The Angel of History

by Rabih Alameddine

  Fourteen lashes is what we start with, he said, nothing less, then you can leave if you want to, but if you don’t then you get shackled and twenty-one more, and when you’ve had enough, another seven, and then we rest, maybe, but I don’t think you have what it takes to become a good boy, I should kick you out of the room now and save myself the trouble. Every word reverberated in my mind, every word recalled another.

  A coiled rope on the wall recalled the one used as a belt by the ascetic Sœur Emmanuelle who taught us French history back at l’orphelinat de la Nativité, she was ancient and smelled of decay when I arrived at the school and died the second year I was there, but I remember the rope as it dangled from her habit, and the never-too-clean wimple around her cracking face, ascetics always needed a good hot shower. Can I, no, may I smoke a joint, sir, I asked. Most leather masters are grammarians, Doc, or grammar fanatics at least, I kid you not, language Nazis, that’s what they are, they can’t abide slack usage. Above the rope, the veins of a cat-o’-nine-tails, riverine with its black tributaries. He shut the door gently before I felt the sting of the riding crop, only the tip, once, a quick twice. I barely flinched. He suggested that the boy must like it, but those taps didn’t count as they were only a warm-up, I should take off my clothes and lie butt up on the sheetless mattress where other dogs had lain with lice and ticks and fleas and parasites. I, worthless mongrel, was to count lashes, sets of seven, to ask for them, and to thank him for each. Would that he begin with the riding crop, he paced around the bed, watching and being watched by his pitiable pet, but blindness quickly descended upon my eyes, a blindfold, and the age-old ritual began, a rush of blood in my veins, the scratch of a match, the smell of tobacco embers and their smoke, a deep inhalation, and the lush excitement of anticipation.

  And thwack, the blistering pain of inextinguishable fire shot through my entire body, my mind flooded, it was no riding crop, One, thank you, sir. I was to ask for the next one, his voice both mellifluous and malevolent, I could hear his boot-stomping pacing. Two, sir, thwack, it felt like the paddle, I was sure it was the paddle, Thank you, sir. You guys should have called me Pinto, he might have been the most ardent bottom among us, but I was the one who exploded every time my ass was banged, boom goes the Pinto into a cluster of fire, staphyloflames. Three, sir, and my body became a separate entity, it reached back to the paddle, it was both mine and not, I was my body and not, touch me, I kept wondering whether you were in the process of fucking Mandeep, Thank you, sir, four, I saw the Indian boy beneath you, in pain and pleasure, discomfited and discontent, but he was already there, why shouldn’t he go through with it, five was the harshest yet, I almost howled, Thank you, sir, six, please, I was the lowest of the low, I was in heaven. Seven, my clammy hands tried to clutch the nonexistent sheet, my nails dragged on the skin of the mattress, until Saint Denis came down from Montmartre, the highest hill of the city of light, to hold my hand, which stopped twitching upon his touch. Even behind the well-worn blindfold, I knew it was he, since he carried his haloed head in his other hand, nestled in the crook of his elbow, and the halo’s light could always penetrate any blindness, Come, my boy, he said, let the pain become your ecstasy, and it was so. Denis, like me, was a cephalophore, a head-carrier, the only one of the fourteen, which of course he would be because his name comes from Dionysus, when Denis’s head was forcibly detached from his body, he became the patron saint of the city of Paris and his boulevard was where all the working girls and boys plied their trade, made so much sense, the head and body separate but equal. One, ouch, thank you, sir.

  I returned to the dungeon over and over, I kept coming back, could not stay away even had I wanted to, I felt guilty being there while you were at home, Doc, and Saint Denis was understanding, offering comfort by reminding me that Saint Margaret was taking care of you and Curmudgeka Greg was there as well and even though you had a low-grade fever, you were not so much sick as cranky, and you would recover many more times before you died nine months later, but still the look your droopy eyes gave me when I left, with the thermometer erect in your mouth, were you the drama queen or what, covering yourself up to your unshaved chin with two fleecy wool blankets, Where are you going, you mumbled, with the red top of the thermometer moving up and down and sideways, and I said that I needed a break, and Greg told you not to worry because he was there and he was a sober Irishman for the night, but you told him that he was sicker than you were, and he replied, Not tonight, I’m not.

