This story is mostly true with all names changed to protect the innocent, and some incidents altered to protect the guilty. You know who you are... ;)
"Robert", this one's for you, wherever you are.
Alex
Copyright (c)2002 Alex D
Sins and Lovers
Bad start to a day: wake up call at 5:45am. I bashed my head on the top bunk as I got up and, trying to be quiet, blundered out the door of the dorm into the reception area, head spinning from the copious quantities of alcohol I'd consumed the previous night. It was silent: no one was there except for the night receptionist, who was fast asleep at the desk, drooling over her doodle-covered notepad. I shook her awake and one look at my face, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent light above, was enough to startle her into consciousness . "Looking lush, Alex" she laughed , wandering off.
I slumped into the seat and immediately my eyes began to close. The small, cavern-like room was still, the grotty sofas that were the meeting and hanging out place for people from all over the world looked abandoned and forlorn. Even the ashtrays were empty. There was a surreal quality to the place, though that might have had something to do with my blurred vision or the newly-hideous lemon paint on the walls. The owner of the hostel wouldn't be getting up for another couple of hours. Most of the guys I'd been out with the night before were unlikely to get up for another couple of days. Hopefully there would be no over-eager sightseers getting up early today to disturb me. They always irritated me, those people: frantic creatures surrounded by maps, leaflets and clutching their Lonely Planets, who were taking three days to "do" Jerusalem before moving on to god knows where. "Jesus, relax, take it in" I would mutter as I would check another batch of them in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. (Them, not me). Then I would relax and get back into the true culture of Jerusalem for the hostel inhabitant: roll another joint, crack open another beer, sit back and soak it all up, all the sights and sounds of daily life in this most amazing, mad, beautiful ancient city. The Lonely Planet "list" could wait. The noise outside was already starting, muffled as it was by the thick walls of the hostel. People getting their shops ready for another day, deliveries being made, the call to prayer ringing out over those narrow bustling streets of the Old City. Sighing with pleasure, I fell asleep.
It took a hefty shaking to wake me up again. Disorientated, I looked at my watch and groaned. 7am! I looked up. The guy was just standing there, arms folded, with a sarcastic twist to his expression. He was tall, lean, well built. Very well fitting jeans emphasised his hard thighs and decent looking packet. I caught myself looking and blushed. A weighty backpack was propped up against the wall, looked like he had the kitchen sink in there. I rubbed my eyes.
"Can I get a bed sometime this week?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. It took a minute for my brain to follow my body and wake up.
"Uh...private or dorm?" I stammered, seized by a jaw-breaking yawn.
He sighed theatrically. "I don't give a shit. As long as it's comfortable and cheap and somewhere I can get a goddamn night's sleep."
Arsehole, I thought privately as I got out the registration book. "Dorm it is then" I said, scanning the page for spaces in the "Moron's Gallery" where the reception workers would put anyone they didn't like. There was a free bed and I was pleased. I took his passport. His name was Robert Gomez: he was 28 and he was American. The passport photo was truly hideous. He must have been about 18 when it was taken, grinning cheesily with train track braces shining and, even better, a mullet haircut, permed at the back. I smothered a laugh and slipped it into the passport drawer, which I locked. He had obviously noticed my mirth because he was blushing furiously and looking even more angry.
"This way" I indicated and set off up the narrow winding staircase. We emerged on the roof. I shivered and realised I had forgotten to change my stained t-shirt from the night before. Oh well. The Moron's Gallery was just to the left, a newly built room housing 8 people. It was quiet, clean and, more importantly, far from other people. I showed him to his bed and he climbed in immediately without another word. I went back to reception to get a better look at the passport. It was a hobby of mine, reading other people's private documents that they had left at reception for safe storage. Even letters that arrived for people I knew. I was becoming shameless, a creature without any moral fibre. I had another laugh at the photo before leafing through the passport to see where he'd been. He had flown into Cairo about two weeks previously and had crossed the border into Eilat two days ago. I wondered how long he was going to stay. Replacing his passport, I lost interest and my mind began to wander idly. I glanced at my watch and realised that the restaurant downstairs would be just be opening. Ringing down my usual order of hummus, chips and salad, I flicked on the video and put my feet up. I enjoyed my "work", but sometimes it was so hard!!
