Eyes Full of Empty Read Online Free

parents. And yet she named her son Dmitri. Even people like that can’t take too much of the exotic. I’ve never been able to stomach her comments—they seem plucked right out of travel guides she’s spent a little too much time poring over.
    Instead of answering, I just shrug, not yet resolved to engage in hostilities. Of course it’s mouthwatering, especially for people like me who work during the fast. I pour myself a glass of lemonade and toss it back in one gulp, telling myself that at this point, dinner can still go well. But she keeps laying it on: “Aren’t you hungry?”
    â€œNo, no. I haven’t eaten all day, but I’m fine.”
    My father gives me a dark look.
    â€œKidding, just kidding.”
    â€œWe haven’t seen you in a while. Ramadan go well?” my uncle asks.
    â€œYes, it’s done me a lot of good. I needed it,” I reply, meaning it.
    My grandmother brings the last of the dishes to the table and serves us all soup. The sucking noises start. I should never have come. I try to put it all behind me and focus on my bowl, sneaking glances at the others now and then from the corner of my eye. The conversation has a hard time getting started. I can feel my presence making everyone uneasy. I decide not to overplay my role as an asshole, even if today has seriously gotten on my nerves, and for the good of everyone present I toss off a “How’s work, Dad?”
    â€œFine,” he says, a man of few words.
    My uncle bravely tries to run with it. “How about you, Idir? What are you doing these days?”
    â€œOh, helping people out here and there. Odd jobs. You know, the usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
    â€œDid you know your cousin signed with a record label?”
    I don’t like people who ask a question just so you’ll have to ask them the same question back, even though you couldn’t give a fuck about the answer. “No, really?”
    Dmitri gives me a shy little smile.
    â€œ Mabrouk! How’d that happen?”
    Anne tells me her son’s success story, tears springing to her eyes.
    Unlike my father, who accepts who he is, my uncle’s always been ashamed of his origins and just loves playing the perfect little Frenchman. He raised his son to be the same way. From the way Dmitri’s hair falls over his eyes and the grossed-outlook he gives his soup, it looks like my uncle succeeded.
    â€œCareful, I hear music can be a dirty business…drugs and all.”
    â€œYour son never lets up,” my uncle tells my father in Kabyle.
    I take it up with him in French. “Hey, you think he can’t speak up for himself if he doesn’t like my comments? How about it, Dmitri? You’d tell me, right?”
    Dmitri blushes, mutters a quick, “Oui.”
    â€œThere, you see? And speak French, will you? Or else your wife and son won’t understand a word you’re saying.”
    â€œYou’re such a little shit,” my uncle says.
    â€œUncle, if you’ve got something to work off, we could go settle this outside.”
    â€œThat’s enough,” my father says, rising from the table. “Get out, Idir.”
    I get up before he has to repeat himself and duck into the kitchen to kiss my grandmother good-bye.
    She reaches up and her dry hand settles on my cheek. “Idir. Take care, slow down.”
    â€œGotta run, I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon.”
    Before she can respond, I dash out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me, relieved.

    On boulevard de Clichy the next day, I stop by a call shop. I don’t have Internet at home. When I need it—and it’s just for work—this is where I go. Seated at his desk, the owner, a young Pakistani of about twenty, is playing with his cell phone.
    â€œHow’s it going, Anam?”
    He looks up at me and smiles. I like it better when his wife is minding the shop. She should be starring in a