Smilethief

And you still remember the most beautiful smile you have seen in a public place, and it had become personal.  A smile you own because you had stolen it.  It belongs to no one; it is a drop of rain upon an Olympic swimming pool.  You never looked at the woman—just to her smile which was not for you but you stole it.  You took it with you to the park and buried it under the fall leaves.  Then you went to a bar to listen to Fado.  Then back to the park as you could not smile without her in your room.  You could not brush your teeth without seeing that face in your mirror.  A face you had not searched for in the crowd.  In that public place where pigeons eat sandwich dropping from wealthy people who eat in the park, and smoke expensive cigars.  A face you gave a name because a smile needs to belong to a face with a name.

Your bed is softer now, filled with the sounds of the crowd and pigeons.  You scratch your chin which sounds rough already.  You smile and wonder if you should invite a smile into your room with an unshaved face.  The street outside your window is noisy; the night is warm, yet you are wearing a white pajama with polar bear prints on it.  And you pull the cover up to your chin, rub it again with the end of the cotton cover, then decide to have a drink.  The half bottle of Ouzo 12 would be refreshing. You search for ice but the tray is empty.  You pour the Ouzo into a large water glass, top it with water, and gargle for long seconds. 

You open the window and become part of the street.  In the fall, buildings look old.  They almost repeat the words your grandmother often addressed to you when you did not finish your soup: “I took care of you.  One day you may take care of me.  So eat now!”  The windows are all closed, the moon is rarely full, and the Syrian peddler is roasting chestnuts on the street corner. You can smell the charcoal.  It is a peculiar smell of charcoal and cold air.  It reminds you of your childhood when charcoal was burning tobacco atop your father’s water-pipe.  You smile, as you recall stealing a puff from that pipe when your father left to go to the bathroom.  Then you feel the cold, and shut the window.  But you open it again because you cannot sleep in a room filled of smoke.

And you tell yourself that there is no more beautiful smile than the one you brought back with you.  You recall a few words from the Fado song, and you drink the Ouzo slowly.  An Armenian drinking Greek liqueur while whistling Portuguese blues.  You recall that once you said to a woman that you were Lebanese.  And that the name of the woman she wanted to know about was like a movie on Netflix.   That you streamed her for a while; then she was for others to enjoy.  Actually the smile you stole today reminds you of that woman.  A woman you will never see again because she does not exist anymore.  Now she is a headstone, somewhere.  But she once did exist, and she touched you kindly, and she smelled of youth and belly buttons. And you have a photo to prove it. A black and white photo of the two of you.  It was a sunny day when that photo was taken.  The sky was full of cotton clouds.  But it is an old black and white photo and none of all that can be seen.

You smoke a cigarillo, and then another one as well.  You scratch your chin and recall a line from the “Scarlet Letters” that a man cannot keep his other face away from others for too long.  You wonder if you have another face.  A face you have kept away even from your days.  A face touched by other faces, under other skies.  But you know that you have a smile from a face you did not notice, today, there in the park, where fat pigeons eat sandwich droppings.  The Ouzo bottle is now empty, and you wished you had roasted pumpkin seeds.  Salty ones, to balance the licorice liqueur.  Instead, you go to bed.

January 28, 2010

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013