Ayman is subconsciously twitching his knees in the diffused light that filters through shut windows at the far end of the majlis, as if trying to keep up with his own rapid-fire thought process. He is very big, perhaps six feet tall, and very sure of himself. I try to control my scribble. We jump from stories of falajes to tribal warfare. There, through the window, is Wadi Qani, and below it the ruins of the fortifications Ayman’s ancestors put up against the Portuguese, the ‘Bortugalein.’
The light outside is harsh and unforgiving, but here, in the cool of the inner reaches of the sitting room, it is almost beautiful if you handle it right. I’ve got three pages, with a line between each paragraph. He works for the military. He tells me what he does and this I don’t write down. There’s an old woman working in the compound, and a man’s voice from inside the house. A basketball hoop outside. I’m at 1.8/50 and I squeeze the shutter right where the red point lights up over the window reflected in his left eye and suddenly everything is perfect as the lens slams into focus less than a foot away.
“My dream,” says Ayman when I ask him about his life, “won’t come again.” I look at him, wondering if he really meant it or if it was just a dramatic thing to say. But all I get is that razor sharp look, the same one he throws at me after shying away from a photograph.
2 Comments
Where is Wadi Qani? Why did you pick it? And where did you find this handsome Omani version of Mohammad Ali? I’ll bet he works in the army. I’ll bet he’s had the occasional fist fight as well. But what I’m most interested in is his dream. Maybe you can go back and find out what it is? But on second thought, maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe his dream is in black and white and we’ve got it to look at on this beautiful black and white picture of yours. Keep discovering and keep taking us with you.
Yes, Nancy, you’re right. Forgive me for this, and thank you for coming back. The Book will have directions.