by Ghada Samman
She prayed he’d remember having seen her on television and decide to let her write something in her book for him. But he ignored her, picking up his massive black notebook without a word, and without even a glance in her direction despite the fact that her invisible owl had started beating him on the head with her wing. It looks like I’ve got no choice but to let Dr. Manahili step in.
She added, “Lieutenant Nasser is waiting for me with my cousin, Dr. Rahif Manahili.”
Here the official looked at her with new-found respect and, hurriedly handing her papers back to her along with her passport, jumped out of his seat, saying, “Why didn’t you say so from the start? You need to be on your way, then!”
My book? Who gives a damn about that? But name-dropping— that’s a language people understand!
The minute Zain walked into Lieutenant Nasser’s office, Dr. Manahili jumped to his feet, saying earnestly, “Oh, there you are! What kept you? Did you get so busy with your fiancé that you forgot I have to leave for a medical conference at the Continental Hotel in Beirut? Why don’t you ride with me and let my driver take your car? No offense, but you’re a slow poke, like all the women I know!”
Lieutenant Nasser, who smirked admiringly at the doctor’s sexist comment, was under instructions from Nahi to do whatever Dr. Manahili asked. He figured Zain must be the doctor’s mistress, which was none of his business, of course, as long as “Comrade” Nahi approved. Zain disappeared into Dr. Manahili’s car with record speed, and they took off in the direction of the Masnaa checkpoint.
From here on out there was no need to worry. Lebanon welcomed everyone, and Zain was received with particular warmth when she flashed her acceptance letter from the American University in Beirut.
Now on Lebanese soil, she heaved a huge sigh of relief.
When they arrived in Chtaura, Dr. Manahili said, “I’m taking you to lunch at the Akl Restaurant.”
Before she’d had a chance to reply, he’d parked the car.
“I’ll call my dad from the restaurant to let him know I got here safely and that I’m on my way to the school in Choueifat.”
* * *
After a delicious lunch in the course of which Dr. Manahili treated himself to some arak, he said to her. “I’ll ask my driver to escort you there so that I can make sure you get there all right.”
Her voice full of earnestness, Zain said, “This is the second time you’ve saved my life. I’ll never forget you!”
“I wouldn’t let you forget me anyway!” he replied jovially. “I’ll come visit you every week, with or without my wife.” So, is this the daughter I wish I’d had? Or the one I hoped not to have?
Zain’s thoughts went to Dr. Manahili’s wife Brigitte. What a brave, loyal lady she is! She volunteers her time to teach French to little children in spite of all the hostility she faces as a foreigner.
“I would love for Brigitte to come with you,” Zain offered. “A wife like her would be hard to find.”
* * *
Zain had never envied Cinderella for having to leave that wonderful ball at midnight. And now she had to be back at her dorm by eleven o’clock if she wanted a safe place to sleep. Once the clock struck eleven, the towering iron gate that led into the Choueifat campus was bolted shut till morning. So no matter how pumped up she was from the stimulating conversations going on around her, she had to leave the cinema, or the theatre, or the restaurant, or the Diplomat Café, or the Dolce Vita, or anywhere else she happened to be by ten-thirty in the evening, hopefully without leaving one of her glass slippers behind, and drive like a maniac back to the Choueifat campus. If she’d been in Raouché, she would drive past Ramlet al-Baida, the St. Simon swimming pools, St. Michel, al-Awza`i, and Choueifat, then turn at the top of a hill onto a dirt road that led to the school.
Because of her curfew, Zain had to decline an invitation to attend what would have been a thoroughly enjoyable session with her journalist friend Marlene, by now a regular companion of hers at the Dolce Vita and other coffee shops. The nicest thing about these places was the possibility of finding some fugitive Arab dictator having an amicable debate with a dissident that had fled the country before him, and who had been persecuted by the very dictator in question. Imagine: If they’d sat down and talked like this in their own country, neither of them would be here!