By the time my shift finished at 2.30pm, I was absolutely dog tired. It had been a rotten morning. Jens, a lumbering Dutch giant who had been there so long he was considered part of the furniture, had staggered in just as I was about to eat my breakfast, pissed on the sofa and barely made it to his bed before throwing up on the floor and collapsing in a heap, flies still undone and cock hanging out. The hostel owner had gone ballistic at the state of the place (and me) so I had to drag out the mop and bucket and unwillingly try to clean up. Thankfully, the old cleaning lady came in before I had to tackle the puke. She was cackling to herself as she mopped, stealing glances at Jens's...well, giant. I could hardly stop looking at it myself and after deciding it would be too cruel to take a photo, I threw a blanket over him.
One arduous task left before I could relax: laundry.
Stepping out onto those smooth old stones, I smelt the aroma of felafel cooking. It was always the same, going outside into the ever moving traffic of people and carts (and the occasional donkey): that feeling of sinking into some kind of mad river. I loved it. Fighting my way through hanging clothes and into the main market street that separated the Old City's Christian and Muslim quarters, I listened to the chatter and the noise as I was pushed and shoved by old women carrying impossible loads. The nut seller standing in his usual spot. Souvenir shops crammed with everything from life-size baby Jesuses to Dead Sea salts, spice shops, bric a brac shops. My favourite place was a sheesha cafe up near Damascus Gate where you could just sit, smoke and watch the world go by. But that day I was in no mood for anything. I just wanted to get my clothes and fall asleep. Humming tunelessly to a wailing Arab pop song blaring out from a nearby spice shop, I turned off the main street and headed down a winding side street, head down.
Sitting on a small foldaway stool by the side of the narrow street, illuminated by a shaft of light filtering through the canopies and clothes lines above, was a red-haired girl, surrounded by giggling, boisterous children. There was a sketch pad on her lap which was obviously the focus of their attention. Her small round glasses reflected the sun at me for a second and I was left with dancing sparks before my eyes as I stopped in my tracks. The children were scrambling over each other to see what she was drawing, laughing and pointing. Being a nosey sort, I couldn't help but go over myself. An old woman had fallen asleep on a spread out rug, beside what were likely her front door steps. Her grey hair was peeking out from under her headscarf in fine wisps, her mouth open revealing mostly gums. The small pile of vegetables she was selling was still intact beside her. I looked down at the girl's sketch book and saw the woman completely reflected in it, grey, like an old photograph. It was the most incredible drawing I'd ever seen. "That is fantastic" I told the serious-looking artist, open-mouthed. Without looking up, she grinned and began to sketch the background in more detail, capturing the weathered splendour of the carving surrounding the door, the texture of the stone, filling in more shadow. Finally she put down her pencil and looked up. "There's so much beauty in this city" she said, smiling a warm, sunny smile, folding her glasses away. She wasn't beautiful herself by any means, with her too-thin body and big nose, but there was something about her, her soft southern Irish accent ... I felt like Michael Corleone in the Godfather when he met Apollonia. The thunderbolt had struck.
We chatted for a bit about the city, our travels, our hostels...I had almost convinced her to come and stay at mine when she suddenly looked beyond me, waved and shouted. As she stood up, the children dispersed, chattering loudly. Looking round, I saw she was beckoning some kind of Adonis, six foot and towering over me. He was beautifully tanned and well muscled yet bordering on the crusty traveller. There was evidence of a goatee and he definitely had a on a Bob Marley t-shirt. Even an ankle bracelet. I was disgusted. She hugged him and kissed him, and I was crushed. Obviously they hadn't seen each other in a long time.
"Oh Darren!!!" she was squealing as he whirled her round. Not knowing whether to stay or slink off unnoticed, I was still weighing up the pros and cons of the situation when she began to introduce me to her flawed god.
"This is Darren!" she gushed, patting him on his tremendous pecs. "We...met in India. Darren, this is..." There was an uncomfortable pause. "Alex" I muttered, holding out my hand. He pumped my arm up and down, nearly wrenching it from its socket. I winced. "Pleased to meet ya!" he bellowed, abruptly turning his attention to...whatever her name was. It was obvious that they had a lot to talk about so I slid off, collected my clothes went back to the hostel and without speaking to anybody I flopped out on top of my sleeping bag, exhausted and pissed off.
A few days later, I had a day off. I had lost all track of time by then, and also all courage needed to go chasing the girl I fancied. The other guys in my dorm were going that day to visit Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum. I had been already, and passed on a second visit, still feeling traumatised from the first. There was a photograph there that had chilled me to the bone, a black and white, blurred image of a woman clutching a child, standing windswept on the edge of a vast pit of bodies as a German soldier prepared to fire. I had stared at it until I couldn't see it any more, feeling helpless and despairing of the ugliness of human nature.
