by Ghada Samman
And did they ever spoil us! First we went down to Hamburg. From there we headed further south to cities I used to dream of visiting as I poured over a map of the world: Dresden, Cologne, Bonn, Berlin… Then there was that enchanted trip down the River Rhine to Munich and the tour of the amazing province of Bavaria. Oh, and the museums! From the time we toured Beethoven’s house-turned-museum, I had his music stuck in my head, so that was the soundtrack for the rest of the trip. And as if they weren’t spoiling us enough with everything else, they wined and dined us wherever we went. I’d never tasted alcohol before, and I didn’t have any on this trip either. Even when they took us to the oldest pub in Munich, I ordered something non-alcoholic. But they served the other delegates beer with the appetizers, red wine with red meat, and white wine with fish. There were so many dishes I can’t remember them all.
As my owl and I soared along next to the airplane, I saw her eyes twinkling in the dark like little stars. She looked happy, as though she were feeling the same things I was. After a while she and I slipped back into the plane, and before I knew it, we were home. “Please fasten your seatbelts and extinguish all smoking materials,” I heard an airline stewardess say. We’d begun our descent toward Damascus. I’d returned from my voyage as solid as a boulder on Mt. Qasioun. At the same time, I’d been overwhelmed by the freedom of expression I saw people enjoying in the country we’d visited. I hadn’t seen lips or ears sprouting from the walls of any German coffee shops. I hadn’t seen any men sewing their mouths shut with needles and black thread like the one I’d seen at the Havana Café the day of my divorce. I’d been equally overwhelmed by the contentment I observed in the villages we stopped in along the Rhine. The villagers seemed to be having the time of their lives as they danced and made music together in preparation for the beer festivals. How I miss seeing joy in my country. But all I see anymore is people struggling to survive from one coup to the next, from one ruler to the next, from one excruciating division to the next.
When I rang the doorbell, I wasn’t greeted by the housekeeper the way I usually am, but by my father. He was crying, and his tears dripped onto his hand as I kissed it. Yet whereas as a little girl I’d only kissed his hand out of duty, this time I did it out of sheer love and affection.
As she often did, Zain went to the outdoor café at the foot of Mt. Qasioun half an hour before her appointment with Dr. Manahili so she could have some time to herself. It was their first coffee rendezvous since her return from Germany. I have to get ready for my move to Beirut.
The doctor arrived with a copy of her first book, which he had had beautifully bound. Ignoring the fact that she’d been away, he placed the book before her, saying, “I’d like a dedication and an autograph, please!”
She was starting to give him a rundown of her trip to Germany, complete with details of the honors she had received, when he interrupted her, saying, “I know everything. I saw Professor Sadduqi on television yesterday evening. He went on at length about your role on the trip, and he mentioned that your first book is now being translated into German. He was so proud of you!” It made me happy to hear that. I admit it—I’m a sucker for compliments.
Then he added, “I won’t give myself a chance to miss you when you move to Beirut, since I’ll be visiting you regularly. I’ll bring you jasmine-blossom necklaces, since I can tell from your stories that jasmine is one of your favorite flowers.”
“I’m leaving for Beirut tomorrow morning,” she said. “I need to make some arrangements and take the university entrance exam. I went to see Lieutenant Nahi today, and he gave me a travel permit.”
“Watch out for him,” Dr. Manahili warned. “You never know when that snake will bite.”
“I know. I’ve heard a lot about how crooked he is. He was about to make a pass at me when one of his aides walked in. Then he invited me to dinner.” I didn’t tell him the rest of the story, which is that after he wrote me up a travel permit with his golden pen, he had to leave the room with his assistant. While he was out, I grabbed the paper and hid it in my purse so that the next time I needed to leave the country, I wouldn’t have to come back and ask for permission again. When he got back, he stared at the stack of travel permits on his desk as if he suspected what had happened. But then he was distracted by a call from his ex-wife. He told the switchboard operator, “Tell her I don’t want to hear her voice, and that she’d better quit calling.” He wrote out a second travel permit, after which he got up and came around the desk to hand it to me. Just as he was about to try to kiss me, his aide knocked on the door again. When the aide came in, I made my get-away with the miracle document I’d hidden in my purse, and without which I wouldn’t be able to fly away on my magic carpet.
