughing. He
wanted to take a picture of the fruit and
vegetable carts but thought it inappropri-ate as all were going about their business:
bargaining for peppers in straw hats usu-
ally meant to keep the sun away, but there
wasn’t any. The earth was muddy and clut-
tered with bean hulls, fruit peels, plastic
wrappers, and bags. He watched a garlic
seller hand braids to women who pressed
them against their noses, such pungency. It
made them think of death and immortality
at the same time. Amine took a photo as
inconspicuously as he could, then com-
menced to the café with the red awning.
There were four costumers, five includ-
ing him. Three of whom sat a table together
talking about Real Madrid, their jobless-
ness, and their mothers who stayed in their
bedrooms speaking to themselves.
He looked at the black table and
thought of space and the way the night
sky appeared when he left his job in South
Carolina. It was the day he kissed one of
his students in his office. Left his hand on
the back of her head, his sunned fingers in
her black hair. The cosmic dust they both
saw as their lips pulsed over each other’s.
She ran from his office flushed and high.
She could see her Indian mother shaming
her in their tiled kitchen. He covered his
mouth, placed a few manila folders in his
leather tote, and left the office knowing he
wouldn’t return. He placed books in boxes
along with a few framed photographs, the
potted jade that had grown into a bush, a
bottle of whiskey, and three bottles of red
wine. He left his apartment.
He was tenured but it didn’t matter in
1984, nine years, done. He just drove his
Ford Thunderbird until he’d gotten to Mis-
sissippi, until he was in his college friend’s
driveway; the one who owned three used-
car dealerships. Almost eight hours later,
he stood in the driveway crying. Ibra-
him saw the headlights of the car cutting
through the living room’s sheer curtains.
When he opened the front door of the
house, there on the porch they embraced.
Charlie Parker’s “All the Things You Are”
blared from the car stereo. They were both
so far away from France, Morocco, Algeria,
and Mali, so far away from the men they
were, the men they began building.He watched a garlic
seller hand braids to
women who pressed
them against their
noses, such pungency.
It made them think of
death and immortality
at the same time.18 W LT SUMMER 2019