26
Beirut; April 1971
Jane Rogers was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room with her daughter when she noticed a familiar face. The attractive Lebanese woman on the next couch, wearing an expensive silk dress, looked very much like a woman she had met at a party many months ago.
Jane was on the verge of introducing herself, but then thought better of it. The woman was wearing dark glasses and reading a magazine. The French edition of Vogue. Perhaps she didn’t want to be disturbed. Better not to pry, especially not at the doctor’s office.
Jane turned instead to her daughter Amy, who was playing with trinkets from her mother’s purse. The child had recovered dramatically during the last few months. The worms had disappeared entirely, their Lebanese pediatrician assured them. So had the symptoms of neurological distress. Amy was cured.
Jane glanced again at the Lebanese woman and noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Perhaps it wasn’t the same woman, after all.
“Madame Jezzine,” called out the nurse. The attractive Lebanese woman closed her magazine and rose from her seat.
I was right, thought Jane. She watched Madame Jezzine walk into the doctor’s office. The elegant woman emerged five minutes later folding a piece of paper on which the doctor had written a prescription. She slipped it into her purse.
“Mrs. Rogers,” called out the nurse. Jane, holding her daughter by the hand, began walking toward the doctor’s office. She had gone only a few steps when the Lebanese woman approached her.
“Jane,” said Solange Jezzine with a warm smile. “I am sorry that I did not recognize you before. How pretty you look.”
“Hello, Solange,” said Jane.
The Lebanese woman greeted Jane fondly, kissing her on both cheeks. Jane felt slightly awkward at her transformation, in the space of several minutes, from total stranger to dear friend. But never mind. She kissed the Lebanese woman warmly. As she did so, Jane could smell the scent of an expensive perfume behind each ear.
“And what a lovely little girl,” said Solange, patting Amy on the head.
“Will you be long in there?” asked Solange, nodding toward the doctor’s office.
“Only a minute,” said Jane. “I’m just getting a prescription refilled.”
“Good,” said the Lebanese woman. “Then I’ll wait. We’ll have lunch together, my dear.”
“All right,” said Jane, trying to sound friendly. She glanced at the baby and hoped that Madame Jezzine didn’t have in mind a fancy restaurant where a toddler might not be welcome.
Jane was in the doctor’s office just long enough for him to write out a refill prescription for the birth-control pills she had been taking ever since Amy got sick. She had resolved then that she wouldn’t have any more children until they left the Middle East. The doctor liked his patients to come by in person to pick up their refill prescriptions rather than phoning the pharmacy. Perhaps he imagined it was more discreet that way. Jane found it the opposite. But never mind. Jane had folded the prescription and put it in her wallet by the time she returned to the waiting room.
Solange Jezzine gave Jane a little wink. She rose from the couch and greeted the American woman almost conspiratorially, putting her arm in Jane’s. As they were walking out of the office, she whispered in Jane’s ear.
“It’s liberating, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?” asked Jane.
“The pill, my dear,” said Solange. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Jane nodded shyly. She wondered whether she should explain that she wasn’t taking birth-control pills to facilitate a love affair, as Madame Jezzine’s whispered conversation implied, but for another reason. She decided to say nothing. It was pleasant, in a way, to be regarded by another woman as a secret co-conspirator. And she found that she rather liked Madame Jezzine’s frankness. It seemed very Lebanese.
“It will transform the world,” whispered Madame Jezzine. “Especially the Arab world.”
On the curb outside the doctor’s office stood a gleaming red Mercedes-Benz with white leather seats. A burly man, who had the disinterested air of a chauffeur, was sitting in the driver’s seat. Next to him was an Asian woman dressed in a black skirt and a white apron, who appeared to be a maid.
“This is my car,” said Madame Jezzine. “Come, get in.”
Jane entered the car, which smelled of leather and perfume and the smoke of the driver’s cigarettes. She set the baby on her lap, in the same motion checking her diapers to make sure they weren’t wet.
