“Call After Her”—a short story

Mirvat first arrived in early January. The days were damp and short, and she giggled while cleaning the floors. Even though I protested, she unpacked the boxes I’d left on the balcony. “I don’t like to leave things halfway,” she said. Her voice was strange, birdlike.

My neighbor, a widowed woman in her sixties, gave me Mirvat’s number after I moved into the old building in Sanayeh. I chose it over the others because it had these nice green shutters and a large rubber tree at the entrance. But it smelled like wet socks and needed a thorough cleaning. The old widow warned me that Mirvat babbled a lot. “At least she’s Lebanese,” my neighbor said. “And cheaper than the Syrians, even the Bangladeshis.”

Mirvat began coming every Sunday. I’d open the door to find her in her little shoes. She would take off her cream-colored anorak and march past me, hiking up her velvety sweatpants, and begin in the bathroom, where she scrubbed the tiles with Eau de Javel Plus.

She mixed a cup of laundry softener into all the cleaning products — the glass cleaner, the all-purpose spray, the limescale remover, even the bleach. Because of Mirvat, my apartment began to smell of lilac flowers. Hours later, after she finished wiping the kitchen counters, she’d look at me and shake her head wistfully.  

“Bye, Khalil, bye.” My name sounded like toffee in her mouth.

The old widow was right, some days Mirvat spoke a lot. She referred to herself in the third person and discussed Princess Diana’s death at length, as though they were close friends. She said I was a photocopy of Muhannad from the Turkish soap opera. When I mentioned my insomnia, she flapped her arms about and said this was very worrying. She told me the solution was to boil rosemary and inhale it before sleep. She went on about rosemary, how it cured baldness and improved memory and prevented cancer.

Other days she was quieter, more solemn. She’d straighten the cushions on my couch with an air of aristocracy. “My brother lives in Ukraine and his son plays the piano,” she said during one of her more elusive days. She showed me photos and it was true. Her brother’s wife was a Ukrainian woman with thousands of followers on Instagram.

Throughout the week Mirvat sent rose emojis and Qur’anic verses on WhatsApp. She wished me a steadfast week at the office. When I took my laptop out on the balcony to watch Formula One, she shook her head.  

“You work so hard,” she said.

~

One evening in mid-March, Mirvat sent two pictures. The first was of her friend, a bride in an overly sequined white dress, holding a bouquet of roses. The second was a close-up of Mirvat smiling with her mouth closed. She wore gold earrings and had bright pink lipstick on. Her breasts filled the frame.

I felt myself getting hard. I stood up and walked to the kitchen, washed my face with cold water. I opened the fridge and stared at the lemons and yogurt and leftover bamyeh, at the rosemary concoction Mirvat had left for me in a plastic bottle the Sunday before. I sat in bed and tried to watch Breaking Bad.

My throat felt tight with anger. Not at Mirvat, I thought, but someone else. Maybe God, or my dead uncle Khalil. I couldn’t speak to anyone about her. I imagined people would point at me and laugh. Of course I didn’t care that Mirvat was a cleaner from Aicha Bakkar. All women are good women, as my uncle, the legendary philosopher and womanizer of Saida, used to say.

My uncle wasn’t even handsome. There was something frail about his frame, as though the wind might sweep him away at any moment. But then he’d look at you with his olive eyes like he knew what you were thinking. My mother always said there wasn’t a woman he spoke to who didn’t end up coming back.

When I was a boy, he took me and my cousins to a super nightclub in Maameltein. The club was smoky, lit by flashing red lights. My uncle ordered a whiskey bottle. Women in heavy makeup moved around our table and my cousins seemed exhilarated. I forced myself to drink a beer. But then the women circled closer, and I swallowed a peanut the wrong way and began to choke. I coughed and cried. Afterwards, I begged my uncle to take me home. He patted my shoulders. He told me not to worry. We drove back to Saida on an empty highway with all four windows rolled down, my cousins recounting the story as they convulsed with laughter louder than the wind.

Until his last days, my uncle would slap my shoulders whenever I visited and ask how it was with the women in Beirut. “He’s not named after me for no reason,” he’d announce to whoever else was in the room.

But there have been no women in Beirut, not since Layal. I was turning thirty soon and I was still a virgin. 

Layal only allowed me to rub against her with clothes on. Everyone on campus had wanted to do her favors but it was me she picked. Maybe because I came from a good family, or maybe Mirvat was right, and I really did look like Muhannad from the Turkish soap opera. The day after we graduated, she let me look at her naked. It was the unhappiest day of her life. She sobbed for hours after I tried to touch her. “My mother will never forgive me if she finds out,” Layal cried. A couple of weeks later, Layal broke up with me and moved to London. She said she wanted to become an actress.

