When they got back to Brooks Street, Rafik and Heather were still gone. Mourad was watching television with the Three. “Where is Rafik?” Aziz asked.

“Heather told me they went far,” Lahouari said.

Ghazi was back in the bedroom, his hand in the fish tank. Aziz looked at Mourad, not understanding Lahouari.

“They came back. Left again. For days,” Mourad helped.

“They are in love,” added Hamid.

“No more whores at Reach,” said Mourad.

Ghazi was back in the living room.

“They go to a place called Maine,” Lahouari said.

“Romantic getaway,” Mourad said in English, getting up from the couch to give Ghazi a mock punch. No one understood him. He gave an approximation in Arabic. Ghazi laughed. So did Aziz. Lahouari was a stone.

“I get their room,” Ghazi said.

“No way,” Mourad said.

Hamid said, “If anyone should, it is us.”

“He can have it,” Lahouari said. “I will not stay there.” Aziz and Ghazi exchanged looks. They saw Lahouari’s crush on Heather. So did Hamid. “Ali and I will stay there,” Hamid said. “You take the sofa here,” he said to Lahouari. That left Ghazi where he always slept, on the floor.

“I am blessed with this floor,” Ghazi said. “A most inviting floor. A beautiful floor. I have loved her many nights.”

Chapter 14

14

The chef quit. It was an hour into dinner. Ghazi’s hands were in the sink, washing a baking tray. John Hill was at his elbow, sharing falsified details of the calamity. After nodding without comment, Ghazi said, “Let me cook.”

Ghazi had charmed Hill. Ghazi’s English was better after only six months than Aziz’s after two and a half years. Ghazi’s English had ushered him into two waitresses’ beds on a regular basis. He could watch cooking classes on television. He could quiz the now ex-chef before work about how to prep for the day.

“Listen,” Ghazi said to Hill. “Search your bag. Who is there besides me?”

“Fucking Christ, you’re right,” Hill said. “Go on, then.”

Aziz watched as Ghazi put on the apron and replaced the bandanna around his head with a knotted towel. Four waitresses were leaning on the counter, one tapping her pen. Ghazi tilted his head to the first, and she read out, “Taco Sunrise, Old El Paso Mix-up.”

“Merci,” he said taking the ticket, which he stuck on the string with a clothespin. “Gail.” He called her back. She returned impatiently. One of the other waitresses huffed and one hissed.

“Remember, I live for you,” he told Gail.

He turned to the second in line. “But you, I give my life for.” He traced his finger along the chin of another.