  Ready for more, faggot boy, the master said, you’re too dark for me to admire my handiwork, I should bleach your ass next time. Only when he stopped, between sets, did I begin to doubt a bit, like during the break after odd games in tennis, I had time to wonder whether I should be in this match, but it was fleeting, the need overcame all, hit me. Call it, God the demon demanded. One, please, and the riding crop was so painful, filled with utter woe, I rose on my knees, howled across time, even Saint Denis flinched. Please what, asshole? Please, sir. He pushed me back onto the mattress, wetter because of my sweat, my chest squished against it, my belly slid. I concentrated on him, his voice, his movements, his touch. Uh-oh, the head of Saint Denis said. I felt rope tighten around my wrists, then my ankles, crisscrossing across my back and legs. I felt free, Doc, free, you never understood that, probably still don’t, you privileged jerk. I could see myself in the mirror, helpless, my body subjugated, tense with anticipation, I could see his reflection in the mirror, only his front, his earnest steel-blue eyes tracing my body up and down admiring his handiwork, slapping a paddle against his gloved hand. You don’t get to count anymore, he said, sneering and smirking, and the blindfold returned me to my natural state of blindness. Much better, said Saint Denis. You will feel my wrath, the white man said, you dare not sit still when I whip you, sand nigger, and my mind detonated.

  Sand nigger wherever I went, my mother’s ancient blood coursed in my veins, sand nigger because I was an Arab, nigger because I was black, nigger because I was queer, nigger because I was an exile, nigger because my dick got hard when you whipped me.

  The man assaulted me with switches, the whistle and swish of each before immeasurable shooting pain, fast and furious, I struggled against the rope and he laughed and Saint Denis berated me for not being able to handle a good whupping. Poor Cyriac had his limbs torn out of their sockets, Saint Denis said, and was clubbed to submission and then beheaded because he refused to give up on our Savior, who was I to complain about a bit of flogging. And of course, as expected, though I seemed always to forget right before the revelation, as the agony peaked, ecstasy descended unto me like an annunciation, I drooled all over my face, rubbed my face on the soggy mattress, growls in my stomach, howls in my throat, my entire being shook, Praise be, said Saint Denis, Good boy, said the man. All flesh was born to suffer, Sœur Emmanuelle used to say before she died, in French, of course. My Father hath chastised you with whips, but I will chastise you with scorpions. A beast with stinging claws slammed into my ass, the fire stoked once more, each swing of the cat with studs was a blacksmith’s bellows before the ever-ascending flames, tears mixed with snot mixed with drool mixed with sweat, I turned human. You earned back the right to thank me, the man said, hitting me with the delicious cane, Thank you, sir, I thought he must be swinging it with both hands, Thank you, sir, I screamed, and I felt real. There was hope for me, he said as he untied my bonds, I hear bells, Saint Denis said, divine joy in his voice, beatification, here we come. One more set, he said, and don’t you dare move. Praise be. You’re going to remember this one, boy, when you’re alone at night, you’ll pull out your little penis and jerk off thinking about me. I heard the whorl of a whip behind me, this one had metal of some sort, probably another cat, but I waited and waited, and it arrived and arrived. You know, Doc, Verlaine always felt religious after orgasm, but why wait is what I say.

  All fourteen helpers had to come help for the final round, they held me down as my body shivered and jerked, they cooed soft nothings in my ears t
o keep me in this world, infinite synapses fired orgasmic transmitters, electric currents coursed at will. First dibs on his hagiography, yelled Saint Catherine, this one is mine.

  The master stopped, I heard his boots walking, then the snap of his codpiece, the unmistakable slapping sound of masturbation, then he sprayed his semen all over me. I lay vanquished, in triumphant glory. He told me I could move now if I wished, but I could not, I did not wish to, I did not know how to, and he took off his glove, poured alcohol into his hand, the liquid soothed me briefly but then it smarted, its smell reminding me of younger days when Auntie Badeea cleaned my scraped knee and bandaged it. You were a good boy, he said, massaging some aloe soothing salve into my burning skin, a very good boy. The fourteen could do nothing but chorus. Glory, glory. He lay next to me, hugged me, his bare fingers wiped the slick wetness off my brow. He asked if I wished him to remove the blindfold.