It was a sunny day so I decided to grab a takeaway felafel and head up to the roof with a few beers and the book I'd started reading on the plane which I rarely had time for. I found a nice spot behind the washing lines. Casim, the owner of the hostel, kept a mattress there for emergencies. Whatever that meant. Maybe for one of the painted tarts he pulled when he went to...wherever. I hauled it out and flopped down, idly gazing round at the chaotic rooftops of the Old City that sprung up haphazardly around us. If I stood on my tiptoes, I knew I could be able to see the golden dome of the Al-Aqsa mosque. Another nearby historical site I hadn't yet bothered to go and see. Once I'd guzzled my "picnic" and smoked a joint (or two)I began to get sleepy, the wind warm in my face. After reading only one page I put the book over my head and closed my eyes. My dreams were sadly not filled with the face of my beautiful artist: I dreamt of washing my clothes in a bucket, naked in the street while passers by stared and laughed.
I woke up shortly after with the odd feeling of being watched. Removing the book from my face, I sat up. Robert was there, lying on his side on a rug opposite me. He was staring unashamedly, and didn't look away when I caught his eye. He smiled lazily, and I began to wonder if I had felafel sauce on my chin or something.
"You look cute when you're asleep" he said, winking. "Which seems to be...most of the time?"
I slid on my sunglasses. "You have the knack of catching me at bad times" I said haughtily. The compliment was wasted on me, stoned as I was.
"What kind of an accent is that?" he asked, the grin getting wider. I bristled and lifted my book, hoping to signal an end to any further attempts at conversation.
"Whatever, man" he said eventually and rolled onto his back, using his bag as a pillow. Spreading his newspaper out over his stomach and lap, he began to read, moving his outstretched leg idly from side to side. I took the opportunity to sneak another look at him through my sunglasses.
Sleek, dark hair swept back in a ponytail. The hint of stubble. White t-shirt, plain khaki shorts, sandals. I reminded myself he hadn't had time to become a crusty just yet although the hair showed potential. My gaze travelled up his leg. The tan began to fade as thigh met shorts. There was no distinct line, just a graduation from very brown to...He shifted position again and I caught a distinct glimpse something tantalisingly shadowy nestling against his upper thigh. I couldn't take my eyes off him, waiting for him to move again so I could see it again. It formed a very nice bulge in his shorts, certainly. My cock started to swell and I was surprised at my body's reaction. I flipped myself casually onto my stomach in case he noticed I was pitching a tent. Still pretending to read, I continued to stare and was rewarded when he sat up to fold his paper away. He took a swig from his can of mango juice and lay down on his back again, feet on the ground, knees bent in the air. Again I saw what I was looking for, nestling against his thigh in the darkness of the cover of his shorts, but it wasn't a great view. Still, I couldn't stop looking. By this stage my cock was beating a tattoo against the hard, scratchy mattress and I wiggled, only making my predicament worse.
Before long, I was desperate for a wank and began hoping that Robert would get up and go. I put my head down, frustrated and unable to believe that I had become so aroused just by looking up a man's shorts. He just had the most amazing thighs. But he lay there, oblivious. Soon though, it was obvious that he had fallen asleep, judging by the soft snores. I leapt up at the opportunity, covering my obvious excitement with my book and dashing over to the toilets. I was almost whimpering as I dropped the book and rapidly choked my spunk out all over the toilet seat (who says men can aim), seeing stars in the process.
Robert was still lying there when I sneaked past him. He had crossed his legs, and was looking incredibly chaste. His mouth was slightly open and I tried to imagine what it would be like to taste him, to lie with my head on his belly, listening to his body gurgle. I rubbed the scars on my wrists reflectively, a habit I was no longer trying to break. No one asked about them, no one stared. I'd thrown away the daft looking wristbands I used to cover them with. I had found a place where I was truly happy and accepted, and I meant to enjoy it for as long as I could.
Reception was warm and buzzing with new arrivals. I could smell the harshness of Noblesse cigarette smoke stinging the back of my throat. Helping myself to coffee, I sat down, lit up and started chatting to whoever would listen, thinking "this is the life. Isn't this just the fucking life."
