Distressed Assets #10
She has an idea. She buys a bottle of wine, some fruit and vegetables, on her way back to the apartment. Standing in the street,
she slides open her phone, tapping a search query into its navigation app. She reroutes, taking a detour.
The shop is out of the way, in the shadow of Montmartre. Its bright orange-and-blue painted exterior contrasts with the gray
weather. Lili ducks inside the little grocery, a bell above the door ringing. The rain continues in fits and starts, but the
clouds do look like they might clear later.
Inside, the shop smells like honeyed baklava, thick olive oil, incense, and dry goods. Behind the counter, the shopkeeper—an
elderly man; white hair, thick black eyebrows, knit gray sweater—glances up at the sound of her entrance, greets her. Lili
summons a smile, nods. He offers her help if she needs it—or she guesses he does, her French is shabby—and goes back to doing
his crossword. A low hum of music plays, a radio beside a tiny wooden khachkar. A cat dozes, lazy legs drooping off the shelf.
She grabs a basket, starts exploring the store. Bulk tubs and rolled-down canvas bags showcase a meticulous, glowing assortment
of wares: huge dates, slivered almonds, dusty red lentils, glossy olives. The sturdy shelves carry bottles of olive oil, preserved
lemons, tinned grape leaves. Lili starts adding things into her basket, a recipe in her head.
The place reminds her of Samiramis Imports, long ago weekends going shopping with her parents at the Middle Eastern grocery store in the Mission: tubs of tahini, olive oil soap, bricks of hookah tobacco she had snatched and run around the store with, making the shop owner laugh.
She recalls the bob of her mother’s beautiful long dark hair, tied up into a messy bun, striding authoritatively down the aisles, grocery list in hand, trying to find the right tahini, and how Lili’s father had looked after her, a look almost like wistfulness that Lili couldn’t understand.
As her mother ran off, a flurry of activity, he’d pick Lili up into his arms, so she could see the goods on the top shelves
better, groaning as she tried to tug down big sacks of rice, giggling. He’d help her sound out the English and Arabic words
on cartons and cans. Inevitably, they’d run into her mother talking to some stranger—bright voice, rapid pace, fast Arabic,
Armenian, or French; your mother knows enough languages to never stop talking, her father had once joked—overhearing her from several aisles away. Usually her brows were creased, this dissonance of home
and worry, while they spoke animatedly; it was post-9/11, the years of Syrian withdrawal, Hariri’s assassination, mass protests.
But that specific look—combination of homesickness and anxiety—would lift from her face when she saw them.
Jack, you’re going to give her an American accent, her mother had warned later, overhearing him helping Lili pronounce Arabic words, crouched down beside the spice tubs: the
feeling of ground wild thyme, dried sumac, coarse salt running between her fingers.
He rolled his eyes. Would you rather I speak to her in English?
Her mother had grinned, mischievous. Maybe just don’t speak at all, she’d teased, knocking her hip against his shoulder. What should we make for dinner?
He stood up to his full height, slinging an arm around her shoulder. Let me worry about that, he said. Come on, Li—let’s race to the car.
Her father was the cook in their household; his work hours were long, but predictably so, whereas her mother’s office hours
and labs often ran late without warning. As a little kid, Lili regularly stayed up with him, far past her bedtime, sitting
on the counter as he cooked for her mum, feeling illicit and happy. He let her crush pistachios with a wooden spoon as he
clarified butter, rip apart parsley with her bare hands, sneak spoonfuls of yogurt from the carton. He taught her how to peel
pomegranate without making a mess: bowls of cold water, his efficient slice of a sharp knife before letting Lili dunk the
fruit and its white flesh underwater, peeling apart the honeycomb and dislodging its little red seeds together. He learned
the trick from her mother. He did all this cooking—Lebanese food, Middle Eastern recipes from various cultures—for her mother.
Now, decades later, Lili asks the elderly shopkeeper for help with the prepared foods behind the glass deli case. He says
something in French; she doesn’t understand. He tries again in Armenian; she gives a weak smile, shaking her head, apologetic.
He smiles, waving a hand, forgiving. Through gestures, he ascertains which olives, desserts, cooked vegetables she would like
to buy.
As she checks out, the shopkeeper manually ringing in the items of her small grocery haul, she wonders if he can see anything
in her face: anything that marks her as from the same part of the world as him, however distant; any sign of how many memories
she has packed down tight inside of her. There is no particular sign of acknowledgment from him—polite nod, warm smile—as
he hands her the plastic bag of groceries. Lili thanks him in French, leaves.
