Sarah attended an early evening exhibition of Palestinian art in Chelsea, featuring drawings, paintings, sculpture, photographs, and things she had no name for. It was on the third floor of a rough-looking building. The walls of the gallery were gray; and the signs in the gallery were written by hand. There was art on the walls, on stands, and hanging from the ceiling. The organizers were nice enough to provide refreshments; and Sarah put some cookies on a napkin, which she carried as she moved through the images. She stopped in front of a large canvas of naked men, women, and children walking through a desert: an exodus, the beginning of exile.
It might have been an affectation but Sarah long had thought of herself as an exile. Was she exiled from home, or from a dream of home? Was she exiled from paradise, or from a dream of paradise? The questions seemed romantic in the face of Palestinian facts.
“Do you think this picture is erotic?” asked a young man who had stopped next to Sarah, and was looking at the same canvas she was. His voice was almost harsh, but his enunciation was precise.
Sarah looked around. They were the only two people in front of the canvas. He was talking to her.
“I had not thought of that at all,” Sarah said.
Was she reprimanding him?
“They are naked,” he said.
“We are born naked. Babies and children are often naked in many parts of the world,” Sarah said. Was that an intelligent, or an obvious thing, to say—or both?
“There are adults here. Women with breasts, large thighs, hairy pubic regions. Men with cocks hanging,” he said, smiling.
What was this man talking about?
Sarah said, “The people in this picture have had everything taken from them. They do not have clothes on their backs. They are leaving home, and they don’t know where they are going or what’s going to happen to them.”
“I know,” he said, smiling at her. In a voice that had a sensuously thick tone, he said, “It’s an existential moment. There is a lot of freedom in that moment. It doesn’t have to be all about pain. There can be pleasure.”
Sarah turned from his face, a face that indicated it was her response that was predictable, and possibly wrong, and she looked, again, at the picture; and, while looking at it, she said, “It is a moment in which anything can happen. Anger. Tears. Hope. Regret. Comfort. Sex.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s what I was thinking. Why assume one thing?”
“The context,” she said. “We know what has come before, being forced out of their houses—and we know what is going to come, not being able to go back when they want to.”
“But in this moment, as they move, naked, free?” he said.
Why was he being insistent?
“Are you Palestinian?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you grow up there, in Israel—Palestine?” she asked.
“I grew up here,” he said. “My parents came before I was born.”
“Are you an artist?” she asked.
“No, I am a spectator, a voyeur—someone who enjoys seeing,” he said.
Sarah was abashed by his use of the word voyeur, by his tone of voice—intimate, low, suggestive.
“How can you call them free?” Sarah asked.
“Aren’t we free if we think we’re free?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes we want to be free—and we’re not,” she said, “but, in this instance, I don’t think many people would see these people as free.”
“Isn’t that a pity—if the people moving do not think they’re free, and if we don’t consider that they might be?” he asked.
Sarah smiled. She was not inclined to surrender to the arguments of others, but the young man was too insistent for her to persist. Besides, she thought that they were not really talking about the picture: he was using that as an allegory or a sign for something else.
“Could I get you something to drink?” he asked.
Sarah laughed easily, realizing they had been talking about sex, rather than art or politics. She had several laughs—a giggling high laugh, a deep rumbling and ruminative laugh, a sharp short laugh that held some tension, and a knowing chuckle of a laugh; and her laugh now had both relaxation and self-awareness in it.
“Yes,” she said.
“Wine, juice, water?” he asked.
“Juice, orange juice,” she said.
“You’re trying to be a good girl?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, smiling.
“I’ll be back,” he said, and she took his absence as the opportunity to finish the cookies she had.
When he returned to her, Sarah had moved to an installation that involved bullet holes surrounded by a brownish red color on a white canvas, indicating bloody violence.
He handed Sarah the medium-sized paper cup of orange juice.
“This is a lot of juice,” she said, looking at the serving table, only to see the server, a large woman with gray in her hair, watching them.
“My name is Mustafa,” he said.
“I am Sarah,” she said.
“Sarah,” he repeated.
“Did you get tired of looking at the naked people?” Mustafa asked.
“I saw them,” she said.
“Why are people tolerant about violence, but intolerant about sex?” he asked.
Sarah was familiar with the argument that in film and on television, and in other image mediums, such as painting, the spilling of human blood was a less discomforting sight than sexual activity, for many people; and she thought that was accurate; but, that did not mean that she wanted every film or television program or piece of art to be pornography.
“I am not tolerant of violence, or intolerant about sex,” she said.
“That’s good to know,” Mustafa said.
“Anyway, that picture was not about sex—it was about people moving naked through a desert,” Sarah said.
Mustafa smiled at her.
“Hi Mustafa, I like your hair short,” said a petite woman with long dark hair in a little black dress, as the long-haired woman passed behind them.
Mustafa turned, and said, “Hey, Hanin.” He returned his gaze to Sarah. “Do you think women and men are different about what they want?” he asked.
“I don’t think they’re different. Civilization does. There are thousands of years of commentary on the subject,” Sarah said.
Mustafa laughed. “That’s not the answer I was expecting,” he said.
“You were expecting an answer? Are these your typical questions?” Sarah asked.
Mustafa considered her, shrewdly. “Do I get marks for originality?” he asked.
“And for the attempt at it,” Sarah said.
Mustafa laughed, easily.
“I think about sex all the time,” Mustafa confessed, warmly. It was as if a light had brightened behind his eyes and his smile.
“Not all the time,” she said, moving to another piece of art, finding it impossible to believe anyone could think about sex all the time even if he wanted to. Sarah looked at a face that had been created out of news print. What did that mean? That identity had become public reputation?