A few days later, I found myself a new job. It was quite by chance. Bored of the hostel's dismal restaurant, I headed up towards the Jaffa Gate in search of something different. I longed for a bacon buttie, although there was little chance of finding one. Shopkeepers were beginning to acknowledge me as I passed , and I was happy. I felt like I would never leave this amazing place, I was so in love with every crack on the paving stones, every tacky souvenir. I 'd been planning to grab a tub of hummus and some pitta bread and go sit beside the Citadel to eat but a new restaurant caught my eye and I decided to go in. It was like a cave inside, small and cramped with about seven tables in total, arching ceilings painted white and red patterned Turkish carpets on the walls. There was the obligatory portrait of Yasser Arafat so I went and sat beside it. A few other travellers were sitting around, conspicuous in their "backpacker uniform". I could spot the ones who'd been to Dahab, in Sinai, because they had coloured weaves in their hair. Probably done by one of the swarms of Bedouin girls trying to make a bit of money. I could hear strains of "Buffalo Soldier" but I was in such a good mood I decided to stay anyway. The menu seemed to be basic Arab cuisine, so I ordered hummus and pitta bread just to be different and got out my book, determined to get beyond the first chapter.
A few minutes later some kind of fight started in the kitchen and there was the noise of smashing plates. And who should storm out but Robert, flinging a grotty looking apron behind him and shouting "Fuck you!" to an angry looking Arab chef who I later discovered was the owner. "And fuck you!!" The chef shouted all over the place, purple with fury, his white hat slipping over one eye as he gesticulated wildly. Robert turned in the doorway. "Fuck you!" he shouted again, jutting up a middle finger, his dark eyes flashing. "And your mother! And your sister! And your brother!!!" With that, he was gone. I thought the chef was going to have a heart attack. He was muttering to himself as he fished out a hanky and began to mop his sweaty, purple face. I actually thought he was going to drop dead right there, so I went over and asked if he was OK.
"He fuck me!" he moaned and wailed. "Tonight will be busy and no barman! No waitress! It is all shit!" He took a minute to compose himself, then looked up at me as if seeing me for the first time. "You!" he gasped. " You have a job? You want to be barman?" I thought about it for a nanosecond and shrugged. "Why not" I said. "What time do you want me?"
The restaurant was an utter madhouse but I loved every minute of it. It was pretty much the only place where Arabs could socialise, so I got to know the faces of the regulars quite quickly. I enjoyed chatting to the waitresses, other travellers staying in other hostels and loving Jerusalem just as much as I did. The waitresses weren't so fond of George, the owner. He never missed an opportunity to grope them but they gave as good as they got, pinching him when he was carrying armfuls of hot food or on the phone to his wife, mocking his obvious wig. I quickly settled into a routine, sleeping until about two o'clock, eating and going to work at five. After work I'd often go out, with the waitresses or George himself. He had a thing about poker, it sounded like an opportunity to make serious money but there was something sinister about thick, black eyebrows and ridiculously enormous moustache that made me think owing him money(which would be the inevitable consequence of my cack-handed poker playing) was not a wise thing to do.
Back at the hostel, life continued on much as it had done, although our little circle of long termers was starting to diminish. Sam, the Kiwi guy who slept in the bunk above me, had finally gone to Egypt. Claire and Tony were moving on to Eilat to try and get a job on the boats. Our dorm now had empty beds and I was worried what freaks would get them next now that I no longer had any control over who was put where.
Robert had taken my job at reception and was getting on famously with the others. And I was beginning to warm to him. His personality, I mean. I already knew his body was pretty hot. He had the most bizarre sense of humour and he knew how to drink. Boy, did he know how to drink! He fitted right in, one of the guys. And yet there was a part of him that no one could reach. I used to ask "what brought you to Jerusalem?" but he would just smile enigmatically and change the subject. His family and home were also taboo subjects. Like most of us, I figured, he was escaping from something. He was always talking about one of his friends though, a college buddy called Tim. What they had studied, he never said. Why he and Tim had fallen out was also never mentioned. After days of unashamed prying, I was almost choking with curiosity and resolved to worm it out of him one way or another.
"So this Tim guy. What's the crack there" I remarked subtly one day as Robert and I made our way through the security barriers into Jewish Quarter. We were heading in the direction of the Western wall. I had partaken of some weed before leaving the hostel and was feeling particularly mellow. Sitting watching the devout milling around in their old-fashioned clothes, praying and bobbing in front of this holy site was a favourite pastime of mine. We sat on a bench in the sun. There was a chill in the air. Autumn was definitely in full swing , although thankfully it was still sunny.
"Tim. Hmmmm ." Robert's gaze drifted off into space. " We were friends...then we weren't."
"Why?" I asked, thinking he was about to crack and finally divulge something interesting.
