Maro by Essayed Taha

When Maro woke up the morning of that summer day, he was supposed to hurry out of bed, take a quick shower and leave for his vacation with his boyfriend of two months. They were planning to spend a week in Dahab, a small town on the Red Sea, known for attracting hippies. Maro had prepared all he needed in a large backpack, all his see-through shirts and tight shorts, all his necklaces and earrings, everything he hid from his parents and couldn’t normally wear on the streets of Alexandria. He opened his eyes that morning, looking forward to spending that week with Rami, his first real boyfriend. But, as he lied on his bed staring at the ceiling and imagining all the things he would be doing with Rami in their private rented unit in a few hours, he felt a lump in his throat. It was as if a stone had blocked the air from reaching his lungs. I can breathe. I am breathing. He repeated to himself. Yet, the sensation of being deprived of air was burning his chest. The pain rose, until he felt it in his ribs. His lungs contracted, demanded to be filled with oxygen. He gasped. He kicked the air with his legs as if trying to pump it up. He grasped the edge of his bed frame with one hand and hit his chest with the other. He was breathing. His mind was certain of that. But his heart raced with fear. Blood rushed through his limbs. And the pulses bounded, hammered, beat against every bone in his body. I am breathing. I am breathing. He repeated to himself again and again, reminding himself that this was not the first time he had felt like he was going to die. 

He was trapped in his mind. Trapped in a reality he knew for certain was nothing but a fabrication. He thought a lot about what it might be that his body was trying to convey to him. But he couldn’t figure it out. The only thing that he could figure out was the timing of these episodes. Although their nature differed greatly – one time he felt as if he lost control of his legs, another time he thought he lost his sight – they all occurred right after feeling happy. As he was slowly trying to unbutton his pants with his shaking fingers, Maro recalled the time he had lost his sight. It was right after he gotten the news that he had been accepted into Engineering school. He was so happy, and his father was so proud of him. He saw the light dimming; he thought there was a problem with the desk lamp, but his father said the lamp was fine. He rushed to his room and closed the door. He turned on all the lamps and moved his eyes from one bulb to another as the light faded from all of them one by one. It was on that day that he started noticing the timing of the episodes. Always right after he felt genuinely happy. Always right after something good had happened to him. And it was also on that day that he discovered a way to shorten the episode. To make it go away faster and regain whatever ability he had lost.

He had found his way to a chair in the dark room, when he started taking off his cloths. First, he took off his shoes and socks. He saw a flicker. Then, his pants. The bulb on his desk exploded with light. Then, his t-shirt. The light of the streetlamp came pouring in through the window. Then, his underwear. That was when he stood up, his naked body bathing in the light that was flooding the room.

No one called Maro by his real name, Marwan, except Rami. Rami refused to use the short version. Moreover, he stressed the second syllable, the one everybody omitted, extending the W and rising high with the A before falling on the N with a ring. Maro tried to sway him, but he insisted. “You make me feel like I’m being yelled at,” Maro laughingly told him one time. But Rami replied, “It’s either this or I will call you Wan.” The way Rami pronounced Maro’s name gradually became a secret code. Whenever Rami called him stretching his voice in this singing manner, he meant to say, “I see the parts everybody else overlooks in you.” And Maro would respond with the voicemail message, “The person you’re calling is not available at the moment,” to dilute the intensity of the closeness he felt toward Rami in those moments. And then they would laugh, fighting the urge to kiss right there on the sidewalk. Rami would touch his own shoulder as if giving it a massage; this was his code for an imaginary kiss. Rami had encoded their entire relationship. When he wanted to hold Maro’s hand, he would scratch his own palm. When he wanted to tell Maro how beautiful he was, he would touch his own nose. This infuriated Maro. He used to yell at Rami, “Don’t signal at me. Do or say whatever the fuck you want.”

Despite the long list of codes for all sorts of things they weren’t allowed to do in public, there was no code for “I love you.” Neither of them had said it to the other yet. That was why Maro looked angry and confused when Rami suddenly tapped on his shoulder then pulled his own ear. Maro asked him about the meaning of the gesture, but Rami only smiled. They were sitting next to each other in the bus on their way to Dahab. The bus driver’s voice broke their mutual gaze into each other’s eyes and announced that they had reached the tunnel under the Suez Canal. This meant that the bus would wait in a long line to go through a security check. Everyone would get off the bus, form a line, and open their bags for inspection. But the wait was usually two hours. So, Maro rested his head on the window and closed his eyes.