“Chez les Anges,” Madame Jezzine told the driver.
Jane recognized the name of the restaurant. It was a chic French bistro on the waterfront in West Beirut, not far from the embassy. It was reputed to be the most expensive place in town.
“I’m not sure that’s a good spot for a toddler,” said Jane.
“It isn’t,” said the Lebanese woman. “We’ll leave her with Sophie.” She gestured toward the maid.
Jane was going to say no, that’s all right. Another time. That was the appropriate thing to say, after all. You couldn’t very well leave your three-year-old daughter in the custody of someone else’s maid. But she hesitated, and the reason was that she very much liked the idea of eating with a rich Lebanese woman at the fanciest restaurant in town.
“She’ll be fine, won’t she, Sophie?” said Madame Jezzine.
“Yes, madame,” said the woman. She seemed to Jane to be Indian, or perhaps Sri Lankan. She looked responsible enough.
“Perhaps we could drop her off at our house,” said Jane. “Would you mind that, Sophie? My cleaning lady is there, and she can help you look after the baby.” Sophie nodded compliantly.
“Perfect!” said Madame Jezzine. “Tell the driver your address.”
Jane directed the Mercedes-Benz to their apartment building in Minara. She took Amy and Sophie upstairs and explained the contents of the baby’s kit bag. Extra diapers, favorite toys and books, a bottle filled with apple juice.
“If she cries, be sure to call the restaurant,” said Jane.
“Yes, madame,” said Sophie, wobbling her head in the submissive gesture that is characteristic of the Indian subcontinent.
Jane left the baby playing happily in her nursery and returned to Madame Jezzine. As she bounded down the steps and toward the car, she felt a giddy sense of adventure, and of momentary liberation from the routine of loyal wife and mother.
They arrived a few minutes later at a small building near the St. Georges Hotel. The driver parked the car and scrambled to open the door for Madame.
“Go get your own lunch, Antun,” she said to the driver. “We’ll be several hours.”
The restaurant’s plain white facade masked an exotic interior. The back wall was all glass, providing a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean. The main room was full of tables of businessmen, conversing intently about work and money. A smaller room, beyond, featured a series of booths set along the oceanfront windows, each with very high backs so that they were almost like private rooms. There seemed to Jane something slightly scandalous, and delicious, about two women dining alone in a restaurant like this.
“Do you have a booth, perhaps, Joseph?” the Lebanese woman asked the maitre d’hotel in French.
“Oui, Madame Jezzine,” came the answer. Evidently she was a regular.
They walked through the main dining room, drawing appreciative glances from several of the men, and entered the smaller and more intimate room. Walking past the booths, Jane noticed that in most of them, men seemed to be dining with very young and attractive women. Jane thought she saw one man stroking the breasts of his luncheon companion through the thin fabric of her blouse.
When they were seated, Madame Jezzine leaned across the table and spoke to Jane in the same conspiratorial tone she had adopted at the doctor’s office.
“Surely you know this restaurant?” said the Lebanese woman. “This is where the men of Beirut bring their mistresses to show them off. An
d sometimes, to do a bit more.” She nodded toward the nearby booth where the man had been petting his date.
Solange Jezzine ordered a kir. Though it was midday, too early to drink, Jane did the same. This was an adventure, she told herself. When Solange offered a cigarette, she accepted, even though she hadn’t smoked one in years. She coughed after the first puff, and Solange laughed at her inexperience.
“I’m afraid I am a novice,” said Jane.
“You’ll learn,” said the Lebanese woman.
Jane felt embarrassed and wanted, for a moment, to retreat into her ordinary identity of wife and mother.
“Do you have any children?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” said Solange. “Years ago. It seems like another lifetime.” They talked amiably about children for several minutes, until the drinks arrived.
“I thought that you were leaving Beirut,” ventured Jane as she raised her glass. The cassis was swirling through the wine and darkening it like a sudden thunderstorm.
