“You’re finally here,” he said weakly.
“Yes, I am,” I told him.
Laura came and sat on the other side. “Mo is here to see you, Kurt,” she said. “He’s been here every day.”
The others stood and surrounded the bed. No one wanted to miss anything. Something deep and meaningful might occur.
“How are you feeling?” Sara asked.
“You’re finally here,” he said weakly.
“Yes, I am,” I told him.
“I need you to do something for me.” His voice was barely coming through.
“Sure.”
He took a breath. He was having trouble breathing. The final diagnosis was both KS and PCP in his lungs, possibly even CMV. No one was quite sure anymore.
“I want you to take my paintings.” He began coughing. I had to wait. Sometimes it took a while. “I know they are not worth much. You can take care of them while I go on my trip.”
“Are you sure you want me to take all of them?”
“Yes. I can’t take them on my trip.”
Jack jumped in. “What kind of trip are you taking, Kurt?”
Kurt didn’t reply. He looked at me. I nodded my head. He smiled.
“Would you like anything for your trip?” Jack asked.
“A Coke,” Kurt wheezed.
Jack looked at Sara, puzzled. Laura smiled for the first time. She asked her brother, “Do you want a Coke right now?”
“Yes.”
She went into the kitchen to open a can. She poured some into Kurt’s cup. I gave her my seat. She put the straw in his mouth. He tried to drink out of it and failed. Laura was ready for that. She took a needleless syringe from the night table. She filled it from the cup. She brought it close to his lips and he opened them on cue. She filled his mouth with Coke. He was able to handle two syringes.
He asked for music. Laura put on Van Morrison. We all listened.
“I’m surprised he’s still alive,” Kurt said.
“Who? Van Morrison?” Sara asked.
“No,” Kurt said. “My dad.”
Kurt surprised everybody. He did not die that night. We all stayed with him all night. He stopped breathing at times, but came back. We took turns staying with him. Only Laura stayed with him all the time.
Two nights later, I was there with Laura and Sara. Kurt had had a rough day and we did not expect him to make it. We sat waiting. Sara got on my nerves. I would have said something, but she was a good friend of Kurt’s. She kept talking to him about crossing to the other side, turning into a being of light, getting rid of his earthly body.
He was awake when she asked him if he still wanted to take his trip. “No,” he said, “you changed my mind.”
His moments of lucidity were rare. Laura was able to understand him most of the time for most of his conversations related to his childhood. I became Lucas, his best friend in kindergarten. He had not seen or heard of Lucas since he was five. He called Sara Jessica, his neighbor when he was growing up. He would look at Laura and tell her their mother was really upset with her. He had just talked to her and she told him Laura was misbehaving.
He did not die. Seven days later, he was still breathing, talking. He had not eaten in twelve days. No medication. He had not moved from his bed in over a month. Yet he still breathed. He died ten days after drinking Coke.
There was one incident two days before he died that summed up so much of how I felt about Kurt. Sara and Jack were in the room. Kurt woke up. Everybody looked at him.
“I wish,” he said.
Sara perked up. “You wish?” she asked Kurt.
“I wish,” he repeated.
Sara moved closer. Some pearl of wisdom might be forthcoming. “I wish I was an Oscar Mayer wiener,” Kurt sang the jingle. He then laughed to himself. I laughed so much I started crying.
…
Subject: Army curfew imposed on Beirut and other towns
beirut, Feb. 28, 1996—A time-indefinite nationwide curfew was ordered by the Lebanese army. Army commander Emile Lahoud issued a statement saying that “a curfew is imposed on the cities of Beirut and its suburbs, Sidon, Tyre, Jounieh, Tripoli, Ba’albak, Nabatiyeh, Baaklin and Zahle as of 3 a.m. Thursday morning until further notice. Troops will open fire on anybody seen carrying a weapon if he does not respond to warnings.
Thousands of soldiers, armored personnel carriers and tanks took up positions and set up checkpoints in the capital’s major squares, open spaces and road intersections as well as in Tripoli, Ba’albak, Tyre and Sidon. Among the security measures, entrances to refugee camps on the outskirts of Sidon would at least be tightly controlled and might be closed Thursday to prevent Palestinians from joining the demonstrations.
The army statement came after the CGTL (General Labor Confederation) called for protests during a general strike on Thursday. The CGTL represents 400,000 workers and is backed by opposition parties. The CGTL is asking for a 76 percent pay rise for workers and a 100 percent increase in the 250,000 Lebanese pounds ($157) monthly minimum wage, it is also demanding the cancellation of a 1993 ban on street protests and of a decision to decrease the number of private TV and radio stations. The labor union has become increasingly critical of Hariri’s government which is seen as ignoring the needs of the poorer classes in Lebanon, while at the same time raising multibillion dollars to fund reconstruction projects.
Hariri rejected all the CGTL’s demands on Tuesday and put the army in charge of public security and to stop street protests. Hariri said, “We will not allow the government to be toppled from the street.” Newspapers called the government’s decision to have the 50,000-strong army maintaining public order for three months a “partial declaration of martial law.” The decision also puts General Lahoud in control of internal security forces totaling another 50,000 men. Last July authorities used troops and police to block street protests over tax and price hikes.
