Chapter 1
Should Raphael be the one telling this tale, he would start with our first kiss and end with our last orgasm. According to him, only a ribald story would entertain the licentious readers. Nevertheless, I beg to differ. Being the romantic I am, I personally think that the many best parts of our story lie in his failed attempts to court me, my capitulation, the predicaments we faced together, and of course, our not-so-happy ending. You see, this tale is not any typical Cinderella story where two typical astonishingly good-looking characters from different echelons of society get together and share a typical happy-ever-after ending. This tale is about a prince – a true and handsome prince – who was willing to stoop so low to be with a commoner, who was neither endowed with physical attractiveness nor the benevolence of any Cinderella. If Raphael were to read this story, this is the part where he would ruffle my frizzy dark hair and whisper in my ear, “You’re no commoner. You’re Hassan, the beautifier.” To add to the romance, he would either nibble my ear or kiss my cheek after saying that. Ever since he found out the literal meaning of my name, he has been teasing me whenever I felt inferior compared to him. So, where would I start this tale of a knight and a knave, if you ask of me? Well I would start with me, of course.
My dad and I migrated from Afghanistan 12 years ago when the Taliban first invaded my home country. When we reached the States, my dad struggled with discrimination, marginalization, and iniquity in his daily job which barely fed the both of us. At that time, I was only six and was of absolutely no help in financing our family. When I turned seven, my school expenses greatly transcended our family income. And that is when the story started – that is when my dad and I became knaves. For the next ten years, we would venture out into cities hours from home, impersonate fund managers, pension personnel, and etc, to earn a living. In retrospect, I do think that the both of us were born swindlers – the innate aptitude in mathematics, the charisma, and the knack to cajole. On my last year of high school, my dad and I conjured an ingenious swindle. We posed as an investment firm and sent out 10,000 letters, half of which claimed that stock A would rise in value, and the other half stating otherwise. We waited to see which prediction came true, and subsequently sent yet another 5,000 financial forecast to those who received the true prediction. At the end of the year, we had ten true prediction and ten tremendously credulous entrepreneurs who are willing to make unbridled investments. Put simply, I graduated and we absconded to New Jersey with a few hundred thousand dollars.
At this point, I would love to end the story by writing, “And the father and son who successfully eschewed legal enforcements, lived happily ever after.” As melodramatic, as cliché or as corny as it might sound, my father died of lung cancer a year after. The dead man’s wish was that I pursue a tertiary education and never, regardless of circumstances, allow my son to become another knave. Frankly, the thought of college rouses a whole deal of trepidation in me. It has nothing to do with my credential – I have my SATs to reassure me – but rather the idea of a whole new environment. Nevertheless, I mustered all courage left in me, and applied to Princeton University, the Department of Comparative Literature – I just could not see myself being a mathematician for life.
Chapter 2
Alright, before I introduce Raphael into the story, I would like to obliterate all absurd speculations. No, he was not my roommate. No, he did not get drunk and end up in my residence. And no, we did the fall in love on first sight; actually, prior to our courtship, we utterly abhorred one another. How did I meet him then? I hate to admit it, but he did make quite an entrance, which was all the more reason for me to despise him. On the dawn of the 10th of September, 2006, the autumn gust heralded, arguably, Princeton’s most prominent first year student. As he ambled lithely down the boulevard leading into Nassau Hall, not a single pair of eyes averted from Raphael Grimaldi, third in line of succession to the thrones of Monaco. And ever since then, he was my image of iniquity – both in pedigree and in physical endowment. In less than a week, I could hear his name from every nook and cranny of the campus.
“Do you know he is majoring in Mathematics?” “Oh yes, he is the smartest Prince I have ever met.”
“Look at his immaculate wavy blonde hair.” “Look at his delectable physique.” “Look at his smooth chiseled face.” “He is just perfect!”
For the next two weeks, the resentment billowed, the exasperation grew, and the repugnance built. And then, on October 4, 2006, it all began. As I was walking pass Cleveland Tower on a typical Monday afternoon, I could hear his conspicuous voice from a classroom within eyeshot.
“And this, my friends, is the Bordered Hessian Matrix, which our professor thinks we are too daft to learn”
“Urgh, the arrogance,” I whispered to myself. As I walked pass the classroom door, I took a fleeting glance at his illegible scribbles on the board. And to my utmost horror, it was a disaster; worse, it was an insult to Hessian. Frankly, I wouldn’t have done what I was about to do should the bloke inside not be Raphael Grimaldi, the arrogant. But the repressed resentment stripped me of my diligence. I strode into the classroom impertinently, took a chalk, and subsequently added a few subscripts in the matrix, corrected his function, and added an imperative constraint. At that point, the room literally froze. Well, undoubtedly, my tactless stunt made me infamous in the ensuing days. Entailing it was some stern glares, some cold shoulders and a lot of averting eyes. Henceforth, the recluse became a pariah.