“I like sex,” Mustafa said. “I like everything about it. The heat, the touch, the smells, the taste, the thrusting, the release.”
Sarah looked away, wanting to see where other people were in relation to them.
“Doesn’t it get repetitive, and boring?” she asked, looking at Mustafa. She liked his coloring—the very light brown skin, the black hair, the large eyes with brilliant whites, the sharp nose, the long, slim dark lips. Mustafa was an attractive man, but sex was not the first thing she thought of when looking at him. He had a tempestuous air—she could imagine him changing his mind a thousand times, rushing in and out of a room, raising his voice, throwing things. Was it passion she sensed?
“Sex boring?” Mustafa asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Do you get bored by eating?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“Do you get bored by drinking water?” he asked.
“No, boredom has nothing to do with it. It’s necessary, natural,” Sarah said.
“Sex is too,” Mustafa said.
“Some people go without it,” Sarah said.
“Yes,” Mustafa said, although he did not think she was one of those people.
A woman in a blue silk blouse and blue jeans, with a white scarf on her head walked to Mustafa and asked, “Are you meeting us at Mahmoud’s restaurant later tonight?”
“I’m not sure, Rana,” Mustafa said.
“I hope you do,” Rana said, before moving on.
Sarah, with little more than a glance, was inspired to wonder how the woman could look both simple and mysterious: the woman in blue looked as if she had nothing on her mind but the moment and place she was in, and yet she moved with purpose. Was the current moment being measured against and reconciled with some greater good?
Mustafa smiled, trying to guess if Sarah had a response to having their conversation interrupted.
Sarah’s face showed nothing. Sarah looked at the art—the black face against a gray background. “What do you think this image means?” Sarah asked, not knowing why she was continuing the conversation. Was she herself bored—or not bored?
“That—it’s a face,” Mustafa said. “I don’t think it means anything. It’s something to see.”
“Do you really like art?” Sarah asked.
“I do,” Mustafa said. “I like all sorts of things—things you can see, touch. Things are more real than what we think about them, Sarah. I know some people think things are imperfect manifestations of ideas, but I don’t. I think things are as perfect as they need to be, as perfect as we need them to be—even if we don’t know that. Some people are puritans. Are you one?” Mustafa asked.
“I am not a puritan, nor am I at all promiscuous with my affections or my body,” Sarah said.
Mustafa looked at her. Had she rejected him? Or was she rejecting all those other men who might approach her?
“What do you think about what’s happened to the New York governor?” Mustafa asked.
“I am disappointed. I thought he was a smart man. Did he really need to pay for sex?” asked Sarah.
“He was paying for the convenience, and the honesty, the lack of confusion,” Mustafa said.
“It doesn’t seem to have been all that convenient,” Sarah said, smiling; and Mustafa laughed.
“True,” he said, following as she moved to the next piece.
“The governor is a whoremonger,” said a Middle Eastern man in a suit.
“He’s just a guy,” said the American next to him, in a jersey and jeans.
“Abdel, Rick,” said Mustafa.
“Mustafa,” they both said.
“Having a good time?” asked Abdel, looking from Mustafa to Sarah.
“Very good,” said Mustafa.
Mustafa asked Sarah to sit down. She said that she wanted to see the rest of the show, but would sit for a short time. They sat on folding chairs, old brown aluminum chairs set out for a discussion that would take place later.
“You really like art,” Mustafa said.
“I do,” Sarah said. “You know a lot of people here,” she said.
“I work in the area,” he said.
Mustafa told Sarah about his work, in his family grocery store. Mustafa clerked behind the counter, but as he was in the store as much as anyone, and ordered stock and did some of the accounting, he could be considered one of its managers. He asked about her work, and Sarah mentioned the work she had done in the past, and the part-time work at the college, and what she wanted to do in film. They talked about the many things there were to do in New York during the summer and autumn.
“Have you been to Palestine?” Sarah asked.
“No.”
“Do you want to go?” she asked.
“It’s not a big thing to me, but, because of my parents, I want to see it,” Mustafa said.
“Here,” said a young woman in a jacket and skirt, “are some sweets for you and your friend,” handing two little plates to Mustafa. The woman seemed kind but responsible—one looked at her and imagined the generosity and tenacity of a mother. What had it cost a young woman to assume maturity early?
“Thanks Emily,” said Mustafa, who handed one of the plates to Sarah.
“Thank you,” Sarah said to Mustafa, then to Emily.
Mustafa talked alone with Sarah about the girls he had known, girls from every continent.
“Are you still friends with them?” Sarah asked.
“Some of them,” Mustafa said, smiling. “They remember me,” he said.
Sarah laughed. “You’re memorable?”
“Yes,” he said. “You don’t believe me?”
“You probably are—but I am not looking for new memories,” Sarah said.
“Mustafa, thanks for the quick delivery yesterday. Tell your mother I said hello,” said a girl in tube top and white shorts.
“I will Nida. You’re a scandal in that,” Mustafa said, nodding to what she was wearing.
“I know,” she said.
“If my mother saw you, she would talk to you, then she would call your mother,” said Mustafa.
“My mother is here,” said Nida, who pointed to the woman.
Mustafa laughed, as did Nida. Sarah smiled, and watched the girl walk away; and she saw appreciation for that walk on Mustafa’s face.
“She’s a nice girl,” said Mustafa.
Sarah did not contradict him. How could she, not knowing the girl?
“Are you sure you don’t want new memories?” Mustafa asked Sarah.
“I am,” she said.
Mustafa looked away from her.
“If you see someone else you want to talk to, you can,” Sarah said, quietly, sincerely.
“I like talking to you,” he said. Mustafa looked sad. “We could have a sweet experience together,” he said.
“I want a lot more than sweetness,” Sarah said, smiling.