“Don’t go,” Dr. Manahil pleaded urgently. “He’s obsessed with collecting mistresses from good families. He must be getting revenge for the years when girls didn’t pay any attention to him. He’s started making radio stations play songs by the half-rate singer Ludjana Hamsir, and I’ve seen her getting into a new black Mercedes reserved for government officials.”
“Please don’t worry. I’m being careful. In fact, that’s why I’m making this visit to Beirut. I’m arranging to teach at a school in Choueifat not far from Beirut. I’m also planning to board there with some other teachers while I finish my degree at the AUB, since I might not find a room in the dorm. My dad’s managed to enroll me tentatively through a couple of friends of his who are deans there, but I still have to sit for the entrance exam.”
“What’s the name of the school you’ll be working for? And how did you get the job?”
“People in Beirut—people in literary and press circles, I mean—like me for the same reasons that some people here hate me! Edward, who praised my first book in the Lebanese press, found out through me in a telephone conversation that I was interested in finding a teaching job, and he told me this school’s principal was a friend of his. I’m going there to sign the contract and get to know the place a bit—if they haven’t changed their minds by the time I get there, of course!”
“So what was the name of the school?”
When she mentioned the name to him, Dr. Manahili exclaimed, “Oh! The owner of that school is a doctor I’ve met at medical conferences, and his wife is the director. I’ll go to Beirut with you and put in a good word for you.”
“Actually, I’d rather drive up there alone. I like to depend on myself!”
“All right, then. I’ll give them a call tonight and put in a good word for you that way! Oh, and the next time you need to go see Lieutenant Nahi for a travel permit, don’t go alone. Take me with you.”
“Do you know him?”
“I met him some time back because he wanted a service from me.”
Zain figured the service had been to perform an abortion on one of his mistresses, so she didn’t ask any questions.
“He’s a bastard,” Dr. Manahili commented. “Once when I was with him, his wife—or ex-wife—called him, and he refused to talk to her even when he was told the call had to do with their little boy. He just yelled at the assistant, ‘So she wants to capitalize off our son, does she? Before long I’ll take him away from her! Anyway, I don’t want to hear you breathe a word about her from now on. I’ve had enough of her obnoxious calls.”
“I hear people have started to get fed up with his pranks. He and his cronies make life hell for people. They waste public money buying influence, fancy cars, and escorts for their wives and mistresses. As for bribes, they’ve become a duty! Some of these guys import expired medications, change the expiration date on them, and resell them to people under the label, ‘God is the Healer’—as if calling it that will justify their filthy crimes! And on top of that, they…”
“Don’t write a word about any of that,” Dr. Manahili broke in. “Just focus now on getting yourself settled in Beirut. Then you can deal with other things as they come.”
Chapter Six
Once in Beirut, Zain had the pleasure of meeting he
r publisher and his wife. At the publishing house, which had put out her first book, she met a young journalist by the name of Marlene who took her under her wing and offered to show her a few pages of the Beirut book.
Zain’s day had begun at the Choueifat School, where she’d been received by the director and Mr. Edward, the literary critic who had been instrumental in her hiring. To her surprise, even the head mistress was in attendance that day thanks to a telephone call she had received from Dr. Manahili. From the school she had gone to the university to sit for the entrance exam, which had been so easy, it appeared to be nothing but a formality. The only way to fail would have been not to know a word of English!
After leaving the publishing house, Zain and Marlene passed by the Lords Hotel, where Zain’s father had advised her to stay the night, since its owners were friends of his who would make sure to give her a room with a view of the sea. That alone would have been reason enough to spend the night here. I’m in love with the sea in Latakia, and now I can get acquainted with its Beirut face.
