Sumer Lovin'

Sumer Lovin’

by Nicole Chardenet

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Nicole Chardenet

Deux Voiliers Publishing

Sumer Lovin’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

First Edition 2013

ISBN 978-0-9881048-4-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Art and Design by Ian Thomas Shaw

Cover Photo by Heinrich von Schimmer, Berlin (licensed from Photographer)

Red Tuque Books distributes Sumer Lovin’ in Canada. Please place your Canadian independent bookstore and library orders with RTB at www.redtuquebooks.ca

To Sharon Landis,

my favourite Jewish matchmaker,

and Kat Spiwak,

who’s trying to save Toronto

from chronic celibacy

TABLE oF COnTents

Acknowledgments

Caveat Emptor

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

About Nicole

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Enoch Tse for his input and advice on Chinese culture and sayings.

Thanks to Reem Shahin for providing some of the more colourful omens and divinations from the Middle East.

Thanks to Ron Hutchison in the heart of Red Country for encouraging me every step of the way.

Also to Lynn Holtz, Juliet Swiggum, Scott Berry and Lisa Marion for providing proofreading and making various suggestions and edits.

Thanks to Sonya Young for providing the author picture.

And many thanks to the Canadian government for not being very picky about immigrants! (Good grief, they’re letting in Americans! There goes the country!) I appreciate the many opportunities and good fortune I’ve had since I moved here. And many thanks to Toronto for being a vibrant, alive city where my writing can flourish and where I am surrounded by so many circles of wildly different creative people.

CAVEAT EMPTOR

Be aware that the story that you are about to read is a little wacky—and with Sumerians! After all, what sick ancient mind came up with a demigoddess like Lamashtu? Seriously? Some rabid, man-hating, cuneiform-scribing feminist? Well, it wasn’t me. I swear to Goddess.

Lamashtu is from ancient mythology, and seriously, I don’t know how those wacky Sumerians came up with her.

When I started writing Sumer Lovin’, I thought, "I want the villain to be a woman. Maybe more than one, I don’t know. Women never get to be villains. And Goddess knows we can be just as evil as men, and we look totally better with our shirts off. So I hit Google and--holy Schlitz--I found Lamashtu and her nasty little surprise. Later I hit Google again for another horrifying demon-thingy and geez, I found Lamashtu’s arch-enemy and his really disgusting--oh my Goddess. Only a man could have come up with that. Ewwwwww.

Look, you’ll just have to read it and find out for yourself.

All I can say is, the Sumerians had way dirtier minds than I did. And with a very, uh, David Cronenberg twist.

Nicole

CHAPTER ONE

I tell you, Mahliqa, Canadians and Americans should be more like us, Amita said as she adjusted the sari around her shoulder. Our cultures have the right idea. Marry first, and wait for love.

Mahliqa, still handsome at forty-eight with huge dark eyes behind stylish glasses under an attractive green hijab shot through with gold thread, hmmphed as she dug into her mango ice cream. Westerners aren’t ready for arranged marriage.

Don’t be silly! They only stopped doing it a hundred years ago, her friend retorted. She sipped her chai tea and enjoyed what little of the warm June sun penetrated the hazy smog smothering Toronto. At least today’s miasma wasn’t deceptively overcast-looking like last week.

"I read Casanova’s Memoirs years ago. He mentioned many marriages that had been arranged for his various mistresses by their parents. The Europeans did it as much as we did. They married cousins too--"

Mahliqa snorted. Try mentioning that to a Canadian today! They act like it’s unholy.

"They’re just silly. Who better than a member of the family? They have this ridiculous idea that cousins marrying is like incest. I’m married to my cousin and we have five beautiful children together, and your sister married your cousin Omar and her children are perfect."

Except for being little hellions!

That’s their father’s fault. He lets them do anything they want. They’re boys. The point is, they don’t have the deformities or the inbred stupidity Canadians fear.

Westerners are too obsessed with love, observed Mahliqa. "The children don’t listen to their parents. I wouldn’t have listened to my parents if I’d had a choice. I wanted to marry Mahdi, the boy who sold grapes in the plaza. A boy with no future! My father quite rightly made me marry Jabir. Try telling that to some flighty Canadian child—"

So you agree with me.