October 14, 2006, I was heading home after night classes. Alas and alack, I once again crossed path with my nemesis. Prince Monaco was as usual, encircled by his posse of goons. I paced nonchalantly, fervently praying that I would not garner even a scintilla of attention. Well, I guess it would be of no surprise to the readers that he approached me from behind when I thought I’ve successfully escaped. After all, every romance has to start with a conversation.
“Hey, erm, Hassan right?” He said, as he tapped me on my shoulder.
“What do you want?” I said as I continue striding, hoping that he would give up following.
“You can’t put the blame on me; you are responsible for your own action. You are aware of that right?”
I stopped. He halted. I turned to face him, and there came the word vomit. “You are the most arrogant person I have ever come across in my life. I would have thought much more of you if you had just left me alone. But instead, you come up to the only person on this campus who does not worship you, and further exasperate him. You know what? Before I met you, I’ve never believed in iniquity as I thought with power comes responsibility, and the more one is given, the more one is expected to give back. But you… you, who have been given so much, show so little of it.” I walked away. He stood transfixed.
Deep inside me, I knew I was on the wrong. I was the one who humiliated him in front of his peers, I was the one who was jealous of his unearned popularity, and I was the one who was jealous of his beauty. But perhaps God thought I was worthy of more than I thought I would be, and despite all my imperfection, He decided to bestow on me one with perfection. From that day onwards, for inexplicable reasons, Raphael took every opportunity to make an impression on me. (Only later on, when we were an item did he tell me that during the few seconds we conferred that day, he felt a sense of reality, and it felt addictively good.)
October 16, 2006. I was reading a book at the far end of the common room when Raphael sneaked on me.
“Hey.” He said in a rather pleasant tone as he sat on the empty chair next to me.
“I am sorry,” that was actually what I wanted to say. But being the mean person I am, I said, “What now?” instead.
“What you said that day. It is not true you know. I am actually a good person, and I am going to prove that to you.”
And then I planted a kiss on his cheeks. Alright, no, that did not happen.
“Frankly, I really don’t care. I mean, Raphael, you already have the entire campus on your side, why do you need me to like you?”
“Because I am a good person.” Right after he finished his sentence, he stood up and announced to the entire common room. “Erm, sorry to disturb you guys, but I would like to apologize, in public, to Hassan, for everything which I have done to him.”
I stood up and left. Yes, I deserve a slap.
October 17, 2006. I was heading to a lecture of mine when Raphael once again sneaked on me. How he managed to spot me in a 600 acre campus, I honestly do not know.
“Hey, so everything better now? No more cold shoulders?”
“More averting eyes, if you must know.”
“Oh… I am sorry.”
For once, I decided not to be a dork. I stopped and said solemnly, “Look, you don’t need to be sorry alright. I really appreciate what you’ve done and would really want to have a conversation with you, but I have a class and hence must go now. See you in campus”
“Wait!” he shouted, “Where do you live?”
“Hamilton Hall, Mathey College!” I shouted back.
October 18, 2006. I was cooking dinner for myself when Raphael knocked on my door.
“Hey, it’s me again. Are you attending to something?”
“Well, I am cooking, but you can come in.” I opened the door, and invited him into my relatively austere living room.
“Smells good.” He gave a gentle smile – whether it was genuine or bogus, debatable.
“Have you had dinner? I can cook your portion if you really want to.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually that question was just out of courtesy, most would actually decline.”
“Oh…” His amicable smile vanished.
“But I really do have extras, so if the Prince of Monaco has no agenda tonight, he can opt to dine with the unpopular, unattractive, and reclusive Hassan.”
“It’s my honour.” And he gave that grin again. And at that moment, I thought that even if I had to go through the Herculean task of cooking an extra portion to get another glimpse of that smile, it was worth it.
After we dined, I decided to digress from the idle chatter we were having and asked him a more personal question.
“So, just out of curiosity, why are you so persistent about making a good impression on me?”
He was dumbfounded. But he spoke, nonetheless. “Well because you were the first person who hated me to such a degree and because... you’re cute.” He said the last two words in jest.
“I am cute?! You are either an eccentric aesthete or simply desperate for people who don’t worship you, irrespective of gender.”
“Well maybe I do like you.”
“The Prince of Monaco, gay?” I made a taunting laugh.
“Why is that so funny?” He leaned extremely close to me, close enough for me to feel his breath.
I drew back intuitively. “It’s late, I have morning lectures tomorrow. I guess you should leave.”
Did I want to kiss him? Yes. Did I know my boundaries? Yes, perhaps better than anyone else. A prince cannot kiss a slave; a knight cannot kiss a knave.
