Arabesque

Karin Rumie

Copyright held by Author

It was my husband, Lucas, who found him. Otherwise, I may have never known what happened to Adrian. He was reading the airline magazine, on our flight from Miami to Málaga for our daughter’s wedding, when he came upon his picture.

“Hey, isn’t this the guy who did my home office?”

He held up the magazine, as the plane hit another air pocket. It was indeed Adrian – dressed in an optical white chef’s jacket. “It says he’s opening a new restaurant. I had no idea the guy was a chef.”

He handed me the magazine and leaned his seat back for another nap.

I lingered on his picture. A hint of gray hair had gathered around his temples, but otherwise he looked the same. According to the article, he’d spent almost five years working in Madrid’s restaurant scene before going to Málaga to open his own. There was a brief mention of his time in Miami. I tucked the magazine into my bag and let my mind drift back.

I’d met Adrian five years ago, when our general contractor brought him to the house to build a home office for Lucas. A week into the project, Eric had been in a serious car crash. Faced with a long delay, we’d agreed to have Adrian continue alone. I’d had my reservations, at first. Eric was a family friend and I was very comfortable having him in the house. I run a ballet studio out of our converted garage and I don’t like to have strangers coming to the house. But Eric vouched for him so convincingly that I relented. Adrian had been punctual, obsessively neat in his work, and quiet. I never heard him on his cellphone while working. Since Lucas handled all the communication about the project, I almost forgot someone was in the house until my father-in-law suffered a major stroke and he had to travel to see him.

“I hate to leave you with the remodel,” Lucas said, as he threw clothes into a suitcase.

The truth was, I hated to be left with it too, but what could I say? Of course he had to go to his dad. I’d buried my mom two years earlier after a vicious battle with cancer and prayed Lucas would be spared a lengthy ordeal with his father.

I waved my hand.

“It’s ok. It will give me a chance to practice my Spanish.”

The rest of the week had gone smoothly and I looked forward to a weekend of solitude. On Friday afternoon, my private lesson student cancelled at the last minute and I stayed in the studio doing some barre exercises. The sounds of Giselle coming from the speaker’s music transported me back to my early twenties, when I danced with the Miami City Ballet. Every night, I came home from rehearsals with barely enough energy to feed myself and care for my bloody toenails. I had no social life. I was broke. It was the happiest time of my life.

That afternoon, as I took the first steps from the choreography I’d learned decades ago, it all came back to me. The music echoed in my body as I twirled and extended my limbs. I felt no pain now; my bones were made of air. I was standing on one leg with the other extended behind me when I saw him through the window. He stood looking at me, the paint brushes dangling in his hand. Our eyes met for the briefest of moments – so short I wondered if I’d imagined it. I’ve never seen anyone look at me like that. I came out of the pose too quickly and immediately felt an electrical jolt radiating through my calf. When I looked out the window again, he was gone.

All weekend, I had tried to keep from replaying the scene in my head, the way he looked at me with those eyes. He had what my mom used to call hungry eyes. I felt exposed but also understood by someone I barely knew. My ambivalence only grew as Monday morning neared.

He seemed quieter on Monday, turning down my coffee offer. I kept busy in the office, though I was aware of his presence down the hall. He’d been coughing throughout the morning and I wondered if he had anyone to take care of him. Eric had told us that Adrian lived in an efficiency in the back of his house but had not mentioned a wife or kids. As if sensing my musings, Adrian appeared at my door, clearing his throat.

“Señora, I need to show you something.”

I followed him into the study, stepping along the perimeter of the room to avoid the newly laid tile in the center. In the spot where my daughter’s light fixture had hung was a gaping hole from where a web of entangled cables peeked out.

He explained that the original electrical wiring was improperly done and that, while he could install the new lighting system, the right way would be to rewire. I told him I would ask Lucas to call an electrician.

“I could do it myself. It may take me a bit longer but it would be cheaper.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re an electrician too?”

He laughed. A hint of a laugh, really, but it seemed to dissolve the tension between us I had sensed that morning. Of course, it was possible that I’d imagined the whole incident. Even calling it an incident sounded like an exaggeration.

“Technically, no, but I know enough to fix this.”

When he broke into another coughing fit, I remembered I’d defrosted a chicken for dinner. I went to the backyard to get some carrots and onions and set a large soup pot on the stove.

At lunchtime, I poked my head into the room.

“I made some chicken soup, if you’d like some. You seem to be fighting a cold.”

Before he could refuse, I added.

“You should know my soup is known to raise the dead. It was my grandmother’s recipe.”

He seemed to weigh his answer.

“Well, then, I will gladly accept.”

He sat at my kitchen table while I cleaned up, setting aside a portion of soup for him to take home. I watched him eat silently out of the corner of my eye. When he finished, he brought his bowl to the sink and washed it.

“Thank you. It was very good. The lemongrass was very nice.”