"That arranged marriages are better? Not always, Amita. It depends on your family, and the man himself, and his family. I’m happy with Jabir because he’s an enlightened man. Not like Tawfiq, my other sister’s husband. What a conservative nut! Insists she wear that ridiculous abbaya, won’t let her drive - and they live in Germany, not Saudi Arabia! I couldn’t be married to that man."

You know what gets me? asked Amita. "The divorce rate! Canadians and Americans, they’re always divorcing. And over what? Love! ‘I thought I loved her.’ ‘I thought he loved me.’ I didn’t love Manjeet when I first met him. I liked him well enough—"

"But he wasn’t your soul mate!"

Amita threw back her head and laughed, her tawny face tilting toward the sky. "What is a soul mate?" she cried. "Who invented this thing? I don’t even know what that means."

Neither do Westerners, Mahliqa snorted, "but that’s all they talk about. If you look at the personal ads online, they’re always going on about soul mates."

They get that from the Americans.

"They come up with all the foolishness."

Amita sipped her tea and sat back. She stared across the street from beneath the umbrella of the small Mississauga café. The warm June day beat down on her shoulders. Once again, she was thankful for her light sari and uncovered head, unlike Mahliqa’s uncomfortable-looking hijab.

Have you ever seen the computer sites for single people? she asked. Mahliqa shrugged and polished off the rest of her ice cream. "They’re sad. So many young people with fuzzy pictures, vague descriptions of what they think they want in a mate. The girls show off their—everything. The boys clearly want their—everything. Nothing about values or morals or family, the important things. The only thing sadder are the older ones, the ones who are long past a decent marriage age, the ones in their thirties and forties and more. Some of them divorced, some more than once. No one will want them. They’re ruined, finished."

That’s a little harsh, Mahliqa said gently. People do find themselves single again at later stages. Think of your widow communities, Amita.

Yes, she sighed. They still existed in India, although modern enlightened Indians preferred not to think of them. But the world still is as it is.

If only the children could be saved. I see these beautiful young Canadian youths, barely out of school, and I think, ah, wouldn’t you be happier with someone to come home to every night, a woman who will cook for you and take care of your children, or a man who will buy you nice things?

A fly buzzed by lazily and landed on Amita’s arm. Disgusted, she brushed it away.

"Well isn’t that interesting, said Mahliqa, grinning broadly. In my culture, when a fly passes you by, it means a visit from someone far away!"

* * *

Rachel Brinkerhoff regarded the intense young woman on the other side of the table in the Second Cup booth. Oy, she just knew she’d be a nightmare to work with.

So what matches have you got for me? Alexis asked, leaning forward. Her glossy straight brown hair brushed her shoulders as she watched Rachel from behind her severe rectangular glasses. The brown eyes behind them were striking, but also hard and relentless. What must it be like for some poor young man, squirming beneath that penetrating gaze?

I moved to Toronto a few months ago, so I’m just getting my service up and running, Rachel explained. She deliberately spoke with an unhurried tone, hoping to buy time to think of a good way to handle this. I’m trying to select a pool of candidates so it’ll probably be a few more months before I can start suggesting matches— Oh, this was good. It would take at least a few months of working with Alexis just to make her presentable for a date.

It’s not that the 31-year-old wasn’t attractive. Alexis was quite lovely, actually. Medium height and fit, with a pretty heart-shaped face. The severe glasses weren’t so bad when she smiled - then her penetrating eyes turned friendly and her rich full pink lips invited passionate kisses. The problem was she had a very bad attitude—cynical, jaded, and Rachel just knew she was being treated for depression. Or should be, anyway.

Alexis glanced at Rachel’s left hand. "So why aren’t you married?" she asked. The question was straightforward, like Alexis herself - but the tone less judgemental than when she talked about the men in her past.

Rachel sighed and smiled. She hoped her crow’s feet didn’t show too much. That’s a good question, she said. I’ll admit, I just got divorced. I made a bad choice and the marriage wasn’t going anywhere so I got out. Technically true. Austin was never going to change, although one might argue the marriage was going somewhere - in a very ominous direction. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’ll choose more wisely next time. Rachel hoped this wouldn’t be a deal-killer for Alexis. She felt she could help her, if she was open enough to change.