  I kept thinking about you lying on your queen bed, under double blankets in your lovely room, in our clean, well-lighted place, so now I can ask you what I could not then, did you love me, or did you love a lesser version of me?

  Satan’s Interviews

  Death

  “Have you considered, Father, that maybe you’re the one who needs to forget?” Death asked, his tone dulcet, his voice mellifluous. “I understand your work, I do. I’m not suggesting a change in vocation or attitude, only that you’re looking a bit haggard today.” With an open palm, Death arced his arm, a gesture meant to include his father’s white suit. “You should send this to a good French cleaner, recapture its creases. Maybe you need to disremember this poet, or poets in general. Poets should be forgotten, if you ask me. Stick to activists and Noam Chomsky.”

  Satan grinned. Behemoth woke from his nap on the small rug under Satan’s feet and meowed questioningly. Satan held out his arms and the cat jumped into them. Both purred.

  “Oh my,” Death said. “You look more lively already. Maybe you need to remember your cats more often. Blofeld can’t hold a candle to you.”

  “Well, I do have more hair.” On cue, Behemoth pawed Satan’s red bangs, licked the Devil’s cheek. “And Behemoth here is more delightful than any Bond cat.” Satan cradled Behemoth in his left arm, scratched the vulnerable belly. “Do you really think I should abandon Jacob?”

  “Abandon?” Death said. “That’s an interesting choice of words. He’s trying to abandon us, specifically you, to extirpate you from his consciousness. That’s the one thing we’re certain of.”

  “It’s just a phase,” Satan said.

  Death and Satan looked at each other; conspiring smiles turned to chortles, then laughter.

  “Jacob is tired,” Death said. “Maybe he wishes to rest.”

  “Poppycock,” Satan said. “He’s been resting so long he’s almost a full-fledged Yemeni.”

  “The heart weary of its grief desires forgetfulness, Father,” Death said, playing with a ring on his bony finger, rotating the inlaid, split-flint jewel around and around and around. “You don’t seem to have much compassion for my work. A fatigued heart will always call my name, will always long for my cup.”

  “He has been partaking from your chalice for so long it has glued itself to his lips,” Satan said.

  “He’s a special case. Death of an intimate is akin to slipping a coat over the one you’re wearing, and another, and another, a heavy load. Jacob wears many coats.”

  “The sartorial metaphor is lovely,” Satan said, “but those coats have become ratty and rancid. Let’s get him to shrug them off. It’s time.”

  “Why now?” Death said. “Why did you come back after all these years?”

  “Because he has been sleepwalking through life since his friends died, because he has been so lonely without me, because his poems were getting more and more boring, his dreams more banal, and, worst of all, he began to write stories.”

  “That’s insufferable,” Death said.

  “Help me,” Satan said.

  “It might be too late,” Death said, “and would that be too bad? Let me play your advocate. It’s not as if his life is that awful now. He’s employed, he has a friend or two, a funny cat, and cable. And he does yoga. Would a further descent into oblivion be so terrible for our poet?”

  “He could write a novel,” Satan said.

  “Gag me.”

  At the Clinic

  Ferrigno

  He not only called my name, he looked me in the eye and pronounced the name I was born to, Ya’qub, with the ‘ain and the qaaf, so he was probably not Lebanese, maybe Syrian, I thought, and he grinned, obviously amused at my confusion, I wasn’t standing up, I wasn’t following him, I must have been gawking, and only his lifting eyebrows nudged me into a standing position. He didn’t speak as we walked the corridor, and those who follow his guidance need have no fear, and neither shall they grieve, but I stumbled, just a bit, almost crashed into his ample ass, he didn’t look back, I thought it would have been somewhat convenient had I been rolled in a wheelchair like an invalid, Dead man rolling, Satan yelled, and the light was a weakened yellow or an ochered white with a scumbled pink reflecting off the red line on the linoleum that led somewhere, into the labyrinth to some unknown grail.