She’s cooking in the kitchen, back at the apartment, when James and Amina get home.
“Hey,” she says, as they come in the door. “I’m making a late lunch, want some?”
James grins, and the look on Amina’s face is radiant.
She makes fattoush salad: chopped tomatoes and cucumbers, crunch of radishes, bitter parsley, pomegranate molasses, fried
pita bread, smashed garlic. She is deeply out of practice with folding grape leaves, so she bought premade warak enab, roasted
red peppers, olives, soft, fresh pita. Baklava with crumbled walnuts, plus labneh and feta for her friends.
They eat together, lounging in the living room. James puts on an Arthur Russell album. The three of them discuss the paintings
that Jamie and Amina just saw at the Picasso museum—Lili and Amina are adamantly not fans of his, Jamie sees his appeal—and
the intensity of the rain, getting caught in it. They touch on logistics for tomorrow, Amina’s gallery meeting before their
train. Amina serves herself seconds of fattoush, and Lili hides a small smile.
There’s something light, and delicate. Hopeful, hesitant; easily trampled, but with roots.
The clouds do clear in the late afternoon.
The sun grows with the beginnings of a brilliant sunset, and they go outside.
They get ice cream, basil sorbet and noisette gelato.
There’s a tiny square, a city park at the edge of the ?le de la Cité, willows draping into the water; Notre-Dame looms within sight, passing hum of bicycles, the rush of water lapping against riverboats.
Along the bank, groups of friends and couples sit with wine and food. A few lone people doze in the sunshine. Fragments of
conversation, drifts of warm laughter. Amina spits cherry pits into the Seine, while Jamie uncorks the cheap rosé they’d brought
along, tells a story from William, stuck on vacation with their father and stepmother back home. Amina makes a dry joke, and
when Lili laughs, shaking her head, the other two exchange a look.
And she is thinking, too, of words by another river, and of memories from decades earlier in this same city. But fragilely—hopefully—promising,
now, not wretched—in the remembrance of it; in the chance of forgiveness, if asked; in tentative possibility again.
The next morning, she slips out of the apartment early. Their train doesn’t leave until the afternoon. Her friends are still
sleeping, and she leaves a note.
Outside, fresh sunlight washes the empty streets. The occasional boulangerie is open. She notes the location of one, making
a mental reminder to pick up croissants for James and Amina when she returns. Most other shops are shuttered as she walks
over the bridges, and heads back into the Left Bank.
The Luxembourg Gardens. He said he’d gone there.
The gardens are just opened, gated iron entrances unlocked. Lush foliage, thick trees. Gravel crunches underfoot, soft with
white sand. Navigating around the huge fountain, heading into the trees and shaded paths, Lili settles into one of the green
metal chairs scattered everywhere.
A few other early risers pass by; some runners, parents with strollers. Small groups silently practice qigong between the
trees. Passing students and nuns from the nearby Institut Catholique head to summer language courses. A businessman in a relaxed
suit reads Le Figaro; twin toddlers, a little boy and girl, run across the island of grass and flowers, which the French usually leave untouched,
sacred and inviolable.
Lili watches the children for a few moments, before she relaxes into her chair and slides open her phone.
It’s getting late in New York. Markets closed, Asian markets still open.
Aleksandr Petrov.
Her finger hovers for a moment before she hits call.
The dial tone rings. She chews on her nail.
Would he be asleep or awake, right now—and could he be thinking of her? Is there a chance, any chance, that he’s waiting for
this—
A double beep, and then the call disconnects.
Lili frowns, glancing at her phone screen.
Roaming shouldn’t be an issue. She hasn’t had trouble reaching her friends.
She scrolls through her contacts, finds Jackie’s number. Her roommate is likely asleep, but she always sets her phone on Do
Not Disturb at night, it won’t wake her.
The call goes through fine, hitting her voicemail. The familiar sweetness of her friend’s voice, lilt of light words: “Hi! You’ve reached me, Jackie, I can’t come to the phone—”
Lili hangs up. Her heart starts to pound, heavy.
She clicks Amina’s number. A few rings, the sound of international roaming, and then—
“Hey, love, what’s up?” A sleepy tone, rustle of sheets.
Her pulse begins to hammer.
“Hey, sorry—just at the park, left a note—sorry, I’ll call you back—”
Lili hangs up without waiting for Amina’s response, and calls his number again.
And again.
And again.
The same response each time, call disconnecting after a few beats.
A hollow ringing grows in her ears.
He’s blocked her.