For a Moment
Safa Mbarki
I stare at the sun-bleached advertisements pasted on the corner store’s small windows, the same image of a French brand’s perfectly smooth, creamy yogurt repeated on each blue poster, unintentionally forming a sort of muted pop art collection. I admire the pleasant yellow and orange of the vanilla flower poised elegantly next to the yogurt cup, following the curve of its petals with my eyes as I try to distract from the sweltering heat of the day. Sitting on the rough curb, I shift now to gazing inside the store’s shaded, open doorway, watching from afar as my cousin converses with the store owner, surrounded by stacks of items ranging from canned goods and pantry staples to cartons of milk and bottles of soap. A glass bowl brimming with brightly colored candies rests at the register, tempting me with its abundance, the phantom taste of artificial fruit hovering over my tongue. I watch as my cousin, self-assured and effortless, follows the steps she’s executed since childhood, operating on autopilot as she finally hands over the money and concludes the transaction. When she turns around, I immediately look away, not wanting to meet her disapproving glare. She bounds down the concrete steps and across the street towards me, her face unwelcoming and her steps heavy.
“Here,” she says curtly as she stretches her hand out to me, a can of tuna resting on her palm, the metal shining aggressively in the morning sun. Squinting my eyes, I stand up and swiftly pick up the can, placing it in my canvas tote bag as I hand her the money with my other hand.
“Thanks, and sorry… again.” I look down at my feet, studying the topography of the tan dirt and lumps of broken concrete, tiny mountains and valleys surrounding my dusty pink flip flops.
“You’re so dramatic,” she scoffs, pocketing the change and staring intently at my eyes, trying to catch my gaze. “I still don’t get it, why can’t you just buy it yourself? It’s just a can of tuna.”
“I’m not… ready yet.” I look up to finally meet her prodding gaze. “Please, Salma, just for a little longer? I’ll do anything I swear.” My eyes widen as I figure out how to persuade her. “I’ll give you my ice cream tonight, I promise.” Like I expected, something in her face changes—her eyes a little brighter, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at her lips.
“Hmm, make it tomorrow night too, and I want pistachio,” she emphasizes, raising her brow. I sigh, a part of me immediately regretting the deal—I should have known one cone wouldn’t be enough. Still, it’s worth it.
“Okay, okay. Thank you, you’re the best,” I say, taking her hand in mine and smiling wide.
“Mhm, but you only have till the end of this week. That’s it, ok?” She lets go of my hand and crosses her arms, the slight pout now back on her lips. As the silence stretches out between us, endless, it occurs to me how ridiculous this is—my reliance on someone younger than me, my repeated avoidance of all things discomforting. The embarrassment creeps up on me, curling its fingers around my neck and up my now flushed cheeks. Suddenly I feel very small, my cowardice pushed into the spotlight where it can’t hide. I know all I have to do is walk to the cashier, say a few words, hand over some change—I’ve done it countless times at home. But here, I can’t. In my imagined sequence of events—the one I replay in my head before every interaction with strangers, no matter how small—everything goes downhill once it’s my turn to speak. I know that as soon as I do, the illusion of normalcy will be shattered. Arabic comes out of my mouth in crooked packets, puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together unless forced to. An incorrect tense here, a confused conjugation there, a distinctly American melody applied to Arabic words. Overall, it’s fluent, functional, but just not right. I can feel the judgement whenever I speak, the realization settling in as actual Tunisians begin to see me for who I really am. A foreigner. Someone who doesn’t belong. On the other hand, Salma’s lived here all her life. She doesn’t think twice before speaking, her Arabic natural and genuine. She can buy the tuna can, that’s for sure.
“Whatever. Are you gonna go now?” My heart flutters like a butterfly as I’m reminded of my mission, the weight of my inadequacy replaced instead with anticipation and longing.
“Yeah, I’m scared Mishmish will start roaming if I don’t feed her on time. Wanna come?”
“No, it’s ok. The heat’s killing me. I want my fan. Just make sure to be back before noon.”
