FLOWERS DON'T CRY Part -1

FLOWERS DON'T CRY


We were both on the balcony of the hotel room when Mustafa came in loaded with bags of God knows what. Face down on a mat borrowed from inside. Under the blazing summer sun. Covered completely in sun tan oil.
“What the…What are you guys trying to do? Burn to death? Your skin can’t take this. You know that?”
“Quiet Mustafa. We have come here to tan. And tan we shall” Dad’s muffled voice was heard on the mat underneath us.
“Tan? You guys?” Mustafa laughed his head off.
“What you SHALL is. Turn red like a lobster. As always. Remember Barcelona last year? Dad I can understand. But you Mike? “
Mustafa flopped on the sofa and took out a suspicious looking snack from one of the many bags he had brought and started consuming it.
“Too bad you guys don’t tan naturally like I do.”
How he managed to speak through all that was stuffed in his mouth is a mystery.
“Too bad you don’t have muscles like us, Mr. Flabby Samosa Nacho Manic.” It was my turn to speak.
“Who wants muscles man when you have a personality like me?”
“Everybody wants muscles and nobody wants a personality like you. Probably you don’t as well. But since you have no choice... “
“Ha Ha! Very funny! At least I have a personality. While you dear brother have none. And no talents so to speak of. Unless saying ’ duhhhhhh….’ In front of every girl you meet is considered a talent in any universe.”
“Watch it Flabby.” I was about to get up and do something about my half-brother’s free assessment of my talents, when Dad pulled me down again.
“Shut up both of you. No more talking. I will not let your bickering spoil yet another vacation. Mustafa you eat more of whatever you were desecrating a while ago. Mike you stay right where you are. Tan, we shall!”
“Suits me just fine. Gives me an opportunity to buy more of these amazing samosas which are called samboseks here for some odd cultural reason.” 
Mustafa got up and opened the door and slammed it shut, but not before declaring,
“Happy broiling mates. Just text me when it is time to go to the hospital.”
I was mad.
“I’ll kill him one day dad.”
“Fine. But not on vacation. Too much hassle. When we get back to London, be my guest.”
“I am not joking Dad. He really makes me mad sometimes.”
“He’s your brother, what can I say. He’s like you.”
“He is more like mom I think.”
“Maybe……”
The tanning efforts continued.



The man at the immigration counter was visibly annoyed. Dad was visibly annoyed. I was visibly annoyed. Mustafa was visibly delighted. He is like this. I don’t know why. He can irritate you in a minute, but it is very difficult to irritate him. He calls this “the ability to smile in the face of all odds”. I would rather not write what I call this.
“Please tell me your names again. Slowly. Don’t confuse me. And with surnames.”
Dad tried to entertain this request.
“Right. My name is DAN-IEL  MC- KEN-ZIE…”
“Not that slowly sir. I have many others waiting in the line behind you.”
There was an elderly French couple behind us as well a lot of empty space. Dad was about to lose his cool but mercifully didn’t. I was relieved. I really wanted to get out of this airport. Mustafa was smiling broadly and trying to utilize his terribly limited knowledge of the French language with the “many others waiting in the line behind” us.
“OK. I will try. My name is DANIEL MCKENZIE. This is my younger son MICHEALANGELO MCKENZIE. This is my older son MUSTAFA MCKENZIE.”
“Hi!” Mustafa again beamed a smile.
The officer was unmoved.
“What?”
I could see the Scotsman in Dad awakening. His face turned a bright red and he clenched his fists. The Asian in me tried to calm him. I put my hand on his shoulder and looked at him with a “please Dad” sort of gaze I have used on him ever since I can remember. He exhaled. God be blessed. That is always a good sign.
He repeated our names.
“I am still confused. Your names confuse me. Why is your son’s name Mustafa?”
“Why not?”
“You know….uuuuhhhh!”
“No I don’t know.”
“You know….uhhhh. Mustafa is a……ahhhhh.”
“What is the problem sir?”
“Mustafa is a Muslim name and you are not a Muslim”.
Finally the man vented out his true feelings as if confessing a long held guilty secret. With that he also dabbed the sweat off his expansive forehead with a stamp sized tissue.
This was it. Dad semi exploded .Verbally that is.
“Mustafa, you imbecile, is my wife’s son from a previous marriage. She being a Muslim gave him that name. Mike is my biological son and Mustafa’s half-brother. We called him Michelangelo because his mom was an artist.”
“But how did you get married? It is not possible.”
“It is possible in some parts of the world you know. Now will you please stamp our passports or do I need to call the British Embassy in Beirut?”
“No no Sir. No need. Will stamp quickly.”
The mention of the embassy had the desired effect. Bang, bang and bang. Passports stamped. Yet the gentleman was not finished.
“But why did she marry….. you know….how…”, he mumbled under his breath.
“To inquire about her reasons you will have to go to a cemetery in London where she peacefully lies.”
Dad was not done. But we managed to drag him to the luggage belt. Mustafa was humming a tune.
“Flabby, show some compassion man! That entire problem was due to your name and you did not say one word”.
“Why should I? Dad always has lots of words and he uses them effectively.”
Finally the ordeal was over. As soon as we got out of the departure lounge we saw the man from our hotel with a big “MCKENZIE” written on a roughly cut card board piece held in his hands. Five minutes later we were in the car. It was hot I tell you, but the June sun felt great on our faces as we were being escorted to our hotel. The London we left behind was rainy and cold even though it was summer. So it felt like we had landed in heaven. So this is the famous Beirut, I said in my head, slightly taken aback by a huge poster of a bearded gentleman glaring at the cars rushing at warp speed, ours being one of them.

END OF PART 1