“Why? Because of my husband’s legal difficulties?” answered Solange bluntly.
“Well, yes,” said Jane. “I read in the paper that he was expected to stay in Switzerland. So I assumed…”
“That as a loyal wife, I would go there with him,” said the Lebanese woman, finishing the sentence.
“Yes.”
“Not yet,” said Solange. “Perhaps I will go eventually. Certainly I will go eventually. But not now. It is spring and the most beautiful time of the year in Lebanon. It snowed last week in Geneva, did you know that? I will go later. But not now. There is so much to do here.”
She smiled in the most charming and coy way. Looking at her, Jane concluded that men must find her absolutely irresistible.
“And how is your husband?” asked Solange, arching her eyebrows.
“Fine,” said Jane. “Wonderful, actually.”
“You are a lucky woman, to have such a handsome husband. I am sure everyone gives you the same warning: Watch out!”
“No,” said Jane. “To be honest, people don’t tell me that. Why should I watch out?”
“If you need to ask, take another walk past these booths.”
Jane wanted to say, No, my husband isn’t like that. But she said nothing.
“What do you think of Lebanese men?” asked Madame Jezzine.
“I find them very charming,” said Jane.
That’s not a very honest answer, Jane thought to herself. She took another sip of her kir, and then spoke again.
“I find them very charming and very sexy, but they don’t seem very reliable.”
“Ahaa! Then I think you must know them very well,” said Madame Jezzine with a wink.
“Not at all,” said Jane. “Or hardly at all. But I would like to understand them better. Perhaps you can explain what they are like.”
What am I saying? Jane thought. Why am I doing this?
“I can tell you a great deal,” said Solange. “But first let us order some lunch.” She pressed a buzzer under the table and a waiter arrived promptly to take their orders. Clearly she was no stranger to the booths, either. The waiter recited the list of specials. Jane ordered the filet of sole Duglère, poached and served with a sauce of white wine and grapes. Solange ordered a lobster, broiled. And a bottle of white Burgundy.
“And salads,” called out Solange as the waiter was walking away. “And potatoes!”
Heads turned in the quiet room. Madame Jezzine smiled and lit another cigarette.
“Let me tell you about Arab men,” said Solange Jezzine quietly. “This is a topic on which I am something of an expert.”
“Goody,” said Jane. She giggled as she said it. This was like a dormitory party at Mt. Holyoke.
“Do you want to know everything?” asked Solange, taking a drink from her wine.
“Yes,” said Jane, still feeling girlish and giggly. This must be what it’s like in the harem, she thought. Women who barely know each other exchanging confidences about the men who rule their lives.
“The first thing to understand about Arab men is that they grow up sleeping with everybody. Men, women, uncles, brothers, sisters, aunts. It’s very hot in the Middle East and people don’t wear much clothing. So things happen. It is nature.”
“Come now,” said Jane.
“It is true,” said Solange. “One of my lovers, a man who is famous throughout the Middle East, told me once about how he was seduced by his aunt. It happened during the afternoon siesta, when the wind was blowing through the curtains. The poor woman denied that it happened. She said that she had been asleep and unaware of what was going on. But my lover told me that she came to his bed and took his penis in her hand and stroked it, and then straddled his body and put him inside of her.”
Jane was blushing. Her cheeks felt hot. All she could think of to say was: “My goodness.”
“Am I embarrassing you?” asked the Lebanese woman.
“No,” said Jane. “You are answering the questions I would never dare to ask.”
“Good,” said the Lebanese woman. “Now, the second thing to understand is that the most important person in every Arab man’s life is his mother. Not his wife, not his mistress, but his mother. Most Arab men see their mother every day. They all want to be on their own, men of the world, but they also want mothering. From every woman they find.”
“I think most men are that way,” said Jane.
“Perhaps, but in the Arab world everything seems more extreme, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” said Jane. She looked for the waiter, who was nowhere to be seen. Rather than ring the bell, she picked up the wine bottle from its ice bucket and poured another big glass of wine for herself and Solange.