Marlene took Zain to dinner at Faisal’s, a restaurant on Bliss Street across from the AUB’s main gate, saying, “A lot of intellectuals, politicians and writers are regulars here.” She whispered the names of those present, who included Lebanese and other Arabs whose writing, art or political thought was familiar to Zain. A similar scene repeated itself at a café a few doors down known as Uncle Sam’s, where the two young women went for a cup of coffee. From there they headed to The Horseshoe on Hamra Street. Wherever they went, people came up to greet Marlene or introduce themselves to Zain, saying they’d read her book and seen her picture on the cover. Zain didn’t feel like a stranger at all. On the contrary, she felt herself among friends. Everyone was relaxed and spontaneous, and around the tables women were planted like succulent roses, clad in fashionable attire that would have been judged immodest by Ziqaq Al Yasmin standards, and engaged in lively discussions and debates.
Thanking her hostess, Zain said, “I’d better get back to the hotel. I’ll be driving back in the morning.” What she didn’t say was that she’d been on the lookout for Ghazwan. Picking up on Zain’s preoccupation, Marlene asked, “You’re looking for somebody, aren’t you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed! Just tell me who it is—I know everybody’s favorite haunt around here.”
“Well,” Zain replied coyly, “I don’t want to lie, so I’m not going to answer your question!”
“And I don’t want to lie to you either!” Marlene shot back sassily. “Do you think I invited you to dinner and took you on a tour of the social-intellectual scene out of the sheer goodness of my heart? There’s a hidden price tag, and you’ll have to pay up now! I want to interview you for my magazine, and we’ll do that at the Dolce Vita in Raouché.”
Invigorated by all the new names and places, Zain could feel herself spreading her wings. At the Dolce Vita, which was basically an extension of the sidewalk, they walked up to a small table where a handsome young man was seated. As he and Marlene exchanged kisses on the cheek, Marlene said unapologetically, “This is my sweetheart of the month!” She and her boyfriend burst out laughing, and Zain joined in, still hoping to pick Ghazwan’s face out of the crowd. Marlene whisked out pencil and paper, and as Zain sat enchanted by the moonlit path on the sea visible from the other side of the street, a young man approached from a neighboring table from which raucous laughter had been emanating. Addressing himself to Zain, he said, “Hello! We recognized you from your pictures. Munih Bek is inviting you to his table.”
Sensing Zain’s awkward surprise, Marlene replied, “She’ll be there in a minute. Get a seat ready for her.”
As the young man made his way back to his group, Marlene explained, “Munih Bek’s a well-known intellectual who prefers oral exchanges over written ones. Each table has it own customs, protocol and rituals, and Munih Bek’s forum has a light-heartedness about it no matter how serious the topic of conversation happens to be. He’s brilliant and single, too! Go join them, and don’t worry about a thing. Just be yourself.”
“But what about our interview?”
“Get to know Beirut’s cultural and intellectual scene first. Based on what I’ve read of your writings, I think you’re going to like it. You’ll fit in easily around here. You’re passionate for freedom and artistic madness, so our coffee shops are just the place for you!”
Gathering her courage, Zain went hesitantly over to Munih Bek’s table, saying over and over to herself, “I’m a boulder on Mt. Qasioun.” And before she knew it, she had fallen into a searing spotlight. She knew there were people in the group who would be only too willing to crucify her intellectually right on the table top if she couldn’t hold her own against their witty, scathing repartee.
Once Zain had joined the group, Munih Bek said to her, “You’re the first girl I’ve ever invited to my roundtable discussion,” to which she replied without missing a beat, “I bet you say that to all the ladies.” And they all burst out laughing. She didn’t feel the least bit the outsider with Munih Bek and his group, and from then on she referred to him as “the proletariat gentleman.”
The conversation flowed wittily and enjoyably, and as Marlene had predicted, she fit right in. The walls have ears wherever you go, but here, at least, you won’t end up in a dungeon as a result! Or is the moonlight jamming my brainwaves?
