I close my eyes and see myself lying on the grass in springtime and think, “Once I lay down on the green grass and looked up at the blue sky and said to myself, ‘Why am I scared of failing the baccalaureate when all this belongs to me? Even the wisps of cloud and the butterfly darting and spinning through the air as if she knows she will only live for a day. Everything’s mine, including those pale stars in the sky.’ ”
But this image fails to relax my face muscles or dull the rasping tickle in my throat. I long for a glass of gin but know I’ll be lucky to find anything but arrack.
I get out of bed and go to the glass cabinet in the living room and open the double doors. In a corner at the bottom are hidden the expensive glasses and the drink not meant for casual consumption: arrack for toothache and my grandfather’s heartache and an empty liqueur bottle. I hold it in my hand with tears in my eyes. My grandmother used to call it Franca Branca, and to this day she thinks it’s a medicine for stomachache. She used to give it to her friends when they were suffering from women’s pains, and gradually they would relax and sit around laughing and cracking ribald jokes. The arrack bottle seems to be running dry too, but I pour the dregs into a glass and go back to my room.
I feel myself becoming light, my body floating above my bed, and I close my eyes and smile at the thought of you, taking you in my arms and trying to sleep. Thoughts go buzzing around in my head: what do I want from you? Only that you take me in your arms and press your lips on mine, and squeeze me to confirm that you’re interested. Am I crazy or frustrated?
I have to stop this rush of desire. I’m getting like Fadila. A sponge ready to soak up any moisture, a bird taking a sand bath whenever it feels the urge, not minding whether the grains of sand glint sharply under the sun or cling together in a damp mass.
However, recently I’ve written off several relationships, having woken up one memorable morning and sworn, by all that was holy, that never again would I close my eyes and open my lips unless I was in love. That morning, when I awoke, my body had looked so crushed.
Wrinkles had appeared on its pallid flesh; there were little hairs on my thighs; and the sheets were grubby and worn. A single hair of mine lay coiled on the pillow like a snake. I picked up my clothes from the floor and the edge of the bed and dressed quickly. The sounds outside had woken me with a jolt. I had seen glimpses of normal life carrying on noisily through the curtainless door: a family shouting to each other, children playing; even the worm-eaten date palm was part of the bustle.
I had looked down at the man lying beside me. I examined the little bald patch, which he was usually so careful to keep covered, arranging his hair over it assiduously throughout the day. Did I know this man at all? This schoolteacher? Did I love him? I wanted to run away from him and the memory of the previous night, even though I had listened to him avidly as he told me how he would like to teach math and physics, anything rather than history and geography. He could no longer stand the hypocrisy of explaining with apparent objectivity how the administrative districts of Lebanon had been reorganized, found himself unable to ramble on about its snowcapped mountains and ski resorts when there were armed men at the top of the runs keeping the skiers in line.
The day before, I had swum with him in Saint George’s Bay and the blackened ruins of the hotel came into focus each time we wiped the salt water out of our eyes. Gunfire from the eastern sector rocked the foul-smelling water where raw sewage floated, and we joked and held hands. All the same, that morning I simply wanted to run away, because the street noise was interrupting my thoughts, showing me how the war had opened me up.
Now, safe in my grandfather’s house, I’m thinking about you again, and I can see my room through your searching eyes, the bed creaking with loneliness. You understand at last why this woman Asmahan still isn’t married. She’s hot-tempered; she derives her sense of superiority from the fact that her family owns almost the whole village. She probably looks down on men who fall in love with her, so she’s been rejected and sleeps alone. There are her books all over the place: art, politics, fiction, silly magazines.
I picture you picking up a book and flicking through it saying, “Strange. I never imagined she would have seen that director’s films; and how did she hear about this novel? She can’t have chosen the bedcover intentionally—she wouldn’t know what it would fetch in Europe these days, or this carpet. She went to university just to get a degree.”
I can see you shaking your head as you look through my books. I don’t like it when you behave like this; you remind me of a dressmaker who can’t see someone else’s dress without inspecting it and giving her opinion of the sewing. I think I’m being hard on you but it’s just that I feel your mind is more alive than mine. I felt the same when I was looking at your books in Ruhiyya’s house, and the things you’d collected: a little acorn, a dry branch, a decaying plant, a dried-up fig. I wondered why I didn’t feel this tenderness for such objects or think of saving them and why I passed by them blindly every day.
I succumb willingly to sleep and dreams, and when I wake up in the morning, I’m still writing this letter to you in my head.
To the War:
I won’t write “My Dear” to you since I don’t understand you.
It’s as if you’re dragging a Persian carpet from under my feet thread by thread and then weaving it together again from one moment to the next. Your air is warm: there is a stillness everywhere, even in the skies, during the cease-fires or the lulls in the fighting as the warlords wait for some tactic to take effect. Even the garbage heaps are quiescent, the midges and buzzing flies at rest. The streets belong to anyone who dares venture into them. When you return to violence, we inhabitants of the city approach one another, come so close that we breathe as one and no longer think of much outside ourselves.