He looked round, smiling that lazy smile. "My sexuality?"
It took a moment for my drug-addled brain to register what he was saying. He was coming out to me. I felt kind of privileged even though it was obviously no big deal for him. I mean, he'd obviously told this Tim bloke who clearly had taken it badly. "Oh" I said, looking away. He looked even cuter when he was being honest.
There was a silence but it was comfortable enough. Robert got up and started taking some photos of the Wall and the large square around us. I leaned back and stretched out, smiling like a cat that had the cream. I was dreaming what he must look like naked. Even better, him and that artist girl together, lying on a bed somewhere, ready to do my bidding. I didn't realise I'd fallen asleep until Robert had to shake me out of my stupor.
"Got a good one of you there" he laughed, tapping his camera. "Man, I've never met anyone who can fall asleep the way you do!"
I shrugged, grinning. "I'm turning it into an art form"
He sat down beside me again. "So this is tell all stuff, is it" he remarked. "You're quite the interrogator. And hey, I'm feeling a little curious myself." I said nothing, wondering where this was going. " I tell you, you tell me, right? How did you get those scars?"
My breath left my body for a second. I supposed I deserved it, with all my brutal probings into his private life. I was just surprised. My scars had become a kind of talisman that shielded me from such questions, because people were always too embarrassed to ask. I could flaunt them under the noses of my closest friends and family, and yet no one had ever asked me why I had done it.
I thought for a minute, and the question hung in the air, getting louder and louder in my mind. It became too much. I stood up suddenly. "I have to go and get my washing" I said stupidly, thrusting my hands in my pockets. I walked away quickly, hoping he couldn't see the tears that stung my eyes.
That night, the lads from my dorm were heading up to the new city for a session, but I pretended to be sick and went to bed early, glad to have a bit of solitude for a change. My head was whirling with stuff I was trying to forget.
"How did you get those scars?" Robert's question rang round in my head.
A bath full of blood, my mother's face shining with tears.
I slipped on my Walkman and turned up the music until I thought of nothing.
It must have been the middle of the night when Robert woke me up. My Walkman had gone dead. He reeked of beer.
"Come and see what I've got" he whispered loudly.
Instead of heading up to the roof, he took me into one of the private rooms. Leaning against the wall was a huge wooden cross. It looked like one of the ones the monks dragged along the Via Dolorosa every Friday. Robert steadied himself against the wall, laughing loudly. "I stole it from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre!" he chuckled. "Gonna bring it home as a souvenir!"
"You are nuts" I said finally, smiling despite myself, imagining Robert staggering through the dimly lit streets dragging a stolen cross and giggling like a naughty schoolboy.
Robert was standing so close now I could feel him breathing. I could almost taste the beer too. Goosebumps all over my skin... I'm thinking he's drunk, he doesn't know what he's doing. And just because Robert was gay didn't mean he fancied me, I reminded myself. He was obviously plastered. I was about to make a move to the door when his arms snaked round my waist.
"You're intriguing" he whispered in my ear. "I like a mystery." I was rooted to the spot. His lips were right against the back of my neck. I shivered involuntarily. "Robert..." I began.
He forced me to face him, putting a finger to my lips. "Shh" he whispered, stroking my cheek. I didn't know where to look. I felt my face begin to burn as I looked into his bloodshot eyes. Slowly he leaned forward and then we were kissing, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. My hands slid under his t-shirt and ran over the smooth skin of his muscular back. No guilty feelings. No regrets.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. "Sleep with me tonight" he said.
Embarrassed, I looked away. "I've never slept with a man before" I eventually stammered, my cheeks burning. What if I was crap in bed? I wanted to flee, to turn back the clock and go out with the lads so all this could have been avoided. Things were getting way too complicated too quickly. One minute I was listening to Pulp on my Walkman, the next I was thinking about the logistics of gay sex. I wasn't precisely sure of what I wanted. My head was whirling with doubt when he laughed and sat down on the bed. He patted the mattress and smiled, that slow smile that was driving me so crazy. "Don't worry" he said, winking. "Just sleep here. With me. Please."
Gingerly, I sat down beside him. "OK" I said, in a small voice. I lay down, facing the wall and after turning off the light and locking the door, he got in behind me. We made spoons in the bed, his arms around me, his breathing in my ear. He had a boner, I could feel it pressing against me. I was too terrified to make a move and yet hoping something would happen, but he fell asleep pretty quickly, his arm draped over me. The hairs on his thighs tickled the back of mine. I lay there staring into the darkness, grinning until I thought my face would crack. The room smelt of damp, old sneakers and beer, the blankets were itchy.