For thousands of young Egyptians who took the half-day trip, the wait before the Suez Canal tunnel, the long hours of sitting in the bus, the absurdity of having to go through at least five security checks along the road meant nothing compared to the beauty and freedom that were offered to them in Dahab. Simply, Dahab was nothing like any other place in Egypt. The boredom of the endless desert gave way suddenly to the existing mountains of southern Saini, upending the monotony of the stifling yellow color, and staining the open horizons with dark brown and black rocks. The road narrowed and looped between the rocks until it opened unexpectedly unto the Red Sea. Being form Alexandria, Maro was always partial to the Mediterranean, however, he understood the beauty of the calm, deep-blue water of the Red Sea with its wealth of reefs and colorful creatures. But what he appreciated the most was the dramatic collision of dark, high mountains and deep-blue waters, separated by a thin line of narrow beaches and palm trees. The fact that he could wear his tight shorts and chiffon see-through shirts, showing off his body, was exhilarating. He even wore some make-up. This was worth the trouble.

The other privilege Dahab offered was the fact that he and Rami could stay together in the same room. Of course, they had to book a unit with two beds to maintain appearances, but they shared one. They even felt safe to steal a kiss in a quiet street or on a half-empty beach. Maro loved to be seen. He loved being perceived as gay in any and every way. And he loved the look of disgust they sometimes got from people. It was still Egypt after all; the freedoms were never distributed equally, even in Dahab. No one cared if a heterosexual couple kissed in the streets of Dahab, even if they weren’t allowed to do so in any other place in the country. Maro and Rami were less careful than they were in Alexandria for certain. But sill, they had to be careful. And it was still worth the trouble.

They did all the typical things people did in Dahab: snorkeling, nightclubbing, Safari, rock climbing, and, of course, soaking their bodies in the warm water for hours each day. Rami was thrilled when he discovered that they didn’t need certification to go scuba diving. He wanted to do it with Maro even though Maro was less enthusiastic. Rami said with the N ringing longer than the usual, “MarwwAANnn.” Maro replied with formal, machine-like tone, “The person you’re …” Rami interrupted the message with a kiss. They dove. And it was mind blowing. To be inside all that blueness felt like being in the sky. Floating. The deeper they dove, the deeper they felt the connection between them. Isolated from the rigidness of their society, they dove into each other’s care and warmth. And the deeper they dove, the more painful the sting of cold looks they felt when they came back to the surface. That night, when they went out for dinner, Maro put on his gray pants and brown polo shirt. For the first time in his life, he wished to be left alone. To be invisible.

The following morning, the morning of their fourth day in Dahab, Rami wanted to cancel their plans and stay in. He wanted to hold Maro and be with him. He never felt closer to Maro than when they were alone. Unlike Maro, the gazes of others didn’t inspire any kind of defiance in him. It only made him more aware of the crime everyone else thought they were committing. A crime so great, it shocked the throne of God. That was on top of the legal trouble they would get into if they were to be caught. Rami believed that keeping himself, and of course Maro, safe was far more important than any foolish act of rebellion. Especially if it was an individual act. Each one of them had his own definition of what it meant to be gay in Egypt, but he respected the other’s definition because he knew how hard it was. 

They were planning to go to a Bedouin café up in the mountain that day. Maro reluctantly agreed to spend the day inside and use whatever utensils they could find to cook together in the small kitchen of their little unit. They spent the whole day in bed, having sex, watching TV, talking, laughing. Some topics of discussion were darker than others, but they laughed nonetheless, perhaps even harder, at the futility of their situation. Rami said after a pause, “Have you ever met an older gay man? Someone in his sixties. What does that even mean?” Maro laughed, “They don’t exist. I won’t be calling myself gay when I’m no longer fuckable.” Rami wanted to tell him that this all-or-nothing approach would hurt him, but wasn’t that what he loved about Maro the most?

At four o’clock, they went to the grocery store and bought pasta, tuna, and tomato sauce. Maro boiled the pasta, the only cooking he could do, while Rami prepared the tuna sauce. This was heaven, Rami thought. The movement of their half-naked bodies in the small kitchen, the synchronization of their actions, the common goal they were moving towards, namely a simple pasta dish, brought Rami to the brink of tears. Could they be like that until their sixties? Rami knew that for this to happen, Maro would have to change. Be tamed. Put their secretive happiness before his constant need to be seen. Maro was standing next to the stove in his tiny underwear, exhibiting his body, feeling the temptation of his beauty travelling with the spices Rami was adding to the sauce. Rami would raise his eyes from the sauce pan occasionally and look at Maro. Maro knew what Rami wanted more than anything else in that moment. He knew that Rami wanted his companionship as much as he wanted his body. Maro didn’t know what his stance was. Would he be willing to be content with Rami’s love? Would he be willing to forsake his grand ideas about gay rights and freedom? Why can’t Rami be angry like him? Defiant like him? Why can’t they both be rebels and fuck on the beach at the middle of the day? Rami once told him that he wouldn’t do it even if it were legal and socially acceptable.