Should Raphael be the one telling this tale, he would start with our first kiss and end with our last orgasm. According to him, only a ribald story would entertain the licentious readers. Nevertheless, I beg to differ. Being the romantic I am, I personally think that the many best parts of our story lie in his failed attempts to court me, my capitulation, the predicaments we faced together, and of course, our not-so-happy ending. You see, this tale is not any typical Cinderella story where two typical astonishingly good-looking characters from different echelons of society get together and share a typical happy-ever-after ending. This tale is about a prince – a true and handsome prince – who was willing to stoop so low to be with a commoner, who was neither endowed with physical attractiveness nor the benevolence of any Cinderella. If Raphael were to read this story, this is the part where he would ruffle my frizzy dark hair and whisper in my ear, “You’re no commoner. You’re Hassan, the beautifier.” To add to the romance, he would either nibble my ear or kiss my cheek after saying that. Ever since he found out the literal meaning of my name, he has been teasing me whenever I felt inferior compared to him. So, where would I start this tale of a knight and a knave, if you ask of me? Well I would start with me, of course.
My dad and I migrated from Afghanistan 12 years ago when the Taliban first invaded my home country. When we reached the States, my dad struggled with discrimination, marginalization, and iniquity in his daily job which barely fed the both of us. At that time, I was only six and was of absolutely no help in financing our family. When I turned seven, my school expenses greatly transcended our family income. And that is when the story started – that is when my dad and I became knaves. For the next ten years, we would venture out into cities hours from home, impersonate fund managers, pension personnel, and etc, to earn a living. In retrospect, I do think that the both of us were born swindlers – the innate aptitude in mathematics, the charisma, and the knack to cajole. On my last year of high school, my dad and I conjured an ingenious swindle. We posed as an investment firm and sent out 10,000 letters, half of which claimed that stock A would rise in value, and the other half stating otherwise. We waited to see which prediction came true, and subsequently sent yet another 5,000 financial forecast to those who received the true prediction. At the end of the year, we had ten true prediction and ten tremendously credulous entrepreneurs who are willing to make unbridled investments. Put simply, I graduated and we absconded to New Jersey with a few hundred thousand dollars.
At this point, I would love to end the story by writing, “And the father and son who successfully eschewed legal enforcements, lived happily ever after.” As melodramatic, as cliché or as corny as it might sound, my father died of lung cancer a year after. The dead man’s wish was that I pursue a tertiary education and never, regardless of circumstances, allow my son to become another knave. Frankly, the thought of college rouses a whole deal of trepidation in me. It has nothing to do with my credential – I have my SATs to reassure me – but rather the idea of a whole new environment. Nevertheless, I mustered all courage left in me, and applied to Princeton University, the Department of Comparative Literature – I just could not see myself being a mathematician for life.
Chapter 2
Alright, before I introduce Raphael into the story, I would like to obliterate all absurd speculations. No, he was not my roommate. No, he did not get drunk and end up in my residence. And no, we did the fall in love on first sight; actually, prior to our courtship, we utterly abhorred one another. How did I meet him then? I hate to admit it, but he did make quite an entrance, which was all the more reason for me to despise him. On the dawn of the 10th of September, 2006, the autumn gust heralded, arguably, Princeton’s most prominent first year student. As he ambled lithely down the boulevard leading into Nassau Hall, not a single pair of eyes averted from Raphael Grimaldi, third in line of succession to the thrones of Monaco. And ever since then, he was my image of iniquity – both in pedigree and in physical endowment. In less than a week, I could hear his name from every nook and cranny of the campus.
“Do you know he is majoring in Mathematics?” “Oh yes, he is the smartest Prince I have ever met.”
“Look at his immaculate wavy blonde hair.” “Look at his delectable physique.” “Look at his smooth chiseled face.” “He is just perfect!”
For the next two weeks, the resentment billowed, the exasperation grew, and the repugnance built. And then, on October 4, 2006, it all began. As I was walking pass Cleveland Tower on a typical Monday afternoon, I could hear his conspicuous voice from a classroom within eyeshot.
“And this, my friends, is the Bordered Hessian Matrix, which our professor thinks we are too daft to learn”
“Urgh, the arrogance,” I whispered to myself. As I walked pass the classroom door, I took a fleeting glance at his illegible scribbles on the board. And to my utmost horror, it was a disaster; worse, it was an insult to Hessian. Frankly, I wouldn’t have done what I was about to do should the bloke inside not be Raphael Grimaldi, the arrogant. But the repressed resentment stripped me of my diligence. I strode into the classroom impertinently, took a chalk, and subsequently added a few subscripts in the matrix, corrected his function, and added an imperative constraint. At that point, the room literally froze. Well, undoubtedly, my tactless stunt made me infamous in the ensuing days. Entailing it was some stern glares, some cold shoulders and a lot of averting eyes. Henceforth, the recluse became a pariah.