Zain loved the intellectual-literary-political atmosphere that permeated Beirut’s coffee houses, where Nasserites, Marxists, and Arab nationalists mixed freely with spies, artists, conspirators, propagandists and critics, the charming and the tasteless alike. They were a dizzying hodgepodge of folks from other Arab countries, and Beirutis who were willing to put up with pretty much anybody.
Zain drove down the Awza`i Highway, a coastal road from whose narrow shoulder you could step directly onto a beach of fine white sand. What a magical night that was! I’d never seen the moon so huge in all my life. With its rays it had drawn a highway of light that stretched to the ends of the horizon.
As she passed the airport on her left, she glanced at her watch and sped up. Then suddenly the car swerved. She gripped the steering wheel, pressing down on it with both arms, and took her foot off the gas pedal. The car started to shimmy and shake, and she knew she had a flat tire. When she got out to see what had happened, she discovered that the culprit was the left front tire. She was grateful for the moonlight, which was a lot more generous than the stingy streetlamps. She calmly got the jack out of the trunk and started loosening the nuts on the offending tire in preparation to change it.
Not a car passed without offers of help from male drivers, and she almost accepted one of them. What is this? How can I demand equality with men, then let them change my flat tires for me? If the airplane bringing us back from Germany had crashed, would I have rushed with the women to get first place on a lifeboat, or would I have demanded equal opportunity with men to burn to death inside a downed aircraft? I rail against double standards, but don’t I apply them myself when it suits me? If not, then why was I just about to make things easy on myself by letting a guy change my flat tire for me?
By the time Zain finished changing the flat, she was so frustrated she felt like throwing the stupid thing into the sea. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, and if the tire hadn’t been so heavy, she probably would have. On the other hand, it cost too much to throw away. I’d better fix it instead. My dad isn’t supporting me anymore, and I’ve got a budget to stick to.
The luminous path the moon had etched across the water’s surface and the charm of Awza`i Beach’s pristine sands lured her to lie down for a while and take in the beauty before her. It’s nearly eleven, and there’s no way I’ll get back in time, so I’ll have to find somewhere else to spend the night. She went walking through the clean white sand. The sound of the waves rose higher as they flirted with the shore, washing in and washing out, in and out. Then suddenly she plopped down on the beach and lay staring into the moonlight. She closed her eyes, conjuring images of Damascus. Ever since I got to Beirut I’ve been running all over the place, high on the thrill of discovery. I’ve accepted every invitation that’s come my way: from heads of universities, religious clerics, authors, both Christians and Muslims, journalists, lawyers, and intellectuals from all walks of life. Some of them have hosted me in their homes, where I’ve met their families, and others have taken me to classy restaurants in Jounieh, Sidon, Triboli, Jbeil, Tyre, and on and on. But sometimes I feel like the hen that belonged to Grandma Hayat back in Ziqaq Al Yasmin. When I was a little girl, they chopped its head off so that they could cook it and eat it. I’ll never forget the terror I felt when I saw it running around like crazy without a head. All I could do was cry and scream. Am I the hen that goes running headless from one Beirut intellectual forum to another? Is this what I’ve turned into now that I know I can never see Damascus again?
With a sigh of contentment, Zain went imagined herself strolling down the moonlit path on the sea. Just like I’ve always dreamed of doing, I’m lying on a be
ach all by myself, on a planet of my own. And I’m free, free… She fell fast asleep. Then suddenly she was roused by something crawling over her bare arms. She opened her eyes to find a convoy of tiny newborn crabs making their way across her on their way to the water. Just as she was about to jump up in a fright, she remembered hearing how painful crab bites could be even if the crab was small. So with all the willpower she could muster, she held still until the procession had passed. Then she leapt off the sand like a madwoman and took off running to her car. Dreams of freedom, when they come true, aren’t without their bites and stings!