You are not my dear, and yet when the situation was quiet, and there was a sense of the clouds lifting, those who’d emigrated or gone into hiding started to pour back, the lights came on again to the sound of their laughter, and your mood changed. I noticed the change even in the café: with their arrival it ceased to be an oasis in the devastation and darkness, and we no longer took pleasure in drinking a glass of water there; it became a place to eat, and a fashion parade.
I find myself hesitating now. Why don’t I call you “my dear” when I talk about you so warmly? I am frightened of letting go of this odd feeling of intimacy. Naser would understand it: the fabric of my relationship with him was surely woven during successive wars. In the ’67 war the smell of freedom emanated from his house. I could almost see it like a fine tent of muslin put up for our meetings, but it protected us like armor plating.
Now after all these years I’ve changed my tone towards you. I’ve begun asking questions. What am I doing? Is this the life I was meant to live, or is there another path I should take? I blamed you for this instability, for leaving me in a wasteland without a glimpse of the future. You had a part in destroying my ideas about a new kind of architecture which would allow people to live in harmony with their minds and bodies. When I saw ruined buildings hastily reconstructed with wooden siding and sheets of tin, I heard you laughing at my ludicrous ideas.
I grew used to this frustration, and then you went away. Like everyone else, I welcomed the peace and rushed off to the beach and the mountains. But I kept my eyes fixed miserably on a small corner of the car, because when I looked out, it made me realize how lazy I had been: building activity continued to flourish even though it didn’t produce structures of any beauty, and I felt guilty and full of regret when I saw the architects’ signboards dominating the sites.
When I tried university teaching, I could never escape the feeling that every word I spoke was pointless. All the buildings around us were threatened with destruction, including the classroom we were in. We looked at igloos and straw huts and discussed whether we should devise a new building material or be content with bunker architecture.
I left teaching and joined an association de
dicated to preserving old buildings in Beirut, the ones with red-tiled roofs, small round windows, stained-glass fronts, high ceilings, and staircases with black wrought-iron banisters. We were supposed to photograph them before they were destroyed or dismembered by huge pieces of shrapnel. The work was hindered by communication difficulties between the eastern and western sectors, the worsening situation interfered with meetings, and then most of the members went abroad. Against my better judgment I began accepting advice, and as soon as I left one job I took another.
I seemed to be standing in front of a large chest, opening and shutting the drawers one after the other, like a relative of my father’s who imported watches, poultry, animal fodder, opened a restaurant, went back to importing sponge mops, and ended up doing nothing. Frustration visited me every day in a new guise, sat in a chair in front of me agreeing with me as I described how slow the pace of life in Beirut was these days, how people had no enthusiasm for anything beyond securing their everyday needs. But then it grew bolder, contradicting me and reminding me of the long days of peace ahead, when Beirut would be throbbing with life again and people would be working and producing. I became active once more, but only in my head, and imagined opening an architect’s office, starting up a play group, or establishing a zoo. Then I made peace with my frustration, convincing it that existing in Beirut all these years had been a full-time job. Getting accustomed to you took a lot of effort, as did witnessing Beirut changing hands time after time and gradually fragmenting into smaller and smaller pieces. My work consisted of acclimatizing to the new and trying to forget the old, accepting what was in front of me even if it was ugly, hoping and then learning to live without hope.
Did I speak about these feelings in my previous letters? I don’t remember. It seems that these somewhat odd perceptions of mine spring from the fact that you are a strange war. It’s as if you let one eye rest while you look through the other.
I used to wake up in the morning still feeling the impact of distant dreams about what was going to happen in life. I stretched, happy at the daylight, a song, the color of a blouse, some appointment I had. I was only robbed of this sensation when the fighting started up again. All traces of the old animation were erased until the broken glass was swept up, people clasped their hands together saying sadly, “It’s a shame about the people who died,” and eventually I stretched out in bed again happy at the daylight, a song on the radio, some appointment, even the color of a blouse.
One morning I woke up to a tune being played on a car horn, and heard the sound of Ali’s voice accompanied by shrieking and laughter; Zemzem was asking Ali for some chewing gum, teasing him. “I can see you’ve got a huge piece in your mouth,” she said.
Was Ali here in the village? Had he got through in spite of everything we’d heard on the radio about the fighting, the Syrians, the holdups on the route? Or had I become distanced from the chaos and forgotten how life could change abruptly from one day to the next, how Ali had dragged us out of our lairs as if we were small animals who didn’t know spring had arrived, and taken us on that tortuous journey to the village to wait for calm to return to Beirut?
Clearing his throat loudly, my grandfather called, “When did you leave Beirut, Ali? You must have grown wings!”
“Yesterday. I was afraid of being held up on the way. Although I had four passes with me, one for each checkpoint, to avoid any trouble. I thought I’d spend the evening in the restaurants by the river in Zahle and then stay the night and be at Miss Asma’s at first light. It was a night to remember! Did you hear I’d married again?”
My grandfather laughed. “Why are you so shy about it? Are you keeping it to yourself so that you can marry as often as you want? We’ve lost count anyway.”
“This time it’s for real. Her children have changed me and made me more patient.”