October 14, 2006, I was heading home after night classes. Alas and alack, I once again crossed path with my nemesis. Prince Monaco was as usual, encircled by his posse of goons. I paced nonchalantly, fervently praying that I would not garner even a scintilla of attention. Well, I guess it would be of no surprise to the readers that he approached me from behind when I thought I’ve successfully escaped. After all, every romance has to start with a conversation.
“Hey, erm, Hassan right?” He said, as he tapped me on my shoulder.
“What do you want?” I said as I continue striding, hoping that he would give up following.
“You can’t put the blame on me; you are responsible for your own action. You are aware of that right?”
I stopped. He halted. I turned to face him, and there came the word vomit. “You are the most arrogant person I have ever come across in my life. I would have thought much more of you if you had just left me alone. But instead, you come up to the only person on this campus who does not worship you, and further exasperate him. You know what? Before I met you, I’ve never believed in iniquity as I thought with power comes responsibility, and the more one is given, the more one is expected to give back. But you… you, who have been given so much, show so little of it.” I walked away. He stood transfixed.
Deep inside me, I knew I was on the wrong. I was the one who humiliated him in front of his peers, I was the one who was jealous of his unearned popularity, and I was the one who was jealous of his beauty. But perhaps God thought I was worthy of more than I thought I would be, and despite all my imperfection, He decided to bestow on me one with perfection. From that day onwards, for inexplicable reasons, Raphael took every opportunity to make an impression on me. (Only later on, when we were an item did he tell me that during the few seconds we conferred that day, he felt a sense of reality, and it felt addictively good.)
October 16, 2006. I was reading a book at the far end of the common room when Raphael sneaked on me.
“Hey.” He said in a rather pleasant tone as he sat on the empty chair next to me.
“I am sorry,” that was actually what I wanted to say. But being the mean person I am, I said, “What now?” instead.
“What you said that day. It is not true you know. I am actually a good person, and I am going to prove that to you.”
And then I planted a kiss on his cheeks. Alright, no, that did not happen.
“Frankly, I really don’t care. I mean, Raphael, you already have the entire campus on your side, why do you need me to like you?”
“Because I am a good person.” Right after he finished his sentence, he stood up and announced to the entire common room. “Erm, sorry to disturb you guys, but I would like to apologize, in public, to Hassan, for everything which I have done to him.”
I stood up and left. Yes, I deserve a slap.
October 17, 2006. I was heading to a lecture of mine when Raphael once again sneaked on me. How he managed to spot me in a 600 acre campus, I honestly do not know.
“Hey, so everything better now? No more cold shoulders?”
“More averting eyes, if you must know.”
“Oh… I am sorry.”
For once, I decided not to be a dork. I stopped and said solemnly, “Look, you don’t need to be sorry alright. I really appreciate what you’ve done and would really want to have a conversation with you, but I have a class and hence must go now. See you in campus”
“Wait!” he shouted, “Where do you live?”
“Hamilton Hall, Mathey College!” I shouted back.
October 18, 2006. I was cooking dinner for myself when Raphael knocked on my door.
“Hey, it’s me again. Are you attending to something?”
“Well, I am cooking, but you can come in.” I opened the door, and invited him into my relatively austere living room.
“Smells good.” He gave a gentle smile – whether it was genuine or bogus, debatable.
“Have you had dinner? I can cook your portion if you really want to.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually that question was just out of courtesy, most would actually decline.”
“Oh…” His amicable smile vanished.
“But I really do have extras, so if the Prince of Monaco has no agenda tonight, he can opt to dine with the unpopular, unattractive, and reclusive Hassan.”
“It’s my honour.” And he gave that grin again. And at that moment, I thought that even if I had to go through the Herculean task of cooking an extra portion to get another glimpse of that smile, it was worth it.
After we dined, I decided to digress from the idle chatter we were having and asked him a more personal question.
“So, just out of curiosity, why are you so persistent about making a good impression on me?”
He was dumbfounded. But he spoke, nonetheless. “Well because you were the first person who hated me to such a degree and because... you’re cute.” He said the last two words in jest.
“I am cute?! You are either an eccentric aesthete or simply desperate for people who don’t worship you, irrespective of gender.”
“Well maybe I do like you.”
“The Prince of Monaco, gay?” I made a taunting laugh.
“Why is that so funny?” He leaned extremely close to me, close enough for me to feel his breath.
I drew back intuitively. “It’s late, I have morning lectures tomorrow. I guess you should leave.”
Did I want to kiss him? Yes. Did I know my boundaries? Yes, perhaps better than anyone else. A prince cannot kiss a slave; a knight cannot kiss a knave.
And yes... Hassan would indeed use "monesgasque". 