It was three-thirty in the morning. Duly humbled and sobered, Zain drove back to the school and parked outside its closed gate. She locked her car doors and tried to get some sleep. By this time she’d made up her mind to rent herself an apartment of her own, a freedom flat that she could come home to any hour of the day or night.
* * *
It didn’t take long for Zain to find a place to live on her own, a place where she could sleep by herself without a husband persecuting her, or a father interrogating her, or aunts and uncles who went around operating traffic signals. Red: Don’t pass this way. Green: Enter another marriage—that is, if anybody would be willing to marry a rebellious divorcee like you. It was easy, in fact. One day she was reading a newspaper that had run a critique of her book when she noticed an ad for apartments for rent in a new building. That means the walls will be clean and freshly painted, the tile will still be smooth and shiny and easy to clean, I won’t have rust and ants gushing out of the water faucets, and I won’t have to call a repairman, a carpenter, or a plumber for a long time. It also means I won’t be haunted by former tenants’ ghosts. Instead, I can leave my ghost to haunt the people who move in after me.
Zain called the number listed in the ad. Then she went to the bank to apply for a loan to cover the three-month advance she’d have to pay in order to move into the apartment. When she told the bank teller her name, he jumped up excitedly, saying, “How are you, Zain? I’m Abu Jurais’s son—Widad and Sara’s brother. Your dad used to rent a summer house from us in Bloudan! I’ll give you the apartment for a month, and you can see if you like it. If you do, we’ll talk about the rest of the details then.”
Then he gave her the key and the address, and called the building’s concierge so that he could be expecting her.
As I left the bank, I wondered: How did so many Syrians end up here in Beirut? I seem to run into a Syrian everywhere I go. Then the bank teller turns out to be from Bab Tuma, of all places!
A sparsely furnished tenth-floor efficiency apartment in the Ramal al-Zarif neighborhood, it was hers for a month subject to extension. Even though it was a single room, she was happy with it. As far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t even need walls. All I want is the sun, open space, and a chance to sleep on a cloud. She felt free as the wind. Besides the refrigerator, all the furniture she had was a writing table, a chair, and a bed, and with that she was content.
After buying herself some linens, she settled in for her first night. She walked up and down the spacious balcony that ran around the apartment’s periphery, pleased with her tiny new abode. She was also pleased that she’d been able to pay the month’s rent out of the salaries she made from her job writing a weekly magazine column and articles drawn from her university studies, and from her English-teaching position at the Choueifat School. She was free now. Alone, and free.
Dr. Manahili had offered to lend her some money, but she’d declined, saying, “If I need a loan, I can ask my dad.” Then she’d added, “If I borrowed money from you, you’d have a say in my choice of apartment and other decisions. You could also impose your opinions on me. When you owe people money, you lose some of your freedom!”
“You’re right,” he said
“So if you knew that,” Zain inquired curiously, “why did you offer me a loan?”’
“Well,” he admitted sheepishly, “I’d like to rob you of some of your freedom! I envy you. I envy you because I’ve never been free myself.”
As she lay in bed on her first night there, she experienced at last the pleasure of sleeping through the night without anybody to wake her up, whether out of love or desire, and without having to take part in Friday morning food rituals of pita bread dipped in tasqiya, foul mudammas, or any other traditional breakfast for that matter.
All she kept in her house was coffee. After drinking her morning cup, she went to teach her class, her senses heightened as they’d never been before. She felt liberated, energized. That night she studied at the library until the doors closed. Then she went back to her penthouse lair on the tenth floor of the night of stars. The thrill she felt over her new-found autonomy drowned out any misgivings that might have darkened the horizon. She had brought a phonograph player with her, and a recording of Charles Aznavour singing, “La Bohème.” She felt as though it was her own song, and when she lay down to go to sleep, she was drunk on freedom. Never again will I cry on a balcony in defeat and humiliation.