I know how it is, Alexis nodded. My friends always come to me for advice on how to handle the men in their lives. And I’ve helped out several of them. It’s just not so easy to take your own advice, you know?

Rachel smiled and slid out of the booth. I’ll be in touch, she replied. I have another appointment in forty-five minutes. Would you know how to get to Yonj and Bloo-er from here? She dug a wrinkled sticky note from her pocket and squinted.

It’s Yonge and Bloor, Alexis smiled, pronouncing it Young and Blore. Are you driving or taking the subway?

I’m driving.

Alexis gave her some quick directions and stood up, her glossy hair swinging. Good luck trying to find men for your database, she said as she headed toward the exit. You might want to focus on immigrant men. I think you’ll find Toronto guys are uninterested in women.

* * *

Rachel had yet to find Yonge and had lost Bloor a good ten minutes ago. She tried rolling down her window and asking people on the street but the first person didn’t speak English, the second said she was just visiting from Hamilton, and the middle-aged couple turned out to be American tourists. And Toronto’s downtown was just as impossible to park in as New York’s.

She spotted a convenience store up the street, so she parked there and headed toward the entrance, only to notice that it sported a big CLOSED sign. What, on a Wednesday? Underneath was a hand-written explanation in a language only mildly resembling English indicating something about renovations.

Glancing at her watch, Rachel ducked into an office with a painted sign that said, ‘Love Comes Later.’ She opened it, stepped inside, and froze.

A middle-aged woman looked up from behind the desk. Oh, hello, do come in! she greeted. She was wearing one of those hijab things and that conservative long-sleeved dress. It was a very pretty hijab, bright purple with little blue flowers, quite fancy compared to the drab colors favored by most Toronto Muslimas. Rachel gulped and remembered that her own religion wasn’t nearly as obvious. These Muslims, they made her so nervous. There were so many more of them in Toronto, whereas Jews outnumbered them nearly three to one in New York.

Hi there, I’m really lost, can you tell me where Yonge and Bloor is? Rachel asked. She pushed the wrinkled sticky note at the woman. I’m looking for this restaurant, Just Desserts—

I know where that is, they have wonderful sweets, the woman replied. You’re not that far from there, just a few blocks, really. Where are you parked?

Rachel told her and the woman gave her some fairly simple directions.

Are you visiting from New York? the woman asked with a big smile. She was quite handsome, Rachel thought.

I’m from New York City. I moved here a few months ago, Rachel explained. She was mesmerized by the woman’s smile. Muslims seemed such a humorless bunch, especially the traditionally-dressed women. They walked down the street or in the shops and malls in Mississauga, uniformly sullen. A smiling Muslim in a hijab was about as common to her experience as—a smiling New Yorker at rush hour.

That’s wonderful. How do you like Toronto so far?

Nice, very nice—the people here are friendly. Much friendlier than they are in New York, she felt compelled to add, as always, before someone else did. And I think I’ve fallen in love with Smarties candies.

Why did you move to Toronto? the woman asked.

Oh—uh—well, I’m— Oh, she might as well tell the truth. I’ve just gotten divorced and my ex-husband’s a little bit crazy and I knew he’d never follow me to Canada.

Austin hated Canadians. A pathetic bunch of limp-wristed dope-peddling pot-smoking faggots and hedonists, he’d called them. Socialist Commie terrorist-coddling liberals, he’d added. Austin, a Homeland Security guard at JFK Airport, blamed Canada for having a ‘porous border’ that any old goddamn raghead could pass through without so much as a whatcha-got-in-the-trunk-there-Achmed. You should go there, Rachel, he’d told her. They hate America just as much as you do. You can shoot heroin with your dyke lover and forget you ever had a real man between your legs!

I’ve been to New York. I quite liked it. I went to the top of the World Trade Center with my husband just a few weeks before— The woman’s voice broke. What those evil idiots did. She glanced down.

Rachel felt a little embarrassed for her. It’s okay, she said.

The woman glanced up again and managed a brave smile. "I’m sorry, I feel compelled to say something. I want to make sure everyone knows we’re not all like that. I was sick when it happened. Absolutely sick. I hope you didn’t lose anyone."