“Yeah, I know. See you,” I say, as she turns around and heads down the hill, her head of curly brown hair bobbing up and down like a buoy floating in the sea. Further down the street, my eyes are drawn to her house, where my mother and I have been staying since we landed at the airport a week ago, and where we’ll continue to stay for the next two weeks. Its white stone walls and turquoise accents glow in the light, demanding my attention even from afar. I imagine my mother is helping to clean up after breakfast, wiping baguette crumbs off the table and covering the plates of olive oil and jam to keep the flies away. She’ll begin washing the dishes before my aunt notices and wrestles the sponge from her wet hands, insisting that a guest should do no work. They’ll dwell on the issue for a minute, each demanding that the other go lay down and rest, and then, once the tension dissolves back to calm, they’ll deliberate over what to cook for lunch. If I’m lucky, they’ll even start reminiscing about old times—the funny things their parents would say and do, the petty, occasionally explosive arguments they’d have as siblings sharing a room with four others. That’ll keep her occupied for long enough, I think to myself, and she won’t question my absence, won’t start to wonder if I’ve gone against my word again, wasting our money on that helpless case. “After you leave, there’ll be no one to take care of it. It’ll die for sure.” Her words echo in my head, her confidence in a mere prediction, her insistence suggesting that this is the future which she desires, ignites my anger once again. I can picture the furrow of her brow, the widening of her eyes when she senses my defiance, the warning tone in her voice. I grip my bag tighter, hold my head a little higher—her words are not prophecy, not fact.
Determined, I pivot and make my way down the path I’ve memorized, away from the house and its overwhelming presence, away from everything. As I walk, I pass by lines of stone houses, most painted white or cream and accented with blues or pale yellows, some adorned with terracotta tiles. Sheer curtains flow in open windows, the snaking vines of potted plants dangling over balcony ledges and their engraved pillars. Every once in a while, the clouds block the sun’s rays, the street alternating between a cool blue and a vibrant, sun-drenched clarity; perhaps a storm will come soon, the murmurs of the townspeople’s forecasts re-emerging in my thoughts. The branches of surrounding trees sway in the occasional wind, their pointy leaves brushing up against stiff bushes and climbing stacks of bougainvillea, the clusters of intense magenta flowers dazzling in the sun. I stop for a moment to take a picture of an especially beautiful flower, a pink oleander, and breathe in its perfumed scent before continuing on my path. Finally, after turning the corner, I reach a large patch of dirt and bushes off the side of the road.
Using a can opener I’d snatched from the kitchen earlier, I open the can of tuna and place it on the ground in front of me, crouching down on the dusty asphalt and scanning the surrounding brush for any sign of life. “Pspsps,” I beckon repeatedly. “Mishmish where are you?” My heart beats faster with every passing second, each one testing the fragile foundation of my hope. To my relief, I begin to hear distant meows growing closer, until the leaves of a nearby bush rustle and out staggers a tiny orange tabby, about the size of my hand, its eyes still blue and unfocused. It beelines towards me with excited, shaky steps, meowing repeatedly in that high-pitched tone, melting my heart completely. Perhaps unknowingly, it walks right past its food and instead attempts to climb onto me, its soft pads and pointy claws tickling my feet. Giggling, I pick Mishmish up and place her next to the tuna, observing closely as she finally notices my offering. She begins to devour the food with a kitten’s ferocity, specks of tuna sticking to her thin whiskers, her meows transmuting into hungry, mumbled growls. I pet her soft, delicate fur, slowly running my finger down her head and back, admiring the pattern of stripes, spots, and marbling distinctive of tabbies. I wasn’t sure what to name her at first as names don’t come easy to me, so Salma did—Mishmish, apricot, for her warm, orange fur. I linger there, Achilles’ heels strained from prolonged crouching, simply petting and watching. This is the moment I’d been waiting for since last night, and every night before that since I’d first stumbled across the lonely creature, mother or siblings nowhere in sight. All time seems to stop for a moment, the world no more complicated than a kitten and its meal.
Safa Mbarki is a class of 2027 mechanical engineering major at Rutgers University. She grew up in Middletown, NJ and always loved to read and write.
Safa wrote this piece in a course taught by Lindsay Haber, who selected the story for inclusion in WHR.