I ran into Layal in the supermarket last summer. It had been six years since we’d seen each other. She pretended not to see me, disappearing into the sweets aisle. She was on the phone, her condescending voice drifting across the shelves.

I unlocked my phone and opened my chat with Mirvat. Mirvat, who spoke like a bird. Underneath her last photo, I replied: You look nice. 

Looked? She messaged back with a sad face. 

No, I responded immediately, you are nice.

She sent some more emojis: a peacock, a blushing kitten, and two blue hearts. Something in my throat loosened.

The following Sunday Mirvat arrived at my apartment in her cream-colored anorak, as though nothing had changed, as though she were there simply to stack my plates in the kitchen cabinet. But throughout the week she would send romantic songs by Sherine Abdel Wahab and I’d respond with pictures of the traffic on my drive to work. 

One morning, during the Easter holiday, she texted: Where are you? 

At home, I replied.

Do you want to go for a walk?

I sat up in bed and wondered what to do.

~

I parked my car near the Manara lighthouse. It was afternoon and Mirvat stood by the rails, looking out at the sea. I noticed her hair for the first time because it was often up when she cleaned. It was swinging on her lower back like a horse’s tail. Above her the sky was mint blue with pollution. I tapped her on the shoulder and she turned around. Her eyes widened like she was surprised to see me.

“Why is it so easy to hurt other people?” Mirvat asked. She seemed upset. She continued, “Or maybe it’s not easy to hurt other people, but it is easy to be hurt by others.”

We walked along the Corniche. Mirvat discussed the weather, how wonderful it was in April when there happened to be sun and wind at the same time. She pointed at the sea and said she hoped to one day learn how to swim. She pointed at a Starbucks across the street and said she craved hot chocolate. We waited for a break in the traffic then quickly crossed.

“You’re not wearing your anorak,” I said while the barista prepared our hot chocolates.

“Do you mean to say you don’t like this?” She pulled down her jean jacket and tilted from side to side as if she wanted me to find her cute. 

I handed her the drink, then took a sip of mine. 

“Be careful, Mirvat,” I said. “It’s hot.”

She smiled and shook her head, wistful.

We stepped out of the coffee shop and onto the Corniche, which was more crowded than before. Mirvat continued to point at everything, like she didn’t want me to miss any of it. The fishermen, the young boys diving from rocks into the sea, a woman in large sunglasses being propelled forward by her dog. We stopped to watch a couple, who appeared to be having an argument. The man addressed the woman in a hushed, reprimanding tone. The woman had tears in her eyes and kept looking at her phone.

“Why is it so easy to hurt other people?” Mirvat asked. She seemed upset. She continued, “Or maybe it’s not easy to hurt other people, but it is easy to be hurt by others.”

It was very hard to understand Mirvat sometimes. 

We walked past a group of friends sharing a hookah. The fruity smoke blew in our direction. Mirvat crossed her arms over her large chest and turned to me. 

“You don’t smoke, do you?” 

I shook my head. 

“The number of people who smoke weed in this country,” she whispered, although no one was particularly close. “No one would believe the things Mirvat has seen in people’s houses.”

I felt a pang in my chest. I didn’t want to imagine Mirvat cleaning anyone else’s house. But if there was a change in my demeanor, Mirvat didn’t notice. She continued speaking. She said people were filthy, especially girls. She said my neighbor, the old widow, took very long showers and often sang to herself, that she left her chewed gum on the bedside table. She said she found all sorts of unusual things under people’s beds.

“What sorts of things?”

“Oh, I can’t even describe them.” She shuddered dramatically. Behind her, the sky turned purple and the air cooled. Around us, people walked as though nothing had the power to affect them.

“This is how I knew you were different,” Mirvat turned to look at me. 

“In what way?”

“Your house is neat. And no one knows what happens inside.”

~

A couple of Sundays later, Mirvat was sick and did not come to clean the apartment. I got out of bed and put the kettle on. I fried eggs and cut up a tomato into small pieces, then sat in the living room. I kept adding sugar to my tea until it was undrinkable. The curtains were wide open. The summer light fell over the buildings of Sanayeh. I watched it shift and thought of the office the next morning, how I would have to drive there, write code, debug something, push an update. All those lives being lived, and what was I doing with mine? I dozed on the couch until the evening, with a sickly feeling in my mouth.

