She got an abortion and left for Paris.
She had a lot of sex there, but it was revenge sex. Once, I called her to wish her a happy thirtieth birthday and to tease her about her old age, of course, and we got onto the topic of sex “at this age,” and she laughed and said, “I have sex to justify my screaming in the middle of the night.” I didn’t believe her then because I was confident that she loved sex for the sake of sex, as one loves art for its own sake. But I now know that her sexual relations after Qrunful’s death didn’t come from a healthy place. Her body ached. Everything inside her ached.
And here she is today, reading the news and Interpol website. She doesn’t want death to surprise her anymore.
. . .
“Allo?”
“Allo, bonjour madam. This is Graziella from the company Read Read Read. We sell encyclopedias, and our team has recently produced a series of them that include all the information on the lives of our political leaders: General Michel Aoun, al-Sayyid Hassan Nasrallah, Sheikh Saad Hariri and his father Sheikh Rafic Hariri—God rest his soul—the bishop Mar Nasrallah Boutros Sfeir, Sir Nabih Berri, Walid Beik Jumblatt . . .”
“Well done!”
“Merci madam. We also deliver all our encyclopedias to your home free of charge. And if you purchase two leaders, we’ll throw in the third for free. And if you purchase three, we’ll throw in the fourth free along with a big poster of your favorite leader, signed by him personally . . .”
“Personally? But what if my favorite leader is Sheikh Rafic Hariri, God rest his soul?”
“We’ve thought of that; his son Sheikh Saad will sign it! Madam, we have a team of experts from the best universities in Europe, and we use glossy paper for our encyclopedias. Each encyclopedia covers the leader’s childhood, his youth, studies, dreams, his idols, his disciples, the highlights of his career, his memorable speeches and quotes, and graphs showing his favorite colors, music, and books. And I repeat, we will deliver them to your home, or to any other address you prefer, free of charge!”
“Graziella, your call woke me up.”
“Oh, sorry!”
“It’s okay, Graziella, it’s no big deal. But the thing is, your call startled me, so now I can’t remember the name of my leader.”
“It’s not a problem, I’ll tell you what it is. What’s your religious sect?”
“My religious sect? Oh, I refuse to follow a specific sect; these things in this country get on my nerves. To be honest, I’m a leftist. Do you have another way to remind me of his name?”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
“Nope, that won’t help. I live in Ras Beirut. A mixed area.”
“What’s your name, madam?”
“No names, please, I prefer to maintain my privacy.”
“Okay, then, which leader do you remember the name of and want to know more about?”
“. . .”
“Allo?”
“Yes, yes, I don’t know. I don’t care for any of them, really. I honestly would’ve preferred the encyclopedias to be about artists like Fairuz and Shadia and Abdel Halim . . .”
“Madam, we’ll take your suggestion into consideration. But for now, does this mean you’re not interested in purchasing any of our encyclopedias this year?”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. I can’t make up my mind. What about you, have you bought any of them?”
“Of course not! I get to read them whenever I want.”
“Oh, lucky you! Okay, can you please read me excerpts from each encyclopedia? Maybe one of them will call out to me and I’ll remember the name of my beloved leader.”
“That will be difficult to do, madam. I work in management and we don’t have any encyclopedias here for me to read from.”
“Okay, it was a long shot anyway. I’ll be realistic. Can you call me again in the morning; maybe I’ll remember the name of the lucky guy then?”
“Ha ha, okay. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“You have my number, right?”
“Yes, yes, madam. I have your number.”
“Merci.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Click.
Now I’m up.
I ask myself why I let the conversation drag on. My having had enough of these consumerist sales pitches and their phone calls demanding my purchasing something is not an excuse for doing what I just did to her. Is it even the saleswoman’s fault? I know I wasn’t rude but I’m confident that I will not buy anything, so why did I keep talking to her and making fun of her and asking her to call me again tomorrow? But then again, isn’t dragging the conversation on better than yelling at her and being mean? She should expect a negative reaction from me when she calls in the morning and wakes me up. Yeah, sure, talking is always better than yelling. So, I’m going to call Graziella tomorrow and tell her that my leader died forty years ago.
. . .
One day, a scream pierced the Arab atmosphere.
Arabs looked left and right, and they saw him: my leader.
I was born seven years after he died, but I grew up with him as if he were still alive.
It wasn’t difficult to grow up around him since many people consider his legacy part of life.
Nostalgia.
And every year, on every occasion, and in every crisis and every massacre, his words and pictures inhabit the streets surrounding my house. The slogans would call for him: Where are you, champ? Save us, our hero! The moon is sorely missed on a dark night.
Everyone walks down the path he mapped.
But one day, I decided to give up nostalgia.
Why? Because I don’t like to stand in front of a monument where millions of others also stand.
Maybe it’s selfish love? No, I just thought of that reason just now. As if I’ve been feeding this thought subconsciously over the years and it now came out of me as a statement against nostalgia.