Zain went to sleep dreaming she could fly. It was a dream that had stayed with her ever since she was a teenager. Before long, however, she wakened to the sound of a thud on her balcony. She was such a light sleeper that a feather dropping nearby could have roused her. I must be imagining things. Or am I? She turned on the light next to the bed, jumped up and flipped the switch that lit up the balcony. The suspicious-sounding movement stopped, which confirmed to her that there was somebody out there who didn’t want to be discovered. Was it a burglar? She didn’t have anything a burglar would have been interested in. But after hearing what sounded like men whispering and somebody climbing the wall, she crept outside for a peek, but didn’t see anyone.
The following night she awoke to the same sounds, and this time she was terrified. When the scene repeated itself on the third night, she was convinced that somebody was jumping from the roof onto her balcony. But who? And why? That was when she realized that living in a lair of her own, however free that made her feel, was tantamount to baiting a fisherman’s hook. Freedom, she now saw, comes with a price, and the price in her case was to give up the protection that had been provided for her by all the people she’d run away from. So now she would have to either retreat into a safe place, or face the dangers of freedom without anybody else’s help.
It had become apparent that even if they were only a figment of her imagination or the pitter-patter of some Shakespearian phantom, the footsteps retreated when she switched on the light at her bedside.
She described what had happened to Rajih, a member of the group she hung out with at the Dabibu Café, a coffee shop that sat perched on the cliff opposite the famed Raouché Boulder. In response, he casually pulled a revolver out of his pocket, saying, “Here. You can defend yourself with this. I’ve cocked it for you and pulled out the safety pin, so all you have to do is pull the trigger. Nobody will charge you with a crime, because if you kill your attacker, it will be in self-defense, and I’ll testify for you in court!”
It was the first time she’d seen a gun anywhere but in a movie theatre, still less touched one. Beirut—what a place! She decided to go back to sleeping in the teachers’ dormitory at the Choueifat School. Until then, she’d keep the revolver just in case. She figured if anybody tried to attack her, she could shoot it into the air to scare them off.
Early the next morning, she woke to the sound of scuffling and shouting. At first she stayed holed up in her fortress, trembling like a leaf. So then, freedom isn’t quite the bed of roses I’d thought it was. Next time I rent an apartment, I’ll look for one that’s well-protected, not some bird’s nest on a low tree branch. And it might be good to have a roommate or two.
Zain took the elevator down to the underground parking garage. The elevator door opened to reveal scores of policemen, one of whom prevented her from going to her car.
“Sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “This is a crime scene.”
“But I live here,” she protested, “and I need to ge
t to my car so I can drive to the university and my job.”
“You’re a resident? If so, then you’re a potential witness. Wait over there,” he said, pointing to a group of neighbors standing over to their right.
“What happened?” Zain asked him.
“Jeannie, a nightclub dancer who lives in the building, was coming home from work at dawn when, according to her, two doormen tried to assault her in the parking garage. She says she shot at them, and one of them’s dead now. We’re here to check out her account.”
Sure enough, Zain read in the newspapers the next day about what people referred to as “Jeannie’s building,” where Jeannie had allegedly killed a concierge because he and a coworker had tried to attack her in the basement parking garage. Boy, a lot I know! I’ve been running after my dreams of freedom without seeing what’s going on right around me: plots to hurt people, and so-called “guards” jumping off roofs to check out their next victims! I may not be as alluring a victim as a voluptuous nightclub dancer who comes home from work drunk in the wee hours of the morning. But I’m still a potential victim. Ironically, the fact that I haven’t slept well since my mother died rescued me from what could have been a deadly assault. And imagine: Jeannie—the neighbor I’d never heard of before or even seen in the elevator, although I suppose I might not have recognized her since she was wearing street clothes like me—was carrying a revolver like the one I’ve been putting under my pillow.
It was Zain’s last night in her freedom flat, as she liked to call it, and she was packing up her things. That night she shot at a cloud where the moon lived on heaven’s sixth floor. As she fired, she asked the cloud, “Why do you put all these obstacles in the way of my freedom? Or is this just the price we freedom-lovers have to pay?”