Not long after, Mirvat called me for the first time. She asked me how I had planned to spend my birthday. I was surprised because I didn’t remember mentioning the date.

“You’re turning thirty,” she chirped. “Isn’t that a big deal?”

That night I did push-ups and flossed my teeth. I washed my sheets and sat in bed to practice wearing a condom. The room was very warm although the air-conditioning was on. I turned from one side to another, unable to sleep. My mind was like a building crammed with old faces.

Sunday arrived and brought with it Mirvat’s triple tap. I opened the door without meeting her eyes and she marched in, a white box in her hands, a woman on a mission. She opened the fridge and placed the box inside. I watched her from the corridor as she brought in the mop and bucket from the balcony. She gathered the cleaning products from under the sink. She ran the tap in the kitchen, then slid on her yellow latex gloves.

“Your house is neat. And no one knows what happens inside.”

I sat in the living room and waited. Perhaps today would be a day like any other. Perhaps once everything had dried, Mirvat would head to her house in Aicha Bakkar only to return to mine the Sunday after. I heard her pouring water over the tiles. The only way to clean anything is to use a lot of water, Mirvat had once said. Other cleaners use hoovers and wipes and brooms but none of that works, believe me. You must pour water over everything.

“Khalil?” Mirvat’s voice drifted from the corridor. I sat up quickly, almost knocking over my laptop. She popped her head into the room and I felt the sudden urge to run down the stairs and leave this building.

“You’re almost out of fabric softener.” She pointed at the pink bottle in her hand.

“Okay,” I said. The bottle was not even half empty.

“Okay,” she said. 

She returned to the kitchen and ran the tap. I felt dizzy. I thought of something my uncle used to say — the only way to get a woman was to get her. He was like that, my dead uncle. He spoke simple and brave things.

I walked into the kitchen. She was still at the sink. 

“Mirvat,” I said with authority.

“Yes, Khalil?”

“What’s inside the box?”

She laughed, her mouth wide open. She turned to me, slowly taking off her yellow latex gloves. Sometimes I thought of a chick when she laughed. Her teeth were yellow, and terrible. 

“I don’t want to say.” Then, throwing up her hands, she said, “Fine! Fine. I got gâteau for your birthday.”

“Mirvat,” I said. I steadied myself on the kitchen counter.

“Yes?” She narrowed her eyes and looked at her feet. 

“I thought maybe we could do something today. Order food, cut the cake together. The house is fine. Enough with the cleaning. Tell me. What would you like to eat?”

She thought for a while. “Why not some Italian?”

I ordered a pizza for myself, and some spaghetti for Mirvat. When the food arrived, she went to the bathroom and washed her hands for a long time. Then we sat like strangers at the small table in my living room. 

She placed the cutlery around her plate, then lifted some spaghetti with her fork before setting it down again.

“Can I tell you something, Khalil?” she asked. I felt her legs near mine. “I do believe God loves Mirvat. He’s always watching over her.”

She unfolded a paper napkin over the table and pressed down its four corners. I tried to move my feet closer to hers.

“Have I told you about the dream?” she continued. “The story of when I was nearly evicted? I don’t think I have. Well, it was over a year ago — rent was rising, remember, that was when they began to change prices from lira to dollars. My landlady called every night and said: Mirvat, if the Syrians are paying in dollars, why can’t you?

“But the United Nations stands behind Syrians. So do the Americans. Who is behind me?” Mirvat wondered aloud.

I squeezed ketchup over a slice. I’d finished half of my pizza and Mirvat still hadn’t taken a bite of her spaghetti. I watched her hands fold the paper napkin into one small triangle after another.

“One day,” she continued, “my mother’s cousin, the rich one, called out of nowhere. He said he dreamt of my mother —” Mirvat coughed. She looked very emotional. “He said he dreamt of my mother who, as you know, has been dead for decades now. He said he dreamt of my mother —”

“He said he dreamt of your mother?” I said.

“He dreamt that my mother asked him to check in on me, on her Mirvat.”

“Oh.”

“My mother’s cousin sent the money for my rent, several months of it, immediately. Of course it was God who sent the money. Indeed, He is ever, over you, an Observer.”

I reached out to stroke her face. She didn’t seem surprised by this so I moved closer to her. Our chairs formed a lopsided triangle around the table. She was still going on about God and how much he understood her when I brought my lips close to hers.

She pushed me away. “And do you remember January? The first time I came to your house, more than half a year ago? Well, on New Year’s, a couple days before, it was Mirvat’s turn to dream. My mother appeared in my sleep. She was wearing a long grey robe, like a Greek god from the books, and she flew above me, she told me to keep my eyes open because she was sending a blessing. Someone to keep Mirvat safe,” she sniffed at me, then smiled. “Someone to protect her.”