I was surprised. Lemongrass was the recipe’s secret ingredient, one that few people could identify.

“Most people don’t recognize the lemongrass. Do you cook often?”

“Every day. I work nights at a restaurant in Midtown.”

I pictured him going to another job after putting in a long day here. My mother also had worked fourteen hour days before I was born.

“Oh, which restaurant?” I asked.

His eyes lit up. He looked impossibly young.

“Actually, it’s my restaurant. It’s not open yet, I’m waiting on the final permits.”

I silently chided myself for making assumptions about Adrian. He wasn’t working two jobs to survive; he had a passion. I felt a twinge of envy. It had been so long since I cared about something enough to make an effort.

I decided to accept his offer to do the rewiring, without consulting Lucas.

Something seemed to loosen in him after that day. We started eating lunch in the kitchen together – his dish usually a simple but aromatic curry or stew, mine consisting of leftovers or a hastily put together salad. He told me about his country and his constant longing to go back. I wanted to ask him how he’d ended up here but knew better than to ask for too many details. Instead, I told him about my mom’s escape from Cuba as a teenager and how she’d never given up the hope of returning.

One day, at lunch, he removed several small containers from his lunchbox and set them on the table.

“We’re opening this weekend. I thought maybe you’d like to sample the menu.”

I quickly set aside my sad tuna fish sandwich and watched his hands as he plated each dish.

“Congratulations Adrian,” I said, after tasting them all. “These are sublime. You’re going to be a big hit.”  

He turned his phone toward me as he scrolled through pictures on the restaurant’s page.

“I hope you’ll come. Tell your friends too.”

After he left, I realized I hadn’t asked him the name of the place.

The next morning Adrian did not show up. I checked WhatsApp but had no messages from him. After ten am, I decided to call him. Just as I reached for my phone, the doorbell rang and I found myself rushing to the door. When I opened it, it was Eric standing there, not Adrian.

“Ava, you don’t look like you missed me much,” he teased.

I managed to compose myself and let him in.

“Sorry, Eric.” I gave him a hug. “Of course, I did. I just had no idea you were out of the hospital. How are you feeling?”

I resisted the urge to ask about Adrian while Eric inspected the work, nodding his head. I offered him some coffee and he followed me to the kitchen.

“Everything is coming along really well, Ava. I think I can finish this in about a week.”

“Yes, Adrian is a great worker, very professional.” I said, adding casually. “Is he going to be helping you finish?”

Eric shook his head.

“Unfortunately, no. I got a call from one of his friends this morning to tell me ICE raided the restaurant last night and they picked him up. He’s probably on his way back to…”

He paused, staring at me.

“Actually, I don’t know where he is from.”

He’s from a seaside town in Venezuela, I wanted to say. Instead, I averted my eyes and they fell on Adrian’s empty food containers.

Lucas came home that week. As promised, Eric finished the remodel on time. I walked around my empty house in a fog, playing out scenarios about what had happened to him. I drove by the restaurant a few times until a new sign was up for a cannabis dispensary. Eventually, I settled back into my rhythm of teaching and choreographing recitals. One thing changed though: I started dancing again. I found a small troupe of former dancers who met once a week and put on occasional recitals. I danced alone in my study every day. I think a part of me wanted to turn around and see him by the window, looking at me like he did that afternoon.

Adrian

I stood in the middle of the spotless kitchen, my kitchen, reading the opening night’s menu again. From here, I caught a glimpse of the restaurant’s dining room. With the soft lighting from kaleidoscopic lamps and earth toned furnishings, the room felt as warm and inviting as I always imagined it. My wife – I was still getting used to saying that – had designed the dining room in Málaga’s popular Moorish style.

The staff would not arrive for another hour and I sat for a few moments with the silence.For the last decade, I had focused all my energy into the goal of owning a restaurant. That goal had slipped from my grasp five years ago in Miami. In Madrid, I shoved my anger and shame aside. But yesterday, Ava had reached out on the restaurant’s Instagram page to congratulate me.

“I love the name,” she wrote. I wondered if she had any idea she’d inspired it.

In Miami, I had racked my brain to come up with a name for the restaurant. Nothing seemed right until that afternoon at Ava’s house. We had not spoken very much when I started the job at her house- her Spanish was pitiful and my English not much better. Eric had mentioned that she was reserved, but I sensed a warmth to her. One afternoon, as I was cleaning the paint brushes outside, I looked up when the music began to play. Ava was in her studio, behind the window, dancing alone. I knew I should not be watching her, and yet, could not bring myself to look away. Her steps were tentative, as if she were dancing for the first time. With each move, her body became more fluid, as if she might take flight. I watched as she stood in profile – one leg on the floor, the other stretched behind her, her arms like wings. But it was the expression on her face that touched me: it was joy. I had felt it many times in the kitchen.

 The image of her stayed on my mind. When I got home, I searched images of ballet poses until he found it: Arabesque.

The next day, I registered it as the name of my restaurant.