  Where are you from, I wanted to ask his stacked ass, O gluteus maximus mounds of Olympus, but the words would not roll off my liquid tongue, I gnawed dissatisfaction, the strain returned of my desire to own the elusive one, or at least to bury my face in it for a while. Alive, Satan said, it’s alive, it’s aliiiiiiiiive, do we have an erection yet, has the sleeper been awakened? Oh, shut up, I told Satan, and I wondered whether Ferrigno knew how seductively his body moved as he led me into the examining room, his stride a spark, the flexor twist of his forearm as he turned the knob a kindling, the hairs, the hairs strolling up the elbow, those hillocks of biceps. This hulk is not your doing, Catherine, is it, Satan said, must be Pantaleon, I know you guys are good, but this is outstanding.

  In the room, I sat on the pressed wood chair, didn’t have to be told which one, to the side of the small desk, not in front of it, minimal furniture in a small room, no photo or print or painting on the wall, no picture hooks, no nails, a small high window to let arbitrary light in during the day. The counselor will be right with you, said Ferrigno, and yes, he had a noticeable accent when he spoke English, he wasn’t Syrian, he didn’t look North African, I kept staring, I longed for the days when nurses and orderlies wore uniforms with names, but all his too-small T-shirt said above his prominent nipple was LIPITOR. You can call him Lip, Satan said, and Ferrigno grinned and said, Iraq, in case you’re wondering, a small village along the Euphrates, not too far from the Syrian border, and I know all about you. He did? The receptionist had told him about my poetic misadventures, and I didn’t ask about patient privacy, but I did notice the Leather Queen tattoo peeking from under the sleeve of his white shirt, black blue black blue white, only the bottom of the red heart showed. He would probably love to whip your scrawny ass all the way to Yemen, Satan said, just give him that simpering puppy look as if you’re willing to lick his boots every day of the week and Sundays, you used to be so good at that.

  No paper clips to write on the walls, Ferrigno said, if you must, use a Sharpie, he took out a brown one from his pocket and handed it to me, I can clean this off easily, he said, no need to worry. I held it before me, stunned and stultified. With an I’ll be back when you’re done, he walked out of the room looking pleased with himself, and I could register little but the sleek brown Sharpie between my fingers. Come on, Satan said, this must be Margaret, am I right, deluging him with pens, I’m in awe. Please be quiet, I told Satan, but my phone buzzed and it was Odette again, asking me to tell her where I was and to stop bullshitting her.

  I was desperate for quiet—so desperate that I looked forward to wearing the hospital gown for three days, having my droopy old ass uncovered for seventy-two hours, nothing that required my attention, Paradise, I attend thee, Satan, begone. Fat chance, he said, now l
ook at all the empty wall space, be a bad boy and start writing, why don’t you? Are you crazy, I said to Satan, why would I want to write on the wall, it doesn’t work that way, and my two thumbs begged Odette to look after Behemoth, I swore that I would tell her everything as soon as I could. She texted right back asking a most direct question, should she be worried? I hesitated but only for a moment, decided to tell the truth, No, I typed.

  Of course she should be worried, Satan said, if you check yourself into the hospital you become even more boring than you have been, that’s worrisome, I can’t believe you, can’t believe that my protégé, my boy, whom I have nurtured and suckled since he was a mere zygote, still thinks that Paradise is some desired destination, why would you wish for an eternity without life, beauty without ugliness is nothing if not bland, Paradise is the most tedious place ever, in comparison Disneyland is a Wagner opera.

  Trust me, I texted Odette, I will explain everything in time, you need not worry. I am here, she said, you’re not alone, and I understood what she was referring to because six months before she met her fiancée—they’re getting married, Doc, they are—Odette was horrifically depressed, she felt she would remain single for the rest of her life, and one night she sat on my bed crying into a ball of tissues salted with tears, she did not want to die alone, and like many a lesbian and gay man before us, we made a pact: we would always be there for each other, we would not allow the other to feel alone in this world, which was basically a renegotiation of a much earlier pact that we’d broken, that we would get married if we were still single when both of us turned forty-five, but we forgot about that one, senility of middle age or maybe she was dating someone at the time, I can’t remember. She wished to remind me of the new promise, and I was glad, I was not alone.