Even today, six years later, it is one of my most vivid memories.
My sickness coincided with the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin a few days later. I remember very little about it all, feverish and delirious as I was. They must have moved me into one of the private rooms, for when I came round after a couple of days of burning and vomiting, I was back in the bed Robert and I had shared. The cross was gone and the room was bare except for a bucket beside my bed. I was ravenous but too ill to eat. The reflection in the cracked mirror against the dismally-painted green walls was of a greasy-haired apparition that had crawled straight out of a grave. In fact I noticed a distinct similarity between my own complexion and that of the walls. I looked down at the grotty carpet, wondering if it tasted as bad as my tongue. Wrapping an itchy blanket around me and coughing, I staggered into the reception area to see who was about.
And of course, there she was, the artist, sitting on a sofa, eyes fixed on the TV. Cringing, I was about to sneak back into the room when Jens bellowed from behind the reception desk "Alex!! Welcome back into the land of the living, man! Want me to ring down for some food?"
My stomach lurched and growled at the same time. "Not yet, thanks" I said, my head light as I went over to sit on the free sofa. It was the one Jens had pissed on but I didn't care. "Where is everyone?" I said.
"It's the funeral today" he replied. "They've all gone out to see if they can see anything."
"Whose funeral?" I asked.
The girl looked at me, amazement written all over her face. "Where have you been?" she asked, though there was a laugh in her voice.
"Don't ask!" Jens laughed, shuffling his newspaper. "It's been like the Exorcist in here, man! He thought I was his mother a couple of times. Isn't that right, baby!! Lucky Robert was so happy to help, you know that guy is a saint."
"Yeah, thanks for that mate" I replied sarcastically, turning my attention to the TV. A coffin, draped in the Israeli flag, surrounded by important-looking people. I spotted Bill Clinton wearing a skull cap and said innocently, "I didn't know Clinton was Jewish."
Jens began to laugh, banging his fist on the table as tears sprang to his eyes. " You are too funny, man!" he cried, shaking his head. The artist girl was also laughing. Sadly I conceded, as my eyes began to stream again, that it was going to be impossible to salvage any dignity from this situation.
When she had composed herself, she cleared her throat and tried to look serious. She looked me up and down and said, "I take it you've been out of action."
"Whose bloody funeral is it?" I croaked, irritated and feeling picked-on.
"Yitzhak Rabin's" she replied. "It's a tragic thing. Even the Palestinians seem sorry about it. I expected them to be dancing in the streets."
"I think Rabin was best of a bad lot for them" Jens said.
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"He was assassinated. Shot by some right-winger."
"Oh" I nodded as if all had become clear. I realised how much time I had spent stoned and oblivious to world events. My stomach growled again as my eyes drifted over the TV screen, not really seeing anything, finally resting on the girl. She looked so beautiful in the long hippy-style dress she was wearing. She even suited the sandals, her perfect toes painted a deep purple to match the dress. Being awake was exhausting me. I was in no condition to make pleasant conversation, but I felt compelled to do so. While I was thinking about what to say, my eyelids started to droop and before I knew it, I was asleep again.
When I woke up, she was gone.
It took a few more days to feel like myself again. Jens was cursing me, he had caught whatever it was I'd had and was lying in bed with his head in a bucket. I had seen enough puke to last me a lifetime, but I dutifully fetched and carried for him as he had done for me. When I went back to work, I found that George had given my job to someone else. Casim was pleased. He despised George and his family for "giving away their birthright" "I thought George's family were Christians" I protested, my mind a muddle. "They are Israelian citizens" he sneered. That didn't clear anything up. Having been brought up to avoid political discussions, I didn't press the issue. He ignored me and showed me his ID card which stated his nationality as Jordanian. "To them, Palestine doesn't exist" he spat, looking at the card with a disgusted look. I gave up thinking about the messy politics of Israel, Palestine, whatever it was. I changed my term for it depending on who I spoke to. How similar it was to home, yet so much more complicated! "You work here, again" he said, smiling broadly, patting the dusty reception desk, so I didn't argue.
I finally discovered the identity of my artist girl: her name was Suzanne, from Limerick. She hung about quite a bit at reception, when she wasn't out painting or sketching. I suddenly became obsessed with personal hygiene, spending at least half an hour in the shower every day hoping to erase from her mind the image of me staggering off my sick bed looking green and disgusting. We were getting on really well, and I was happy. She filled me in on the Darren story, giggling as she remembered it.
