Lately I’ve been trying to
post something every week but today I feel too low to think of anything amusing
or interesting to write. I keep thinking about Mohammad’s white shirt. Mohammad
is the son of my cleaning lady, Selma. I’ve never met him but I see him every
day now from a distance, working as a parking valet at a restaurant my kitchen
window overlooks. Selma pointed him out to me when she was here last week.
“He’s the one wearing the white shirt and red tie,” she told me.
He’s been wearing the white
shirt and red tie every day since. I know because I see him nearly every time I
look out the window. His family –Selma, her husband, and the six kids– live in
a tiny, dark apartment without a shower. When they want to bathe they heat a
bowl of water over a gas ring and wash themselves in it.
I keep thinking about
Mohammad going home after his shift at midnight and removing the white shirt
and red tie. Does Selma (or, more probably, her eldest daughter) wash it right
away and hang it to dry for the next day? Or is everyone asleep, necessitating
the washing of it first thing in the morning and a hasty ironing to get the
last of the dampness out before it is back in service? It seems unlikely to the
point of inconceivable that he would have two good white shirts.
This afternoon we walked
past him on our way to the shops. I looked at him and for a second our eyes
met. I could see that he was doing fine. So I don’t know why I’m still thinking
about that white shirt.