The CGTL leader, Elias Abou Rizk, said it would observe the curfew—apparently defusing a showdown with the government.
…
“So have you ever been in love?” I asked.
“Not really. Infatuated, quite a few times, but I don’t think I have ever been in love.”
“Liar,” Marwa said softly. I did not think she was paying attention. All three of us were in my studio. She was labeling my paintings.
My sister sat in front of me, looking at the new slides. The morning light filled the studio. I should not have taken a break from painting, but lately I have been getting tired.
“I loved him, but I was not in love with him,” my sister went on, not lifting her eyes from the slides. “You were the one in love with him.”
“Rewriting history, are we? Sure, I was in love with him, but so were you.”
“Are you guys going to tell me?” I asked.
“There is nothing to tell, really,” my sister replied.
“‘Why won’t he kiss me?’” Marwa used a high whiny voice.
“‘Why? Why? My heart hurts so much.’ “ She clutched her bosom, embellishing the drama. “Not in love with him, my ass. You would have slept with his mother if she could have gotten him to go out with you. Come to think of it, it wasn’t his mother, you went after his grandmother! ‘Oh, Auntie Nabila, your cooking is so marvelous.’”
She ducked to avoid the flying pillow. This was turning out to be more amusing than I could have hoped for.
“Are you going to tell me or what?” I asked impatiently.
“I was not in love with him. I was just infatuated. That’s all. I was fifteen.”
“He was so cute,” Marwa added. “Those eyes were killers. And that blond ponytail, oh, my God!”
“We both liked him a lot,” Nawal continued. “He lived in Ba’abda with his mother, but came to West Beirut all the time.”
“His father wa
s killed by the Syrians when he was young. The fuckers then completed it. In 1989, they shelled his house killing both him and his mother.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I was.
“I cried for a month when I heard,” my sister said. “I guess I was in love with him.”
“I was so in love with him,” Marwa continued. “I kept dreaming of him even after he died.”
“He was gay, you know.” My sister was now looking at me. The slides were done with, on the coffee table.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” Marwa answered. They finished each other’s sentences.
“He told your sister after she tried to rape him.”
“Oh, really?”
“I did no such thing. I just wanted him to kiss me. He told me he was gay. That’s why I say I was not in love with him. How can you be in love with someone if there is no chance in hell you can sleep with him?”
“Why don’t you ask your brother about that one?” Marwa looked at me, raising one eyebrow, a wicked grin plastered on her face. It was my turn to throw the pillow across the room.
…
Subject: Seven raising antigovernment signs are released.
beirut, Feb. 26, 1996—Seven people were arrested on Friday as they were carrying antigovernment street signs. On Monday, Judge Nada Dakroub dropped the charges for incomplete evidence and said the signs were seized in a different area from where the suspects were arrested.
Raising street signs in Lebanon requires the approval of the interior ministry.
…
Death comes in many shapes and sizes, but it always comes. No one escapes the little tag on the big toe.
The four horsemen approach.
The rider on the pale horse says, “Hey, Diego, do you think this one is worthy?”
Velázquez, on the black horse, says, “This good and faithful servant deserted his country.”
“Whoa,” I interrupt heatedly. “You guys are diverging from the script.”
Mondrian, on the red horse, says, “No. You diverged from the script. You used green in your paintings.”
Jesus, on the white horse, says, “I curse you, Peter Rugg. For all of eternity.”
The crotchety white rider leads the other three painters away.
I still have no feeling in my fingers. I can’t touch home.
…
Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
Jorge Luis Borges is dead, dead, dead. Yet, he continues to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, promises of eternal love.
…
I always thought AIDS should be a trademark of Burroughs Wellcome. You know, AIDS™ is a registered trademark of Burroughs Wellcome, use of this trademark without paying royalties to its rightful owner is a crime punishable by a slow, tortuous, torturous death.
How much money has this company made on our suffering? How much money have the doctors, pharmacists, and various medical personnel made? Did anybody count? What about psychotherapists, and alternative healing practitioners? Viatical companies? I do not even want to consider the books published, the stories in the media. War profiteers.
Has anybody ever tried to figure what the average daily profit was? They did in Beirut. A local newspaper, Al Diyar, ran a cost estimate. A 240 mm shell cost $9,500. The 160 mm shell costs $1,500, the 155 mm $700, the 122 mm $300, and so on down to a single Kalashnikov bullet, which costs about thirty cents. In one night alone, an estimated ten thousand shells had poured down on the city. The cost estimate was about fifteen million dollars for one night. That is for one night of a war which started in 1975. How many years is that?
The Lebanese Civil War™ is a registered trademark of Martin Marrietta.
…
An hour later. Arjuna and his charioteer, Krsna, on the battlefield. They are now joined by Eleanor Roosevelt, Krishnamurti, Mame Dennis, Jalaleddine Rumi, Julio Cortázar, and Tom Cruise, who looks a little lost.