"I was staying in this grotty old place in Varanasi" she told me one night down in the restaurant, a beer in her hand. " I was sitting at 5am waiting to go for a boat ride down the Ganges, you know, to watch the sunrise. Anyway he joined me, it was the first time I'd met him, and I thought my luck was in. I mean, he IS gorgeous! So we went off, did the boat ride, and the next thing you know he's hanging over the side of this wee rowing boat, puking his guts out into the holy river! The boat man was disgusted. I went off him after that, when he started telling me all about his diahorrea and moaning about how disgusting India was. I mean" she was becoming more animated, and I was mesmerised, "it's a poor place. Some people have literally nothing. And they do hassle you for money and all. He just wouldn't stop complaining. I hate people like that, when they expect a place to be just like home. He's away now to Egypt. God help them there!"
"I totally agree" I said, swigging from my beer. "You should see some of the people I've checked in. They find out there's a communal bathroom and they're like "gross!" What do they expect for 12 shekels a night?"
She laughed. "I'm glad I moved here" she said. "The other place I was staying in was full of weirdoes. There was this bloke who went around in big robes, like Jesus, quoting out of the bible and all. English bloke. Total nutter. You wonder what gets into these people."
"The Jerusalem syndrome" I said. "There's a loony bin full of them somewhere around. People arrive and they're so overwhelmed with the place they start thinking they're Jesus."
She laughed again, and my heart pounded blissfully. She was great company, full of interesting stories. Her tales of India really brought the place alive, the squalor, the splendour, the colours, the smells. She showed me her sketches of the erotic Nepalese temple in Varanasi, the Taj Mahal in Agra, the Viceroy's palace in Shimla. Mostly she sketched people. Just ordinary people doing everyday things. Boys playing cricket on the steps of the ghats. A rickshaw driver in a Delhi street. A policeman sleeping in the shade of the fierce Indian sun. They were amazing.
"I'm going to Jordan soon, I'm not sure exactly when," she said, and my heart sank.
"How long for?" I asked. I had got used to the intransigent nature of the friendships I had made over the months: very intense but fleeting. People moved on all the time, and I knew in my heart of hearts I too would have to find the right time to leave. I just hoped she would stay a while more.
"Just a week." I breathed a sigh of relief. She continued: "I hope to stay in Jerusalem for at least another month or more. There's just so much to do and see, I feel I haven't even scratched the surface."
"I know the feeling" I mused. "I still haven't seen the Dome of the Rock, even though I've been here months and it's only round the corner."
There was a comfortable silence as we listened to the chatter and the music. I wondered if I should ask her out on a date or something. Up until then, my romantic encounters had been limited to a drunken shag with a heavily pierced German girl who thankfully had moved on weeks before. I bitterly regretted losing my virginity on such an occasion, but then again, I had been off my rocker on some nasty gin. And I had to admit she had done some great things with her tongue stud. Then there was the snog with Robert. Nothing had happened since then. He had been strange with me after that and I noticed he was drinking a lot. Every night, someone had to help him to bed. No one knew where he went, just that wherever it was, he went there alone.
Before I could speak, she leaned in closer. "You're cute" she said, smiling. The beer's getting to her, I thought, but I was excited. "Shame you're, well, unavailable. I suppose most cute guys are."
"Cute guys are what?" I didn't like the way she'd said unavailable.
"Well..." her face was beginning to glow. "Gay, I suppose."
I spluttered into my beer. "What gave you that idea?" I asked, dumbfounded.
She looked confused. "Well, everyone said so."
My head was spinning. "Everyone?" I repeated dumbly.
"Well, just Robert" she admitted. "He said you two were...well, you know."
"I'm going to kill him" I said, suddenly defensive. "That's bullshit. What exactly did he say?"
"When you were sick, he told me he couldn't wait for you to get better so he could ask you to share a room with him."
I took a deep breath. No more lies, I told myself. "Well, to tell you the honest to god truth" I began, but the words were drying my mouth. I took another gulp of beer before I forced myself to continue. "I do like Robert. And yes, in that way. But I like you too, very much, when I saw you the first time when you were sketching that old woman I just thought you were...well, beautiful. I guess you could say I'm..." Say it, say it. "Bisexual" I finished, feeling as if I had just extracted my own liver.