Rachel shook her head. Not just to reassure the woman, but to shake the memories away. She’d been uptown when it happened. Austin, a cop at the time, certainly hadn’t helped, the big dumb macho doofus. Not answering his cell phone when she called sixteen times, frantic to find out whether he was one of the rescue workers crushed by the falling towers.

What sort of business is this? Rachel asked, glancing around. The windows were draped with chiffon and silk rather than curtains, and various Indian and Middle Eastern paintings dotted the walls. The Indian paintings depicted couples in romantic poses, and the Middle Eastern decorations were more abstract, flowers and geometric designs.

We’re new, we just opened up, the woman replied. "Please pardon the decor, the feng shui expert hasn’t come yet. My partner and I have formed a consulting service for Canadian parents who want to arrange marriages for their children."

Rachel’s eyes opened wide. You’re kidding me, she exclaimed. "Arranged marriages? For Canadians?"

The woman smiled widely and opened her arms. Love Comes Later, she said. We believe there are many Canadians who could benefit from choosing marriage partners from a traditional Eastern perspective. We want to counsel parents on how to persuade their children to go along with it. We believe that older married people are more experienced and knowledgeable about what makes marriage work than headstrong young people whose heads are full of silly Hollywood movies. We’re hoping to find someone who can help us arrange marriages too. You know, we could probably help you, my friend—if you don’t mind me saying so, you are a very beautiful woman! You look like that American movie star—what’s-her-name—Elizabeth Taylor!

Rachel smiled shyly and hoped once again her crow’s feet didn’t show too much. She’d heard the comparison many times.

You even have violet eyes like she does! If I didn’t know better I’d swear you’re sisters.

Her face was so friendly Rachel started laughing. "Oy Gevalt, if only you knew—" she began, and then she froze.

The woman’s eyes, already huge, grew wider behind her large glasses. Oh, are you JEWISH? she cried.

* * *

In another part of the city, a guy desperately in need of a date sat back from the computer, removed his glasses, and wiped his wrist across his eyes. Dave Gillpatrick had been entering medical codes for the last two hours and his brains felt fried. This job sucked. He hated the work he did for a large American healthcare company, but at least it paid better than fixing peoples’ old computers and he could work from home. Since he’d never gone to university, his career choices were fairly limited. If he could earn enough money he’d go to college and earn a computer trade degree. What he wanted to do more than that, though, was move out.

It was after three. He still had fifteen more pages of codes. He thought of what he would do after dinner and decided he’d design an OS-tan for Mandriva Linux. Maybe something kind of witchy, with a revealing black bodice, and a fleur-de-lis at the end of her wand.

The knife twisted a bit in Dave’s heart. He tried not to think of how he was once again designing the woman he’d never have, a computer operating system icon of the cute little lovely-eyed girl with the round bosom and the wasp waist of his dreams.

Because when Dave was around women his hands went cold, his tongue tied up, and he had to fight the urge to run and hide. At thirty-five years old, he was still just as much of a yutz with women as he’d always been, and he had a secret that was now just too embarrassing to contemplate revealing to anybody. A woman would laugh her head off if she found out. He cruised the singles profiles on Lavalife and Plenty of Fish sometimes, late at night after his parents had gone to bed, but no one ever emailed him, probably because his profile wasn’t that impressive and he had no picture. Women wanted to see what you looked like, and Dave didn’t want to show them what a fat little shrimp he was.

So instead he poked through the womens’ profiles, looking at this ad and that ad, wondering what the girl was really like, whether she always smiled like she did in her picture, and imagined what it might be like to go sailing on Lake Ontario with her or maybe walk around the park. Maybe if he lost a little weight and got contacts and wore sunglasses to cover his bland hazel eyes, just maybe, a woman might want to meet him and take him out on her sailboat. Or maybe she’d walk beside him when they went hiking through a nature preserve, quietly impressed as he pointed out all the native Ontario plants and the different types of scat they found.

His hand drifted to the little ad he’d clipped from a local entertainment newspaper last week. ‘Love Comes Later,’ read the copy, and it seemed to offer some kind of matchmaking service. He wasn’t sure why love came later but he thought it was worth a try.