The saying goes: There are those who feel nostalgic for the past and are always disappointed with the present, and those who accept the present as it is and allow it to shape their tomorrow.
I wanted to accept reality as it is and look for those who do the same so I can build myself a tomorrow less painful than nostalgia. And the people who accept reality like I do share my desire to take part in making our tomorrow.
Dreams are something close to my heart, and daydreaming is a love of mine. But living with a ghost means you’re never living in the present, and your life might become empty.
Yes, I’m aware that no one is actually expecting my leader to suddenly manifest into existence like the anticipated Mahdi or the Christ returning home to Palestine (one hundred ninety-four—right of return). And me, I’m not completely sure that I’ve rid myself of nostalgia either. But what I’m sure of is that I’m in a place in my life where I dread nostalgia and distrust it.
I’m in a place where I prefer sorrow to nostalgia and regard despair as a gate to reality.
Grouchy, I know. But how can I not be?
And so, I became leaderless.
Allo? Graziella? Are you there? Graziellaaaaaa! Don’t leave me! Beeeep. Well, goodbye Graziella! Goodbye . . .
I wash my face and rush to my computer. I haven’t been able to check my email since last night because of a storm over the Mediterranean. And of course it affected us since we’re basically in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Zumurrud’s computer got fried because of a similar storm that hit last winter. It got struck by lightning. I think the government should take some responsibility for this since our electric system is so outdated and our plugs are missing the third hole that, as I understand, is supposed to protect electric appliances from lightning.
So since her computer died last year, I didn’t want to risk using my computer and having it die in last night’s storm too. But anyway, either way, the Internet doesn’t work when it’s stormy.
I’m expecting an email from Hayat.
She sent me a text message late last night saying:
“I sent you an email so you wouldn’t be upset with me. I love you. Bye.”
I access my email account.
Password: my leader’s name.
. . .
Me: “Bonjour Zumurrud . . . sorry, I . . .”
Zumurrud: “Sorry my ass! I have nothing to say to you. Why would you think it’s okay for you to shut your phone off for three days like that without a word or a heads up? Say goodbye to our friendship.”
“Goodbye friendship?”
“That’s right, bye bye.”
“But, haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“She died.”
“Who died?”
“She died, four days ago, in Paris. Her body’s supposed to arrive in Beirut tomorrow.”
“Who?”
“Hayat, my neighbor growing up. You remember her.”
“. . .”
“Still there?”
“Hayat is dead?”
“Yeah, she’s dead.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“How?”
“Accident de voyageur.”
“Did she fall on the tracks or jump?”
“They’re saying she fell, but I know she jumped.”
“How do you know?”
“She sent me an email before she left home.”
“God!”
“Yeah. And she texted me right before she jumped on the tracks and got run over. She was drunk, by the way. She had told me that she always wanted to die drunk.”
“And you, how are you taking it?”
“I was devastated. I’m better now.”
“How?”
“Thanks to her email. I reread it a hundred times in the past three days.”
“What did she tell you?”
“In short, she didn’t like life.”
“. . .”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to come to you?”
“No, I need a change in scenery. This sadness is overwhelming. After all, death didn’t happen to her, she needed it. From where she was standing, she saw death as a solution. And what do I know about this to judge? Missing her is what remains for me. Before she died, I used to miss her emails, but now I’m going to miss her, too. I don’t know, my head might be blurry, but that’s the conclusion I came up with after days of solitude.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to forget.”
“Good. Forgetting is good. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Get ready.”
“Thanks.”
“Should I tell everyone?”
“I’d be grateful.”
“Okay. Bye, habibti. See you in an hour.”
“Merci, Zumurrud. Bye.”
“Hang on. Print out the email. I want to read it if that’s okay.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Bye.”
This is my last email. I’m going to leave my house now and look for a place to die. When I locate it, I will jump to my death. I’m going to drink lots of red wine on the way. And I will walk the streets of Paris freely in my pajamas and messy hair.
I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth today. I’m not wearing deodorant, and I won’t sweat. I’m not going to carry anything with me when I die. I will get rid of my possessions one after the other along the way after I’m done using them. And at the end of the road, I will need nothing. Not even my soul.
Death is my choice. It’s a decision I’ve made.
I love Beirut and curse the long beautiful years I’ve lived there; they started off brilliantly and ended bloody.
I love Paris and respect the long years I’ve spent here looking for what I want and not finding it.
Although I’m choosing my destiny, I don’t know if there’s really a choice between having to live like this for years, and then die, or dying now, liberated from this life.
Death will be the result either way; I’m only bringing it closer to me—it that has always insisted on living inside me.
I love you. Don’t cry. Goodbye.
. . .
Me: “Allo?”
Zumurrud: “Hello, hello!”
“Where are you?”
“On my way home.”
“Pick me up on your way so we can all meet up at your place? Zeezee and Shwikar are ready.”