“I was praying you wouldn’t show your face,” joked my grandfather. “I’m so happy with Asma here, and you’re taking her back to Beirut.”
I came out fully dressed, delighted to see Ali, and greeted him warmly. I turned to my grandfather. “Come with us,” I urged him. “Jawad and Ruhiyya are coming too.”
Ali didn’t let this pass. “What shall I do with you, Miss Asmahan?” he said reprovingly. “Are you trying to put a jinx on my car? On top of that woman’s miserable dirges she chain-smokes and stinks the car out.”
Ignoring him, I asked my grandfather eagerly, “What do you say? Are you coming with us?”
“And leave the lands to the Almighty?” Then, laughing, “I don’t know if He’d fancy it. So, Ali, I hope you managed to get an iron door fitted in the Beirut house.”
I called Naima’s grandson. “Run to Ruhiyya’s and tell her to get ready to go to Beirut. Hurry!”
Ali still hadn’t recovered from the shock of finding out that Ruhiyya was coming back with us. He told the boy to take his time, then turned to me. “What’s going on, Miss Asmahan? Please, spare me that!”
“Come on. You can take it, Ali!” I laughed. “Ruhiyya’s made me swear to take her back to Beirut with me. She’s scared what will happen to Jawad there and she wants to show off her friend’s great big house!”
“Of course she wants to boast in front of her cousin,” interrupted Naima. “He said their family’s house is in ruins. Where’s he going to stay? In a hotel?”
“What’s it got to do with me?” interrupted Ali. “She’s like the Angel of Death. Her teeth are even going black. Everyone wondered why her husband died so young. Because he was living with the Angel of Death! She’s wearing sackcloth and ashes and lamenting the dead in a different place each day!”
The smell of eggs frying floated down from the porch, where Naima was making breakfast. I tried to breathe slower and calm down, but I could hear Ali teasing Zemzem and Naima, and then calling me. I went over to him. “What’s going on? Where’s Juhayna?” he whispered.
Naima overheard him and said scornfully, “Have a look indoors. She’s nothing like Juhayna. The girls are all too full of themselves these days, but this one never complains. It seems the cat’s got her tongue.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? It’s not a serious question. I’m joking. Everybody’s heard the news. She thought she was the lady of the house and began poking her nose into everything. She wanted to act as go-between with the occupiers, and said your grandfather had married her secretly. When I heard it, I thought it was women telling stories as usual. I couldn’t believe your grandfather had actually gone off his head.”
I went back into my room and tried to concentrate on getting ready, but I was haunted by a sudden fear that Ruhiyya and Jawad might change their minds about coming with me. I was amazed by the elasticity of my emotions. I had stopped dreaming about him since he and Ruhiyya had come to ask me for a lift to Beirut.
I hurried into my grandmother’s room, which had the same atmosphere as always. Nothing in it had changed, and there was no evidence of the upheaval beyond its walls. The dish where she spat out pomegranate seeds was carefully covered with a piece of clean white muslin. There were her novels, radio, vanity case, prayer beads, a brooch of her mother’s, a lock of my hair when I was a child, a swatch of some material she was still trying to match, and a little empty perfume bottle. She had kept this for years and continued to inquire about the perfume in shops in Beirut and to ask people going abroad to find her a replacement for it.
I rushed over to her now, regretting that I hadn’t gone straight to her the moment I started making preparations for Beirut. She had thousands of liras ready for me. She thrust her hand into her caftan again and took a piece of mastic chewing gum from a beautiful little box which had originally contained face powder.
I bent and held her close. Who would have thought of this piece of mastic apart from my grandmother? I half understood why I had reached this age and was still in the same place. How could I leave her? I had never seen anybody to compare to her. She started giving me instructions. “Remember who we are. Make sure the larde
r and the fridge are never empty.”
We had grown accustomed to our house becoming like a refuge during the war. Men and women were no longer segregated. Everybody slept in my grandfather’s room.
“Jawad said he’s lived with a woman in sin for years,” added my grandmother with an indifferent air.
I didn’t answer. It hurt me to think that she was worried about my future and had picked up certain vibrations from me when I preferred to believe I had kept my feelings well hidden. She’d guessed that my longing for a man had become tinged with a nervous desire to get a hold on the lifeboat because the waters of spinsterhood were no longer simply lapping around my ankles, but had risen halfway up my neck, so that only my head remained above the surface. I gazed at her pale face and her hands, which were smooth and unveined and looked like a young girl’s waiting for a wedding ring. She moved the dish of pomegranate seeds aside, and I wanted to ask her to love my mother again and understand that she was the only child she had.
Zemzem and Ali were chatting. He was telling her about his wife’s voice. “Someone from a recording company heard her singing in her father’s restaurant and begged her to come to the studios, but she refused.” Then he noticed Naima’s grandson. “There you are! Give me some good news. Tell me Ruhiyya’s broken her leg and isn’t coming.”
But the boy shouted back breathlessly, “Ruhiyya and her cousin are both coming. They’re on their way. He said mind you don’t go without them and sent his hand luggage with me to give Miss Asmahan.”
Beirut Blues Page 20