There they were, the first truthful words I had ever really uttered about myself to anyone. My soul laid bare for her. I held my breath, sure she was going to back right off. I wouldn't have blamed her. She thought for a minute and leaned forward. "As long as you let me watch sometime," she whispered, winking wickedly, and it was then that I knew I was in love.
That night Jens was on the night shift at reception, and he let us into another of the private rooms. Robert was out again somewhere, so I swore Jens to secrecy, ignored his none-too-subtle winking and giggling and took Suzanne in there with me. It was a different room to the one Robert and I had shared, just slightly less grotty. The bedsprings squeaked and groaned as we sat down. My head was spinning slightly with the beer. No performance anxiety this time, though I didn't know where to start. I needn't have worried. Suzanne seized me and pushed me down on the bed, straddling me as she pulled off my t-shirt. She kissed me savagely, her hands everywhere. I was entirely at her mercy.
She pulled her dress over her head in one fluid movement and I marvelled at the beauty of her body, although she looked like she could use a few good meals. Someone was in the room next door, listening to music. I willed them to turn it up so they wouldn't hear anything nasty but they did not heed my psychic messages. All thoughts of being quiet deserted me when Suzanne's lips started travelling south, enveloping my cock in her mouth. I squawked when she burrowed her fingers up my arse, never believing it would feel so amazing. "Think what a big cock would do" she whispered, her breath hot. "I'd like to strap one on and fuck you senseless." She rode me silly, pinched me until I yelped and half an hour of frantic activity later we lay together naked on the bed, gasping and sweaty, and completely spent.
When I woke up, daylight was streaming in through the small window. Suzanne had gone out. I was alone, and my body was glowing.
Glancing at my watch, I swore as I saw the time. Two hours late for reception duties. Casim was going to kill me. No doubt he was waiting there at reception, playing the put-upon martyr. Hurriedly, I pulled on my clothes and rushed out only to stop in my tracks. Robert was there, looking fresh and well-rested, and explaining to some new arrivals about the procedure for booking a day-trip to a Palestinian refugee camp. He saw me and waved.
When he had finished, I went over and sat down. "You must have had a good night" he remarked, and his voice was cold.
"What do you mean" I asked, though it wasn't really a question. I looked at my feet and was embarrassed to feel a blush spreading over my body. I hoped he couldn't smell sex off me.
"You're a piece of shit" he whispered savagely, and I could see he was close to tears. "Jens told me about you and that... that girl! Why were you leading me on like that!"
I couldn't think of anything to say. My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish's: my sex-induced high now was fading fast. People were milling around and I did not want to have that conversation in public. "I'll see you when you're finished here" I said, standing up slowly. "We'll talk then." My body was starting to ache from the previous night's exertions and I was dying for a shower. Luckily, some Japanese guys came into the room, looking to pay and check out. I took my chance and fled.
The look in his eyes was breaking my heart.
I needed some peace, some time to think.
Once I was showered and clean, I rushed out, avoiding Robert's steely gaze and feeling like an utter bastard. Even the streets of the Old City could not cheer me up. I wandered aimlessly, feeling the chill in the late autumn air, glad I was wearing my jeans. My meandering took me to the entrance to the Dome of the Rock, and on impulse, I decided to go in. Some girls were standing by the gate, putting on shapeless green sacks so their legs would be covered. I'd heard they made you do that to show respect, but the guards let me pass, unsacked. Obviously I looked decent enough to visit one of Islam's most holy sites, although I felt anything but decent inside. Confused and shitty yes, decent no. The mosque stood in a vast, peaceful square. It felt like I had just been transported into another world. The vast golden dome glinted in the patchy sunlight and I was momentarily awe-struck by the serenity of the place. Of course, I had forgotten my camera. I went over to the trees and sat on a small wall, taking it all in. This was where Mohammed was meant to have ascended into heaven, although I felt like I was about to go to hell. I felt like a little cartoon man with a raincloud above his head. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, wondering what on earth I was going to do.
My ponderings were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A guard stood over me, sternly. " You cannot pray here" he said, shaking his head. He was cute, but this was hardly the time for that. "I wasn't praying" I said, but I got up anyway and wandered off. Typical.
How was it possible to feel the same way about two people? Suzanne and I were officially an "item" thanks to Jens and his big mouth. And I was happy enough about that. Would I be happy if people thought that about me and Robert? I knew the answer was no and I was ashamed. Maybe in an ideal world... But I just hated the idea that I would be labelled in some way, Alex the poof, the arse burglar, the pilot of the Bourneville Boulevard. The thought sickened me.
And yet I could not help yearning for him.