“Yeah, but. . . . Okay, I’m coming.”
“Why hesitant? Are you busy? You don’t want us over so you won’t have to offer us any food? Are you cheap now?”
“No, no, of course not. . . . I was just thinking of getting some rest then meeting you guys somewhere public . . . you know, change of scenery.”
“Good idea. Where should we meet?”
“At your house! How does eight o’clock sound?”
“My house is public space now?”
“Ha ha, your house is comfy, and this way I would be hanging out somewhere outside my house.”
“Fine, my place, eight o’clock.”
“Are we going to be discussing something specific?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Do you want to know?”
“Sure.”
“Then be at my place at eight.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I text the time and place to Zeezee and Shwikar: We’re meeting at my place, eight o’clock.
I can imagine the pissed-off look on Zeezee’s face, who’s determined to live her young years in public locations.
I can’t imagine the look on Shwikar’s face. I can’t read her very well sometimes, and I can’t understand what she’s saying sometimes either because she uses her own personal vocabulary when speaking. Like she says “where” when she means when.
I know Zumurrud’s happy with the decision since she’s a homebody and regards time after work as a preface for sleep.
I put my cell phone down and set up my computer for the get-together.
I go to the kitchen and find nothing waiting for me. I call the store and order wine and chips.
Minutes later, the delivery guy comes and everything becomes ready.
I sit on the sofa and drown in my thoughts.
I get nervous; I get up and try to escape my thoughts.
The meeting is in an hour and I don’t want to look nervous.
I’ll read.
I grab a novel that I started reading a month ago and officially stopped reading a week ago after three weeks of avoiding it.
I check the page that I’m on: eight.
Uff . . .
Still, I’ll read it.
“The sun sets, and the color of the horizon is a defeated red, as if the sky’s cheeks are bleeding. I sit under the tall tree with branches spreading like birds everywhere, and listen to history whispering in my ears many tales of me and my distant village. History tells me of this tree that my grandfather planted the day he bought this land and saw in its stems his life forming and the memories of his people spreading and his ancestry growing. This pine tree was born before we were. And it grows with us today to tell our stories even though we don’t spend enough time in our village to feel bonded to it, but still we are. And this tree, every time my grandfather would water it, it would drink his stories. Stories of my grandfather and grandmother . . . stories of us, me the child who . . .”
Ahhhhh this is too painful!
I can feel the pain shooting from my eyeball down to my heart . . .
I surrender to a nap on my living room couch in my new house.
My old house passed away. Its electric system completely collapsed a couple of weeks ago and a bucket under the living room light has become a part of the décor in winter.
I ignored the catastrophe and stayed at Shwikar’s “temporarily” (four to five days a week) while I looked for a reasonably priced house to rent, but found none.
So the bucket became a sight I had to deal with daily.
I remained patient until the C became the least of my fears.
/> And then I received the fruit of my patience.
I found an apartment on Hamra Street that’s bigger than my old one and the rent is only five hundred dollars a month. My cousin Robin Hood used to live in it before he left to tour Cuba a month ago, which had always been a dream of his. There he fell in love with a charming Cuban girl and decided to marry her and settle in Havana. He called me knowing that I’m looking for an apartment and advised me to rent his. After my quick and happy approval, he called his landlords, a family whose members occupy the rest of the apartments in the building, and asked them to pass his lease down to his cousin (me) instead or until he returns. They did, so I now have a friendly apartment in Hamra.
I know that encroaching on other people’s territory is not an ambition of mine, but my current reality forced me to, so I didn’t fight back. They also promised not to raise my rent despite the crazy increase in prices that’s taken over Beirut this summer. A promise that a landlord usually wouldn’t make a new tenant, but the sectarian reasons outweighed the economic, so they made me that promise. Sectarianism was on my side this time, which made me worry about the future of Lebanon. Yeah, it worried me. I used to believe that only moneymaking trumps sectarianism in Lebanon. But in this case, the opposite happened. Or maybe this lucky family isn’t hurting for cash so they comfortably choose to provide sectarianism with space to grow within their home.
The result: a five-hundred-dollar profit. My job in the public library lets me translate French and English texts into Arabic in my free time. So, I increased the number of texts I translate to come up with the rent, and my place became the spot where my friends hang out. I triumphed over those who wanted me and other middle-class people like me out of Hamra. The blame, all of it, falls on the foreigners who come to work in non-governmental organizations for a salary of one thousand to two thousand dollars a month.
My bitterness is caused by most NGOs. But that’s a topic for another day.
Right now, I want to relax. Why do I always think up annoying topics? Because I’m in that kind of mood.
Knock knock knock.
Ring ring ring.
Door knocking, doorbell ringing.
I am scared out of my sleep and fall on the floor.
The villagers are here!
I open the door and find three angry faces staring at me.
It appears that I didn’t hear them knock the first time and so they were left waiting outside my door. I could’ve sworn I didn’t fall asleep though! Weird.
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