Honey? Would you like some samosas? his mother called up the stairs.

Dave rubbed his eyes and put his glasses back on. No thanks, Ma, he called down. He got up and searched for his wallet. Before he left, he fed his forty-eight gerbils in a Habitrail the size of the downtown Skywalk and set BitTorrent to begin downloading the first three episodes of the last season of Dr. Who.

He was going down to Love Comes Later, now. Maybe they could find him a fellow virgin.

* * *

Yes, Rachel replied stiffly, and she tried to smile. Relax, she told herself. There are Jews in the world, lady. Get over it.

Oh, terrific! the woman cried, clapping her hands together in front of her chest. She sounded as excited as if Rachel had told her she’d just won the lottery.

A bit surprised, Rachel waited. Her smartly-tailored pantsuit tightened around her like some corset from Hell.

It’s okay, I’m not going to bite you. Or blow you up, the woman smiled. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude.

Unsure how to respond, Rachel simply held her hand out. Allow me to introduce myself, she said. My name is Rachel Brinkerhoff. I’m a matchmaker, by the way.

A matchmaker! The woman’s eyes had begun to resemble some comic book anime character. Oh my, we have to talk! You and myself and Amita! You’re just the sort of person we’re looking for!

Rachel swallowed her surprise. A Jew, working with a Muslim? What would her mother say?

My name is Mahliqa. Mahliqa Fakhoury. She shook Rachel’s hand. It’s so good to meet you, Rachel. I mean what I say about how we should sit down together. You must be trying to establish yourself in Toronto, and we have a consulting service where we will meet eligible young people. Do you have a few minutes? I will call Amita and if she’s near here maybe she can swing by and we’ll run down to the corner for some tea—

Actually, I have to leave—I have an appointment with a young lady who’s interested in my services. But I could come back later, Rachel added. This shouldn’t take more than an hour. I just have to find Yonge and Bloor.

Why don’t you come back around 4:30? Mahliqa asked. She pulled her cell phone from some hidden pocket in her dress. I’ll call Amita and tell her to be here. Would that be okay?

Rachel glanced at her watch. She had exactly fifteen minutes to find Yonge and Bloor, then a parking spot, and then Just Desserts. That’s fine, she said. She reached up and scratched her eyebrow.

Oh, that was a good omen! What you just did, in my culture, that means money is coming your way! See, God is sending you a sign that this will be a good partnership!

Uh, okay, said Rachel, who had no idea what she was talking about.

Good-bye! I look forward to speaking with you again! Mahliqa called after her. As Rachel opened the door, she found a fairly nice-looking man outside. With her professional eye she scanned him quickly, assessing him. In his thirties, light brown hair, wire-rim glasses, medium build, a little short, kind of cute in a quiet nerdy way. Just the sort of person she’d like to add to her database if only there was time to talk. Oh, excuse me, she said as she graced him with what she hoped was a sparkling smile. She held the door open for him. He walked in, slowly, his eyes on her face. She tried not to turn away with embarrassment. Yes, I’m middle-aged and losing my looks, and I know all about the wrinkles around my eyes, she thought to herself. She pushed past him.

At the last minute she turned around quickly and faced his back. Standing on tiptoe, she looked at Mahliqa and mouthed the words, I want him! as she pointed. Mahliqa nodded once, subtly, and motioned for the young man to come in and have a seat. Rachel departed.

Dave stepped up to Mahliqua’s desk as though in a daze. Who was that woman? he asked. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!

That’s Rachel, hopefully our new partner, and she wants you, Mahliqa smiled beatifically, looking for all the world like a radiant Madonna, if the Madonna had been from Pakistan, wore Revlon Burnished Mahogany nail polish, and was horrifically nearsighted.

Dave just stared at her, gaping.

* * *

Speaking of dateless Daves, in downtown Toronto, a systems adminstrator for a famous large enterprise middleware software company close to the Manulife Centre was thinking about the speed dating event his friend Dave (a network engineer for a travel agency) had talked him into trying that night.

A strange little factoid about Toronto: A disproportionate number of I.T. professionals there are named Dave. You’d think a