Rami was doing the dishes when Maro came into the kitchen fully dressed. He tapped Rami’s shoulders and asked, “Can we go for a walk?” Rami turned, hands dripping soap and dirty water, and said, “I love you.”

Maro was dumbfounded. He stared at Rami and said nothing for a whole minute. During which, he felt a well exploding in him, flooding his senses with paralyzing happiness. He felt his body swelling. His clothes tightening. He wanted to say something, but his tongue was floating in his throat out of his control. He hadn’t told Rami about his episodes. After a moment and so much effort he was able to say to Rami, “I’m going to go for a walk now. Don’t worry I’ll be back. I promise. I promise. Don’t come after me. I’ll be back. Don’t worry. I promise.” And he ran outside.

Rami wiped his hands, slipped into his shorts and t-shirt as quickly as he could and dashed after Maro. But Maro had disappeared.

Dahab is small. The entire town could be explored in an hour. And it fans out along the coast. There’s the Corniche and there’s the main street two blocks away running along the coastline. The corniche has all the attractions, the restaurants, the shops, the bars, everything. The main street is mainly hotels and rentals. So, there was only one path for Maro to walk on. But which direction? 

I decide to go left first; it is the quieter side of the town. Perhaps that is what you are seeking. Loneliness

Yet, having doubled back, I reach the farthest beach on the right side of town without finding you. By then it has been completely dark for almost an hour, and I have been walking along the coast from side to side looking for you. The full moon is brighter than usual which makes the famously stary sky of Dahab seem almost starless. The beach is deserted. It is obvious that there is no one there. My thoughts have run wild during the past hour and a half. I can’t imagine what I could have possibly done wrong. Have I misread the situation that much? But I am more concerned about you. What happened to you? Where did you go? Did you throw yourself in the sea? Shit! Shit!

I sit on the sand and start crying. Then I see a body near the water. It is lying face down on the sand. I notice some movement. I start walking towards the body. And the farther I move away from the streetlights, the clearer I see in the moon light. I see items of clothes scattered on the sand. I recognize your shorts, chiffon shirt, and necklace. It is you. You. Naked. Lying on the sand. And you are bleeding.

I run towards you as fast as I can. Screaming, “MarwwAANnn, what happened?” You turn your face. Your eyes are filled with silent tears. your lips are cut. your chest is bruised. Your back is stamped with footprints. Scratches are everywhere. Blood and sand and dirt cover your beautiful body.

When you realize that it is me who has found you, you burst out sobbing and gasping and shaking. You stretch your arms around my neck. And I can hear you muttering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I hold you. Then, I ask, “What happened?” You reply between your breaths, “They found me. They hit me. One of them pissed on me.” 

“Who? Do you know them? Did they take off your clothes? Did they rape you?” I shower you with my confused questions. You, gasping and sobbing, say, “I don’ know them, some young men. I was already naked. That’s what provoked them.” I am more confused. I want to ask you why you were naked, but this isn’t the point.

Over the following days, I attend to your cuts. Cleaning and bandaging them. You have refused to go to the hospital or to the police. You are shaken and afraid. You never tell me the details of what has happened on the beach. You only tell me that you remember one of the young men screaming at you, “Isn’t that what you want, faggot?” A silence falls between us. Thick and pressing. I want to break it but can’t find out how. Should I ask you again about what has happened? Should I tell you once more that I love you? I keep caring for you. Showering and feeding you while feeling the anger inside me rising like an imminent flood. Who are they? They shouldn’t get away with what they have done. I wake up in the middle of the night, my head filled with a buzzing sound like an overheated machine. You, on the other side, look like you want to disappear. Hiding in bed. Breathing quietly. Whenever I start talking to you, you smile and answer me with as many words as necessary. There are much more important things hovering over your head. I sense them. I sense the tension of unspoken words. I can see how the words weigh upon you. Every word you utter sounds like an explosion. 

When we reach the Suez Canal on our way back. I am still trying to figure out a way to deal with my new anger. My sense of the injustice we must endure. I am deep in my thoughts when you tap on my shoulder. I turn my gaze to your calm face. You pull your ear. I immediately understand what you mean. But I am the one who is supposed to hide behind codes. I am the coward. Not you. You are the brave one. You break my heart, my love. I lean toward you and whisper, “I love you too.” And for the first time, I don’t care if anyone hears. I don’t care if these are my last words. I don’t care if this costs me my freedom. My life. I want you to hear it from me. I want the air between us to carry my voice saying it. And I want to hear myself say it. You rest your head, still bruised and scabbed, on the window and close your eyes all the way to Alexandria.

Essayed Taha is a writer from Alexandria, Egypt, currently residing in Los Angeles. Taha writes poetry in Arabic; English translations of his poems have been published in Loch Raven Review. He has published Arabic translations of novels by H. G. Wells, Rudyard Kipling, Joseph Conrad, and others.

24 November 2023