“What is the third thing?” asked Jane.
“The third thing is…I am ashamed to say it.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Jane. “I can’t imagine that you would be embarrassed by anything.”
“The third thing is that Arab men are afraid about their penises.”
“What?” asked Jane, pretending that she hadn’t heard.
“They are afraid because of circumcision. You see, in the Arab world, men traditionally are circumcised when they are seven, not at birth. By that age it can be quite painful. And it is a public ritual, at least for the Bedouin. I had one lover, a very rich Saudi prince, who told me how he watched them do it to his older brother and listened to his screams of pain. When it came his turn several years later, he ran away from the sheik who was trying to apply the blade of the knife. I’m not sure the poor boy ever got over it.”
Jane looked so wide-eyed and innocent as she listened to these tales that the Lebanese woman suddenly wondered if her American companion, birth-control pills or no, was really very experienced.
“My dear,” said Solange. “Have you ever had an Arab man for a lover?”
Jane dropped her head sheepishly.
“Actually, no,” said Jane.
“Would you like to know what they are like?”
“In bed?” whispered Jane.
“Yes,” said Solange.
“I suppose so. Yes, I suppose I would.”
“They don’t make any noise when they make love!” said the Lebanese woman.
“What?”
“They never say a word. They don’t moan. They don’t call your name. You never know when they’re finished.”
“Why?” asked Jane. “Why are they so quiet?”
“I think it is because they are ashamed. Arab men are very clean, you see. They get it from the Koran, which goes on and on about how to wash yourself. And maybe they think sex with women is dirty.”
“Dirty?”
“Yes. Because as soon as they are done, they go wash themselves.”
“They do?” Jane was more astonished with every word of the conversation.
“Yes.”
“And what about, you know, before…?”
“Foreplay?” volunteered Solange. “They’ve never heard of it. It do
esn’t even occur to them.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No,” said Solange.
“Well, then, excuse me for asking this, but why does any woman in her right mind take an Arab for a lover? It doesn’t sound like much fun.”
Solange smiled. It was the look of secret warmth and pleasure that cats have when they are purring.
“There are a few Arab men who are different,” said Solange.
“And what are they like?”
“Aaah, my dear,” said Solange. “How can I tell you? They are God’s apology for the shortcomings of all the rest. They are like men and women at once. Hard and soft, strong bodies and gentle hands. They have dark eyes the color of the sky on a night when there is no moon. And they are tireless. They will sleep all day to have energy for the night.”
Solange closed her eyes, and her voice trailed off. She is thinking of last night, Jane thought. For the first time she could remember, she felt a touch of envy for another woman.
The food arrived. The two women were both ravenous. Jane, normally a light and dainty eater, found that she was picking the white grapes off the sole with her fingers and dropping them, one by one, in her mouth. Solange devoured the lobster, a morsel at a time, cracking each claw, extracting the meat delicately with her fork, dipping it in a silver cup of clarified butter. The waiter tied a large red napkin around her neck to protect the silk dress, which only made her look more exotic and abandoned.
“Do you know what bothers me about Arab men?” said Jane. “They are crazy about sex, but they are afraid of women.”
“It is possible,” said Solange. She was sucking on one of the thin spiny legs of the lobster.
“I was thinking about it the other day,” said Jane. “I was watching some men on Hamra Street who were swooning over a Western woman. She was wearing a fitted blouse and a tight dress. I think she was an airline stewardess. But it was the longing on the faces of the men that frightened me.”
“Why?” said Solange. She had put down the lobster and was patting her mouth with her napkin.
“Because I thought to myself: This is what the Arabs want from us. From the West, I mean. They want to have sex with us. That’s why they are so eager for the modern world. Smoking our Marlboros and drinking our whisky. Because they think they’ll have more sex that way.”
Agents of Innocence Page 22