I leaned in, and this time she allowed me. She smelled like a garden and it felt nice, so nice, to kiss Mirvat, to hold Mirvat, to breathe in Mirvat, my Mirvat, until she gulped for air and I realized she was crying.

“Mirvat!” I said. I gave her some Diet Coke.

“I need to know, do you —would you, would you have —if something had happened — in a serious way — me?” she hiccoughed.

I was very flustered. I wondered what it was about me and women, why I caused tears and reminded them of their mothers. “Drink some Coke,” I said.

“I want to do things the proper way,” she said after a while. She blew her nose with her napkin. She wiped her eyes with my napkin. She took a very long sip. “I don’t want to do anything wrong.”

“There is nothing wrong with what we’re doing,” I said. “Aren’t you enjoying it?”

I caressed her velvety sweatpants. I wanted to put on jazzy tunes, but I was afraid that if I stood up, Mirvat would evaporate. 

“How do you feel?” she asked after a while. “Where is this going?” She moved my hand from her lap to the table. She sounded calm, as though she was suddenly a different person. 

“What do you think of Mirvat?” she asked. 

“But, why are you asking such questions?”

She cackled and I found her cruel.

“I thought what we had was nice,” I muttered. “I thought you enjoyed it.”

“No,” she frowned. She had the loveliest mouth, small and pink. “This isn’t right. I don’t deserve to be here, in this place.” She gestured as though I were a place. “How could I have forgotten that God was watching?”

“You should eat your spaghetti, Mirvat,” I said. “It’s getting cold. And there’s cake — there’s cake in the fridge, it’s for my birthday, did you forget?”

She pushed her plate away and shook her head. She was quiet for some time, as if waiting for someone to arrive. Then she unfolded the paper, discarded it in the delivery bag under the table, and stood up.

“Please wait,” I croaked. My jaw felt brittle. There was such weight to my bones.

“No, Khalil,” she sighed. “I waited a long time.”

“I’m here,” I said. I wanted her to remember our kiss. I wanted to say how nice it was to sit with her.

“You either do this the proper way,” she said, “or you don’t.”

I wanted to ask her what the proper way was, but my throat had already tightened with the same old panic.

She sat for a while, unmoving. When I said nothing, she scraped her untouched spaghetti back into the plastic box. She got a cloth and wiped down the table. She didn’t respond when I asked what she was doing. She stacked my plate over hers and washed them in the kitchen sink. I kept repeating, “Mirvat what are you doing?” But it was as though she could no longer hear me. She dried her hands on a towel and picked up her bag from the couch, where it had been sitting. I followed her into the corridor like a child, mumbling words that were no longer coherent. I tried to reach for her hands but she shook her head.

“You never once picked me up or dropped me home,” she said. Her voice sounded far, like she’d already left. “You never once took a picture of me.” 

And then she shut the door behind her. I heard the elevator open, then close. I listened to the elevator descend six floors, and then I knew Mirvat had stepped out of the building and past the large rubber tree into the night.

~

She did not return the following Sunday. I called a week later but her phone was off. The cake was still in the fridge, the box unopened. Behind it, the rosemary she’d boiled for my sleep had turned the color of old tea. I wasn’t sleeping at all. I tried to call for a while, every morning, then every morning and every night, but it never went through.

When Layal left, I spent months, maybe years, agonizing over what had happened, if I’d said something wrong or behaved in ways beneath her mighty standards. But with Mirvat, a complete blankness enveloped me. I was like a particle in the air.

A month later I ran into my neighbor outside the building. She complained about the weather, how insufferable the August heat was. I took the grocery bags from her hands and we trudged towards the elevator. Her bags were heavy with milk and fruits, laundry detergent.

“Has Mirvat been answering you?” she asked out of nowhere as we passed the third floor.

“No,” I said.

“Poor girl. I hope she’s alright. You know, she spoke of you often.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Maybe she’s finally gone to her brother in Ukraine,” she said.

“Maybe,” I said.

Before going to bed, I opened the half-empty bottle of lilac fabric softener and inhaled it for some time. I thought of all the Sundays before. And then I imagined Mirvat in Ukraine, fluttering through the large, grey, empty streets in her cream-colored anorak and little shoes. Her mouth was wide open, her hair long and restless in the wind, and I wanted to call after her, to take her picture, but she’d already turned into a corner to disappear.