Before long another young man came up and said to Zain, “You’re invited to the ‘conversationalists’ table.’”
He pointed to a group that was roaring with laughter.
“Well,” Zain said, excusing herself from Munih Bek’s gathering, “you don’t appreciate the good you’ve got till you try something different!”
Feeling light as a cloud, she got up and made her way over to the other table, where she was introduced to the “chief conversationalist,” an elderly man from the Saadawi clan, and to her amazement, his table was merrier than Munih Bek’s. She could hardly feel the time passing as their conversation and laughter went flying through the crisp night air like sparks from a bonfire.
* * *
As Zain drove through Hameh to Dummar, she noticed a tributary of the Barada River flowing to her left. The sight filled her with nostalgic affection for “the City of the Seven Rivers”8 that she had come to bid farewell to. To her right loomed a boulder on which someone had written, “Remember me always.” Beneath these words someone else had written, “I’ll never forget you!” Zain liked to imagine that she was the person who had written those words to Damascus, and that Damascus had written back to her, “I’ll never forget you!”
She had no intention of slipping away like a thief in the night or reneging on any of her commitments. First of all, she would give both the Dawhat al-Fikr School and the library notice of her resignation so that they could find replacements for her. All her associates welcomed her desire to study in Beirut. Or maybe they just welcome getting rid of a trouble maker like me, who arrived with a broken wing, but then started flying from newspaper columns to television screens! When she went to say goodbye to people at the library, they invited her to a get-together at a farm owned by a poet by the name of Azmi. As she walked around the farm, she discovered an old abandoned well. She didn’t know why, but she had a sudden, irresistible urge to explore the inside of the well and find out what sorts of creatures lived in it. Despite everyone’s protestations, Zain headed down the iron ladder that led to the well’s bottom. As she descended, she could hear her colleagues pleading with her to be careful and warning her against the scorpions, snakes and insects that inhabited the place. The light filtering in from above grew fainter with every rung of the ladder. I’m at the bottom of the well of my life, and I mustn’t be afraid, since if I am, I’m sure to fall. And once I’ve explored the underworld, I must learn to come up again.
By the time Zain reappeared, everyone else was in a panic, especially Azmi, who was terrified at the thought that harm might come to this daughter of a prominent lawyer, since by all rights he should have h
ad the well covered. As Zain climbed out, there was a black tarantula on her shoulder. She flicked it off, thinking of Lieutenant Nahi!
* * *
When Zain arrived home, her father was looking glum, so she didn’t dare tell him about her well adventure. She was obsessed with getting to the bottom of things, wells included, but this apparently wasn’t the time to remind him of that fact.
The library director had informed her father of her exploit even before she got back to the house, but he feigned ignorance.
“I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” he told her, “and I’ll come see you. By the way, Najati has your passport. He has friends who can pull some strings for him, and before he gives it back to you, he’s going to have Egypt added to the list of countries you’re allowed to visit.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Cairo’s the cultural capital of the Arab world. If I can’t prove myself there, I won’t make it anywhere else either. But if I can, I’ll have passed through the eye of the needle.”
Early the next morning, with Fairouz’s beautiful voice singing “Marushka… in the sorrowful forest” in the background, Zain telephoned Lieutenant Nahi’s aide about the magical paper that would allow her to go to Beirut, asking him to keep it with him so that she could pick it up the next day.
“Just a minute,” he said. “I’ll check with Lieutenant Nahi.”
A few minutes later he came back on the line, saying, “Lieutenant Nahi wants to talk to you.”
“Hello, Zain. This is Lieutenant Nahi.”
“Hello.”
“I’ll be expecting you at ten, and I’ll give you the permit myself.”
“You mean in an hour and forty-five minutes?”
“No. Ten tonight. After signing the permit, I’ll take you to dinner, and then to a party that will probably last a while. Tell your dad you’ll be spending the night at a friend’s house.” Then he hung up before she could protest!