ARJUNA:My head hurts.
RUMI:All your agonies arise from wanting something that cannot be had. When you stop wanting, there is no more agony.
KRSNA:That’s very well said. You hear that, Arjuna. If you understand that, life flows.
KRISHNAMURTI:Live your destiny.
JULIO:Stop trying to make sense of this chaos.
ELEANOR:Delete the need to understand.
MAME :Just live, darling. Stop trying to make sense of the book of life. It is a series of nonlinear vignettes leading nowhere, a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. It makes no sense, enjoy it.
TOM:Are there any cute boys here?
ELEANOR:Oh, shut up!
…
August 7th, 1996
Dear Diary,
I shouldn’t listen to music anymore. It makes me so sad. I should stick to Arabic music. It is safer. If I listen to French music, I start thinking of Samir.
I had the radio on in my car today. They were playing old songs recorded by today’s singers. Someone was singing “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off.” It’s a funny song, or at least was funny until the war. You say to-ma-to and I say to-mah-to. Well, that was what happened during the war, except if you mispronounced tomato, they shot you. Lebanese pronounce tomato banadoura, whereas Palestinians pronounced it bandora, so the drivers of cars stopped at Phalangist checkpoints were shown a tomato. If they mispronounced, it was au revoir et merci. Let’s call the whole thing off, so to speak.
It got worse for me as this singer with a gorgeous voice came on singing Porter’s “So in Love.” It’s a newer version I had never heard. I remembered how Ella sang it. I used to love it as a girl. When I was eleven, I was singing it when my father came into the room. He listened to what I was singing. He came over and slapped my face. He told me never to sing about love again. I was furious in the car. I got so upset because he was so stupid. I got so upset because I missed him so. When the song was over on the radio, the announcer said this singer recorded the song to raise money for AIDS. I had to stop the car and cry.
…
I had this story idea for a book. I had always been fascinated by the mythology of Jesus, even though I was born a Muslim. The book would lay out the life of the main protagonist, from birth to death, as a modern parallel to Jesus.
The main character—let’s give him a real Muslim name, Ali—is born in Lebanon, the only son to his mother and father. The birth is miraculous. The mother was told she could never have a child. Ali grows up in an environment with an absent father—he works a lot—and a doting mother. A fairly typical upbringing for a mother-complected homosexual.
Childhood is relatively boring. We leave the story until his thirtieth birthday. He is living in the States. He has been infected with the virus, but is asymptomatic still. He has to be doing something dramatic. I would have made him a painter, but that is too obvious.
Let’s have him be a fairly accomplished violinist. Through his exquisite playing he is able to move people to tears. He has a following.
One of his followers, a close friend, suggests that he should go back to Beirut and make peace with his father. He does. The father then sacrifices his son. He has him kidnapped in Beirut.
The final scene would have Ali tied spread-eagled, naked, face down on a bed. The father walks in. There are two kidnappers in the room. He tells his son what a disappointment he has been. He tells him maybe, if he dies, people would forget about his homosexuality. He nods at one of the kidnappers, who takes out a long knife. The description has to be subtle in pointing out the phallic implications. He then proceeds to stab the son between the shoulder blades. The father watches.
The father takes his son’s bloodied corpse, wai
ling that he has been killed. Ali’s mother, his only true love, cradles the corpse. Ali’s death has exactly the consequence his father wanted. Ali becomes the most loved musician, a messiah. His father is idolized as the progenitor of a genius.
The book is written in the first person. It would be interesting to write, as the main character, the description of the knife stabbing me. I die. I find that so powerlul. As the protagonist, I would be able to say, “Father, why have you forsaken me?”
Scott did not like the idea. He thought it was obvious, axiomatic.
…
I woke up hearing Marwa talking on the phone. She was crying. My sister was trying to understand what was happening.
It seemed Marwa’s mother had talked to mine. They were not close friends, having little in common. Marwa’s mother spent most of her time comforting Samir’s mother after her son’s death. My mother wanted nothing to do with it. It seemed that Najwa thought my mother should come over here and visit. She told my mother she had lost all three of her boys. My mother had already lost two. She should not allow the third to leave without saying good-bye. My mother said she considered that she had already lost three sons. It was easier that way. She always wore black.
Marwa told Nawal my mother was a bitch.
From my bed, all I could scream was “No.”
…
The young driver opens the door of the white Range Rover. They whiz through all the checkpoints. The drive to Kaslik takes only about twenty minutes. The driver goes through a gate and parks in front of a hilltop house, overlooking the Mediterranean. The house is secluded.
The door opens as soon as the car arrives. He is waiting for her. He greets her with the perfunctory cheek-to-cheek kiss. He tells the driver to leave, he does not need him this evening. She thinks of complaining, explaining that she needs to go back later on. She decides against it. Why pretend? They both know her husband is out of town.
He leads her into the house. She is impressed. The view is breathtaking. She mentions it. He suggests they go out onto the verandah to watch the sunset. He pours both of them a Scotch. The Lebanese national drink. They both laugh. He brings the bottle with them as they sit to watch the sunset.
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